Perspective

Have you ever

Wondered

What

Exactly

They think

About us?

***

I had a realization this weekend as I found myself, along with three other intelligent adults, standing over two babies, making silly faces, clapping my hands wildly, and making "Ahh-oo-Gah!" noises.
Parenting? It turns you into a bona-fide crazy person some times.
We made quite the ruckus, in our attempts to try and get our respective 2 and 4 month olds to smile and look at the camera, and I can only imagine what surrounding people thought.

Then again, we were not the only couples there with little babies, hoping and praying to get photos of our sweet angels on their first trip to the pumpkin patch.
And their their first trip through a corn maze.
And their first time at a petting zoo.
Did it make a bit of difference to them? No sirree Bob.
But it sure was fun showing them around and letting them get the full fall-festival experience.
Complete with a couple of yahoos acting like clowns.

Oh, wait, that's right.

That was their parents.

And, lucky them, they get to catch that show every day of the week.

***

The photos above were taken with our friends, N and L, with their little man, R, who is eight weeks younger than Ella and born at the exact same birth center as she was. In other words, that's Ella's future husband.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Hello, Food Network

October, it seems, is upon us.

All and all, I'm a big fan. Of all things pumpkin-y, fall-y and cozy-comfy-breezy, that is. After all, our anniversary is this month; the weather is finally bearable again, and my two favorite holidays are just two short months away.

The problem, instead, lies with fall's not-so-pretty step-sister.

You see, in less than 30 days, the most dreaded day of my year is upon us.

Halloween is almost here.

I know it sounds crazy. Heck, it sounds like I don't have an ounce of child-like spirit left.

But the thing is, I don't like Halloween.

I don't like things that are scary or gruesome or creep-crawly. I'm not a huge fan of the color orange. And I'm almost 100-percent sure that I'm afraid of the dark.

Granted, Halloween doesn't have to be about things that go bump in the night.

I'm on board with the pumpkin-carving and the cute kids dressed in sweet costumes and the endless supplies of chocolate that neighbors seem to be so willing to give away on one night of the year.

But I don't do scary. In fact, I hate it.

I dread the month of October because every billboard I drive by seems to be dripping with blood while advertising an upcoming attraction; every radio broadcast is peppered with blood-curdling screams, no matter what time of day I'm listening.

And don't even get me started on all the television commercials that make me want to run, jump under the covers, and shut out all the scary, scary boogie men who are coming to a theater near you this fall.

My husband laughs at me, because, as an alternative to hiding away from any and all television for an entire month, I proceed - upon sensing a terrifying, Halloween-themed commercial - to close my eyes, clamp my hands over my ears, and sing ever-so loudly a happy song, so as to shut out any trace of evil and terror that may seep through that commercial into my very soul. It's either that or I won't sleep for a week.

Seriously, people, those commercials are that scary.

And, as a further buffer against all things horror-and gore-related, I insist on watching Food Network - and only Food Network - when it gets dark outside and nears bed-time.

Being all cooking, all the time, the Food Network is always guaranteed to be broadcasting a plethora of non-threatening programming, interspersed with commercials no scarier than the phlegm guys on the Mucinex ad.

There's nothing to be shakin' in your boots about, unless you're talking about the fat content in Paula Deen's casseroles.

And while I may fall asleep worrying about a clogged artery or two, I'm not wracked with cold sweats and night terrors about axe murderers and machete-wielding devil-children.

It's just my M.O. for October. It's worked for me for years, and I'm sticking to it.

Well, that and my plan to ignore any and all scary-esque activities that people seem to plan around this s0-called family holiday.

I won't do haunted houses; I won't do ghost stories, and you're sooner to find me singing Christmas carols in October than watching a Scream movie marathon.

So, if you need me, I'll be the girl wearing pink on Oct. 31, wandering through the corn mazes and pumpkin patches with the toddlers, without a drop of fake blood in sight.

***

Happy October (but not Halloween) everybody!

