Come on over and check out my new digs!

Soon, there won’t be much left to see here, unless your name happens to be “Big Shot Client in Need of Freelance Writing.” In which case, [insert firm but not masculine handshake and charming but not too flirty eye contact here] hello there.

Plus, Camp Noa was a little busy hosting my brother and his adorable girlfriend for a few days. Some of the best days since we’ve been in Virginia, actually. We made quite a fabulous foursome.

We figured the best way to celebrate the freedoms and independence of these United States of America was to gorge ourselves on frozen yogurt, pear cider (ahem, me), eating out, sightseeing and the Investigation Discovery channel. There wasn’t an unfun moment in the entire four days they stayed with us, with the exception of that thunderstorm following us all the way home from D.C. When the rain and lightning grew to terrifying intensity, my first reaction was the curl up in the fetal position on the floorboard and sing the first hymn I could remember. But then I realized I was driving and should perhaps focus more on the zero visibility in front of my headlights rather than the words to “Holy, Holy, Holy.” I was shaking for about four hours after we got home.

The whole Noa clan is missing having a full house. Bryson spent the better part of Wednesday morning whining and whimpering and pacing at the front door after his short-term roommates left. And pulling myself out of bed to make the long trek to the couch to work has been toooough. (Insert your resentment here.) To commemorate our super fun visit, I have kept with the traditions of overflowing bowls of frozen yogurt and disturbing murder mysteries. But, sadly, it just ain’t the same around here.

I’ve organized them by chronological category. Can’t you already tell how awesome I am at this?

Prep
Eat any previously opened food while packing, namely chocolate covered Oreos, chewy granola bars and trail mix. Not only will you be exceptionally fueled for the day, you will have to pack seven less pounds of food. In 24 hours, those pounds will become new additions to your thighs that you can name after the reality TV star of your choosing. “Jeff” and “Probst” are already taken.

Create a pile of stuff. Grab a box. Close your eyes and put stuff in box. Whatever doesn’t fit goes in the trash. (This works best with boyfriend’s/husband’s/significant other’s stuff. Of course you need every article of clothing, mismatched sock and five year old bottle of mascara in your possession, so bring it along, sister.)

Stop to read a few blogs every 45 minutes. There’s a scientific article somewhere that proves this is good for you.

If you’re tired of it, want a new one or think it’s just too heavy to waste your time on, sell that ish on Craigslist. Make sure big, barking dog is home when sketchtastic purchaser shows up at your door.

I don’t care if you’re moving across the country or next door, shut up, pay the money and get the U-haul.

Dust the things you haven’t dusted since your previous relocation BEFORE friends/family arrive to move said objects. No one likes a hairball/dust avalanche in their face when they pick up your hanging shoe organizer.

Be annoyingly specific about how the strong folks are supposed to be packing your things. Deep down, I think they appreciate it. I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re muttering under their breath.

Don’t mislead anyone. Moving comes with enough disappointments as it is.

Day-Of
Bribe friends to help with pizza and beer. Move until the wee hours of the morning or fake an injury so you don’t actually have to follow through with this promise.

If you have a back, knee, shoulder or similar medical concern (or if you don’t, I’m not judging), mention it loudly and often. Repeat as needed when the furniture transport begins, so you don’t look like a tool when you grab the cushions rather than the futon itself.

Always have more boxes than you assume you’ll need. Inevitably, the last walk-throughs will create the world’s most random assortment of leftovers that need to be carted away.

Lotion, Trader Joe's coffee can filled with nails, mug o' pens, important legal documents, necklace, Dolphins decal

Real shoes, people. Flip flops are ticking time bombs for legitimate injuries and trips to the E.R. that will really eat into your designated U-haul reservation time. And no one is volunteering to rummage through the mound of boxes labeled in your husband’s hieroglyphics in that hotnasty truck to find the first aid kit.

Use the U-haul ramp. Don’t make up “X-treme Moving” games in your head and cannonball it off the back of the truck with two Rubbermaids in your arms. No one likes a show-off.

