I mention (in my newly updated “Meet Jenn” section — gah that thing was outdated) how much I love yoga these days. My friend Kim took me to my first yoga class nearly a year ago. I went in her office at work one day and shut the door so I could lay down in the floor and stretch my hands over my head in order to catch my breath. I was having my first full-blown panic attack. (Side note — this was old job. Exhibit A as to why I’m no longer there). I had no idea at the time what was happening — but after seeing some professionals and talking to Kim some more, she recommended I try yoga with her to get a little more zen in my life.

Now, I’m a runner. Like real exercise. I don’t need to participate in yoga, aka adult nap-time. But alas, I went with Kim to Sanctuary Yoga in Green Hills. This guy was teaching who I had been warned was easy on the eyes. (I may have blogged about this before now, I realize, as I typed that). Anywho.

It was clear real quick that there would be no napping. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing and was POURING sweat about 15 minutes in. This stuff is legit. So soon after, I joined the YMCA and started going to yoga regularly.

Now, I’ve got my Dad doing yoga and he’s got my Mom doing yoga and we’re just a bunch of dang yogis. I.LOVE.YOGA! So much.

Since taking yoga, I’ve only had a couple of teachers who really fit the stereotype I had about yoga. I want to workout and get out of my head. I don’t need to om om om om and ground my roots into mother earth, per se. But every now and then, you come across and little hippy dippy earth muffin.

We had a sub at yoga class recently. I won’t tell you which one — but you could probably figure it out if you know me. So, this guy comes in. First thing he does is make us turn away from the mirrors, so we don’t see and judge ourselves. Oh good — this is going to be rich.

He also was wearing a murse. (murse = man purse). Not a bag. A purse. He wore it the whole class. He told us that he wasn’t going to practice with us, because unlike when he first started yoga and he wanted everyone to look at him, he wanted this to be all about us. Oh — thanks. So I’ll just guess what the hell I’m supposed to be doing since you won’t be demonstrating. So he just paced around speaking in soothing tones that actually felt more like razor blades in my eardrums the more I listened to him.

He said “if you’re new to yoga — and really ‘new’ is anything under two years….” Really? He continued, “Really most people in Nashville are new to yoga.”

Ohnoyoudidn’tjustsaythat.

So he goes on and on about how to get us out of our heads and how we should leave work behind and just not think about anything and just get out of our heads and just be free and just let go of the thoughts and be present in our bodies and listen to our spirits and HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ALL OF THAT CRAP IF YOU WON’T SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE.

Y’all — he talked non-stop.

Then he showed us some stretch, which was awesome I admit — but he preceded it by saying, “now, a lot of people in Nashville haven’t seen this move.”

Then it hit me. This dude is from L.A.

I guaran-dang-tee you he is straight outta West Hollywood.

So class ends, which was just more stressful than good because he was pacing around me in his Birkenstocks swinging his man purse the entire time. Then someone asks him how long he has been here and he says, “Oh, just a little while — I moved here from Los Angeles…..” and I quit listening because in my head I was like ‘I KNEW IT!’

Word on the street has it he may soon be our regular teach. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I might make up some yoga moves that involve gang signs and tell him they are the newest on the yogi scene. I bet he’d be teaching them city-wide later that afternoon.

Oh — and about the title of this post — to keep me from going total yoga hippie, I always say “Nestle Tea” rather than Namaste at the end of class. It’s mine and Rog’s little joke. It feels like I’m not totally conforming.

XOXO,
Jenn

On March 1 I got up bright and early and headed to the Nashville International Airport with my best girl Rach. We were on our way to a long weekend on West Palm Beach with four other girls who make up our Book Club. Yeah – we’re crazy like that.

We were going to carpool, but Rogers, being the gentleman that he is, insisted on driving us to the airport. He dropped us off at the door and we headed to security.

Being the good citizen that I am, I had all my liquids and gels in their tiny little containers in their quart-sized Ziploc baggie. I took my shoes off, went through security and was standing shoeless waiting on my stuff to come out. Rach was behind me.

All of my stuff came out of the scanner, except for my purse. Then I saw my purse peek out and go back in the scanner. WTF. Then I saw the x-ray dude call over another TSA official who then removed the bin with my purse from the conveyer belt. WTF. He held it up and yelled “WHOSE BAG IS THIS?”

I shot my hand in the air proudly – “MINE!”

