Home Is Where the Field Is

Football hadn't exactly been kind to me lately. Just two short months after marrying my Coach in December 2015 {and six short months after moving to the Yankee state of Ohio}, I was back to living the single girl life in Cbus... only this time, my fur baby Jolene was my bed buddy and my new husband was a state away coaching in Michigan. When the opportunity arose a year later to pursue a full-time position at a {gasp!} D1 school in my home state of Kentucky, it sounded like a no brainer. Until we visited "The Head".

While I wanted to experience living with my Coach, I didn't necessarily want to give up all the things about Columbus that had become near and dear to my heart. Sure, there were the frivolous things {like Zest Juice and Dewey's Pizza, Target and multiple-movie-playing cineplexes} - but there were more serious aspects to a move too. I'd miss my Pure Barre pals, my co-workers and my amazing progressive Catholic church, my boxing club, my unbelievably motivating trainer, and most of all - everything that had to do with the fur babies {now up to two, if you're keeping track}. I would be walking away from a life that I had {albeit hesitantly} taken up two years ago... when I first left the South for {you guessed it} football and love.

And yet, there was really no choice. Football chose for us. With appropriate fanfare, I did a farewell tour of Columbus {see #CBUSfarewelltour, I think?!} and packed up another classroom {4th one if you're counting} and moved to the base of the mountains. In case you were wondering, there are no "farm to table" restaurants, no hot yoga studios, no boxing clubs, and no juice bars with flavored cashew milk. There is no Target and {to everyone's amazement who knows me} there is no Pure Barre. There is a very well-run recreational center on campus. And a Buffalo Wild Wings. I told myself I would not only survive, but thrive.

Fast forward through the summer, and I was still trying to tread water in a pond that couldn't seem to hold me. I wasn't UNhappy, but I wasn't quite comfortable yet either. Truthfully, I don't know if it will ever be quite the right fit, but I'm learning a lot about myself {in a very non-granola, hippie kind of cliche way}. And I'm starting to find the things that I love. Believe it or not, this revelation of sorts started at {where else} the football field. {Cue the cloying exclamations like "oh" and "ah"}

The best thing about Morehead is that I am making a family that I never got to finish at any of our other schools. Regardless of the weather, I hit up practice at least once a week {- would be there everyday if that didn't make me look like a slightly deranged stalker/mother figure}. More than ever before, I KNOW our boys... their birthdays, their sense of humor, their snack preferences.... I know things like:

1. Justin will also seem slightly stand-offish and aloof. That doesn't mean he doesn't like me {I hope}.

2. He also looks like Morris Chestnut. For real.

3. Braylyn will always stay after practice with Justin and whomever else wants to get better that day. {That makes me want to spend more time making myself better at what I do too}.

4. Adam will always be surrounded by random blonde sorority girls after games. I will always give him a hard time about it.

5. My Cincinnati boys will always be at Sunday morning mass. {That makes me want to be better at that too}.

6. Dom will always find a way to get hurt. His mother will always roll her eyes about it. She will also always have the best tailgate food. And let me crash her party.

7. Eric Pugh's little girl smiles just like him. I hope she gets his tenacity too.

8. Hats are not for everyone {ahem, my husband and his wannabe relationship with the visor}. Except for Melon - Melon can wear all types of hats and get away with it.

9. B. Louder will always find a way to be an important part of the team, injured or not.

10. B. Duncan is the most amazing older brother. {Just ask his little sisters.... they are tough critics}.

11. Trey and Sayyid are very quiet, but they are always thinking something. And when I least expect it - the best one liners come out in the calmest voices.

12. It's extremely fun to yell Shavi's full name over and over before and after extra point kicks and field goal attempts. {5/5 football WAGS at Morehead agree}.

13. Turk could run through a wall. Especially if he is hungry.

14. There is nothing more hilarious than watching the Special Teams kickers and punters during practice.

Between these boys and the Morehead State Football WAGS {wives and girlfriends. You'd know that if you watched E!} have made my little pond a lot deeper. For once, football seems to have done me a service. Not because we're winning, and not because an Eagle is a pretty kick-ass mascot. {And not because I look AMAZING in royal blue and gold... well, partially?!} I don't know if we will win a championship. I don't know how long football will keep us here. But I do know that the old adage is true. Home is where the field is. Even if the closest juice bar is 72 minutes away....