I'm in Heaven

It's been raining for two days straight here on the South Carolina coast.

And I'm in heaven.

I adore the rain.

Sure, it makes things a bit dark and bleak. But it matches my autumn mood.

You see, I love the fall. I always have. But down here in the Deep South, it passes by without so much as a blink of an eye. It's practically non-existent, sandwiched so between the 10 long months of summer and the two short months of winter.

Trust me, I'm not exaggerating in the slightest. As a native Floridian, I can safely say I've worn a tank top and flip-flops on Thanksgiving. On multiple occasions.

This time every year, we're baking pumpkin pie while still wearing shorts. We're sipping warm tea while cranking down the AC. We're weaving an autumn wreath and simultaneously praying that direct sunlight won't dry it out.

And we're shaking our figurative fists at those of you buttoning up your pea coats and strapping on your boots, jealous that you can enjoy the comfy fabrics of fall while we still continue to sweat through breathable cotton jersey.

It's a real paradox around these parts, I tell ya.

So, this year, I'm embracing this sudden onslaught of rain.

I'm embracing the fact that it will make our weather dip below 80 degrees this week. I'm embracing the fact that I can wear fuzzy socks around my house. I'm embracing the fact that I won't perspire profusely while I work in front of my hot oven, making squash soups and baked goods.

And I'll look outside at the drizzly, gray clouds and wind-blown branches and thank God fall - however it came to be - is finally upon us.

***

Sorry for my short little foray into weather-related news for the day. I didn't want to spend all of today's distinctly fall-flavored day stuck behind the computer.

Instead, I want to hunker down and revel in the fact that this year is the first year in which I can really ready my home for autumn. I'm baking and cooking and swapping out shorts and tanks for leggings and sweaters in our closets. I'm making a wreath, and, God willing, finding enough gourds to fashion some kind of fall centerpiece.

And, if all goes as planned, I may sip a cup of hot tea and climb into bed early with my husband, cozy under our fluffy (pretend-down) blanket.

Happy Fall, All!

***

P.S. I'd like to announce that, thanks to you lovely bloggers, I finally figured out what my mother was trying to say in her text message I posted last Friday.

Hillary at The First-Year Wife was the first one to comment and figure out the correct translation, and I have a little something to send her for all her efforts! So, Hillary, send me your address at britr@ufl.edu.

And the rest of you, head on over to the comments section of Friday's post to see what my mom was really talking about.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Behind Enemy Lines

For the last seven years, I've enjoyed the relative comfort that comes with living in the same town as my alma mater.

Every Saturday, during the fall, the entire town would shut down to cheer on our beloved University of Florida Gators.

And, being that I still worked and lived in the town where I received my college diplomas, I took it as a given that I got to be part of that rah-rah spirit.

If you weren't at the game, or throwing a Game Day party, you were attending someone else's tailgate or attending your neighbor's Game Day party. During the autumn season, where I lived at least, you never asked a person, "What are you doing on Saturday?"

Because everybody - and I do mean everybody - was watching or attending the game. It was simply a fact of life.

Not to mention that everybody was also bedecked out in our beloved Gator orange and blue, singing rousing rounds of "We Are The Boys of Old Florida," and Gator-chomping their arms about for at least three to four hours straight.
During away games, entire neighborhoods scream and roar when the Gators score a touch-down. People run into the streets and high five each other, yelling "Go Gators!" to passersby, after a particularly hard-won victory.

And a loss? Oh, a loss renders the entire city speechless. And so solemn and mournful that grown men can be seen crying actual tears without the least bit of shame.

That, my friends, is what Game Day is like in Gator Country.

But, for me at least, those are memories of yore. Long gone and very likely never to be seen again.

For now, you see, I've gone rogue.

I'm behind enemy lines, waving my orange-and-blue flag vigorously in my solitude.

For the first time in seven years, I no longer live in the same city as my team.

I'm now in the great state of South Carolina, where Gators are few and far between, but Gamecocks and Tigers roam free.

