Vandals. Vandals Everywhere.

You may remember the blender kidnapping of 2013. Well, here’s apartment saga, Episode 2.

Last night I had just drifted off to sleep. Or was dang close. It was a very late 10 p.m. for me.

All of the sudden we were awaken by a huge crash. I may have said some expletives. “What the _____ was that? WHERE the ____ was that?”

It sounded like it was in the room with me and sounded like an explosion.

Got up to look out the peephole in the front door to the hallway, but didn’t see anything. Back to bed.

In a few moments, I heard more glass clattering around and hopped back up to the peephole. This time, I saw a guy right in front of the door, bending over cleaning something up. WTF.

There are these decorative sconces over lights outside each apartment door, even though we have interior doors, that light up the hallway instead of overhead lights.

I pulled my robe on and decided I was going out there. I know.

Sure enough, the sconce that covers my light was destroyed. There was glass on the carpet still and I was in my bare feet.

Down the hall, two guys were probably 6 apartments down, walking away, holding a broom and dustpan. Now, they were turning to look at me because they heard my door open.

I yelled, “Hey! What happened?” and pointed to the light. I can only assume these are students at Vandy — they look to be about 21. But dumber and more entitled.

One sort of giggled/scoffed and said “oh yeah – he was throwing a ball and broke it.” Oh really. That’s hilarious.


“We’ll call the office tomorrow and have them fix it.”

Please note “I’m sorry – did we wake you, old lady?” or “Sweet robe – were you sleeping? Sorry about the noise and breaking your light,” were never uttered.


I said “ok. You live in the corner unit?”

To this, Turd #2 (the ball thrower) snorted. Like “what do you care?” Oh, I care. I care because I want to know where you little vandals live.

Turd #1 said “Yes.” And shrugged his shoulders like “there, are you happy?” No, I’m not happy. I’m standing in glass and YOUR MOM HAS RENTED THE MOST EXPENSIVE APARTMENT IN THIS JOINT FOR YOU TURDS TO DESTROY. Leave mine alone.

I swear. I love my apartment SO hard. It is the best little city nest. But at the risk of sounding like an old lady, it seems to have more than its fair share of idiots living there.

Before & After. 

PicMonkey Collage

Where the old folks at? Let’s hang out. And bring your pitchforks (and canes). I have a plan.


Old lady Wade, out.



Women Be Sewing

I was up all night Monday with a terrible cold. It came on with a fury and is still barely hanging on — mostly giving me a sinus headache from hell for approximately 12 hours a day. So Tuesday morning when my alarm went off, I rolled over, emailed my boss and went back to sleep. FOR FIVE MORE HOURS. Unbelievable. I never do that. Guess I was feeling pretty wimpy after all.

So when I woke up around lunchtime, consumed about a box of cereal and caught up on my Grey’s Anatomy (yes, that show it still on) — I still didn’t feel like doing much. I had recently purchased some fabric though, and it was quiet, rainy and seemed like a good day to craft. So off I went, Kleenex in hand.

The throw pillows that came with my couch were kind of fugly, but I didn’t notice until I moved into my cute new apartment and actually have nice things. They needed a face lift. However, all of the pillow covers I found on Etsy, etc. were like $20 each.

I bought fabric to cover both of them at JoAnn’s during a sale for $11.99. BOOM.

It had been so long since I’d pulled out my sewing machine that I’d forgotten how to thread the bobbin. I totally had to look it up on YouTube. Once I recalled the basics though, I went to town. I made these pillows using this super easy YouTube tutorial.

They turned out great. I only had to make one “alteration” when I sewed the WRONG sides together on the first pillow. What a rookie move. But like a wise old lady at JoAnn’s Fabric once told me, “Honey – there are no such things as mistakes in sewing. Only alterations.” Word, granny. Word.

photo 4


photo 1

photo 3I took a break (maybe I slept some more) — and then later that evening I whipped up a little onesie treat for my pregnant coworker. She is having a baby boy in the Spring — and I made him a nice spring formal onesie. He will be so dapper.

photo 5These are like the easiest things to make, y’all. I am obsessed with these. They only take about 20-25 minutes and are so cute. If you can find a pattern, you can make this onesie. I used this one from this lovely blog, Crap I’ve Made.

