Tag Archives: fsu for life


Happy birthday to me, suckas.

In pre-baby birthday fashion, I would have been prancing around here for weeks with a fancy countdown plug-in and a detailed wish list with pictures, size/color specifications and links for your shopping convenience. But since my little thunder stealer came along, half the time I forget that it’s even August.

Luckily, my boo didn’t forget. He’d asked what I wanted to do a couple of weeks ago, and the first and only request I made was to sleep in. Like, a sinfully indulgent 10 a.m. I suggested having my parents watch Addison, and I guess the next logical step if we had an Addiesitter was to jet over to the beach for a 36-hour getaway. If that’s where the boy’s mind goes, I’m certainly not going to talk him out of it. Off to the beach we went!

We actually hadn’t been on a proper beach outing this entire summer. We were due for some Vitamin D and subsequent aloe baths.

A little heavy handed hinting with the receptionist scored us two free drinks at the hotel’s restaurant. So, naturally, we started our adventure there. The hotel was right on the Gulf, and our room had a decent view.

hotel view

After a couple of hours out on the restaurant patio looking at the water, we did a quick change for dinner. We’d pushed back our initial reservations a half hour to catch the sunset, but it was really overcast and the show wasn’t all that spectacular. I know, you’re feeling so sorry for us right now. Do you know what is spectacular? Photo editing apps.

Photo attempt by stranger with vampire aesthetics:

C N bday dinner original

C N bday dinner

My brain doesn’t even comprehend that technology.

Dinner restaurant blah blah blah adult food mumble mumble. ICE CREAM!

nat ice cream2

We rented a forklift to get my three scoops back to the hotel while Clayton dripped his mint chocolate chip the entire length of our quarter mile walk. “At least we’ll find our way back if we get lost,” was his positive spin on losing half his dessert. Ice cream on the balcony listening to the waves break did not suck.

At 9:45 this morning, Clayton opened the curtains to a bright, sunny Florida summer day while I was still warm and cozy in a huge hotel bed. Total birthday success, even if I didn’t quite make it to 10 a.m. We grabbed breakfast at the hotel and spent the day on the beach. Despite the warnings inherent in the very concept of “Shark Week,” I did join my husband in the water for awhile. Cautiously. Intensely sensitive to every ripple and nearby squeal. Mostly floating on his lap so that he would be the one to get the gnarly scar on his calf while I could still boast nonchalantly, “I totally survived a shark attack.” It’s my birthday, I can reduce my chances of hemorrhaging in the ocean if I want to.

Can we just collectively freak out here for a second about how the guy on the Shark Week finale died during the filming of that show? Anyone?

Clayton can only lay out in the sun comfortably for 18 seconds before he starts whining like a toddler. Since it was my birthday, he made it to 30 seconds before letting out a guttural disgusted grunt that made it clear I would not be reading the entirety of “Bossypants” while working on my tan for the duration of the afternoon. We went for a leisurely walk that ended up being 2.2 miles. For serious. We logged it on a running app.

rocks beach IG

I had very high Instagrammable hopes of running into a big flock of seagulls, causing them to artistically scatter in the perfect photogenic angles. My first mistake was that the birds were about 200 yards away from us when I started my run. So people had a very long time to watch me and wonder why I up and started sprinting away from my husband. The second mistake was my assumption that seagulls would even care my post-baby hips were coming at them at a daunting 23-minute mile pace. They didn’t. So I finally reached them, anticipating some big spectacle, and they hopped their annoying little feet over six inches. I think maybe one flew away.

nat run beach

Not birthday success.

After our marathon walk, it was time to head out. We grabbed lunch at Gators, adorned from top to bottom in University of Florida garb, and tried not to vomit at the life size cut-out of Tim Tebow at the entrance. The gator wasn’t even that good. And the food wasn’t that great, either. Zing!

Our last stop was my parents’ house to pick up the little lady we’d been missing.

A shadow giraffe

In case you were wondering, no I don’t feel older.

Larger and less attractive, but not older.


Special thanks to my husband for a perfectly unexpected birthday treat. 

For My Valentine

The first time I really noticed Clayton, he was dressed as Anakin Skywalker at a Halloween party. I only knew who Anakin Skywalker was because the latest Star Wars movies were out and Hayden Christensen is dreamy. Whoever this guy was, he was Hayden’s doppelganger, messy dirty-blonde hair and laser blue eyes that tripped you up in the back of your throat.