I'm in Clemson and USC country, and I don't know what to do about it.

You see, I haven't left the SEC. I'm still squarely located in the South, where Southeastern Conference football reigns supreme, and where SEC rivalries are all anyone can talk about it.

For instance, in a restaurant last week, my husband - wearing a Gator shirt - got stopped three different times in a six-minute period to talk about "his team right there." (What makes this even funnier is that the hubs technically roots for another SEC rival - the University of Arkansas Razorbacks - but used to have to where Gator stuff to his old job on Saturdays - yes, we're that serious about Game Day - so he owns some orange-and-blue paraphernalia of his own, much to my utter amusement.)

The truth is, all my Gator memorabilia is starting to become a little threadbare. I can no longer run into the nearest store and pick up a new Game Day T-shirt. Not unless I want to be wearing burgundy and white or the Clemson Tiger paw prints.

Which I'd sooner die than do, by the way. (Bless their hearts, I'm sure the University of South Carolina is a lovely school, but they were seriously misguided when they decided to humor middle-school boys everywhere and select the Gamecocks as their mascot.)

Still, all that? All that I can live with. I just consider it another opportunity to save money.

The reality of my Gator isolation is far, far worse.

Because here in our new home, I - gasp! - won't be able to watch each and every single game this season. Not in person on the field. And not even on my husband's silly-big flat-screen T.V.

Take this weekend. The Gators play the University of South Florida. Which, in their grand line-up, is their least important game all season.

Which is why no major network is covering the game. Not even the resident cable stations - ESPN and all its affiliates - are broadcasting the game here. I'm not even sure we can find it on pay-per-view, what with our distinctly South-Carolina-themed cable package.

Seriously, I don't know what to do about these sub-standard living conditions. What will I do with my Saturday? How will I spend my time? Where will I wear my orange and blue without fear of ridicule and recrimination?

I'm being reduced to watching the ticker tape streaming below other, supposedly more important games on ESPN, in hopes of watching the score increase in the Gators' favor.

The hubs has suggested I try and catch the game on something called ESPN 360. But that sounds undoubtedly complicated and far beyond the capabilities of our sub-par Internet's speed. (Thank you, Comcast. You, too, are another big minus to living here behind enemy lines.)

Oh, life is tough. It's like I'm being punished for not being a fair-weather fan.

All I want to do is cheer on my non-phallic-themed football team of choice. Is that too much to ask?

How long do I have to stand here in my Gator garb screaming "ORANGE!" and "BLUE!" by myself? And for what?

So I can sit here, alone, stranded, behind enemy lines during football season?

A girl can only take so much.

So, please, send your troops, send your boys of Old Florida, send me reinforcements dressed in orange and blue. Send me a cable package that will carry each and every Florida football game in real time.

I will wait.

And I will forever continue my battle cry.

Even if no one can hear me. Even if they taunt me till kingdom come. Even if my Georgia-Bulldog-flag-flying neighbor gives me the middle finger.

I will cry on, "Go Gators!"

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Cropped Out

Never mind that's approximately 116 degrees outside.

I'm ready for fall fashion.

I love sweet knits, casual boots, perfect jeans, soft sweaters, and yes, even well-made turtlenecks.

It's cozy; it's comfortable. It's the way I was born to dress.

Never mind that I was born a Floridian. God had other plans for me besides humidity.

So, imagine my glee when I received this month's issue of Women's Health magazine.

I breezed through all the "Eight Ways to Achieve the Perfect Butt" articles and flipped the issue over, where, the cover said, their awaited a special "Fall Fashion Issue," all for my enjoyment.

I was so ready to look at luxe, gorgeous photos of pea coats I couldn't afford but would desperately try to replicate all season long by hunting through the clearance racks of Old Navy.

So, then, imagine my disdain when I turned over the magazine and found this:

source

Yes, your eyes do not deceive you.

That, my friends, is a crop-top.

A cropped top.

