Category Archives: I Need a Category for This

10 Indications that We Probably Won’t be Good Friends

1. You own something emblazoned with a Disney character. And you have not yet banished it to the memories box in the attic.

2. You spell things phonetically, not correctly.

3. You shrug absentmindedly when I quote Dumb and Dumber, instead of following up with the next line.

4. You don’t know what “unfortch” or “whatevs” mean.

5. You expect me to wear make up or pants, even if I’m not at work or church.

6. You won’t let me grip your wrist for the entire duration of a plane trip. Or you to attempt to have any sort of conversation during said flight.

7. You’ve only seen Jurassic Park 15 times or less. Or, God help your soul, you haven’t seen it.

8. You own a cat.

9. You correct my sarcasm.

10. You decide to learn a new song on your guitar during Shark Week. Cough. Cough.

Good Will Doppelganging

I shouldn’t be telling you this. I should be closing down my web browser, shutting off my computer, and taking Bryson for a long walk in the snow-turned-sludge. But we just got our internet hooked up at Casa Noa and I cannot pull myself away from its back-lit, one-click-away deliciousness.

So apparently there are these things called doppelgangers. And somehow they slept with somebody that makes really important decisions and they got their own Doppelganger Week. At least that’s what Facebook tells me. And if my FB tells me something, you can rest assured I’m believing it because I’m going to guess that about two weeks before it happens, there will be an “I’m Totally Stoked for the Impending Apocalypse” Facebook event with the exact date because those people are about 3 “likes” away from taking over the world. You know it’s true. So anyway, I’m seeing all these profile pictures that look kind of like my “friends” except, wait a sec, that’s not you, girl I had one class with my freshman year, that’s a total celebrity! And at first I thought, how lame. Why would you want someone who looks kind of like you only a million times hotter on your profile so that everyone can see what you might look like if you had an entire team of professionals getting you ready every day and not what you actually look like, which is perfectly attractive until you compare it to a celebrity? And then I thought, I want one!!!

I ran a half-hearted google search, and I’m pretty sure the site I landed on will sell my email address to dozens of C-list porn sites and debt consolidators and maybe Ask Gary, but that’s a small price to pay for one’s true celebrity doppelganger. OMG, what if my real doppelganger is Gary?! Score. Anyway, I uploaded the prettiest picture of myself I could find, one that clearly showed I was not a chubbo or a man. Here were my results in order of “Like, you two could totally be twinsies-ness”:

 Yes, that is Judge Freaking Judy. And I thought all those sunscreen ads were mere propaganda.

*All images came from IMDB. Except Condy. She was a gift from wikipedia.

Because the Raspberry Sorbet is NOT Helping (but I Keep Eating)

I know there are worse than things in life than having a cold. But the phlegm oozing around my brain has drowned any sense of perspective I could hope to have, and all I feel like doing is whining about how sick I am of being sick. This is the second debilitating cold I’ve had in three weeks. Who gets two colds in a month? My infant immune system is obviously trying to send me a snotty, congested message, and I’m all ears now. Mostly because my other senses are filled with mucus and pressure and the ears are all that’s left. As soon as I can muster the strength to change out of my pajamas, it’s off to the grocery store for some real orange juice (NOT the radioactive liquid sugar substitute Sunny D, Clayton), multivitamins, echinacea, apples, and a People magazine. Because nothing helps put life back into perspective quite like Kate Gosselin and Speidi.

Weekend Teaser

Besides bringing home the swine and being witness to one of the most horrid displays of football inadequacy ever, this weekend was a raging success. Ok, I didn’t bring home Matt‘s actual swine flu, just a boring old cold, but I keep crossing my fingers to catch that elusive sickness one of these days. You know, for the story.

I don’t have time to go into all the haps now, but for a split second I thought that living in Tallahassee as a non-college student might not be so unthinkable.

Parking Illegally is Kind of My Thing Anyway

Dear College,

No, I will not pay you $161.00 for permission to park on your campus. Will you guarantee me a parking space every time I arrive? Didn’t think so. Do you remember that little bill you sent me for my measly 9 hours of classes? Wouldn’t a small fraction of that be more than enough to cover a 5×10 concrete parking space? Oh, wait, I forgot that you were still paying off the $27,000 topiary bull, apparently a necessary enhancement of my educational experience. So, thanks for the suggestion. I’d really love to help fund your next $136,000 bull statues; it’s such a great idea to help cheer people up when they’re getting laid off and losing health insurance and receiving foreclosure notices. I know that when we calculate all of our student loans and how many years it’s going to put us in debt and realize our savings could barely pay for my Starbucks habit for a month, what really turns my mood around is the thought of “three life-sized bull statues running through the water.” Good luck with that, brilliant and not-at-all misguided decision makers. Don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the unveiling ceremony, though. I’ll be busy looking for a parking space. 

All my love,


I Am Now Unashamedly That Kid

You’re going to roll your eyes when I tell you this, but honesty is just my policy.