I literally pulled up her pattern on my iPad, traced it onto the Wonder Under right from my iPad screen and went to town. No printer required.

I used the zig-zag stitch on my sewing machine all the way around to make it extra secure, and cute.

Watch out babies — soon I’ll have you all dressed in ties and mustaches. Muhahahaha.


White Cheddar, Green Onion Pimento Cheese

I made this delicious pimento cheese over the weekend and posted a photo on the social medias, and several people asked for the recipe — so here you go!

I finally read my July issue of Southern Living and this is what happens. Since I couldn’t eat all of the watermelon, peach or cucumber recipes (since it’s almost October now), I opted for the year-round, ever-enjoyable cheese.

Disclaimer – this recipe is adapted from Southern Living’s. I say adapted, because I accidentally grabbed green onions from the store instead of chives. Win.

But I thoroughly enjoy green onions, so I’d do it again. If you want chives though, do 1/3 cup of chives instead of the 1/4 cup green onions.



  • 1 (12-oz.) block aged sharp white Cheddar cheese
  • 1/3 cup plus 2 Tbsp. mayonnaise
  • 1 (4-oz.) jar diced pimiento, drained and rinsed
  • 1/4 cup thinly sliced green onions
  • 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
  • 1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
  • 1/4 teaspoon ground red pepper
  • 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper


  1. Grate half of cheese using the large holes of a box grater; grate remaining half of cheese using the small holes of box grater. Stir together mayonnaise and next 6 ingredients. Stir in Cheddar cheese until well blended. Let stand 15 minutes. Serve immediately, or cover and chill up to 3 days.


The Crazy Cat Lady Next Door

Wednesday night I was sitting on the couch watching a movie – actually, I was painting my fingernails, naturally. Someone knocked on my apartment door, which is real weird in itself. Especially at like 8:00 p.m. Don’t they know I’m 30 and have one foot in the bed already?

Callie, of course, freaks out and runs to the door and baracades herself against it so I couldn’t really open it if I wanted to. I looked through the peephole and there was a normal looking, barely 20-something blonde guy standing there.I opened the door about three inches because a.) he could be the Craigslist killer and b.) Callie REALLY wanted to get at him and eat his face off.

As I poked one eyeball out the door and said “yes?,” I quickly realized this made me look creepier than him.

He clasped his hands together and began to plead his case.

“Hi! We’re cooking dinner down in 238 and our blender just broke – do you happen to have a blender we can borrow? We would really, really appreciate it.”

Because I assume he must be having margaritas for dinner, and I respect that, I said “Sure – I have a blender. Hold on and I’ll get it. ….. Oh, also, about her – she wants to escape. That’s why I can’t open the door – so wait here.” It was then he noticed Callie at my feet, who looked like an insane, 15 pound wolverine hyped up on methamphetamines trying to squeeze herself through a 3 inch opening in the door. He took three steps back. Hands still clasped together.

I retrieved the blender and took it back to him. “Thank you so much – thank you. You saved the day. We’ll bring it back in like 10 minutes, I promise. We’ll wash it!”

“Cool – no rush.” Famous last words.

I went to bed at like 9:30 – still no blender.

So at 7 a.m. the next morning when I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to leave for work, I pranced right down the hall to 238 and banged on their door. Nada. But not particularly surprised, especially if they had margaritas for dinner. (True – it could have been a marinade they were blending – but I like my version better).

So fast forward to 36 hours later and I walk up to this outside my apartment door:


Really!? How long has that been there? I thought it was a tiny space martian waiting on me from way down the hallway.

How many people have walked by and been like “sweet! Free blender!” Why not at least stick a little post-it note on top that said “thanks! Happy blending.” Or “the margs were awesome!” Or even “please don’t steal me.”


Kids these days have no respect for me or my kitchen appliances.

And my crazy cat lady reputation is currently spreading like wild fire through the building.