A top that is cropped off at an inappropriately short length, exposing one's mid-riff and hearkening back to an era when fashion left many a casualty in it's path of destruction.

I almost cried out of the sheer pain of it all when I saw it, flashing-back to all my horrible attempts at trying to squeeze my muscular build into a short shirt and low-rise jeans as a young, teenage girl.

Oh, the horror.

What was I thinking? And - better question - what are the fashion mavens of the world thinking?

What does Women's Health think this is? The early 90s?

Since when did the crop top come back?

And when, oh when, did it make it's way into our incoming fall fashion?

Where our our slouchy sweaters? Our knit leggings? Our boot-cut, perfectly worn-in jeans? Where's the fall fashion we all know and love?

A crop-top is not going to cut it. Not this fall.

It's not cozy. It's not comfortable. It allows all your body heat to escape when you're attempting to stay warm in the cool fall breezes.

Are you kidding me, Fashion Powers-that-Be?

The crop top?

No. Thank. You.

If this is what lies ahead of us this fall, I'm staying put, sweat and all.

Summer and I will live on, with our sundresses and our flip-flops and our tank tops.

Our full-length, stomach-covering tank tops.

No crop tops for this girl. Those days are behind me, along with my old pairs of ridiculous low-rise jeans.

Call me a grandma, but long gone are the days of me baring my mid-riff for fashion.

Belly-baring is only cute if you're of the toddler variety. Or of the six-foot, 86-pound model variety.

Of which I am neither.

So pass me my turtleneck, and let's get ready for fall.

No crop tops allowed.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program...

...to tell you about the gift I received in the mail!

I participated in Katie's Fall Scarf Swap, and I met the lovely and wonderful Sarah, who so generously gifted me with my new favorite accessory!

This gorgeous, purple scarf!

Oh, I love it.

In fact, this was the original color I chose for my wedding.

Apparently, I got married a year too early. In 2008, we couldn't find a suitable bridesmaid's dress - in this rich shade of purple and with a price tag under $250 - anywhere. So I settled on green.

But now, 2009 brings with it my purple. It's everywhere! It's a fashion must this season!

And thanks to Sarah, I'm totally embracing it. She couldn't have been more spot-on. She literally sent me my dream scarf.

So, in honor of Sarah, I'm walking out of the house looking like this today.

Pardon my poor experimentation with the self-timer. Why is it always so awkward?

What do you think of my little scarf-ed ensemble?

I have to be honest. Once the clock turns to 8 a.m., and the temperature rises to the requisite 90 degrees down here in the Sunshine State, that gorgeous thing is probably going to have to come off.

A sweaty neck is very unbecoming of a teacher.

Still, I'm wearing it. At least for now.

Just because I'm a Floridian doesn't mean I want to miss out on all the fashion fun.

Maybe I'll just have to wear my scarf like a Floridian wears a scarf....

I give you, Patrice', the world's best scarf supermodel.

Teehee.

FYI: My first idea was to don my scarf with a bathing suit, you know, to be funny. But then I realized that went against my religion, you know, the one I follow that says Thou Shall Not Post Photos of Oneself sans at Least One Layer of Self-Esteem-Protective Clothing on One's Blog.

So I coaxed the hubs into modeling the latest fall fashion for us.

And yes, it did take some cajoling.

Although, funnily enough, it wasn't the feminine accessory or the waist-up nudity he took issue with. Apparently, the boy is man enough for all that.

His problem?

"Babe, you know I don't wear purple."

Well, my dear, you do now.

***

So about that regularly scheduled program...

The next installment of Workout Wednesday will have to wait till next week. But remember, it's a Q&A, so if you've got an exercise question, send it my way!

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Most Likely to Become...

As a high school teacher, I hope and pray that sometimes, maybe even just once in a while, I help change a child's life.

I know, for the most part, that my presence is negligible in a lot of my students lives, but for a few of them, I really think I might make a difference, might change their life for the better in some way, might help motivate them to do something good, so that, 15 years down the line, when I see them lobbying for human rights on CSPAN, and they give me the rehearsed signal - probably a two-armed fist pump - I'll know that they're thanking me. That in that rare moment, that student and I are both thinking, "We did it!

