Tag Archives: desperate for content but still posting


Just checking in quickly to confirm that, yes, people who blog daily with kids and jobs and dogs are superhuman.

We are gearing up for a week-long vacation in Maine, with a brief stop in Boston. I will be excited once 1) all of Addison’s belongings are actually loaded into our car for transport and 2) the dang flights are finished. Figuring out how to take my fly-happy pills while breastfeeding has proven challenging, so I may be going it with just a prayer and a 4:30 a.m. mimosa.

Work is picking up, which is both exhilarating and exhausting. Thankfully my mom volunteered to Addiesit a couple times a week. For now, I’m foregoing entrusting my one and only offspring to a 16-year old texting-while-diaper-changing,boyfriend-inviting-into-my-house babysitter. And exhale.

Clayton and I are expert planners, so when the time came for us to get ready for our first vacation with an infant and plan for Addison’s first birthday the weekend after we return home, we also decided to throw in a master bedroom redesign. If nothing else, at least the bedroom furniture I’ve had since I was 13 is officially out of commission. Buh-bye particle board. Hello legitimate wood dresser, reading nook and “are you kidding me that your shoes are on the new ottoman?” ottoman.


I also tackled updating a black tv stand to use as a pink book shelf in A’s room, crafting some new art for her room, two mind (and savings account) blowing trips to Hobby Lobby, a novel-length list of ideas for the upcoming birthday of the century and redoing the gallery photo wall in our entryway.






(Any thoughts for a wall treatment for that ginormous blank wall behind those photos? Oh, and rates for your services to actually come and execute said treatment.)

Maybe I’ll have a chance to post some pictures of the master bedroom “after.” Most likely I won’t, so just go right ahead and lower those expectations now. For the “before,” just imagine a freshman dorm room pieced together with help from childhood bedroom furniture, Craigslist acquisitions and absolutely zilch on the walls. It was a special kind of cozy in there.

The rest of the week will be a whirlwind of packing and cleaning and proofreading other people’s poor grammar and list making and list losing and list re-making and baby chasing and coffee drinking. Or, what I like to call The Everyday at Casa Noa.

I hope your summer has been full of Florida-caliber sunshine and free of mosquito bites!


A List Full of Happy

Here are a few things helping me smile this week.

1. I beat my brother at Words with Friends. Sure, it was the one time in about 39 attempts, but I needed that victory. All that slaughtering was really starting to make me question my career path.

2. Girls Night was last Saturday night. Hey-o! As if that wasn’t enough, I assembled (didn’t even have to bake) and brought this saucy little minx:

ice cream cake (Source)

We chatted, kept our wine goblets full and took a stab at at-home nail shellacking. My effort was more like a massacre, but at least I gave being girly a go. Less than a week later, well, the results speak for themselves. I assure you these results have nothing to do with the product and everything to do with my general deficiencies in the feminine arts.


3. Catching Addison waking up from a nap as she bobbles around trying to blink her baby-sleepy eyes into recognition.

4. Our hot tub is up and running. We’ve lounged in it a few times after putting Addison to bed, and it is rather glorious. We can open the curtains and still check in on the Rays score. Really feels like the Noa’s are winning at life a little bit every time we’re soakin’.

5. Date night tomorrow night. Live music under the stars sounds like perfection. Except that it’s been 86 degrees. Gearing up for some sweet, sweaty PDA.

6. We went on a family run last night. Clayton hates running and only succumbs to my requests if tears get involved. Last night’s easy acceptance of my invitation was pleasantly unexpected. I love running with Clayton (except for when I hate running with Clayton) because I always go faster. Way faster. Our final quarter mile was under 9:00 min/mile. That’s downright insanity for me. It may have been even faster had Clayton not completely tripped over Maya, who got spooked by a mailbox. And that’s the story of the last time Maya will ever get taken on a run.

That Time of Year

Sorry ‘bout ya, Clemson.

Now that that’s out of the way, obviously this weekend was a good one with a big fat “W” on the books. For the next mumblesomegodawfulnumbermumble weeks, my life will revolve around football schedules. Like, embarrassingly so.

True story:
fsu fins schedules editedPinterest. Making moms everywhere feel completely inadequate if they don’t use hot glue, chalkboard paint or ribbon at least twice a week.