I am heading off to class today with not one essay to turn in, but two. Were two assigned? No. Just the one. But gosh darn it if I couldn’t fit all my insightful prose into the one and a half page maximum. So you know what I did? I emailed my teacher and complained that I am such an overachieving kiss-ass that I can’t stop myself from getting SO MUCH KNOWLEDGE out of this little poem I’m writing about. Or something like that. And man, if she didn’t eat that right up. (I don’t think she’ll have any more problems remembering the name of that A++ student any more.) She is the one who then suggested I turn in two essays because what else does an English professor have to do on the weekends besides read mediocre last-minute overly-googled essays about 20th century poetry? Not much, apparently. So she’s all excited about two essays that promise to be non-mediocre and I’m all excited about getting back not one A paper, but two!

And this is what happens when an expert procrastinator begins paying for their own college tuition.

Don’t Wear Good Shoes

This Friday Clayton and I are joining our friend Nathan in the Picnic Island Adventure Run.

If you’re like me, all naive and innocent, you might think that sounds like a big ball of fun. So then maybe you’d sign up for it less than a week in advance. And then maybe you’d actually try to physically run 3.3 miles and end up wheezing on a bench next to the sidewalk you’d attempted to conquer.

Ok, maybe you wouldn’t do that. But I would.

But Natalie, you think, you’re a personal trainer! True, but I work with weights. My clients lift and push and pull and flex. They do not run. Therefore, I do not run. Haven’t in about a year and a half. So when I took to the pavement on Sunday night for training session one, I wasn’t expecting much. I was able to finish two miles without stopping, and that was beyond thrilling for me. The last half mile was particularly painful and I’m pretty sure a couple in their 90s walked past me, but I didn’t stop. I thought this was an accurate marker of my current fitness level — I’d be able to finish most of the race on my own and hopefully adrenaline would push me across the finish line.

And then there was last night. I stretched and prepped for what I assumed would be a 2+ mile run. How could I not add to my mileage when the race was only four days away? So off I went. And here’s the take home lesson: never trust that first run. Your body is in shock for most of it and before it can realize that it should have completely shut down about 25 minutes ago, you’re already back at home playing with your dog and massaging your calves. The second run? That’s the truth-teller. Especially when the sun is shining and the humidity is ungodly. That’s when you can expect to discover just how unfit you truly are. Or, in my case, just how far you can push those two puffs on the inhaler before the lungs implode. Turns out, it’s only about a mile and a half.

So now I have three more days to “train.” The tricky part is that the race isn’t just straight running on a nice paved road. That would be too easy for someone who hasn’t done a 5k in four years. This race takes you through water, under a cargo net, over hurdles, and God knows what else in those five kilometers.

Despite the sore back and burning quads, I am really hoping this race will kick start my running again. I was fairly consistent throughout college and have started to miss the runner’s high. Not to mention it will soon require at least 3 miles to drain Bryson’s energy. (He’s about 40 pounds!)

And even if none of that happens, the free pizza and ice cream at the post-race party will make that asthma attack so worth it.

The Perks Just Keep on Coming

For one of my classes we are supposed to come in ready to examine our virtual selves with the eyes of a potential employer. When I first read this assignment, a tiny wave of worry made me do a quick internal survey about the contents of my facebook page and this blog. It didn’t take more than a few seconds, though, to realize that I was a rather poor excuse for a state university undergrad in terms of the number of pictures I have posted with permanent marker drawings covering my person as I lay passed out on the couch of a fraternity house. Whew. I guess I dodged that future bullet.

My curiosity wouldn’t let me go before taking it one step further. I had to google myself. And then I learned yet another perk about getting married and changing your last name: it is basically a big giant virtual eraser for anything less-than-attractive that might appear online under your maiden name. Sure, my future bosses won’t find that newspaper article about how I made those free throws to win the District Semi-finals my junior year of high school, but that’s what a resume is for.

What is that You Express in Your Eyes?

Last night I stayed up until 1am finishing the second book in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series. As one of my friends put it, being a tween is awesome. And the somewhat embarrassing part was that I wasn’t staying up to finish the book because I wanted to finally have it off my conscious and move on; I was up reading because I could not put the book down. Those were real tears streaming down my face when Lena found out about Kostos’ baby mama, and I have no hormonal imbalance to blame that on. After I’d finished, I wondered how crazy I would seem asking Clayton to ride to Wal-Mart with me to see if they had the third book. But he was fast asleep on the couch looking too cute to bother with the gals’ third summer with the magic jeans. So I took him to bed and we went to sleep.

Later that night, but not too long after I’d fallen asleep, I had a horrible dream. I wanted to get out of it so badly, and when I finally forced myself to wake up, I jerked my torso up and I think I might have made some sort of half scream/half cry noise that woke Clayton up, too. I wanted to tell him to go back to sleep, that everything was ok and I’d just had a bad dream. Instead, when I tried to talk, I could barely get out “I had a bad dream” before I fell to pieces. I cried for about ten minutes. I don’t remember crying over a dream since…ever. I’ve had dreams where my mother had passed away and my cousins were getting eaten by King Kong, but nothing ever elicited genuine tears after I’d woken up. It was very, very strange. I felt, for the second time in a few hours, like a child. Turns out, being a tween is not so awesome sometimes.