That, my friends, is why I'll watch CSPAN when I'm old.

That's also the reason I'll never watch COPS, because in a few cases, I'm pretty sure I can see the exact same scenario unfolding, including the two-armed fist pump, which the police may or may not take as a sign of aggression, allowing me and the world to see my former student slapped with handcuffs for "resisting arrest."

Still, my point is, I really hope and believe I reach a few kids every year. I work hard to teach ethical responsibility, goal-setting, belief in yourself and others, and teamwork.

But all that feel-good stuff aside, there's a whole bunch of other crud I do that won't make a bit of difference in anyone's life.

No, seriously, I have some weird job addendums. (Remember Picture Day?)

I think there must have been about 16 different clauses in my teaching contract I didn't read, all of which spelled out something alone the lines, "You know that one day of the year, where we hold a talent show, topped off with a fall festival and a rock concert? Yeah, you're in charge of that. In fact, you are the rock concert. Break out that tambourine!"

And sure, while a few students may enjoy my solo tambourine edition of "Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore," most won't even care.

It's one of those parts of my job I do, knowing full well that I'm not exactly making a difference.

Case in point: I'm in charge of Senior Superlatives.

You know, the time-honored tradition of voting for the most popular kids in the graduating class for titles such as "Most Likely to Succeed" or "Best Smile."

My yearbook students and I design the ballots, collect them, count them, and announce them, live, to the school, during an assembly.

And every single year, there's a swelling of pride from the school's football star and prettiest cheerleader, while in the back of the auditorium, some girl weeps because no one thought she had the "Best Hair."

Frankly, it's kind of a disaster (read: law suit) waiting to happen.

Take last year.

I had a student team help me count the ballots for 14 different superlatives. One of the members of the team had a few enemies among her peers. Those enemies went to the principal and said she "rigged the votes." They threatened to tell their parents.

And...the principal made us hold a re-vote.

I'm not even joking.

I had to re-do all of it and count the ballots myself.

Flashback to the Bush v. Gore 2000 presidential election.

But worse.

They had hanging chads; we had Xs and Os and obvious attempts of illegal lunch-time campaigning.

Meanwhile, I'm in the middle of all it, shaking my head, wanting to tell every stupid teenage girl I can get my hands on that whether or not you were voted "Best Dressed" isn't going to matter 10+ years down the line.

Except I couldn't. I was too busy holding a re-count. (Which, in the end, was totally unnecessary. No "rigging" had happened. The exact same kids won both times.)

Flashforward to this year.

The jig is up.

As I told my yearbook students, "There will be no more re-counts on my watch!"

So I made a few changes.

1. I gave my yearbook staffers a stern warning about allowing their peers to vote for what I called "genetic blessings."

We would no longer be voting for "Best Eyes," "Best Hair,"or "Best Smile." No one deserves to win an award for just being good-looking. I am not Donald Trump; I'm not hosting Miss USA here.

2. I agreed with the principal that the ballots should be kept under lock and key for two years after the vote.

OK, I didn't so much agree as tell him I'd keep them locked away, to avoid any potential ballot tampering, when he then told me he expected me to keep them locked away for TWO YEARS.

For what, I don't know. In case we want to do a re-count when these kids are 20 and in college? He wasn't sure. I bought a safe big enough to hold all the ballots.

3. I began alloting an hour of my planning period to fielding parent phone calls, from adults who clearly felt their child had been maligned by the fact that I eliminated categories like "Most Good-Looking" from the ballot.

When I explained that, instead, we hoped to honor students who had a host of talents and gifts this year, with superlatives like "Most Artistic" or "Most Likely to Change the World," one parent in particular was not impressed. She hung up on me. And called the principal. I'm sure there's a lovely letter in my file now.