Don’t stack clean linens so high that they touch your sweaty, unwashed face in transit. Your future guests would prefer not to land face first in old, dry, flaking sweat when they lie on your fancy throw pillows.

Lock your dog in a basement. Retrieve in 3-6 weeks.

Leave plenty of room for company.

Settling In
Never trust a lease, landlord or management company. Keep those boxes handy so that you can reuse them 4 times.

Unpack only the essentials: coffee maker and coffee for morning-after-moving exhaustion. Though you feel like it, I can assure you—in most cases—you were not actually run over by the U-haul.

Beware of previous tenant’s spot cleaning. Clean the bathrooms and the kitchen before using either. The last thing you need right now is a case of the itchies.

Organize the bedroom first. You can close the door to all that madness in the common areas and have at least a small amount of familiarity.

Wait to schedule cable hook-up until determining if you’re receiving it illegally. If so, grab the beers your friends never got and flip on some 30 Rock.

Stock the kitchen.

If you can’t find what you need, use what you can find.

Bryson is about to be served on a crystal bowl that weighs as much as he does that was purchased for wedding decor. Brat.

In the same breath, Clayton darts up, says, “sounded like thunder,” and falls right back to sleep. Bryson and I are still double checking that we didn’t wet our beds and looking around furiously to make sure we haven’t been swept up in a Kansas-style twister and hurled into a world of dancing little people. Neither seemed to be the case, but I thought maybe I should check things out because the friendly giants usually shake us awake on Thursdays, not Saturdays.

I ever-so-courageously took 20 minutes to peek around the corner of the bedroom doorway into the hallway. Clear. The rest of the house, all doors and windows, were clear, too. Then I looked in the backyard. And our weekend plans changed a bit.

Meet Tree!

Tree was so tired of standing still for years and years and years. He got so bored in the neighbor’s yard never getting played with or talked to, and he saw all this fun we were having in our backyard, with grilling chicken, working out (yeah, I do in the backyard, move on), roughhousing with a big adorable dog. It all looked SO EXCITING to Tree. And standing there holding onto all that rain was so, so heavy on his limbs. So he decided to make a move. A big time, game changing move for his life.

And Tree up and moved to our yard. Loudly. Awkwardly. Without asking. And really, really inconveniently.

I wasn’t exactly sure what the next step was in this situation. We are new to being attacked by nature. I woke Clayton up, but I didn’t want to completely freak his freak. I kept my Dog Whisperer calm-assertive engery in check and simply said, “Clayton. There’s a tree on the roof.”

We are renting this house, and because nothing of ours was damaged, we didn’t feel the need to deal with the tiny problem of a tree protruding through the roof until closer to 9 a.m. It’s the weekend, hello. I’m guessing the realtor/property manager is glad we felt that way.

Kickball playoffs were also Saturday, and we really couldn’t be bothered with this mess while trying to focus on taking home the gold. “No, realtor, we cannot stick around for five hours and make sure raccoons don’t start renting out rooms in the attic or setting up a secret neighborhood gambling ring. WE HAVE KICKBALL PLAYOFFS.”

The realtor, who manages our house as more of a favor to a family friend than an actual job, has never been much for going above and beyond the call of duty. We’re still waiting on a response about the water heater that a professional said could “go at any minute.” In February. He called Clayton after we had secured a victory in our first playoff game and said the tree service could not come until the next day, and he would try to get the roofers to patch the roof early next week. In the meantime? Call him if it starts to rain, and he’ll head over with a tarp.

Really? We need to alert him if it rains? Doesn’t THE RAIN alert you when it rains? How about we get plain out of control and just put the tarp on now? I know, I know, it’s so much more fun to scale a ladder in a torrential downpour and try to secure a slippery tarp to a failing roof in the middle of a thunderstorm while avoiding the massive tree-shaped hole, but I’m just spitballing here.

Obviously, we were quite concerned about the salvaging of our rental house. I mean, we could have gone straight to the cookout celebrating our mediocre kickball performance, but we didn’t. We went home for a half hour first to move our television away from the potential drip zone. Clayton couldn’t spend one second longer away from the Action Area, and before I put my purse down, I see his hot pink kickball shirt darting up the ladder onto the roof. The unavoidable, masculine drive to “check things out,” I suppose.