Then my thought process went like so:

“Man – what could I have possibly left in there? Every lip gloss I own is currently in that tiny Ziploc. Are there tweezers in there? Man they are strict…you can’t do anything these days without….OH MARY JESUS AND JOSEPH. My tazer.”

So let me just pause right here in the story and provide you with some history.

Several years ago, my ex-father in-law (if you just said “huh?” then just keep reading… I don’t have time to explain that story too) bought all of the women in his life (his wife, daughter, daughter-in-law) a tazer for protection. It was awesome. It was pink and had a deployable cartridge and could also immobilize a second victim via contact (like a stun gun). And IT WAS PINK! I had carried it for like 5 years and never used it. Well, full disclosure – I never HAD to use it. I may HAVE used it though after one particularly wild Steeplechase weekend when some very brave (read, drunk) young men wanted to see what it felt like. That’s neither here nor there. But I did carry it all the time. If I had to walk to my car late after work I would have it out at the ready. If I ran after dark by myself I would carry it with me. It also had a laser sight on it, which was enough to scare most people off – and I did shine that at a creeper once while running. He took off.

So that’s why I have had a tazer.

Back to the airport. “It’s my bag, sir.”

“I’m going to need you to step over to this metal table – real slow.”

OMG. My stomach just fell out of my butt.

I walked over to the table and he asked me to put my hands on it. He asked again if this was my bag. YES. Is there anything in here that might poke or stick me?

“No, but something might taze you. There’s a tazer in there. I’m sorry. I just forgot.”

He just glared at me and began sifting through my purse. When he spotted said tazer at the bottom of the bag he didn’t touch it. He apparently can’t as it’s not in his jurisdiction. He radioed to a Metro Nashville Police Officer who came over. At the same time, magically a couple of what I assume now were Air Marshalls appeared over my left shoulder. Then another metro cop appeared over my right, and the one who the TSA official called was there also, ready to look in the bag. He pulled out the tazer.

In the meantime, someone appeared with three copies of my drivers license. I don’t even remember giving it to them, let alone know how they made copies that quickly.

“Again – I’m sorry. I just totally forgot it was in there. What’s going to happen? Can I mail it to myself?”

“Ma’am – you can’t mail a tazer. Ever.”

“Oh. Can I check it in my bag?”

“You can NOT check this in a bag without it being secured like a firearm.”

“Hmm.” Now I’m starting to realize why they are annoyed. I clearly know nothing about weapons or traveling and here I am mixing the two.

They were all really nice, to be honest. But they couldn’t have cared less that I was some airhead on a trip to Florida with her book club friends. They took me every bit as serious as you might expect them to take someone carrying a weapon through security.

About that time Rachel asked what was going on and I said “TAZER.” And made a tazer noise at her. “BZZZZZ.”

This is when they separated us. They did not appreciate that one bit.

The cop next to me who was now holding my tazer said, “Well, one of two things are going to happen. We just changed our policies so I’m trying to get verification. Either you can surrender this, which I hate for you to have to do because I know these things are expensive. And then you can hopefully go on your way after some paperwork. OR, if our policy says so (again, trying to get verification), I’m going to have to take you downtown and book you on a criminal misdemeanor weapons charge.”

Oh, I just thought my stomach fell out of my butt earlier – now it really did.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope – I hope we can just fill out some paperwork, but up until a few weeks ago our policy was to book you. I think it’s changed.” Oh please have let it changed. Come on Obama!

About that time ANOTHER cop appears and escorts us to a small room where there were mug shots of potential terrorists hanging on the wall. Y’all.

The room was only big enough for about three of us, so the other 5 air marshalls and cops stood outside the door. In the meantime another one of my already boozed up girlfriends walks by and saw me sitting there. She is a lawyer, but since she may or may not have had mimosas on the way to the airport, she just kept walking. Thanks girl.

They took photos of me, took photos of my tazer and had me fill out a bunch of paperwork saying I was willfully surrendering my tazer.

The cop said, “well, that’s it. Do you want to speak with her?” And he waved one of the air marshall guys in.

He said, “why did you have a tazer, ma’am?” Just for protection, sir. I just totes forgot I had it on me. So sorry. He smirked.

He said “Have you ever been in the military?” No. “Have any other criminal charges pending?” No. “Do you go to shooting ranges often?” No. Just the one time. He smirked.

He said, “well, they will take all of this into consideration when giving you your fine.” WHAT. WHO? FINE? “Who is they and how much is the fine?”