XO,

Pick Your Poison {Control}

Despite taking an extensive hiatus since my last post, I can assure you that things in the Berry-Perin house have not slowed in the least. Actually, we've ramped up the crazy by adding another fur baby to our family. Havoc is aptly named; since his adoption at the end of January, I've seen the wee hours of morning more than I did during my 20s... minus the sequins, stilettos, and {drink} specials.

In addition to upending my sleep schedule and destroying our carpets, Havoc has also thrust Jolene into the role of big sister. Jolene has long wanted a sibling {look forward to an upcoming blog that share insight into how Havoc became a Berry-Perin}; however, she has truly been the epitome of the eldest child. She finds fault in many of Havoc's less than stellar mannerisms and continually reminds him of her superiority by perching regally on EVERY piece of furniture we own. However, last week Jolene had her "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha" moment and shouldered her way back into the spotlight.

With John gone to the next football post, I'm serving as a single pup parent 90% of the time. After the first week of fast gulp food meals, I finally felt comfortable to cook myself a meal. Jolene had Havoc entertained and I successfully cooked up some ground turkey for spaghetti. Just as I was congratulating myself with a goat cheese garnish and a glass of white wine, I noticed Havoc giving the "look". This wild eye is one of his tells that perhaps, he may have to "go hurry". Thinking back on the number of times I'd "Nature's Miracle"'d the carpets that day, I quickly scooped him up to sprint downstairs into the frigid night air. I didn't think I had anything to worry about - Jolene was always able to handle herself in a responsible manner for a few moments unattended. While Havoc relieved himself, I savored the thought of the drama free dinner awaiting me upstairs...

Except that the drama was about to be cranked up to telenovela status. Upon re-entering the home, I became instantly suspicious. Jolene had started as the door cracked open and threw herself into her crate. There were bits of plastic littering the kitchen floor and the smell of spoiled meat wafted to meet me. My stomach immediately dropped, and I magically morphed into SVU's own Olivia Benson, sussing my way to some answers.

Earlier in the evening, I had taken the meat container from dinner and some old lunch meat and secured them in a plastic bag for removal from the apartment. This would keep the dogs from whining and the apartment from smelling like anything other than puppy breath and Febreze. I'd planned on discarding the trash when I next took Havoc out that night. However, due to our abrupt departure, I'd forgotten the trash on the {otherwise clean and empty} counter.

A quick and thorough search of the premises proved that Jolene was indeed the sole perpetrator in stealing this contraband and wolfing down the rancid meat, along with {I noted to my INTENSE chagrin} the sponge that lays beneath meat in its plastic packaging. So I did what any adult woman living alone with two children under the age of 2 would do: I called my Mom. When that didn't work, I called my husband. And when that {surprisingly?!} came up empty, I text my dog trainer. My last life line spent with no hard and fast answers, I reached the final possibility - one that, since our embarrassing visit there last summer, I was most hesitant to utilize... The Ohio State Emergency Veterinary Hospital.

My fear and hysteria bubbled over as the receptionist asked me how she could help. The vet tech fell silent upon hearing that Jojo had scarfed a combination of meat and plastic that could hold any number of bacteria and other implications. NOTHING and NO ONE were helping, and my Tiger Mother instinct finally kicked in to hyper drive.

"Then who do I call?! And what do I do?!"  

I raged like Hurricane Katrina in her first hours ashore in Louisiana. I refused to wait and see as so many had suggested. There was NO WAY that my baby was going to sit through the night with plastic and raw poultry in her stomach. She had food allergies for Pete's sake! The vet tech finally yielded something valuable and suggested calling the Animal Poison Control hotline {no, I'm not making this up - it exists}. I jumped at the suggestion, slammed down the phone, and dialed my only hope at deliverance and good health. 

As I waited for the line to connect, I started filling Jolene's water bowl with a very exact ratio of hydrogen peroxide. Thank Heaven for the National K9 Puppy Preschool presentation on Dog First Aid during Jolene's star pupil turn in the class. I remembered our fabulous trainer Erica reminding us all solemnly that hydrogen peroxide could immediately cause a dog to vomit if necessary. Jolene helpfully lapped up the mixture and I fielded questions from the APC hotline operator while covering my kitchen floor in plastic trash bags. 