He actually had an impressive moment of inspiration and used an extra* shower curtain liner and the heavy duty stapler we got at JoAnn Fabrics (don’t ask) to create a makeshift cover that the idiot raccoons would hopefully not be able to figure out. Pick another attic, a-holes.  

And then we left for the rest of the night, repeating the mantra “It ain’t our house.” Is that mean? Whatevs, I had some cornhole redemption to take care of (which I did NOT) and Doritos to consume (which I very much DID).

This morning the tree service showed up bright and early and got to work. I pretended to sleep for two more hours, but it’s difficult with size 10 work boots stomping around the roof and chainsaws buzzing away.

This was not the future Tree had imagined, I’m afraid.

*Edit: My mistake. We are now missing a shower curtain liner in our bathroom. 

Every few weeks for about six months he would break out in hives. Really, really intense hives that would get infected and smell super yummy. The routine was the same every time: sicknasty allergic reaction, vet shakes head and reminds us that this is definitely an allergic reaction, steroid injection, directions to give Bryson 5 Benadryl tablets every 19 seconds for the rest of his life and “that will be $more money than you paid for college tuition.” It was a frustrating and expensive cycle.

Bryson's Medicine Cabinet

The dermatologist started us on allergy injections. Meaning every few days we my husband fills a syringe with what we assume is a magical cocktail of pollen particles and cockroach feces, squeezes his sweet puppy skin folds and shoots our snugly dog with a long, sharp needle. We realized that giving him slice after slice of cheddar cheese eases our guilt and makes him pretty eager to get punctured like a lab rat.

The allergy shots can take up to a year and a half to work, so in the meantime we have to keep him on low doses of steroids, which counteract his allergic symptoms. It’s a trade-off, and we only plan to keep him on the meds short term. We had finally weaned down to a very low dose of steroids that had no noticeable side effects. But, right on schedule, the weather changed, a butterfly flapped its wings and Bryson blew up in the worst allergic reaction to date.

The vet was as helpful as ever, assuring us that this “was definitely an allergic reaction and I hope you have some distant relative about to kick the bucket and leave his million dollar estate to you so that you can afford this visit.” The typical routine followed, except that in addition to the usual steroid injection, Bryson also got shot up with a big-dog dose of Benadryl.

The last few days have been reminiscent of Bryson’s high-maintenance puppyhood in terms of attention and effort required to keep our furniture and sanity in tact. Except that now he weighs 88 pounds. So scooping him up and tossing him out the door any time a pre-pee whimper is heard is no longer an option.

The side effects of the steroids are increased thirst and, naturally, increased urination. I don’t know if the pharmaceutical professionals have actually looked up the definition of “increased.” The warning “may cause AN UNPRECEDENTED AMOUNT OF THIRST and AN INSANE NEVERENDING URINE STREAM” would have been more appropriate.

Puppy puddles we could handle. Waking up to a raging river of Bryson piss flooding the kitchen is a bit more challenging and requires several dozen more towels. He takes down his entire 1.5 gallon water jug in one day, a feat that used to take at least three days. And while my Mama Hen gene just wants to pick him up and say how sorry I am that baby has to potty so much while nibbling on his floppy ear, dude’s 88 pounds. So I just sit in the corner crying as I stare at him. He repositions himself so that he doesn’t have to look at me. Oh, and the last time we had to up the steroid dose, he gained 10 pounds and probably an eating disorder.

The steroid/Benadryl combo has totally screwed with his energy level and personality. I’m not sure if he’s peeing all over the house because he can’t hold it or because he’s too sleepy to actually get up. Either way, I can’t wait until my big boy is back to his goofy, galloping self.

"I intend to pee straight through this cheap fabric. Without blinking an eye."

We were a little late getting to the festival because I am a fitness genius with a bachelor’s degree in my field who attempted this week’s long run at 2 p.m. during the hottest week of the year. After 3.5 miles I began having hallucinations (premonitions?) of myself passed out on the side of the road in a puddle of sweat while my cheap stopwatch continued to tick away the seconds of the worst decision I’ve ever made. I walked the rest. 2.5 miles. Nearly an hour to get back home.