“They are the TSA lawyers in Washington D.C. You’ll probably get a call or a letter and you can either get a lawyer or just work it out from there. I have no idea how much the fine might be.” Geeze Louise!

After some quick googling on the plane (yes, I made my flight and promptly ordered a bloody mary), I learned that the fine could be up to $10,000. I ordered another bloody mary.

So, I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to find out how much my fine would be. 45 or so days later, this week, I got a letter that said they were letting me off with a WARNING. A warning!! Praise baby Jesus! Thank you, TSA, for a.) doing your job and b.) realizing there are bigger fish to fry than the book club tazer bandit.

Quick side note, then I’ll end this long post.

On the way BACK to Nashville from West Palm Beach (great trip, by the way) – I was joking about how I’m probably on a watch list now and bet I get picked for an extra special search. Rachel told me no way, not to worry about it. Well, sure as the sun rises, they pulled my purse from the belt again and he said “who’s bag is this?” Are you kidding me? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

“Ma’am – step over to that table.” I KNOW THE DRILL, sir. I’m a pro.

“Is this your bag?”

Yes – is this a bad dream?

He proceeded to pull a giant bottle of water from it. OMG. I SUCK AT FLYING. I said that out loud. He said, “nah, you aren’t that bad.” About that time Rachel appeared and said, “yeah – she’s pretty bad.”

I pulled her away toward the gate before she could blow my cover.

And that, my friends, is how I may or may not have gotten myself on the watch list. Who wants to go on a trip with me!? 

Bad storms rolled through Middle Tennessee early this morning. That’s what happens when it’s 70 degrees one day and 30 the next. Tornadoes in January.

At 3ish a.m. the tornado sirens, which seem to have multiplied and intensified since our last tornado season, went crazy. I woke up just as Rogers was coming into the bedroom – he hadn’t gone to sleep yet, between mixing and storm tracking.

I got up and watched the TV while Rogers prepared our “safe place.” I could tell he thought this one was more serious than the previous one – even though I thought our windows would shatter last spring. At about 3:15 we crawled into the 3x4ish hall closet with a few supplies and lots of blankets and pillows. It was kind of cozy.

I had to lure Callie Cat in by saying “Want some cheese?” which is only her favorite saying. Ever.

She was pissed when she got in that tight space with us and realized there was in fact, no cheese. (She got some later – as a reward for surviving the storm).

She spent the next 15 minutes while we were in the closet patiently pulling the hallway rug under the door and as much into the closet with us as she could manage. What.a.turd.

At 3:30 I decided Callie would have to face the storm alone and opened the door to reprieve her. So as not to make me seem like a terrible mother, Rogers called the all clear for everyone and we joined Callie back in the living room.

It wasn’t that big of a deal in our neck of the woods after all – but as I type this, trying to settle down, drown out the still screaming sirens and take a quick nap before getting up and heading to work – I thought to myself, “if this was last year at this time, I would be driving out to Old Hickory tomorrow to check on that God-forsaken townhouse.” Somebody has to go be sure the roof wasn’t blown off. I’d probably not sleep with worry that I’d potentially be handling an insurance claim in the light of day. What if the power went out or an appliance got zapped. What if the roof leaked and flooded the attic but I didn’t know it and it seeped through to the top floor at a slow drip for the next two weeks. And then the insurance company won’t cover me if they find out I don’t really “live” there.

See, I’m really good at worrying about stuff I can’t control.

But instead of doing all that – I just took a deep breath and was thankful for my little family in the closet. And that I am super duper blessed to be rid of some of those burdens that weighed me down the past couple of years.

In other news, I do intend to get back to blogging more regularly. In fact, I had a whole series of fun post ideas this weekend. I sat down Saturday morning with my coffee ready to blog. First, I checked my email. I had a 3 a.m. note from my Dad saying that my Poppa Joe (grandpa) had suffered a massive heart attack and was being life-flighted to Albany, GA from his small town in South GA.

Blogging about a wild girls weekend suddenly didn’t feel right.

Several days and big surgery later, Poppa Joe is on the mend – miraculously. Because it was like, bad, y’all. He’s got a long road ahead and has had a few set-backs this week when we thought things were turning around, but hopefully he’s through the worst of it.

Feel free to send thoughts and prayers for my Poppa Joe.