If Heaven is a Restaurant, it’s the Catbird Seat

For my 30th birthday, all I wanted to give myself (treat yo’ self, as Kim would say) was a dinner out at the Catbird Seat. For those of you who are living under a rock, the Catbird Seat is a restaurant in Nashville that’s been featured in Food and Wine, Bon Appetit, Southern Living, Travel + Leisure, etc. It’s one of the top restaurants in the country, and I’d venture to say a trailblazer in putting Nashville on the culinary map.

So what’s all the fuss about?

The food. Dear baby Jesus – the food.

But the experience, too. You see, you don’t walk into the Catbird Seat and order some chicken fingers. You must have a reservation. You can only get a reservation within 30 days of when you’d like to go, and you must do it online. You cannot call from your prepaid cellular device. So if you want to go eat there 30 days from now, you get online at midnight and start clicking before the reservations are all gone…because they will be, in seconds.

Then you arrive 15 minutes apart from each of the other parties for that evening. And you sit at one of 32 seats at a square bar around the kitchen, where award-winning chefs greet you, prepare your meal and serve it to you while explaining what it is, how you eat it and then stand there and shoot the breeze with you about things like music and Amsterdam.

You eat 10 courses of the most delightful culinary treats you’ve ever experienced. You don’t order anything – it’s all chef’s choice. Oh, and you have a wine or cocktail pairing with each course. (insert drunk face here).

It is a nearly three-hour-long, foodgasmic party in your mouth where no one overstays their welcome.

And y’all. I don’t really get star-struck in this fair city often – but being the food lover that I am, I knew I’d totally GEEK out over eating here and seeing Erik Anderson in the flesh. In front of me. Cooking food for me. Serving food to me. Talking about food to me. I want to be his best friend and awkwardly show up for dinner unannounced every Sunday.

So we went. We ate and drank. And it did not disappoint. Here is the play by play.

The Catbird Seat.


We arrived, were welcomed by the hostess and rode up the elevator with her babbling about I don’t know what because OMGI’MABOUTTOEATATTHECATBIRDSEATSHUTUP!

We were seated and then greeted by a tiny plate already waiting on us, with the chef’s version of Nashville’s famous hot chicken.

Crispy chicken skin and a “Wonder Bread” puree. Y’all.


The wine and cocktail pairing is $40 per person and worth every dime. (Also, take a cab).


This was another one of our “snacks” and part of the first course. I failed to take a photo of the others before I inhaled them. But this was a beef tartare. Amazing.


Oh hey famous chef Erik.


This was a melon salad. And you’re all like “oh melon salad, whatevs.” No. It was to die for. Those little melon balls almost changed my life. There was an avocado puree, some sort of foam and mint and salt something or another that made it to die for.

This was a celery root that was served on a super hot plate with foie gras shaved over the top. (Foie Gras = duck or goose liver that has been especially fattened). That foie gras melted like butter on the hot root and hot plate and we were encouraged to eat it quickly. Um, no problem.

Mashed potatoes. But not your grandmas. These had golden caviar underneath and cured sturgeon with lemon thyme. You know, like you do. Amazing, but probably the least impressive thing we ate.


Now we’re getting to the good stuff. I had known three other friends/acquaintances who ate at the Catbird Seat and two of the three were served Pigeon. Make that three now, counting me. I was so scared and excited when this came up. LOOK at that claw.

And aren’t pigeon’s referred to as “rats with wings?” They are gross, annoying animals. But I would have eaten a frosted turd if Erik Anderson served it to me.

So, he put this in front of us and explained it and I had heard to ask a lot of questions, when you eat at the Catbird. So the best I could come up with was, “How far down this little claw leg can I eat?” Well played.

He said, “well, that’s a bone – so don’t eat it.” Sweet, dude. Y’all. A real, single tear came to my eye when I ate this dish. We will all be eating pigeon in Heaven. Real talk.

After. Like a boss!

This was maybe my favorite cocktail that got major points for creativity. It was sweet tea, but real tea leaves were infused in riesling instead of water. That’s how we should all be drinking our tea, folks.