While explaining for the tenth time the contents of Jolene's stomach, my fur baby started to dry heave. Within minutes I was wrist deep in rancid turkey, feverishly searching for the sponge. The exultation in my voice shocked the APC's faceless figurehead as I crowed, 

"Nevermind. It's all here. She's vomited and it's all here!"

In the aftermath, I sat in my freshly cleaned kitchen stroking Jolene as she laid next to me, lapping small amounts of water to cleanse her palate. I called everyone whom I'd initially alerted and proudly laid out my emergency parent savvy. The post-traumatic experience bliss didn't last long though. As I pat myself on the back once more, I happened to look in Havoc's crate. He'd been so quiet and angelic during this entire episode. It was only then that I realized that he was sitting in a pool of puppy pee. Wagging his tail. 

Cry "HAVOC" and let slip the dogs of war... Yes, when we picked out this pup to match his equally entertaining sis, we truly picked our poison.

XO, 

All Dogs Go to Heaven

So this year at school, we got a nun. As a child, nuns in the Catholic school system were pretty commonplace. We always had a couple in plain clothes - rapping knuckles and sniffing out gum {Sr. Teresa) or making notes about pencil marks on art work while singing songs about "Happy Cats" {Sr. Charlene}. However, as time passed, a nun - especially one in full habit, no less - has become similar to the mythical unicorn. We imagine the possibility of them without actually seeing them in "real life". When I was young, it should also be noted that I wanted to BE a nun {for a minuscule stint while learning about the rosary and its importance to prayer}. Therefore, my fixation with wimples, and "penguin suits" is long standing. I started out highly enthusiastic about her presence - until the day she revealed herself to be {almost} soulless...

Each week, I'd prepare my class for the nun's arrival. We'd discuss the appropriate way to address her {Yes, Sister... No Sister} and questions not to ask {Don't you ever change your clothes?}. I'd carefully remind them not to correct her grammar or word choice {She is European, and English is very much NOT her first language}. To the class' credit, they'd adapted well to having her in and out each week. Most of her lessons closely mirrored our textbook and they were in awe of her clothing and lilting speech. In their innocent minds, she could have been the Virgin Mary - until the day she discussed All Souls Day.

Most Catholics know that All Souls Day and All Saints Day are inexplicably linked in Catholic school lessons. Though overshadowed by Halloween, they are important feast days and can occasionally get you out of school for at least an hour for mass. But Sister was adamant that all students {regardless of age, class, color, or creed} should know the importance of All Saints Day - and that ALL humanity could strive to sainthood and the glories of heaven. She painted a beautiful picture of angels, light, and love. It could have all ended blissfully and we could have gone right back to making construction paper witches. But then, she opened the floor for questions.

All teachers are aware of the dangers of allowing students to ask ANY questions - particularly if the topic is Religion at a school where many students are non-Catholic and think the crucifix is a "plus sign". Sister is the epitome of Julie Andrews/Maria naiveté though, and feels that honesty in all cases {especially those where immortal souls are involved} is imperative. So when one of my students earnestly mentioned how he was eager to get to heaven with the saints and his recently deceased dog, I knew that the bucolic picture being portrayed on my Calendar Carpet was about to come to a screeching halt that not even St. Michael the Archangel could stop.

Upon hearing the wee tot's comment, I abruptly stopped typing homework reminders and tried to catch the eye of the young nun. But it was too late, she was already talking - and what she said was the shot heard round the world to a group of seven year olds {and their fur baby loving teacher}.

"But your pet will not be there," her broken English explained. "Animals don't have souls."

The slow motion montage in my head began - me launching myself away from the computer and towards the Calendar Carpet. Going airborne to tackle Sister to the ground and shove a whiteboard eraser into her mouth. Clapping my hands over the ears of each child {impossibly} to block those words that were devastating to all of us. I was snapped out of my nightmare by the sound of uncontrollable, hysterical sobbing - a chorus of  turmoiled children whose dogs, cats, and gerbils were now burning in the pits of Hell or languishing in Purgatory {the theme of last week's nun lesson}. 

Sister looked at me with anxious eyes and scrambled to cover her ass. But it was too late. The damage had been done and the children were having none of her backtracking. As I hurried her into the corner she looked at me and asked innocently - "but what I should have done? Lie to them?"