Somehow, Clayton didn’t get my pleading mental messages to pleasepleaseplease come pick me up. Maybe the telepathic part of our relationships kicks in during year five. When I finally got back into our neighborhood, I realized I was genuinely angry with him for not magically knowing I’d almost died in a sunburned heap and mismatched outfit and not driving around looking for me. I spent a solid quarter of a mile talking myself out of throwing that future tantrum. I think my irrational tirade mixed with the heatstroked tomato face would constitute plenty of ammo for an “irreconcilable differences” defense.  And I so can’t afford a lawyer with my self-employed taxes.

We just happened to arrive at the same time the BMX show was starting. I was all, “Ok, sure, I mean grown men on tiny bikes are kind of lame but it’s somewhat shaded and I haven’t figured out where the beer tent is yet.” By the end, I was throwing ‘bows at the 7-year olds to get a better view and hootin’ and hollerin’ the riders’ first names. ‘Twas awesome. I’m definitely getting a pair of skater shoes and watching the X-games this year.

And then Hooters beckoned us inside with non-portable bathrooms and shiny orange spandex. I think they must singlehandedly keep the pantyhose companies in business. How are those bad boys still part of the uniform? My two-Corona hypothesis was that there is a precise percentage of butt cheek that must show–anything less and the crowds won’t come, anything more and they’d have to install a pole and a stage. The pantyhose must keep those neon hot pants in just the right place for this perfectly mid-level degree of exposure.  Why are you looking at me like that? Have you not spent an entire dinner debating the Hooters hot pants situation? Whatever, liars.

Even though being pretentious snobs was great for our self esteem, we decided to explore the rest of the festival. Plus, our internal CarbFinders had alerted us that ice cream had been spotted in the area. And then we found the soft serve tent. Cut to about eight seconds later, as we are being handed our chocolate and vanilla swirly goodness, a huge clap of thunder rolls through the festival and about three seconds later the first raindrops land on my arm. I do not do well 1. being outside in thunderstorms or 2. having my two scoops with rainbow sprinkles threatened by flood, fire, husbands or other natural disasters. We booked it back to the parking garage, each of us licking away mid-sprint to take down whatever ice cream could be salvaged. Just in time, we ducked into the entrance a minute before the downpour hit full force.

Oh, and 3. driving from Norfolk to Newport News in a Category 4 hurricane. But we made it home, despite a malfunctioning wife and cranky GPS. And now we have yet another day to discuss where on earth Hooters can find wife beaters in such incomprehensibly tiny sizes.

Per usual, cleaning out the office became 7 hours of sitting Indian style on the floor looking through photo albums, reading through diaries from the most dramatic four years of high school EVER (at least to the author, who shall remain nameless) and dusting off now-obsolete electronics, e.g. the compact disc. I was so excited to slip Nicky L. and all 98 of his degrees into the ol’ laptop and begin my morning sobbing through the sweet melodies of “Because of You.” But itunes is a music snob, and it refused to play anything beyond the first eight seconds.

But it’s ok because check out the other gems I found:

R. Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly” single, so appropriately timed with crazy NBA Finals plus a creepsy sex scandal. 

The Armageddon soundtrack, which was actually a present for my 13^thbirthday. I think it was the second CD I ever owned (the first being Boyz II Men’s “II” album, of course) and I felt way cooler than I should have, especially considering that was the pre-braces era. Yowza.

I’m getting organized for something I’m not really supposed to be talking about, but I couldn’t resist after being serenaded by the heavy chops of Steven Tyler.

To make sure I stop talking about what I’m not supposed to be talking about, how about I talk about some other stuff I didn’t really want to talk about.

The running situation. Believe it or not, this Saturday marked exactly two months since I started running consistently. I know this for a fact because, sometimes, that one ounce of Type-A-ness pokes its little head out in the form of painfully formatted Excel spreadsheets*. And the first entry in my fancy schmancy Run Tracker (that apparently exists in all kinds of awesomeness FOR FREE on the world wide web) was April 4. To honor the occasion–not really, I only just now discovered the coincidence—I ran an 8k last Saturday, June 4.