This was a top contender for favorite dish, as well. Wagyu beef ribeye that simply melted in your mouth. The watercress puree was really strong — watercress is just such a distinct flavor. I loved it, but it could have ruined it for you if it’s not a flavor you like.

We should always have a cheese course – with every meal. This was harbison cheese, which was kind of the consistency of brie, but twenty times tastier – served inside a hollowed out shallot with a mushy cherry compote of some kind. I don’t know — but it was good.


Hey drinks! And the first of three dessert courses. YES! Sweet corn ice cream, y’all. It was SO good. Served in a potato cone with shaved truffle on top. Truffle is such an overwhelming flavor when served in this quantity — but with the ice cream it was on point. This was a super savory dessert, as well.

IMG_2455Another savory-ish dessert. Maple, bacon, thyme custard served inside a real eggshell with a tiny real piece of bacon. I almost licked the inside of the egg.


Finally — a little smorgasbord of vanilla cake, cherry crisp, oak wood ice cream and pineapple gelee. But the star of this show were the bourbon beads. Close up in the next photo.


So that bourbon bead you see there was a tiny, gel casing that when bit into shot straight bourbon into your mouth. It was the craziest thing and I don’t know how they made them, but I could have eaten a million. I would have died, but it would have been sort of worth it. They were delicious!


Lastly, a tunga vanilla espresso drink with an espresso ice cube. Eh, it was fine. I had a lot of food and alcohol by this point, so I would have enjoyed anything.


Chef Erik, cutting some lady’s pigeon off the bone for her because the claw freaked her out. Really lady? This aint Burger King — you can’t just have it your way.


The view of the restaurant from the door when you walk in. This is pretty much the whole thing.


Lastly, here is a photo of our menu that they give you to keep as a souvenir. You can read all about everything here if you’d like. But I suggest you just fork over the cash and go yourselves. It was worth every penny. (FYI — it’s roughly $100/person plus the $40/person alcohol pairing plus service charge and tax, so…yeah).


We decided we’d treat ourselves once a year to this kind of experience, if possible. The menu changes constantly, so hopefully each time will be new and different.

I love Nashville and I love food. I’m so glad the two have teamed up to make our great city a foodie destination, as of late. There’s so many new eats to be excited about.

Thanks, Catbird. We’ll be back.


I mean, everyone was like 30

I turned 30 last Friday. There, I said it.

Up until now I’ve pretty much been calling it my Second Annual 29th Birthday.

Honestly, turning 29 was weirder. Because it was like “holy s$%*balls – I’m 30 NEXT YEAR.” So I’ve been preparing myself for this for a year now.

What I did NOT expect was another huge life change to happen the week prior to the 30th birthday. I moved out of the flat and into my own little one bedroom, urban apartment. It’s been kind of a devastating few weeks, y’all. But it’s getting a little, tiny bit easier every day when I realize that the world doesn’t really give a crap about my drama – it keeps spinning anyways and I better just try and keep up.

That’s all I care to talk about there. Back to 30….

We have new interns at work and one of my friends and coworkers walked by a gaggle full of them sitting in the cafeteria. She overheard then talking about their weekend and heard one girl say, “yeah – it was a fun place. But we didn’t stay very long. Everyone in there was like 30.”

Ohhhhhh girl. YoudidnotjustsaythatOMG!

I guess when you are 20 years old, 30 does seem pretty ancient. Now, please excuse me while I drink this Metamucil and chase it with some Pepto straight outta the bottle.

The 30th Birthday Weekend was great. I don’t ever remember my birthday falling on a Friday, so that was fun. I was surrounded by people who love me and even got to spend 24 hours in Nashville with my lovely parents, eating our way through town, as usual. Although, I was in bed by 10 p.m. both Friday and Saturday night. I’m not even mad about it.

I moved, I turned 30 and stayed real busy that first week in my new place. This second week has been quieter. I’ve been finding myself just looking around and realizing how quiet it is – then running to find Callie and making her snuggle on me. Gawd, I seriously would be locked in the nuthouse by now without that fur person. Her companionship saves me, some days. (So said the crazy, old, spinster cat lady).

