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NEW SITE (!!!!!!)

Hey y’all! Thanks for loving me enough to read my little ol’ blog. But I’ve got some exciting news! (Okay, it’s really only exciting to me.) I’m finally at pearlsandpolitics.com!!

That means, this site will no longer be updated. You can click through here –> http://www.pearlsandpolitics.com.

If you have me on your reader, first of all, THANK YOU! Secondly, you’ll need to update the URL.

Okay, what are you waiting for? Head on over to the new site and start commenting away!!

Love y’all!

❤ – Jen


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These are not my kids. The boy should be glad.

Last week, in addition to my roles as Phone Answerer, Chicken Feeder, Bird Chew Toy and Chef, I also played Teacher.

As in the Vacation Bible School sort.

I had a charming little group of eight to ten First Graders, which was just enough to be interesting and just shy of crying myself all the way home each night.

We prayed for sick bellyaches and swimmer’s ears, third cousins and sick butterflies. We probably would have prayed for styrofoam cups if I allowed Prayer Request time to go longer than two minutes.

And let me tell you – if you forget to mention a single one of the 72 prayer requests during your talk with God, you might want to go ahead and start all over. Six year olds can be scary.

Lesson time was a feat each night, as I had predicted.

The first night, we talked about Joseph. And because you can’t sit down and be all, “Here are the facts, take them or leave them” to Little Ones, I had to be interactive.

“So, who knows who Joseph was?” I asked the class, fully expecting the in-unison, typical Sunday School, long, drawn-out response: “Jeeeeesuuuuus’ Daaaaaaaad.”

Instead, Little Miss Avery raised her hand. At which point she proceeded to accurately explain the Old-Testament Joseph, his coat of many colors, his Social Security number and his direct lineage from Adam and Eve themselves.

Most of that, anyway.

She also told my entire Bible lesson before I was able to get past my first sentence, so it was all I could do not to pack up my things, squeeze my fat butt into the tiny wooden chair and let her take over the class.

And, honestly, she probably would have taught it better than I could, if we could get past the incessant desire to play Simon Says.

That was the first night.

The remaining nights really weren’t much different, if you don’t forget to add in spilled, red Kool-Aid, the inability to walk in a straight line, followed by the inability to WALK at all, glue dots at craft time, songs that actually require children to scream as loud as they possibly can and a ginormous, pregnant spider that Miss Avery’s mom brought into the class for everyone to see.

This lady ain’t a lovin’ spiders, k?

And then there was the one night in which a new kid came into our class. The more the merrier, yes?

The kid was all over the place.


On the table, arms and legs sprawled on the walls, under the table. Good Lord, that was the most cray cray First Grader I’ve ever encountered.

Which was totally my final answer, until he told me that he would be entering the THIRD GRADE next year.

Um, hi. Go to your own class because you’re about to see crazy VBS Teacher Lady. Seriously.

The most difficult part of teaching Bible School to First Graders, though, was being Simon.

As in that of Miss Avery’s favorite game, Simon Says.

These kids, let me tell you. They’re good. If Simon Says jump, they jump.

Except for those really quiet kids – they’re always the ones that mess up. And, let’s be honest – how do you tell those kids, “Hey, you lose.”

Answer: you don’t.

Result: a ridiculously long Simon Says game.

I don’t think I’ve found my calling in elementary-school teaching or anything because, well, I don’t have the sanity patience that is absolutely necessary to keep multiple six year olds occupied and not bored out of their minds for hours each day. I mean, Christian is still required to nap after lunch every day because Six-Year-Old-Bad-Mood Syndrome does not a fun day make.

However. I had a good time. One of the really quiet girls gave me a silent hug one night, which was such a sweet moment.

One of the not-so-quiet girls told me I was a good teacher, which I’m obviously counting as a win.

And my homemade decorations made it a whole 45 minutes before they were mutilated and passed among 16 little hands.

But they were the cutest little hands ever.

(Well, except for that slightly-larger Third Grade pair.)


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Meet Daysie Girl

Responds to Little Tiny Daysie Girl, Honey Bunches, Mommy Love and anything that resembles the rustling of the treat bag.

She would sleep all day long if I would sit still for 24 consecutive hours. But when I move, she moves. She’s kind of a Momma’s girl.

Okay, fine. She has attachment issues.

Okay, fine. I have attachment issues.

On a typical day, it takes Pretty Girl 13 minutes and seven full 360-degree turns to find the perfect place to pee. And it’s always better in the neighbor’s yard.

After said pee, Sweet Sugar loves to jump on my lap and people watch as all the crazy skinny people run by on the sidewalk. And sometimes, just sometimes, she runs after them down the street, pretending like she isn’t the prissy little thing that she is.