Clayton and I fluttered around the same circle of friends for awhile as I flirted awkwardly and mildly stalked his intramural games. Our first date was more convenience than romance—we each already had tickets to the same performance for a theater class we were taking. Looking back, I’m certain this was Clayton’s frugal way of going on a first date on the cheap. The first part of the night was supremely uncomfortable. I had worn my go-to corduroys, but they seemed to have lost their magic. Turns out, corduroy lost its magic altogether around 1979.

I missed half of the performance looking sideways at my sweaty hand resting in a come-hither lilt across my leg, just waiting for Clayton to sneak over and soak up that sweat in a rom com-worthy maneuver that would result in The Hand Hold Heard ‘Round the World. Well, my hand stayed put for three hours. And so did his.

v day collage1

After the show, my roommate called to ask if we could pick up some ice cream on the way back. That call probably changed the course of Hayden’s perception of me. I like to think he fell for me somewhere between the Ben & Jerry’s and frozen pizza. All I know for sure is that we dropped off the ice cream at my dorm room and made our way to Landis Green. We stayed put for six hours.

I got even more awkward for the several months after that, refusing to speak when we were together and communicating Nell-style when he’d ask what I wanted for dinner or what movie we should rent. I have no idea why he stayed put for those mute six weeks or kept inviting me over. Maybe because I’d respectfully laid the corduroy to rest.

v day collage2

I finally got my crap together and began to dazzle him with jokes he couldn’t understand because I mumble when I’m nervous. In July, I showed up to my apartment with a bouquet of flowers waiting for me and a note asking me if I would be Clayton’s girlfriend, with a box for yes and a box for no. The Princess Amidala to his Anakin Skywalker…is a clever comment I would have said if I could have formed intelligible thought. I couldn’t. Instead, I found the brightest, most obnoxiously yellow t-shirt I had and drew a giant box with a giant check in it next to a giant “YES.”

An hour after we’d been hanging out at his apartment he finally noticed the shirt.

Kidding. It only took about twenty minutes.

v day collage3

But since that day, we’ve stayed put for almost ten years. Through long distance dating, through PA school, through a wedding, through other questionable fashion choices, through more outlandish Halloween costumes, through the cutting of the long blonde hair, through ten Dolphins and FSU football seasons, through the sarcasm, through moving away from everything we know, through moving back again, through raising and then parting with our first fur child, through incessant pregnancy and non-pregnancy-motivated requests for frozen yogurt, and then through

the explosion of madness that is parenthood.

And sure, there have been angry runs. And angry shopping trips. And angry road trips to nowhere. Little breathers that give us space to process why I am right and he is wrong before we come back together and discuss how right I am and how wrong he is. But in the soil of this life, I am so reassured to know that there are four heels dug deep into the earth. Two pairs of hands that grip this family with relentless commitment to keeping it sewn together.

v day collage4

He still makes me laugh out of my gut without trying. He still melts the stubborn out of my shoulders with one of his smothering hugs. He still walks between me and the road to keep me safe. He still gets my sarcasm without thinking I’m a horrible person. He still wants to hear about everything I did during the day, no matter how many descriptions of baby bowel movements that includes. 

We aren’t going anywhere. My heart has found its counterpart, the piece that completes its shape and gives the familiar, dependable rhythm to the chaos of the everyday. Of that I am confident. Of him I am sure.

I love you, Dollface. And I am so comforted to get to stay put with you for always.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

v day collage5

P.S. Blogs count as Valentine’s gifts, right?

Dear Addison: Three Months

Dear Addison,
Today you are three months old! Stop it. Stop getting older. I don’t really like it.

But I do like the collection of moments that these three months represent. More sleep (like a ridiculous amount of awesome overnight sleep. Keep it up, girlfriend.), morning giggles, afternoon pajama parties, long walks in the not-quite-as-hot heat of a Florida fall and too many field trips to count.

You come with us every Tuesday night to our LifeGroup and have never cried. You come to church with us every Sunday and, because I am unashamedly selfish over you, you sit with us. Sometimes your dad or I have to take you to the back of the room and rock you to sleep, but you’re still such a superstar and never make a scene. I can’t say that you’re not distractingly adorable, but at least you’re not wailing your lungs out. 

addie fsu2

Yesterday was the first time your dad sang at church. After a hectic morning getting you ready by myself and managing a devastating (to your outfit) poop and spit up assault, I barely made it there in time for his solo. He worked on his part all week and was so nervous about it. Now, I never asked him, but to hear the difference from his practice sessions in the car to the powerful, moving sound on Sunday, I just have to assume he saw you out there in the crowd and had the nudge to go all out.