But the moral of this story is – God is good. Even in scary times, I just know that it’s all being handled way better than I could ever hope to. All my worries in the world can’t make a difference. Isn’t it funny how you pray differently than you used to? Or have you noticed that you do this, too? I used to pray to “fix it, please.” “Make it/him/her better.” Now in my wise old sage age, I find myself constantly asking for peace. Just give him peace. Give her patience and understanding. Help him have faith in Your plan. Etc. And man, there’s so much peace in that frame of mind, alone.

Heavy post Wednesday – out.

XOXO,
Jenn

Have you all seen this list? Hilarious. It definitely spoke to me as a child of the 80′s.

To this day, I’m still afraid that a spider will lay eggs in my face at night and then what I think is a zit will actually be an egg sack buried under my skin and one million baby spiders will spill out one day. Remember!? Remember that story? OMG. It still haunts my dreams.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/the-most-terrifying-things-as-a-child

“Tomorrow, tomorrow! My house will sell, tomorrow! It’s only, a day awaaaayyyyyy!”

Fingers crossed, still. I’ve lost all faith that things should go as planned, so just waiting to see what the fun surprise will be.

Courtesy of my photoshopping sis-in-law, Ashley.

XOXO,
Jenn

It’s here, people. The week I both dread and secretly love. The week that brings the most fanny packs, cowboy boots, drunk women and beer-gutted men all together in one glorious, swaying, crooning, sweaty mob — CMA Fest.

The traffic is terrible. Just getting to and from work is like some kind of obstacle course. The yelling at all hours of the night outside our flat is annoying. The amount of half-clothed people on balconies at the Holiday Inn next door makes me concerned for humanity.  But the people watching is unparalelled.

Thanks to NashvillEST.com for this little gem to keep the locals entertained this week.

XOXO,
Jenn

Today is my birthday. Actually, it’s my last birthday. Or my first 29th birthday. Or, from here I’ll just start counting backwards. I haven’t really decided yet.

I’ll come back with a more thoughtful birthday post on my 29 years soon, but for now, I share with you the above photo. My darling friend and sorority sister Adrienne made it for me.

Following her sending it, our conversation went like this:

Adrienne: Birthday Princess! Love you.

Jenn: Ha — thanks, Atay You are awesome. Love you!

Adrienne: And no, I’m not suggesting you go topless today, I just haven’t mastered shirts in Microsoft paint

Jenn: Ha — well. This is embarrassing — since I just ripped my shirt off at work and poured myself a martini.

Adrienne: Amazing, I expect nothing less from the birthday girl.

Hopefully the birthday continues along these same lines.

XOXO,
Jenn

Here’s proof that I’m actually a responsible adult:

New head-shot at work! So responsible looking, don’t you think?

Well, truth be told, I forgot we were doing my new head-shot that day so I had to run home, get my jacket and pearls (I am a good Southern lady, after all) and come back to work. Then, I immediately changed back out of my jacket as soon as it was over because “suits make me too hot.” If I was a news anchor I would definitely be the one with pajama pants and house-shoes on under the desk.  

So, never fear — I’m not too responsible.

Happy Wednesday, worker bees!

XOXO,
Jenn

I’ve posted before about the amazing, pelvis pushing, blues swinging band, Vintage Trouble that Rogers was fortunate enough to produce and mix for out of Los Angeles. They have had a smashing success in the UK touring with the likes of Bon Jovi — and today are releasing their album that my man worked on, The Bomb Shelter Sessions. In the words of one critic (and I’m paraphrasing because I read it a while back) — “if these are the Bomb Shelter Sessions, let’s all pray for war.”

Yes sir. Love it.

In perfect harmony with their album release today, they’ll be on Jimmy Kimmel Live to perform tonight. I cannot believe it. It’s so insane that this is actually happening — we love VT so much and are so thrilled for them.

Here’s a taste of them live on Jools Holland in the UK. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsw4ipHcMvY

Some photos from their October Nashville hang.

Dinner and hangtime at the Flat.

Live at the Basement.

I can’t wait for these guys to take the U.S. by storm like they have the UK. Tune in to Kimmel tonight or at least set your DVRs and prepare to have your face rocked right off.

Love you, Vintage Trouble. I see you.

XOXO,
Jenn

I love looking at the analytics that WordPress provides. Today, someone hit my blog via Google by searching “Skinny Southern Girl.”

Aw, Google. You just made my day. You’re a liar, but you made my day.

XOXO,
Jenn