After an A+ doctor’s appointment for Addison on Friday, Clayton and I grabbed an early dinner. He was supposed to work at a high school football game that night, which meant a girls’ night in for the little lady and me. I did what any normal wife would do and stopped at the grocery store for some frozen yogurt and movies with ridiculously improbable storylines acted out by ridiculously attractive people who, one way or another, end up in a ridiculously dramatic make out sesh. Plus one movie that I’d never seen advertised before that had my girlcrush, Kristen Wiig, and my dog’s namesake, Maya Rudolph. (I tell people it’s from Maya Angelou because I’m a “writer,” but let’s get real. Maya R.’s Oprah is off the charts.)

Before I even made it to the froyo section, Addison awoke from a deep sleep with a piercing wail that earned horrified looks from everyone in the front 2/3 of the store. I thought I’d be able to calm her by taking her out of her carrier and holding her, all while inching ever closer to the beloved frozen dessert aisle, but girlfriend was having none of it. About four steps in, I knew this was a lost cause, so I made yet another sacrifice and went home without my chocolate drizzled treat. Addison screamed the entire way home. She didn’t cry. She screamed.

After awhile of the constant deafening screams, Clayton called to tell me that he made a mistake and did not have to work that night.

Ideal Response: “That’s awesome! I am so excited I get to spend the evening with you unexpectedly! I love you so much. Would you like me to get started making a second dinner for you?”
Actual Response: “Are you serious? We just planned the entire night around you working. Way to ruin our weekend.”

Yes, I was a little frazzled by that time.

It worked out that Clayton was at home because we were in for several hours of hard core baby displeasure. I guess when I asked the doctor specifically, “What kinds of reactions can happen after these shots?” he conveniently forgot that constant, high-pitched crying in pain is on the list. Luckily, Addison calmed down once I stuffed her chubby thighs into a Moby Wrap and got my Mama hip sway on. I am now on the fence about Western medicine.

Saturday night we invited my bestie and her hubs over, along with their eight-month old baby, Max, aka Addison’s best friend, to watch the FSU game. We enjoyed a delectably odd combo of sushi and chicken wings and by the middle of the fourth quarter, 4 out of 6 of us were passed out cold. We party so hard.

Sunday I finagled my post baby torso into the one Dolphins t-shirt I own (A child’s size, btw. Twas snug.) and we spent the afternoon watching the Dolphins lose in typical fashion with one of Clayton’s coworkers and her husband. You know what’s super fun? Trying not to make a mess feeding your kid on a stranger’s leather furniture.

I started writing this post two days ago, totally forget where I was headed with it, and don’t have enough brain space to care.

Moral of the story: Shots suck. We’re addicted to football. My baby is still adorable.


Shout Outs

Even though not much is going down in my thrilling life, that’s not the case with a few people I know.

My friend Laura, who I pester incessantly about running and whose puppy Bryson is betrothed to, ran her first marathon this past weekend. Chicago didn’t even see her coming. Congrats, friend! (Also, you need to start a running blog for me to read obsessively.) Send her congratulatory and anti-inflammatory thoughts this week, ok?

The lives of forty other people are about to be exponentially more exciting when they receive their baby shower invitations this week for mom-to-be/best friend Leah. Buckle up, ladies. It’s on.

I also think I forgot to introduce you to my very first niece/goddaughter, Sarah, Clayton’s brother’s new baby girl. She made her debut a few months ago and is not that size anymore, even though I was secretly hoping she would stay six pounds until I got to hold her tiny cuteness in my hands. But she is healthy and still adorable enough for me to claim as family. Pretty sure they’re going to have to hold me down and force her out of my arms when we visit in November.

Sarah Jade3


I have no long narratives to share with you at the moment, so all you get to munch on are snippets. Unless you’d like me to recount in expletive-laden detail about the debacle that was Florida State vs. Wake Forest. I didn’t think so.

I was escorted out of Ross by the security guard for having a smoothie. Apparently they now have a ban on food and drink? Maybe it’s only for drinks that are pretending to be food…? I know, I’m kind of a badass. And Ross really is the epitome of unforgiving high standards.