YES! Unequivocally, irrevocably, unabashedly YES. You should have lied. Or better yet you should have DIVERTED. The top tool of teachers everywhere who come upon a question that is not appropriate or that will open the proverbial Pandora's Box. You point out the amazingly shiny rosary beads in your pocket or that it is snack time. But you DO NOT {under any circumstances} open your mouth to insert your foot. And this is why teaching our youth should not be left to amateurs. 

After ushering our guest out, I swept back to the sea of tears to do damage control. One of my faves {we all have them - don't lie} looked up at me with tear-streaked cheeks and blubbered, "But my M-m-mom said he was in HEAVEN!" before falling into a fresh deluge of waterworks. And those tears, paired with my own steadfast belief propelled me into a sermon for the ages...

"Well what do Y'ALL think?!" I postured vehemently. "Because I think that if God gave us such amazing friends with four legs that we love so much that He would NOT take them from us forever. God made them each special and unique - just like us. And none of us have even BEEN to Heaven. Not even her." And with that I folded my arms with a "that's that" air of finality and led the way back to construction paper witches. 

As we picked up the pieces and rewrote Catholic doctrine, another small voiced piped up amid the hum of happy work. "Mrs. Perin is right... Someone should show Sister that movie we watched in first grade... "All Dogs Go to Heaven". Damn straight, Kid - I thought as I returned to my homework reminders. Because if Heaven doesn't have four-legged greeters, I'd just as soon stay home. 

XO,  

Up in the Air

I've never been what you'd call a jet setter. Flying to various destinations wasn't something that thrilled me - rather it was the obvious way to travel to far-flung locales to engage in adventures with a revolving cast of characters. During my college days, I was quite the traveller - getting briefly detained in a Russian airport for additional passport check... meeting a Spring Break fling for an ill-fated weekend in Colorado Springs... serving as an additional {literal} crutch for my childhood best friend as we navigated La Guardia and Grand Central Station... dragging my younger brother into his window seat when a turbaned man entered the cabin on a post 9/11 flight to Philly... My college dorm room cork board displayed each ticket stub as a badge of honor - I was going to be a worldly woman!

As time went on, the opportunities and flight destinations gradually trickled to a stop. Until this weekend it had been two YEARS since I'd set foot on a metal bird. {Though not for lack of trying - I've planned several unsuccessful trips to San Francisco and even turned up at the airport for a weekend trip to Huntsville. I left the Columbus Airport in a blaze of righteous anger after my flight was pushed back three times in an hour.} So it was with mounting trepidation and a minimal amount of excitement that I arrived {an hour and a half early} to the Southwest terminal to head to Spartanburg, SC for a Pure Barre training.

My boarding passes pre-printed and my carry on bag packed with travel-safe toiletries and lululemon attire, I flashed my ID at the disinterested TSA officer and joined the throng searching for departure gates... immediately finding my plane to be delayed. My already jangled nerves took another hit {I'd already been close to tears while dropping off Jolene at the kennel and had strong armed my mother into confirming that "whatever happened to me, she would get to Jolene immediately in case of emergency"}. This wasn't the great return to the friendly skies that I'd imagined...

Several hours, two boardings, three packs of peanuts, one bumpy landing, and 10 chapters of a library book later, I made it to Spartanburg's airport. Or at least, that's what the sign said. I quizzically checked out the extensive renovations occurring throughout the large rectangular room that boasted an "international airport". Chalking up my bad attitude to fatigue and mild motion sickness, I quickly found my town car and set up an internal tally - two take-off/landings down, two more to go! Little did I know that my desire to "fly away home" was about to hit major turbulence.

Post training, I returned to the "little airport that could" and posted up next to the "healthy foods" kiosk {which coincidentally boasted a meager smattering of KIND bars, dried fruit, and diet drinks}. My flight was already delayed and I'd already called my mother to rail on the lack of civilized dining options at the airport. Upon leaving, I was elated and thought that my time in "holding patterns" was over. Then I landed in Baltimore and the real fun began. {I really can't make this stuff up}.