Just your presence alone has a magical way of inspiring us to do more, to be more. Without a formal conversation, we have both become so much more motivated to pursue the things that we always claimed were important. And it’s happened because of you, sweet girl. We want to give you all the best in this life because we cannot comprehend how blessed we are, and that starts with parents who are serious about being their best selves. Dressing you up and buying you toys is certainly more fun than I expected, but what I seek to give you above all else is a picture of the God I believe in and the chance to experience real faith for yourself. Your Dad and I hope that our lives point you to an amazing grace that will free you to have the most abundant life possible. And, of course, I’ll make sure you look cute in the meantime.

3 months church collageThis month also marked the first time someone watched you without me or your dad there. We went to a Florida State football game (which they won, by the way). There were just a few tears as we pulled out of the driveway, but I missed you the whole time. Luckily, you were in great hands with BeeMa and Abuelo, and they knew I would need a steady string of pictures sent to me throughout the night. Later this month, you also got to spend a morning with Aunt Ally. She knows about the picture-for-every-minute-I’m-gone thing, too. It’s so comforting to have the dearest people in our lives available to watch you when we can’t. Allowing you to form relationships with your family was one of the main reasons we came back to Florida, and I do not know what I would do if I had to rely on strangers to care for you. Actually, I do know what I’d do—I’d never leave you.

abuelo beema addie collage

You’re making so much more noise these days. I’ve never heard anything more precious in my life. I want to record your coos and giggles and listen to it on my runs. It just doesn’t seem possible that I could be in pain with your baby voice in my head.

I suppose the theme of these recent weeks is that I simply cannot get enough of you. And that’s perfectly fine by me because pre-adolescence is already too close for my liking. Presumably you will not be as inclined to laugh when I kiss your tummy and my made up songs about bath time will not be as hysterical during those awkward days. 

hween pjs2

Last week, I was given 15 extra minutes of free time. So I plopped down on the bed with you, my fingers scooping you under your squishy arms, my thumbs gently steadying your wobbly torso. I sat you on top of my bent knees, and you became one of very, very few people in this world who have heard me sing. And you became the only person in the world who has heard me sing directly to and for them.

I studied your face with each line. I wanted to capture in my memory the sparkle from your gray eyes, the light in your expression as you learn and discover. You look back at me with such trust, even when something is new to your eyes or ears, and I feel a crushing burden of responsibility to you. You sat there on my knees, not an inkling of fear in your face, listening to a string of words trickle from my tongue in a simple melody. Words you can’t possibly understand through hearing alone, but must feel in your tiny soul mean something stronger than a silly game or nursery rhyme.

The movement of your brows, the round curving of your nose, the lengthening of your smile. I was given 15 extra minutes, and I spent them all with you.

I’ve been beaten down, I’ve been kicked around,
But she takes it all for me.
And I lost my faith, in my darkest days,
But she makes me want to believe.
They call her love, love, love, love, love.
They call her love, love, love, love, love.
She is love, and she is all I need.

Well I had my ways, they were all in vain,
But she waited patiently.
It was all the same, all my pride and shame,
And she put me on my feet.
They call her love, love, love, love, love.
They call her love, love, love, love, love.
They call her love, love, love, love, love.
She is love, and she is all I need.

nat addie

You have completely rewritten what love is to me, baby girl. How in the world could it get any better?

From My Whole Heart,


3 months nat addie


3 months fam

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.


Reasons Why I May Resent My Baby, or First Trimester Blues

1. The smell of coffee makes me want to vomit.

2. I feel more guilty if I eat junk food.

3. I could not properly celebrate FSU’s lackluster victory over UF. With beer or cartwheels.

4. All I have the energy to do is sleep.

5. My clothes are tighter five weeks before “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” says they should be.

6. The smell of…everything makes me want to vomit.

7. I almost sobbed halfway through checking out at the grocery store when I realized I was in the express lane and had a full cart. I seriously had to blink back the tears.

8. My husband makes fun of my burping.

9. I am on the verge of paying an assistant an exorbitant salary to remove any trace of chicken, cooked or uncooked, from my sight, smell and general vicinity.

10. No more running. Which translates to no more runner’s high.Which translates to endless grumpy pants.

11. I can’t brush my teeth without dry heaving. Despite all the unsolicited advice and pregnancy recaps from friends and strangers alike, no one seems to be able to relate to this one.

12. Clayton and I had to pull over on the second day of our trek to Florida because I was having a “I-am-so-tired-I-can’t-go-on-living” meltdown. A Yoohoo, bag of M & M’s and three-minute cat nap at a gas station helped dramatically. (So did swapping out “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” audio book for some seriously awful pop music.)

13. Our life savings has been transferred to Planet Smoothie in daily $4 increments.


Thankfully, I’m well past the trying times of the first trimester and most of that list. Except the occasional teeth brushing incident (seriously, what is the deal with that?) and chicken is still blacklisted.