Why do all athletic shoe designers swear that chicks want pink, purple or pink and purple shoes? We’re not all six years old. I rebelled and shopped in the men’s section. Again, me = badass.

PA042273During the half marathon, I had to fight my shorts from riding up for the last four miles. They were quite stubborn about the whole thing. So I bought my first pair of running tights. That’s alotta spandex on alotta thigh. If you happen to see me plugging along out there, avert your eyes and we’ll both pretend nothing ever happened.

This sort of thing occurs on a daily basis. Please note Bryson’s stray left foot. He is so excited when Clayton gets home that he pretty much tolerates anything. The men in my life are weird. 


And then last week I got a nice dose of Reality Check with a side of Humiliation. One of the reviewers of a brochure draft I wrote left this comment: “This is so wrong I don’t even know where to start.” Well done, me.

Smoothie Queen

I really wanted to write a post yesterday. In fact, I drowned in the waters of Pinterest searching for some inspiration for you. But all I found were way too many drool-worthy graphic rugs for a fictitious home office in a fictitious home. So, totally productive, of course, just not very blog-worthy. Except that here I am, blogging about it.

Clearly the content ain’t coming. Just around the bend, I have some secret posts collecting dust waiting to be read by the world. Or by my mom. Whatevs.

In the meantime, I’ll tell ya about one of the recent developments in the Noa household: smoothies. That’s right. We’re super mega hard core party animals and are gang bangers nuts about our new homemade smoothies. Perhaps to an unhealthy level, suggested by these [obviously pre-planned] texts from my husband yesterday:

"Would it be possible to bring me my lunch?”

“It is in fridge.”

“Maybe smoothie?”

As you already know, I’m an excellent wife and put a halt on my incredibly important task of pinning motivational running mantras to make my husband a smoothie. Now, I haven’t mastered the proportions or blending levels just yet, so I’m not going to do something silly like write a recipe. Who would ever trust me to write a recipe, anyway? That’s all kinds of disaster and personal injury lawsuits waiting to happen.

However, I did spend a solid year in high school (and one 50-hour, paid-cashmoney-under-the-table week in college) working at Smoothie King*. So basically, I am a bit of an expert on how to correctly unpeel a banana, pretend like you’re studying the labels on the supplements when you don’t feel like working and gain 10 pounds polishing off the leftovers of every smoothie you make in an 8-hour shift.        

Here are the random ingredients that typically get tossed into one of my specialties. Clayton and his 7% body fat get a scoop of sugar in their smoothies; me and my love handles do not.

Frozen Raspberries and Blueberries
Muscle Milk Chocolate Protein Powder
Chocolate Syrup
Peanut Butter

They’re always way too thick to drink, so I use a spoon. And the world’s largest coffee mug.

IMAG0489 See, I told you it was slow around here.

*I was also fired from the King. By my former-stripper-turned-boss whose sugar daddy gifted her the store. If you read this story two years ago when I told it, well, read it again now. I think I use different adjectives.

We had a customer who came in nearly every day after working out at the gym next door and injecting himself with a heaping dose of steroids. He would order the same thing and added every extra supplement we had, with the exception of the Fat Burner. One day I charged him for all but one of the supplements, a whopping $0.50 savings for him and a loss of about $0.03 for Smoothie King. So. Scandalous. Somehow Bossy Pants found out, fired me in her head and did not tell me the good news. She simply didn’t put me on the schedule. When I came in to check my non-existent schedule, she asked me about it, I said that I did in fact commit the crime in question, and she fired me. But the best part was that she said, “Normally we wouldn’t do this, but we’re trying to change things around here, and we needed to use you as an example.”

It must have been helpful to make an “example” of the employee who had already informed them she was leaving for college (a foreign concept to both managers) in about two weeks. How convenient. I was bitter from the whole situation—apparently screwing the co-owner in the office was of little concern but free Muscle Builder is grounds for termination—until about six months later. I came home for a weekend during my freshman year in college and made a trip to SK. Knowing how ridiculous my being fired was, I didn’t have a problem asking if I could pick up a few shifts during spring break. Of course they said yes. After all, I was the only employee who dusted shelves on my down time and didn’t steal from the tip jar. The owners stayed classy and paid me in an unmarked envelope of cash. And of course I claimed it on my taxes.