Upon my arrival to Baltimore {crab cakes and football - that's what Maryland does! - sorry, random movie quote}, the death blow was dealt. My flight, scheduled to leave in 2 hours at 10pm, had been pushed back to 1 in the morning. In record time, I experienced the 12 stages of grief... I shouldered my bag, now a little heavier, and made my way to the food court. From my past days as a frequent flyer, I vaguely remembered a Jamba Juice stationed in the center of a concourse. My spirits lifted at the thought of a frozen, fruity concoction.

And there was a Jamba Juice {cue "Chariots of Fire" as I slow motion run towards the register}... only the night got even better, as I noticed a line of disgruntled customers begin to harangue the cashier. Apparently, the less than stellar staff of Jamba Juice had either mishandled the computer system or couldn't work the super blenders. "Tirty minute wait", the cashier screeched in broken English as two young women with brightly colored talons and heavy gold hoops lounged against the counter in Jamba Juice visors. I may have had four hours, but I sure as hell wasn't spending them waiting for this Rihanna video to wrap!

My will was breaking and the idea to rent a car was starting to sound pretty appealing. I grudgingly bought another book, contemplated a Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt to stay warm {at least I am fascinated by Ray Lewis?}, and tried to stay reasonably healthy with a Chipotle burrito bowl. I hunkered down in the airport equivalent to a La-z-boy and {unsuccessfully} fought the urge to purchase an Auntie Anne's pretzel {survival mode and carb loading had set in}.

I rotated reading and riffling through iPhone photos of my dog as the hours passed until mercifully, an angel named Chuck announced the arrival of flight 476, service to Columbus. While my fellow passengers emitted shouts of joy and a couple wolf whistles, I gritted my teeth for another take-off. As I called my mother and husband to announce the final leg of the journey from Hell, I hissed my intent to NEVER fly again unless heavily medicated. And yet, the story still wasn't over. I took my seat and {ashamedly} almost burst into tears when several questionable individuals boarded without carry-ons or reading material { I took this a sure sign of terroristic intent}. An hour later, passing in and out of a sleep stupor, I said a prayer of thanks as we FINALLY took off!

My way too eventful trip finished rather quietly. Aside from getting momentarily confused as to where I'd parked my car,  I made it home quickly and I gratefully crawled into bed at 3pm. For now, I can safely say that the only "flight" I want to see is one of wine samples. Cheers to keeping my feet on the ground for awhile.

XO,

Sacramental Shenanigans

I've only recently cooled down enough to capture this epic event for the blog. Every time I thought of it, my skin crawled and my blood boiled - definitely not physical changes that should be synonymous with the Catholic sacraments {but nevertheless}. At the beginning of May, my students received the sacrament of First Eucharist, one of {I believe} THE quintessential components of growing up Catholic {can I get an "Amen"?!}. Despite my best intentions and irrepressible excitement, I should have known it was a bad sign when the priest in charge chose Derby Day for the blessed event.

"But that's Derby Saturday!" I exclaimed, aghast. {I foolishly thought that this was also a high holy day nation-wide; however, Yankees from the barbaric Buckeye State apparently don't understand this tried and true tradition}. My cries went unheard and the date was marked in ink - on the morning of Derby 2014, ten {mildly} holy 2nd graders would receive Jesus in Body and Blood. I vowed to make it an event to remember and trusted in the Religious Education office to steer me in the right direction. {Little did I know, they couldn't steer a rotary bike - much less a sacramental mass of this magnitude}. I was, as they say, up a creek {without a priest or paddle}.

As the day approached, I jumped through a variety of ill-timed hoops set by the Church Office. I found Baptismal Certificates {twice}, filled out order forms for educational paraphernalia {three times}, and asked {a million bajillion times} if there was anything else I needed to do for the preparation. I organized a parent informational meeting for Father to instruct parents and students on requirements {he didn't come}, I emailed him questions {he didn't answer} and I finally cornered him after Mass to demand First Penance for my ragtag band of lambs. {That was a fiasco for another day}. Still, I asked what else I could do - what the Mass itself needed, and I was told that it was "taken care of". {Famous. Last. Words.}

Fast forward to the week of First Eucahrist {and the week AFTER Spring Break}. I open my email to find a missal from the Church Office full of questions concerning the Mass that is to occur in FIVE days. Who's doing the music, who's officiating, who's doing the readings, what are the readings, how many First Communicants, do you want fries with that??? {The last one was NOT included, but would not have shocked me anymore than the first fifteen}. I was flabbergasted and furious - for months I'd begged for these instructions, only to receive them in the eleventh hour. I would need to {forgive the football expression - Coach's Wife, y'know} THROW A HAIL MARY.