Not that it totally devalued and overshadowed my eight weeks of intense, injury-riddled, mentally draining training or anything, but one week before the race, my husband also decided to show up and run it. Way faster than me. No worries, though, because I didn’t collapse, I finished faster than my “If I do not finish before this time, I will rip my DriFit tank into shreds, flick off the photographers and push over the porta-potties with rage-filled Domino precision” time, AND we got two free beers just for showing up. Bam.

(I’ve learned that reflective clothing helps discourage the golf cart bringing up the tail end of the race from repeatedly running into my heels. I’m assuming it’s an accident, not a hint, race crew.)

I have no clever way to wrap up a post about a vat of nothing, but let’s take it out on a high note.

 *Other instances include refolding the towels after Clayton has attempted to, reloading the dishwasher after Clayton has attempted to and organizing my bookshelf by color of book. I am of the strong opinion that my seven months working at Bed Bath & Beyond reduce the Nagging Wife Factor implied by these behaviors.

I was so excited to actually spend time with people other than my husband and dog (love you boys!) I laid my clothes out 16 hours in advance and planned Sunday down to the second in schoolgirlish anticipation. It was sweetly frightening, even to me, and had anyone remotely connected to this b-b-q witnessed this behavioral health emergency, I’m sure they would have moved the shindig to a secret location and offered their house to my husband as a neutral spot to host the much-needed intervention. But instead, I put my chillaxed face on just in time and no one was the wiser.

Besides my utterly poor showing at cornhole—after numerous mentions of Cornhole Domination: Memorial Day 2010—the day went rather well. Heat stroke + Corona eased the social anxiety from not having spent time outside my house in about eight months, and flip cup was a nostalgic little reminder of what life could have been like as an undergrad had I not been brainwashed by 13 years of private school to avoid any person or situation that could possibly involve non-Christian radio stations, tobacco, cursing or shorts above fingertip length.

Towards the end, when we really should have left about two hours earlier but were afraid we’d wake up from this friend-filled dream of social normalcy, I found myself in a not exactly sober (the other dude, not me…I think) negotiation regarding my freelance rates and what it would cost for a marriage-saving email to Totally Just Met You’s wife after some anticipated future screw up. I’m no expert here, but don’t you think if your marriage is on the line, it’s really not the time to haggle? It’s kind of like his wife was about to be hit by a semi truck and instead of grabbing the poor woman and flinging her from the road, he calls the driver’s cell phone and debates what speed wouldn’t actually kill her, just maybe seriously injure her with a resulting 6-8 weeks of rehab. Because that’s love, baby.

Regardless, I think that’s what they call networking, kids. (Except when I lost all motivation to continue the conversation and said, “I can write an email for free in ten minutes.” Business skillz: lacking.)

Hope you had just as much fun and a little less cheese dip.

Running. I’m doing it. Slowly (as in, Bryson runs backwards to actually get a workout at my pace) but surely. Because I maintain a sufficient amount of self-delusion, I’m always certain I could lace up my Mizunos and run until the end of time with a picture perfect stride, calves sparking with definition, hair falling just so to frame my blushing, relaxed face. I “decided” to keep it to three miles for the sake of time and how devastatingly helpless my husband is when I am not there to welcome him at the door after a long day of sawing bone fragments and telling that sweaty, shaking patient No, I will not refill your Oxycontin.  

Okay, okay, even “three miles” means that after 2.75, I look at Bryson and convince myself that even two more steps will tire his poor little steroid-injected heart right out. But in reality, in two more steps, the left lung that has been begging for asthmatic mercy and traveling up my esophagus and is now starting to protrude between my two front teeth might, in fact, explode in a nasty mess of oxygen and desperation all over the cute, pink-faced CNU track team who are passing me in bare-chested whooshes.  