So, who knows what 30 holds, but I’m counting on the second half of this year being pretty dang good. It better be. I’m going to make it be. I know by the end of the year I’m going to have a niece or nephew, I have an amazing family, such good friends, a job I love, a fur baby and the cutest roof over my head that you ever did see.

It’s gotta be good, right?


Stan the Man

While my family and I were on vacation last week in Destin, we were in a gelato shop after dinner on our last night there. There was a family there and you could tell it was grandpa, grown kids and grandkids. Grandpa was treating the family to gelato and it was adorable. The man must have been about 80 years old and he had a HUGE button on his shirt that said “Stan _____.” I don’t remember his last name. So I casually said, “What’s up, Stan!” And he said “How did you know my name?” I said, “Oh, I don’t know – you just look like a Stan the Man if I’ve ever seen one.”

Then my brother pointed at his button and said “you have a huge button on your shirt with your name on it.”

Way to ruin the fun, Wade.

Stan said “STAN THE MAN! That’s me. I once lived in a retirement home and I wanted them to put that on my shirt and they wouldn’t do it.”

Well, alright then.

About that time, Stan was summoned by his grown son to pay the $14 gelato bill.

I meandered away and moments later realized they had all gone outside and Stan had left his walker by the cash register. Surely he’ll be back for it. Or will he? I mean, he clearly just managed to walk away without its assistance.

So sure enough, here he comes in a minute. I just put my hands on it like it was mine and when he walked up like “why the hell do you have that,” I was like “Oh! Is this yours!? Weird.”

Just a little flirting with an 80 year old man never hurt anyone.

So I passed him the walker and he leaned on it – settled in – and said, “What’s your deal? Are you in school?”

“Nope – I graduated nearly 10 years ago from UT if you can believe it.”


Yes, Stan.

“What did you study?”

“Public Relations – well, communications.”

Stan replied with a resounding, “Shiiiiiiiit.”

“Well, what’s that supposed to mean!?”

“Why not major in something USEFUL where you can actually get a good job, like engineering.”

“Well Stan, I hate science and math. Hate it. That would have never worked for me.”

“WELL SO DO A LOT OF PEOPLE, but you just work through it so you can get a decent job.”

“I HAVE a good job! I do marketing for Caterpillar.”

(Stan gives a look of consideration of this tidbit – mulls it over for a moment).

“Well, that’s pretty good. Alright then. God bless you.”

And then he walked, with the help of his walker, right on out of my life.

We did see him later with his family, after we’d walked around a bit more, and as we passed him all six of us said “Hey Stan!” “See you later Stan!” “Take care, Stan the Man!”

And he looked genuinely confused and shocked. I think he’d forgotten about our conversation and him dropping the career counseling on me.

Wherever you are, Stanley – preach son, preach.


Eight Years

Eight years ago, on May 7, 2005, I graduated from the University of Tennessee. I walked across the stage, had lunch with the family and hopped in my already packed car and drove to Nashville. I walked in my apartment that I’d picked out the month prior and started my journey into grown-up land. I was scared out of my gourd and so excited at the same time.

I knew about two people in Nashville and they were only here for the summer before going back to school. I had only been on Facebook for a couple of weeks (weeks!) so even these “friends” couldn’t help me get rooted. Gawd, how did we ever survive?

I moved Saturday and started my new job on Monday, May 9. What a moron! I had no idea to ask for a week or even a few days to get settled. Also, I was making a whopping $24,000 a year and couldn’t WAIT to bring home that first paycheck. SUCH.A.BALLER.

The first week I was in Nashville some belt in my car started making a funny noise. I called my Dad – naturally. I’ll never forget him reminding me that I was “off the teet” (one of his favorite sayings, to this day) and I better take it somewhere to get it looked at. WTF! You fix it! I already spent my money on booze, frozen chicken and crap at Hobby Lobby to hang on the walls. Ugh – being a grown-up is so hard.

Again – MORON. Little did I know – and I have it good, y’all, that the real fun stuff was yet to come. In retrospect and my old sage-like wisdom, I know I have it good. But I was still in no way prepared for the fun little curveballs life throws you when nobody is around to say “DON’T BE A MORON, moron.” I still have my health, my family and my fur baby – but the last eight years have been eventful, that’s for sure.