Little Miss loves her Baby, which is currently the remains of a once-stuffed doggie. She can be in the deepest sleep, but if you pick up that piece of rag Baby, she instantly goes into survival mode, her heart rate quadruples, and she will stop at nothing until she has her Beloved Baby in her possession.

And then she shakes the livin’ daylights out of her.

Sometimes, she thinks she’s a lion.

And sometimes, she plays dead.

She’s as sweet as can be, but let me tell you – Girlfriend has some serious anxiety issues around people. Especially little tiny kids.

But maybe that’s because Christian has a tendency to torture her.

She even cries real tears.

She thinks anything on the cutting board is chicken. And she wants it. Bad.

Pretty Honey doesn’t mind wearing dresses and rhinestone collars – she has Diva in her blood. But Lovey adores being outside. She loves going to Mamaw’s house to see Mae Moo (my Mom’s Min Pin) every single day. The creek is one of her favorite places to be, even though she’s still a little skeptical about doing the Doggie Paddle.

But her absolute, most favorite thing to do is roll in chicken poop.

Seriously. Chicken poop.

But at the end of the day, after a seriously intense bath, I’ll be sitting on the couch and hear the pitter patter of little paws on the hardwood floor. Up will jump Lazy Daysie onto the couch. She’ll prance over to the crook of my arm and will plop over on her back, expecting belly rubs for the next three hours.

And, of course, I oblige because she is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

I love my little Daysie Girl, who was my itty bitty, one-pound Valentine’s present three years ago, and has brought me a little bit of joy every single day since.

Also, she’s brought me puddles of pee and little surprises in the hallway.

But, I love her, my Honey Bunches of Oats. I love her to pieces.

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In the past 120-ish days, we have…

… dozed off to the lullaby of barking dogs almost every single night.

… contemplated sending said dogs to a farm.

… argued incessantly over who is worse of a person: Don or Betty Draper.

… learned if we can’t say something nice, to not say anything at all. Even if it takes a couple days.

… both had dental surgery (weird, right?).

… wistfully daydreamed about winning the lottery and what we would do.

… realized that’s never going to happen, and painted the kitchen from pink (I do not lie) to Oatmeal.

… opened our not-ready-for-anyone-to-see-yet home two weekends in a row to houseguests – and had a good time.

… said mean things.

… said, “I’m sorry.”

… cried over home videos of the kids as itty bittys.

… agreed we need to savor these moments more.

… not always liked each other, but showed love every single day.

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Like any other major life event, there is definitely an adjustment period when moving into a new house, which we are certainly experiencing.

For example, I make Evan follow me downstairs any time after dark. It’s a big house, and you never know where a murderer might be hiding with an axe waiting to bludgeon me to death.

But it’s not just the house itself we have to get used to. It’s the people.

See, in our little tiny apartment, we kind of kept to ourselves, as did everyone around us. We only spoke to our upstairs neighbors in passing (or when Piper slimed the husband with her drool) – mainly because I’m pretty sure they hated us for having two dogs, two kids, a man who shouts at every call a ref makes when watching sports, and a girl (woman?) who sings karaoke when the previous three are not home.

The people on one side of us were super nice, even when Daysie would go craycray on their Pitbull that would freaking eat her in one bite.

The people below their apartment were foreign, and the only conversation we’ve ever had was him saying, “You dog hate me. I smoke. She don’t like.”

I probably should have warned him that Daysie has been trained to sniff out terrorists.

Through my racism, I’ve forgotten where I was going with this.

Oh, yeah. People.

Our first week here, we became very aware that our anonymity was probably no longer an option at our new home.

Our doorbell rang for the first time ever, and, even though the prospect of our very first visitor was kind of exciting, the seven minutes it took me to get through the maze of boxes and upside-down furniture to the front door pretty much dissolved all that anticipation.

I cracked the front door to make sure it wasn’t a rapist, saw an oldish woman with a Mamaw haircut and a yellow smile, and decided I was safe.

Boy, was I wrong.

She seemed harmless at first. A simple, “Hello, my name is Meemaw (not really); we live down the street.”

I introduced myself and my MIA husband who refused to come to the door, forcing me to make nice with the neighbors. (I quickly summoned him. He couldn’t escape for long.)

Her first question was, verbatim, “So, what is going on here?”

Well, clearly, we’re moving, as evidenced by the moving trucks you’ve already mentioned you’ve seen.

Second, “I just have one request. You have a really big dog in the {fenced in} back yard. Can you move the table or whatever it is that she stands on to look over the fence? I’m just scared to walk down the street. I’m afraid she might jump over.”

To which I responded with, “Lookie here, Meemaw. You just got strike one, two AND three with that nosey question, so it’s time to march it back down the street in your ShapeUps and get on with your afternoon nap in your recliner.”