But I’ve got big dreams. Ones that blink “13.1” in the back of my mind and pushed me to get past the 2.5 mile wall I’d been hitting for a few weeks. While historically I’ve filled my plate with gobs of things I was good at and casually slid the bland-tasting failed ventures into my napkin under the table (The Lion King video game on Clayton’s vintage Sega Genesis, golf, leading bouncy spandex-clad women in cardio kickboxing classes), I think times are changing. Turns out, I love to write. And it seems there’s a very distinct possibility I’m not The Best Writer the World Has Ever Known. And maybe, right now, I wouldn’t even be earning an A- in “Owning a Freelance Writing Business for Dummies.”

But dreams persist. And needing to be the best at every little thing is fading into the shadows of immaturity as carving out my own niche and setting my own personal, achievable goals is moving to the forefront.

I can still dream. And I am. I’m dreaming of what bib number I might wear in my first half marathon and what it might feel like to actually register for a half marathon (something I’ve yet to do while in my 3 mile-ish bubble) and what life will be like with a steady stream of writing clients and having the freedom to one day turn down a project that doesn’t interest me. Those are my dreams, not to win a Pulitzer Prize or run the New York marathon. And for now, that’s completely satisfying to big-girl, getting-closer-to-grown-up me.

**Obnoxious update to make myself feel better**
I originally wrote this post a few weeks ago. Today  I am excited (and a little gloat-y) to report three mile runs are firmly in the “easy training zone.” At this moment, my long runs are 4 miles. Today I plan on changing all that and pissing off an additional mile’s worth of drivers with half-waves when I don’t move out of the driving lane. Can’t afford those extra steps on my long run, folks. It’s all about efficiency! Up next: 8k on June 4.

I haven’t decided how much I want to write about running. The main reason others blog about running is the one thing intimidating the honesty right out of me: accountability. So, if you have a preference–

“Your running adventures are sure to change my life with their insightful hilarity!” or

“OMG, please spare me every painful detail of your boring venture into that weird, monotonous non-sport.” or

“What’s your name again?” or

“Where’s the OFF button on this thing?”

do share!

If you are interested, I’ve become a legitimate stalker follower of the following running blogs (albeit with a touch of boiling envy and unhealthy thoughts at their race times):

skinnyrunner.com – Girl runs like 11 marathons in a weekend. I read to pine for her natural ability and not in any way emulate her pace or schedule. Or rad SoCal lifestyle.

runningoffthereeses.com – Moreso than the fact that this chick runs in the summer in Texas, I read this blog for the hilarious and snarktastic dialogue bubbles. And because she runs with a rape whistle. So looking into that.

fashionablyfitfemme.com – I knew Nicole in middle school, and through the magical ease with which Facebook allows me to pry into random people’s personal lives, I found her fitness/fashion blog. I think she is adorable, and while I could never be that feminine, she has inspired me to get rid of the XL t-shirts and start looking cute matching when I run. Because, let’s be honest, posing for those professional race photos makes up like half of my training plan.

Finally, because many of my besties are cheering me on long distance, I’ll give you a little taste of what me on race day typically looks like (via bostonmarathon2011.wordpress.com):

Or thereabouts.

Long story short: we had a May trip to Florida planned months ago. At the last minute, I got creative, turned the whole trip on its head, gave it a good shove and still managed to avoid stepping on an airplane.  

I don’t want to bore/nauseate/confuse you to tears with the details of my itinerary. Mainly because I’m still not exactly sure what they were myself; I just sort of got in my car every five days and hoped it knew what to do. And it did. Because Hondas are awesome. Plus, I only spent $150 on gas to travel over 1600 miles. Ok, complete lie, but I’m still desperate to justify this trip to my husband and every other person he tried to explain it to. We’re all still confused. (I vaguely remember my jaw locking up around mile 375 from all that itunes sing-alonging.)

Instead, I thought a concise “Hot or Not” list would wrap up my thoughts on this latest trip.

HOT
Puppies. And family and friends who adopt them so that I can play with them without taking them home to chew on my furniture and pee on my carpet.

Breakfast dates with my grandma where I “accidentally” pay for the whole bill, which almost makes Southern Baptist grandma slip out a curse word.

Breakfast dates with college friends in places that make college feel like it wasn’t a million years ago.