In true Southern style, I whipped together a pretty impressive presentation. A reception, decorations, exquisite music {complete with Southern melodies... "Let Us Break Bread Together", anyone?!}. I was patting myself on the back for a job well done, despite a wrench {or five} in the plans. I had even planned an outfit that spoke to my Southern roots {and the holy occasion I was missing at home}, wearing a turquoise fascinator with last year's Derby dress. {This elicited confused looks from many parents and an adoring "Yes Ma'am" from a "Church Lady" helping with the punch}.

Father First-in-Line had presided over a shoddy rehearsal the day before First Eucharist, and lucky for me, I'd planned for that. My students had been practicing the procession all week and had it down to a science. I wasn't at all worried when they began their slow crawl down the aisle, and I even remained relatively calm during the Liturgy of the Word. Then, Father left out the Creed. {Big deal, think the Protestants}. But it WAS a big deal, because I'd broken my BACK to have them memorize {or at least impressively fake} the Nicene Creed. It was a tradition - an expectation - a necessity. And. he. left. it. out. My irritation began to spread...

Although I'd tried to beg off, it had been decided that I would serve as the extra Eucharistic Minister. This always makes me nervous, even more so due to Father First-in-Line's ultra-conservative, pre-Vatican II, put women in the back of the Church way of thinking. He had insisted on using a communion rail, and I'd had to look up the protocol in the original Gutenberg Bible {a slight joke. but only SLIGHT}. I was genuinely worried about my 10 lambs on the rail, but figured they'd be fine for the short time it took to minister the sacrament. So, relatively unconcerned {but moderately incensed}, I approached the altar  prior to communion and was met with a look from Father that would take paint off a fence {a Southern euphemism}.

He kept glaring at me, and muttering something incoherent. My anxiety level was hurtling skyward as I sidestepped to the right and left, trying {in vain} to deduce where he wanted me. He kept throwing his head towards the front of the altar and so I quick-stepped {in sky high heels and a sheath dress, with full flowered fascinator} as subtly as possible {in said outfit} to gingerly kneel beside the servers. {My perky Pure Barre "ledge" to the congregation}. Father was still grimacing and finally gnashed "THE CHILDREN" - meaning, they should be at the rail.

It was at this point that the full vitriolic weight of my fury unleashed and I shot him a look that would not only remove paint, but burn the fence to ashes as well. I turned with as much pride as I could muster and beckoned frantically for the lambs to hit the wood. Not only had Father made me look like a moron, with my backside on full display, but he'd now placed ten 7-8 year olds on a wooden rail in front of {literally} God and everybody for roughly ten more minutes of ritualistic preparation. We were {to use another well-known saying} "dead in the water".

My delusions of eucharistic grandeur died slowly as one well-dressed lad picked his nose; one little lamb picked at her stocking, and one indigent picked his butt. I cringed as they sagged out of prayer position into puddles of navy blazers and white veils. My own traditions and beliefs came crashing to a halt when I was also {strongly} encouraged to take communion on the tongue - something I'd NEVER done in my life. Finally {blessedly} it ended and I valiantly stuck it out through the reception that followed. Mercifully {although horribly for the kids}, Father didn't attend.

Later, I saw Father First-in-Line and before I could turn in the opposite direction, he approached me to tell me he wasn't "angry with me" for how First Eucharist "turned out." I bit my tongue immediately and tensed every fiber of my being. I thought about my Catholic upbringing - of my own First Eucharist experience. Of the special music piece {If I Were a Butterfly}, my mother's insistence that I couldn't wear a veil or white shoes {you're not a bride and it's not Memorial Day yet}, and how important I'd felt when Father Clarence Howard had come {briefly} to my First Communion reception and drank some of my Granny's sherbet punch. I thought of the priests who celebrated with me at Confirmation, at weekly Mass, the nuns who schooled me on the saints and the sacraments. I remembered the nun who gave me my first teaching job and the priest who married me and Coach John, and all the ones whom I'd loved and wished could have co-celebrated. And I did what {I hope and pray} would make them proud.