Or, I just told her it was impossible, considering the dog is standing on built-in seating that I’m certainly not going to rip out just for your peace of mind.

With each question, she inched her way closer to the door, too-obviously trying to see inside our house, which I was not having.

She eventually retreated from all up in my grill, and went back home.

I felt a little violated. I have a personal-space barrier that extends ALL THE WAY OFF MY PROPERTY.

I mean, unless you brought cookies, and then the barrier retracts to the front door.

But then, a few weeks later, our dogs escaped the back yard. And guess who decided to let us know?


I appreciate the communication, I really do. I’m grateful she made us aware of the situation, because I was probably enjoying the silence too much to realize that no barking in the back yard meant there were actually NO DOGS in the back yard.

But it was early on a Sunday morning, and I was still in bed. So, when the doorbell rang, of course I was startled. I ran downstairs to answer the door with scary hair and the previous night’s make-up that would probably get me at least runner-up in a Marilyn Manson look-alike contest.

And no bra. Of course.

So when Meemaw tried, AGAIN, to inch her way into my house, I had to lay down the law.

Which really means I just said a few ‘thank you’s’ while gradually shutting the door. But that’s just because I don’t have a mean bone in my body. (Shut up, Evan.)

So the moral of this story is: I have a nosey neighbor.

I’m happy to report that she has kept her distance for  several weeks. At least to my knowledge. I’m currently willing myself to not look out the window-paned door in my office in fear of seeing Meemaw peering in.

I would seriously pee my black-legging pants. And scream. And run. With pee flowing down my leg.

You get the point.

BUT, Meemaw said she is really good at making cookies.

Which I’m clearly going to have to judge for myself.


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I’m not trying to be narcissistic (even though sometimes I really just can’t help it), but I’m kind of in love with my blog. Not the things I write or the Plain-Jane, generic design I made two years ago, but just having a place to write whatever I want.

What I love even more is running into people who are all, “I love your blog,” which seems to be happening more and more often lately. I mean, it’s not like random people are stopping me on the street to get my autograph or anything (although, I would certainly oblige them if they asked). But people who I know personally, but didn’t necessarily know they knew about my blog (confused?) are constantly telling me they read my blog … and actually enjoy it. It’s such a good feeling.

You know what else they do? They freakin’ keep me accountable.

Like Saturday.

Christian and I were perusing Marshall’s looking for a shirt to exchange with his pink Polo button-up I bought him (because there was NO way he was wearing it … ever). I ran into a friend I used to work with at The Buckle. And this happened.

Jessica: I’m obsessed with your blog, I just want you to know.

Me: Really? Thanks!

Jessica: Did you go to the gym this morning? (read lazy post here)


Or something like that.

When I write in my diary journal, I tell him my deepest thoughts and feelings, and he never judges me. (Also, how I’ve determined my red, polka-dotted journal has masculine tendencies, I’m not really sure.) I don’t get responses like, “So, stop eating the freakin’ Nutella-spread bagels in the morning and you just might lose weight,” or “Seriously, Jen? Evan can’t be wrong ALL the time,” although I would probably argue with my journal about the latter.

When I write posts for my blog, I’m looking at a screen of words, occasionally with a little Bieber in the background. I don’t see you or your reaction to my thoughts, so it’s easy to just write without conviction or intention. But I have to remember … you’re there.

And you know what? I love that Jess called out my laziness. (You know, the laziness still present after the blog I posted about never being lazy again.) Because if I write another post about how I’ve been a lethargic mass of nothingness again in three months, y’all are going to start posting comments like, “You freakin’ loser.”

Well, that is if I could get any of you to actually post comments. But, that’s another blog.

And, honestly, I like having motivation. Because, as if bikini-season-in-five-months isn’t motivation enough, you are encouragement. And I’m not too proud to admit that I like a little praise constantly every now and then.

So, thanks, Jess, for asking me if I stuck to my goal, but not telling me I still had some butter dripping down my double chin from the donuts.

And thank all y’all for reading this little thing. There are few things that make me happier than when people tell me they heart my blog.

Well, except for comments. Did I mention I love comments?


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Remember when I talked about how I’ve grown to be okay with love country music?

Well, I have the chance to go to every single country concert at Rupp Arena in Lexington! Cray, right?



Lexington’s country radio station 98.1 The Bull is holding a contest this week for the cutest couple, which is clearly myself and Evan. All you have to do is GO HERE, fill out a few lines of information, and VOTE FOR US!

Besides … if I can’t make a concert or two, maybe I’ll give you the tickets!


So, please … please, please, please (yes, I’m begging!) go to the site and vote for us every day this week ’til Friday! I’ll love you forever!

Also, Happy Valentine’s Day!


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