So far, Mama likes the second trimester burst of energy and appetite. And even though you will probably skip right on over them, much like I would if it was your bambino, here are a few snapshots of Señor/Señorita Coffee Bean. It has a distinguishable head, body, spine and limbs now, which is light years beyond what we saw at our first photo shoot. And we are kind of stoked.

Silly Baby Noa, dry heaving notwithstanding, I can’t quit you.

sono 17 weeks3 (2) sono 17 weeks1 (2)

sono 17 weeks2 (2)

A (Pre) Baby Story, Part 1


On Monday of this week, which was September 12, I had an appointment at the lady doctor. I don’t know if the fact that I still can’t say “gynecologist” without blushing means that perhaps I’m not quite ready for this next undertaking, but I’m not going to dwell on that. We all know I’m a 12-year old boy at heart, so no shock there.

In addition to the usual humiliating, awkward necessities of that annual appointment, I felt like I had carried a physical object into that exam room that I needed to pass off to the doctor. After the business end of the exam was finished and she was scribbling something about my awesome ladyjunk into my file, I told her,

“And we are going to try and have a baby soon.”

This was the first time I’d told anyone except my husband, out loud, this plan. I don’t know what I expected; I suppose the fact that I didn’t have to lend her my inhaler to steady her breathing means that it was a more favorable reaction than Clayton’s. Maybe I was hoping it was like being in a bridal shop when you bring all your girlfriends and decide on the dress. There’s champagne and toasting and hugging…and high-fiving, if you’re me. But the doctor barely looked up from her notes. I guess my hoo-ha really is pretty awesome. Or she was still gnawing on the fact that I was a Florida State grad and she graduated from the University of Florida.

Or maybe the world itself actually doesn’t stop rotating when you embrace the next phase of life, no matter how momentous it seems to your tiny family of two. Even without a congratulatory party or balloons popping out from under the stirrups in that exam room, this is a very, very big step. One that still seems daunting, and maybe even impossible, and a little banananuts. Later that day, I quite literally stopped in my tracks on a run simply imagining the possibility of Clayton and I being parents in less than a year. 

I’m still wavering, and I know my husband is, too. When we roll out of bed at 10:30 on Saturday morning, when we stay up until midnight watching football and when we decide on Thursday to take a trip that weekend, we know in our heads this is a lifestyle that will slip away, replaced with an infinite amount of stress, crashing before the evening news and middle-of-the-night screaming. And we are big fans of our current carefree life. So, we certainly aren’t rushing. We just aren’t preventing. And that haughty ubermom Mother Nature will conspire with a bigger-than-our-plans God to decide when it’s the right time for Baby Noa to join our family.

But can I level with you? I just discovered the magic that is Sam Adams’ Octoberfest mixed with college football. I really hope this nugget waits until after bowl season. 


Spoiler Alert: It didn’t.

Normally, I don’t wear pink.

But life is full of exceptions, now isn’t it? Sure wouldn’t be the first time I pretentiously turned my nose up at something only to find myself eventually embracing it.

Facebook. Emoticons. Drinking on the weekdays. All kinds of stuff, really.


Maybe it was knowing that Saturday morning I would be donning the brightest, most glaring shade of hot pink that kept me in an undeterred good mood Friday. Whatever it was, mama had a really, really great day.

It started with interviewing the world’s sweetest couple for an ad campaign I’m working on. Their spirits filled the room with joy, and when they told me they had just celebrated their 54th wedding anniversary, well, then I had to fight to keep myself together and not get all high-pitched-squeaky-baby-voice all up on them. I almost affectionately touched the woman’s cheek. Thank God I reeled that in. Also, they have a dog named Salsa. So yeah, I’m not exaggerating their awesomeness.

After filling out the necessary paperwork to officially adopt them as grandparents, I had another stop to make.

PA132308Got some sweet swag and my lucky bib number. Just kidding, 282’s not really my favorite number. It’s 337.


I swear there’s an excellent explanation for that photo filminess. I’ll get to that in a minute. I fall in love with Williamsburg every time I head up there, and since I had to pick up my packet in the ‘Burg, I stayed there and worked for a few hours. Coffee and free wi-fi would make my day under normal circumstances, but where I headed next was anything but normal. 

Braving the expected crowds and snobby salespeople, I took myself to Verizon with my two-year old Droid. And then I took myself home with an iPhone 4s and made technological love to Siri. This is what happens when my husband leaves me alone to handle my phone upgrade. It’s his own fault. So that bib photo? The protective film is definitely still on the camera lens. I am so not ready to own an iPhone.