4. I had to threaten three students within an inch of their life after I found them hovering over the new, locked Superlative Safe, as I've taken to calling it, after I returned from my sick leave.

They said they were just "waiting around to see, you know, if I knew who'd won yet." But the looks on their faces - and the wire hangers in their hands - told another story.

I told them not to worry; I'm sure that they'd swept the "Most Likely to End Up in Jail" category. (OK, not a real superlative. But it would be fitting for some of them.)

5. I counted ballots with meticulousness that would have made national election committees proud.

Five hours later, I now know who's "Most Likely to Brighten Your Day" or who's "Most Likely to Marry Their Highschool Sweatheart."

And I'm not telling.

At least not until tomorrow, during the big senior assembly.

And after the fact, when I have to console crying, crushed-by-their-peers'-democratic-right-to-vote seniors.

And later in the day, when I get irate parent phone calls, wondering how their darling little Susie didn't get voted for "Biggest Flirt."

Then, I'm telling.

I'm telling them all that in 10+ years, these kids aren't going to remember who won "Most Likely to Succeed." That most won't even care. And that maybe, just maybe, they should focus on bigger, more important things, like graduating high school, getting into college, and making the world a better place.

Lord knows I'd like to.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Fall has fallen

It happened.

For the first time in a good seven months, I was able to don close-toed shoes without feeling as if my feet were about to sweat their toes off.

That's right, people.

Fall has officially fallen here in Florida! (Try saying that five times fast.)

I'm not gonna lie to you. I've been secretly hating you all, with your blog posts about your new fall pea coats, boyfriend sweaters, and infamous pumpkin-spice lattes (which, by the way, seem to be a serious source of infatuation out here in the blogosphere, and one I'm not entirely sure is healthy. But anyways...)

So, yes, while all of you were sipping warm drinks in your long-and-lean turtlenecks, I was down here, jealous as all get-out, wearing an unfortunate tank top and chugging my cup of room-temperature coffee, which I then immediately chased with a glass of ice cubes, to prevent the inevitable sweating that comes when you drink anything in Florida that is not the approximate temperature of the Arctic Ocean.

It's no secret around here that I'm no big fan of humidity or intense heat, but it really was getting out of control this year.

When my beads of sweat start falling onto the papers I'm grading, making a "98" look like a "48," and causing fits of rage and panic in that one student who's never gotten anything less than an "A" in her life, it's time for the temperatures to drop to a breezy 80 degrees.

Yes, you read that right. When 81 is the high, I consider it fall.

You would, too, if you lived in a place where the heat index normally makes you feel like we co-exist in a 150-degree sauna.

Still, I don't get caught up in the thermometer.

When I can wear jeans without my legs feeling as if they're enclosed in sausage casings (an unfortunate side effect from the rather lethal combo of sweat, denim and humidity) then I know it's fall.

So, people, it's fall!

I'm going to ignore the Weather Channel's 10-day forecast that's dangerously hinting we may see 90 degrees - again - next week.

I'm going to pretend I don't see those flip-flops piled - out of necessity - near the door.

I'm going to pack away all manner of sundresses - even though I do love sundresses - because I think I deserve I better.

Yes, that's right. I. Deserve. Better.

I deserve to wear a sweater without getting pit stains!

I deserve to actually have my long-last, sweat-proof make-up live up to it's promise!

I deserve to use my oven without fear of it turning my kitchen into steamy desert!

I deserve to drink a cup of coffee piping hot!

I deserve fall!

We all do!

So fellow Floridians, unite!

Take off those tank tops and turn off your ACs! Go frolic in the 80-degree breezes and take plenty of hot showers! Bust out your apple cider and those pants that actually reach your ankles! (You know, the one pair we all own in case we have to go visit those relatives who live in the frigidly cold area most commonly known as North Georgia.)

At the very least, put some leggings under those sundresses, girls.

Hurry! And quick!

Before the Weather Channel tells us about the next warm front coming through.

Which apparently is set for next Wednesday.

The high?

90 degrees.

Crap.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!