I've Moved!

To a groovy site created by my pal Josue. You can now find me here.

Blogger, you were swell. But it's time to get serious. Ciao!

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.

For Your Loss

These last few weeks have been a not-so-subtle reminder that life can sometimes suck. The nice dose of reality amid happy, exciting changes in my and Clayton's life is that really shitty things happen to really good people.

It's always been this way for me, and I've been feeling guilty about the fact that the tornado always hits a few doors down from my house ever since I can remember. I'm close enough to understand just how devastating the damage is but somehow never get the eye of the storm.

I don't have much time to explain the whole situation now, but last Friday the husband of one of my clients passed away at 48 years old. I still can't really sit with the idea of losing your best friend and the father of your children only halfway through the life you had planned together. My heart continues to break for her and I am too far removed to really do much to ease her suffering. I've been praying, and my mind aches with the final answer that no, God will not save his life. I still pray, but it is with resentment that I now must pray for only her.

A Quarter of a Century

There hasn't been a whole lot of free time to blog in my schedule these days. The new puppy has completely ransacked my former routine (not to mention one rug and a few socks) and requires attention almost every minute that I'm home. I knew he was going to be a lot of work, but this has been a whirlwind, to say the least. Clayton has been so busy with his new clinical rotation that he hasn't been able to help out very much. This means the 3am potty break is all up to me, along with the majority of the other 47 potty breaks and 12 carpet clean-ups throughout the day. I'm also having to schedule an hour during work to run home and let him out. This has probably been the most stressful part of all. One hour is barely enough time to take care of everything I have to do for him and me and then make it back to work on time. If there was any possible way I could downgrade to part time for the next several weeks, I would do it without hesitation. I am so scared of screwing something up in these crucial first weeks and ending up with a psycho dog that scares people away from hanging out with us.

Here's a more detailed summary of the last three weeks with Bryson Noa:
Rugs destroyed: 1
Pants peed on: 2 (Luckily they were on the floor, not on my person.)
Pieces of poop mistakenly picked up with bare hand when I thought said hand was safely behind plastic bag: 2
Numer of times hands have been washed: 372
Number of times I've stolen some lotion from the physical therapy rooms at work to cover dry skin from insane hand washing: 5
Number of days I arrived late to work during the first week of parenthood: 5
Number of days I arrived late to work since the first week: 5
Number of times I cried on the way back to work after my hour break: 2
Number of times I cried at work because I wasn't able to get home within Bryson's scheduled lunch time and was afraid I was throwing off his fragile routine: 1
Number of times I arrived home to find Bryson outside of his crate standing in a puddle of his own pee: 2
Number of toys Bryson has gotten bored with: 7
Number of "toys" Bryson has not gotten bored with: 10 (my fingers)
Number of times I have shaken his skin folds and told him he was the cutest puppy ever and all the other puppies were jealous of him: 35
Number of times I've melted when he wakes up and yawns with that high-pitched squeaking noise: 63
Number of times I've stared at him asleep and forced Clayton to come stare at him with me: 3
Number of times Clayton has asked me if we were about to be hit by a car, would I save him or Bryson: 1
Number of times I hesitated to answer: 1

I really do love him so so much.

On top of the puppy madness, Clayton's birthday is today! He is a whopping 25 years old (but can still pass for 18 when he is clean shaven). We are celebrating tonight at P.F. Chang's with a possible surprise after-party with a few friends and a chocolate peanut butter cake. I hope he is able to relax, if only for a few hours. Last night I brought home a pre-birthday surprise of York Peppermint Patties and a 6-pack of Newcastle. Sorry boys, I'm taken.

I really do love him so so so much. And just for his birthday, of course I would save him from that car. But he would owe me three more puppies in return.

I Blame the Pandas

Late Saturday morning Clayton and I were lounging lazily on the couch watching Animal Planet. We became very entrenched in a show about giant pandas. It revolved around two pandas who had a whole host of volunteers monitoring them twenty-fours a day to answer the classic question: will they or won't they. While I was watching, I couldn't help but remember my New Year's resolution to start volunteering at the Humane Society. (OK, it wasn't so much a resolution as a thought that I had while coming up with resolutions and was too afraid to write down knowing that I probably wouldn't follow through with it.) So I went to the Humane Society of Tampa Bay's website to look into volunteer opportunities. After a few minutes of searching, I succumbed to the tempting link that's been in my peripheral vision the whole time -- "adoptable pets." What harm could there be in looking at some pictures of cute, homeless dogs? I started scrolling through the photos and cooing over every single one, forcing Clayton to look at them, too. It started out fairly harmless. And then we get near the bottom of the page, both of us looking now. There he was. Keegan was their name for him. I knew these people must be professionals in the way they caught this puppy in his absolute most adorable pose with the neediest little eyes looking straight out of the computer screen into our weak souls. We'd found our favorite. There wasn't much information listed for him, only that he would be available in the Mobil Adoption Center on February 21. Interesting, we thought. Today is February 21. One quick glance at each other and I was clicking away to find out what the Mobil Adoption Center was and what the best way to stalk it would be. And it just so happens the MAC was parked, at that very moment, at the new mall ten minutes from our apartment. After a few stuttered half questions, we were changed and in the car. We hadn't exactly decided why we were going to look for the MAC. Maybe we were just going to see what it was all about, maybe we were hoping to play with Keegan before they packed him back in the trailer, or maybe, just maybe, we were going to do something a bit more spontaneous.

We saw the tent several feet away, but it wasn't until we got closer that we saw a woman wearing the purple volunteer shirt holding a small, tan puppy with its head draped over her shoulder. We had only seen his picture for a few seconds, but we knew it was Keegan. We went directly to the volunteer and asked if the precious pooch in her arms was, in fact, the puppy we'd already silently claimed as ours. "This is Keegan," she said.

With knots in my stomach, a lump in my throat and not one single thing appropriate for a dog (much less an 8-week old puppy) in our apartment, we walked away from that tent the proud new parents of a 6 pound hound/retriever mix. An hour later, we were the proud new parents of Bryson Noa. Thirty-two hours later we are the proud, stunned, tired, terrified parents of a feisty yet sweet-natured puppy. We have no idea what we just got ourselves into.

It snot funny.

Clayton: Can I pick your nose?
Me: No...
Clayton: There's a booger right there

I frantically begin swatting at my nostril.

Clayton: (Whispering) There's not a booger there. (Screaming) Haha, made you pick!