And maybe you have a lot of self-facing camera lens photos comin’ your way in the next few weeks. I just can’t stop.

Case in point:


When I was in Williamsburg, I found an article I wrote in a local magazine! Of course the byline will tell you otherwise because copywriting is sneaky like that. I was pretty jazzed since it was so unexpected; I turn those suckers in and the powers-that-be make the publishing decisions.

So me, my article and my iPhone (probably going to stop capitalizing that “P” from here on out, fyi) hunkered down for a night of pre-race fueling with pizza and beer and Dateline. Love me some weekend Dateline mysteries.

It might help you to know that Clayton is on call this weekend, explaining his conspicuous absence from most of my life for about 72 hours. He had a brief spell free from the on-call chaos Friday night, so we slipped out and found a case for my precious Siri. I’d already dropped her twice. When we came back home, we made the regrettable decision to not park 2.5 miles away from our apartment on a public street and parked next to a curb in our complex. Not blocking anyone, just minding our own illegally parked business. That would be the beginning of the end of my good mood.


Clayton’s phone rings at 1 a.m. We are all really happy about it; it’s so annoying how people’s life-threatening traumatic injuries are, like, so inconvenient for me. He needed to go to the hospital for a surgery. About two minutes after I hear the door shut, it opens again.

Clayton: Nat, did you move the car?

Me: What? Why would I do that? No.

Clayton: Crap. Then it got towed.

And that’s when I committed to never, ever, ever living in an apartment or townhouse complex again. Ever.

He didn’t have a choice to handle that little snafu at the moment, and I certainly wasn’t going to be bothered with the whereabouts of our leased motor vehicle during my beauty rest. But at 5:30 a.m. we had to deal with the situation because we needed two cars this morning. I sort of half dressed for the race, half didn’t brush my teeth, and we headed to the Land Where Reasonable Regulations Go to Die, aka the towing company storage yard. We made a pit stop at the ATM, of course, because tow companies only accept cash and profanity as forms of payment. After Clayton selected, “Other Amount” and typed “Firstborn Child,” we had enough to cover the fees for the four hours our car was professionally stored.

You’d think that I would harbor less resentment after having my car towed at FSU on the first day of every single semester for five years.

I had to get my sleepy tail home to finish prepping for the race (okay, to take more self portraits that I’ve since decided aren’t exactly high quality content). With the towing hold-up and my getting lost—don’t blame her, I didn’t ask Siri for help—I arrived at the race 15 minutes before the start.

September 20114

The run itself was gorgeous and brutal; nearly 4 miles of the 6.2 were on hilly trails. Williamsburg is pretty, but she sure is a beyotch to run with. Luckily, and without the intention of “training” for this race, I’d done a few trail runs since the half marathon, which I think made a huge difference. All time goals were kicked out the window along the first uphill stint on gravel, but at least I didn’t want to keel over at the end. Plus, there were walkers aplenty, so I finally wasn’t bringing up the rear of a road race.


Since it was a 45-minute trek back home, I rehydrated while still in Williamsburg. Official race day tradition? Most definitely.



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.

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.

you can take the girl out of college…

tomorrow is the first day of what promises to be a very intense, very time-consuming year and a half for my b.f. he starts physician assistant school at 8am in the morning and i can’t help but worry that i won’t see him again until 6pm on the night of his coating ceremony a year from now. i am so completely excited about his taking the first steps towards his career, and i know there is a part of him that is doing all of this for me — to be able to take care of me. i love him for that. i went with him to buy his first pair of scrubs this weekend. i am so proud of him i can’t put it into words. but there is such an ugly selfish part of me that comes to the surface when i am in situations like this, e.g. clayton’s entire run with the athletic training program. i am trying so so hard to prepare myself for this next phase so that i don’t go completely nuts when a week goes by and i haven’t seen him. it’s getting harder, though, as every hour we’re apart i realize more and more that i never want to be apart from him. i apologize that this entire site has turned into nothing but me gushing about clayton, but i promise he deserves it.

tuesday i am teaching my very first group exercise classes. who would have ever thought.

one thing that should help keep me busy is a service project i am involved in at church. there is a big community outreach mission starting on the second saturday of every month. volunteers can show up and choose where they would like to serve that day, from local parks to single mothers’ homes. leah and i are leading one of the children’s ministry teams. i am pretty excited to finally be getting involved in something like this. i am actually doing, instead of just talking. we had a meeting this week to go over some details with our contacts at the site. i felt like such a grown up…except that no one told me how formal the meeting was and i showed up in a tank top and flip flops. sorry, but it’s freaking summer in florida.