I turned around and stood erect, gave a piercing stare, and said in my most regal and no-nonsense nun tone {Thank you, Sisters Teresa, Charlene, and Michael Marie} - "You don't have anything to be mad about." And that's the Gospel truth.

XO,

The MedVet Miracle

On Sunday, Coach John and I loaded up the SUV with pizza and the pup. We headed out to the 'burbs to do what all young families do - play outdoor games, watch ESPN, and let "the kids" run amok for hours in a fenced in backyard. I absolutely adore these afternoons because it means that Sunday nights are quiet and uneventful. The fur diva, Jolene, takes to her bed early and without the usual antics. {Her bedtime hissy fits rival that of the most obnoxious toddler - but with more acrobatics and broken household goods}.

While Mrs. Coach and I traded school stories and the coaches compared war wounds and stud recruits, Jolene and her puppy friend Bane played a violent version of bumper cars in the backyard. We had just started our second game of {unsportsmanlike} Lawn Golf when the idyllic afternoon quiet was broken by Jolene's shrill screams. Immediately, the "Mom" gene engaged and I {unconcernedly} trampled Coach John and a Lawn Golf ladder to get to my fur-baby. She had fallen over in a panic, unable to put weight on a front paw.

After what seemed like an hour of pressing and patting, I couldn't discern any obvious injury; however Jolene was still howling to beat the band. She struggled to run after her friend, who'd been dragged from the scene of the crime and chastised severely. {It should be noted that he was NOT the cause of her outburst - but his parents are good people and were mortified}. We {note, I} made the decision to head to OSU's {uber-expensive} emergency 24 hour clinic. I knew it could be a passing pain, but didn't want to risk Jolene's mobility on the desire to eat another piece of pizza.

With much panting and groaning {on Coach John's part}, we hauled the frantic 65 lb. toddler to the car. Her consternation grew rapidly when she realized her playdate was over and tears sprang to my eyes when she couldn't hold herself upright to say goodbye. I expected the worst, driving like a maniac behind Coach John and my fur baby. {I may or may not have mildly cursed him when he made the wrong turn on campus, resulting in five more minutes of aimless driving while my baby needed critical medical care}. We came into the parking lot like a NASCAR Sprint Team and began the extraction of the patient from the back seat of the car.

It was at this point that I became slightly suspect of the severity of Jolene's injuries. Instead of waiting docilely for her father to lift her from the car, she began wriggling into smaller, faraway spaces - SNAPPING at him with her wicked jaws and laughing at our angst-ridden efforts. She would {for effect} throw out the occasional high-pitched wail to keep up what was starting to seem like an Oscar worthy charade. Nevertheless, I continued the pilgrimage to save my "child" and heaved her from the vehicle in a moment of CrossFit inspired strength.

She PRANCED into the waiting room. There's really no other word to describe it. This dog-wolf in sheep's clothing had made a miraculous recovery in the parking lot of the MedVet and was now practically tap-dancing to the desk to sign in. The secretary gave us a confused, then disdainful look as I explained that this was in fact the dog I'd called about in a state of panic earlier. At that point, I embarrassedly pushed Coach John to the receptionist desk to explain while I dragged Jolene and her shit-eating grin into a far corner.

We were surrounded by owners whose animals were in the center of real emergencies, people in TEARS and others waiting stoically with older, infirm animals. My mortification took a leap up when Jolene began crouching and baiting a geriatric retriever with a diaper to play with her. It was pushed to epic heights when a Triage 3 team came OUT with their tools so that, if in fact Jolene was the world's greatest method actor, we wouldn't be charged the astronomical fee of just walking into a patient room.

Fifteen minutes later, the sweetest veterinary student ever had poked, prodded, and dodged Jolene's advances with no diagnosis of doom. She even gamely suggested a heart listen. {Sometimes, she lied to help us save face, animals will outwardly be okay when they're internally in distress}. Jolene's heartbeat was a picture of perfect health, much like her gait and swagger as she {unperturbedly} left the building. Her parents {in contrast} hastily scampered out behind her, tails between their legs with shame.

What we'd witnessed could only be described as something of Biblical proportions. A {MedVet} miracle - where the blind shall see, the deaf shall hear, and the lame will fake an $130 injury and walk {unassisted} again...

XO,  

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,

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.