I thought about making this post some big “if I knew then what I know now” post, but everything I thought of just sounded dumb and petty. Because I’ve watched friends go through losses that would absolutely wreck me. I’ve watched friends my age lose children, parents, pets, jobs, family and even themselves over the past eight years. I have nothing to do but give thanks for my last eight years of grown-up-dom. I have approximately zero room to complain.

But it’s still fun to reflect and think about the steps that got me right here where I am today, which is a place I’m thankful and so pleased to be in. So I’ll just leave it at that.

Nashville, you keep getting better with age. You fine, country wine, you. Now I’m going to go hug on my family real tight for the next seven days.


Bike Maintenance 101

A couple weeks ago my friend Kim told our friend Lana and I to sign up for this Bike Maintenance 101 class here in town. We’re all fairly new to riding (I’m the newest) and it wouldn’t hurt to know how to do a couple things on the ol’ bike besides fall off. So for $20, we each signed up for the class. It was over at the Oasis Center here in town which is a non-profit that’s super fabulous. They have a bike shop that provides an after school and summer opportunity for kids to learn how to build and work on bikes. It was an impressive set-up!

First thing’s first though – I have to get my bike TO the class – because it’s a small, hands-on learning opportunity so you BYOB (bring your own bike). When I got the bike back in November, I immediately purchased a rack for my car. Since it turned cold and basically hasn’t quit raining all spring, I haven’t had the need for it yet. So I finally opened the box on Sunday afternoon. I opened the directions and the first page said “for women’s bikes, may need to purchase separate adapter.” Of course you do. Of freakin’ course you do.

I put that out of my mind and proceeded to get the thing on my car. I’m standing in our parking lot, which we happen to share with a bike shop, so I didn’t seem out of place putting this thing on my car. What did seem out of place was that I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. It took a solid half hour or more and I was all but standing on my trunk at some points.

I finally get the thing on there and only smashed my finger in the trunk once. Victory! I retrieved my bike and tried to jam it on there – no dice. The directions do not lie. You need an adapter for a Women’s extra small frame. F.

I went and sat on the porch and surfed the internets for an adapter that would keep my bike from falling off the rack and onto the interstate. I was panicking – because I also REALLY want to haul my bike to the beach soon, and wondered if my adapter would get here on time. Then it hit me – again – I live next to a bike shop! Adapter purchased within two minutes.

It worked like a charm. Although before I took off for class yesterday, I went in and got one of the bike shop employees to come out and look at everything to be sure I’d set it up right. He confirmed that I had.

I successfully drove to class and home and the bike stayed put. I even hit some big bumps to be sure it would stay on. (Better to find out now than on the interstate later). My father would die! (He avoids potholes and speed bumps like the plague. I’m sure his shocks look brand new).

In class we learned how to change a flat (my main mission for going – I’m terrified of getting stranded 10 miles into a greenway), how to clean and tighten your gear and brake cables, how to adjust your shifting thing-a-ma-bobs if your chain is shifting into your spoke or off your gears, etc. Oh! And I learned how to pump up my tires too, and learned that it’s really hard to put 125 PSI into those little flippin’ tires. I mean, I work out, but that was hard pumpin’ y’all.

So, bike maintenance 101 is in the books! Let’s be honest though – if I ever get stranded I’ll probably just cry and then call for help. And if I need a tune up, I’ll either take it to the bike shop I live next to (unless I forget it’s there again), or go to Oasis bike shop’s free bike tune up nights. Yes, for FREE you can go there on Tuesday and Thursday nights (for the time being) and get your bike tuned up. Well, they show you how to do it yourself. But I’d probably just stand there pretending not to know much so they can do it for me.

It wouldn’t really be pretending, I guess.

Plus, Dan (who taught our class) sent this email out today and pretty much won my heart.


It’s a cat – on a BIKE!? Yes.

Stay on the saddle, people.

Jenn's bike


Nestle Tea

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.”


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 feels like I’m not totally conforming. ;)