Every waking second with ex-east coasters Nicole and Josh Blanco. Especially those moments when they made us feel like they weren’t too cool to hang out with us…even though 30 seconds in Seattle makes you too cool to hang out with anyone who doesn’t live there. Seriously. I’ve been there. Twice. Which kind of makes me too cool to hang out with you, but let’s not open up that can de worms.

Having a real bed sans bed bugs (coughRedRoofInncough) and clean bathroom for free while in Tallahassee because college kind of was a million years ago and now our friends are doing grown up things like buying houses and allowing us to invite ourselves to stay in them.

Weddings where hugging the groom makes you overwhelmingly happy and suddenly emotional all over his fancy tux. (I hope Men’s Wearhouse doesn’t charge for bronzer stains.) And also mega girlcrushing on the bride’s picture perfect wedding day adorableness.

A one-year old nephew who makes it way too tempting to think having a baby is all funny voices and cheek nibbling. (And maybe one emergency explosive number two-initiated hosing off that leaves a baby butt-shaped poo print in the tub. But just the once.)

Gas wars in Pace, FL perfectly timed to my having to drive 15 hours back to Virginia.

Receiving an “A in parenting” from my mother-in-law after babysitting the easy-as-pie nephew. I’m really, really into getting A’s, no matter how utterly ludicrous the subject matter might be. Trust me, if you ever choose to offer me unsolicited parenting advice, you will be reminded of this Above Average earning.

Overnight Atlanta stopovers that 1. break up a 15-hour drive, 2. come with red wine and 3. make me really glad I married a guy with sisters.

Outsmarting Atlanta traffic for the first time in my life and perhaps being the only person on the planet to boast this feat. In other words, I got a big, fat boldfaced “A” in kicking Atlanta’s traffic patterns square in the bumper. (Get it?)

NOT
Humidity.

Running in “spring” humidity in Florida.

Existing in “spring” humidity in Florida.

Petersburg, Virginia.

South Carolina in its useless entirety.

Discussing the gas wars in Pace, FL with the in-laws ad nauseum.

Dodging late night Atlanta block parties that prompted sobbing “Please-come-save-me-I’m-going-to-die” phone calls to my husband before safely arriving at sister-in-law’s house. (And, in the middle of pleading into husband’s voicemail, finding SIL walking her dog all casual and not afraid for her life down dark, tailor-made-for-Scream 5 street.) 

Epileptic/tourette-afflicted dog at sister-in-law’s house that randomly barked at me, the other dogs and the air and made me create excuses to hide from said dog in the bathroom, bedroom and kitchen because she really freaked me out. Red wine helped. Me, not the dog.

(Didn’t I use the word “concise” at one point in this post?)

Driving. Anywhere. Ever again. If I could take Delta to Trader Joe’s, I would be Pricelining tickets right now.

Feast on this while I try to sell my unused Valium on Craigslist:

Mama and I on Cinco de Mayo. I'm like twice as Spanish as she is. That's why I had Corona and she had tea. It's just numbers.

Nava and Wilson's unforgettable lunch date. Because of the upturned salsa they got to lick off the sidewalk, not each other.

At one time, I'm pretty sure we were the most important female force in his life.

But who wouldn't give that up for this little lady? Meet the new Mrs. Robinson. (Let's all pretend that slide show thing in the back isn't totally stealing our couple photo thunder.)

Chances are, if you saw us Saturday or Sunday, we were doing this.

Except here, when we paused long enough to be the cutest things you've ever seen.

Surrounded by people who would gladly take our picture, we opt for a self timer situation. Regrettable.

We really couldn't be more different from each other. But I think lots of impromptu breakfasts are still in our future. They just won't be at an outside table ever again. Welcome back, awkwardly sweating forehead.

And now for the Panhandle portion of the trip. Kicked off with a birthday beach day with another SIL, followed by blistering sunburns on my now delicately Northeastern skin.

Me: Is it good? Husband: Yeah, it's cute. Me, a half hour later in the car: Clayton! My eyes aren't even open!

I mean. Come on. Try not to fall in love with those baby blues.

Boys who love big dogs and the outdoors. Such Noa's.