You May Be On a College Campus in the South If...

My 9th floor office overlooks Texas Christian University, my alma matter, and is just a stone's throw from the private southern institution. I frequently drive through campus to grab lunch or run errands, and now that school is back in session, I once again find myself amused at all the same quirks that make me giggle year after year. As I survey the perfectly-manicured grounds of the school, littered with bright-eyed and bushy-tailed students, many thoughts run through my head...

Are running shorts standard issue for college girls? Are they mailed out with acceptance letters?

So, is it a side pony? Or did they sleep in a regular ponytail and that's how it looks the next morning? Maybe it's just falling. Is it a falling pony?

Monthly landscape updates, huh? I guess I know where part of my tuition funds went: fall mums for the welcome sign...which will be replaced with another seasonal bloom in, oh, three weeks. Twice before homecoming, of course. Can I get my name a plaque for the mums?

Take any classic song title (and by "classic," I mean from the 90s), insert the name of your sorority/fraternity cleverly (or not so much) into the title, print it on a T-shirt...winning.

The preppies are judging. Always.
via 

How in the...what? That [guy/girl] can't be in college! They're, like, eleven!!

Her car is nicer than mine. Too bad about the tiara sticker on the back window. And she's not even watching the road. Blerg.

I wonder if these young 'ens know what a Trapper Keeper is. Or Lisa Frank. Maybe Lisa Frank and Tory Burch should collaborate to make an epic line of school supplies. Oooooo.

So much froyo.

I am not sure if these musings are indicative of a private school campus, a southern campus, or just the Horned Frog population, but there is definitely a trend afoot.

I often want to pull over my car, grab the nearest co-ed, and shake them while shouting, "Enjoy every second of your college experience! These are some of the best years of your life! Hang on to all that frivolous crap you must have right now because your expendable income will disappear the moment your parents cut you off and you are thrust into the reality of life as a college grad! ...And please fix your ponytail!"

What was shopping like before the internet?

When I'm looking for style or home decor inspiration, I head over to Pinterest and kiss away the next few hours. I pin perfectly designed lovelies all the live long day, ignoring the fact that many of those looks (whether for the home or for the bod) are highly impractical for the average gal (or, perhaps, a clumsy brunette who insists on carrying fifteen things at once to avoid multiple trips and refuses to spend more than $40 on...well, anything).

When I have made the oh-so-important decision to make a purchase, my first stop is generally Etsy. I heart Etsy, y'all. It makes my handmade-loving heart pitter patter, and you can't beat the unique charm of the many affordable items available from its crafty sellers.

Case in point...

My lovely gold disc necklace from CVennell that I wear pretty much every day.

Gone are the days of driving from shop to shop, milling through aisles of stuff and mentally piecing together items. Now we can sit on our couch, wrapped up in a blankie with a messy pony, and feel fabulously chic as we assemble collages and inspiration boards to guide our aesthetic creations.

I don't know about y'all, but I'm OK with that. I can still get down with visiting a mall or shopping center every now and again, but that usually has more to do with the free A/C and soft pretzel situation. (Hey, a girl has needs.)
 
How do you shop, readers?
 

[Inspired Thursdays, v.5] Sing a Joyful Song

I have been a closet songstress for years now. I love singing. I sing in the car, in the shower, on the treadmill (at home)...and I mean belting it out, y'all. But I don't ever let people hear me sing. If I'm in the car with someone and my jam comes on the radio, I turn my head toward the window and baby sing it out. I just gotta, but on the low-low.

Church was no exception. I stood up, crossed my arms in discomfort, and moved my mouth while keeping my eyes firmly affixed to the hymn book or screen to catch the lyrics. We grew up attending a conservative Southern California church, so worship wasn't exactly the jazzy, jovial expression more commonly seen in churches these days anyway. But I was not having the singing. I dreaded worship time and sometimes even hoped we would miss that part of service (which we often did thanks to Dad and his two-hour morning showers). It's terrible to have felt that way, and it saddens me that I didn't understand the blessing of praising God by lifting up our voices.

Now? I sing like I can! (I like to imagine that I secretly have a voice like Idina's, but no one will ever know.) (I don't. And they won't.) Once I started listening to contemporary Christian music in my car, I found that I actually knew the songs they were playing in church. (Shocking, I know.) I didn't even have to look at the screen! I figured it wasn't all that much different from singing in the car to these songs, and before I knew it, I found myself looking so forward to Sundays and singing with fellow believers. It wasn't just that I was singing, but that I finally understood that God planted this love in my heart, and his church inspired me to embrace it, both on Sundays and everyday. Just in time for Christmas, too. Who wants to go caroling?!

Source

I may sound like a pack-of-cigs-smokin'-a-day kitty when I let it out, but I am filled with joy to know that at least one listener digs my vocal stylings. And He's the most important critic, anyway.

On Sexy Halloween Costumes

I know: this is not a new topic. It was covered in Mean Girls, it popped up on Sex and the City...we get it. Halloween is the one night (or weekend) of the year on which females are given a hall pass to dress less-than-fully. Fine.

I have gotten over the whole sexy storybook costumes. They've kind of grown on me and some gals actually look pretty darn cute in them. (I don't think they were going for cute, but if you've got bows on your knee-highs and in your pigtails, I'm calling you "cute.") I can even move past the sexy bugs. Shoot, if I had a body like some of those costume models, I might prance around in lingerie, too. (Ok, that's not true. Because sweatpants.)

Gals like to feel sexy and I get that. I personally would prefer some of these get-ups stay in the boudoir as I do not routinely enjoy seeing others' cleavage and butt cheeks displayed so generously. But maybe that's just a short-coming of mine. I will work on that.

Long-standing annoyance aside, I had to chime in on a few gems I discovered while costume shopping with the boyfriend over the past few days:

Photo: spirithalloween.com

 "Get it? I'm a bag of Skittles!" Oh...kay. Are the Fun Size packs not sufficient for fellas anymore?

Photo: spirithalloween.com

Nemo?! We couldn't spare an animated clown fish from the sexy costume action, huh?

Photo: spirithalloween.com

DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS.

Photo: yandy.com

Sexy fruit. Fruit. Honestly, I'm surprised it's just now showing up. Fruit is sexier than bugs, and those are practically an institution in the sexy costume world. 

Please let me apologize in advance for putting my foot in my mouth if you are sporting one of these get-ups for trick-or-treating this year. I bet you'll look great. Just do Mama Natty a favor and carry some mace in your knee-highs, will ya? Bunch of savages out there.

Whatever you decide to dress up as for Halloween (if y'all participate), have fun with it! Be safe and please remember to behave like ladies and gentleman. There is a lot to be said for a fun costume, hanging out with great friends, enjoying Halloween treats and spirits, and making memories to last you until the next wonderful holiday.

(To be fair, I will post a photo of me in my Halloween costume closer to the 31st. I'm super excited about our outfits! I'm a sucker for movie costumes and the chance to do some character makeup.)

What are you going to be for Halloween?

Like putty in your hands...

I guess it's no surprise that I've been going through some stuff. Like, pretty legit stuff.

But I am blessed enough to have family and friends who insist upon being there for me. I say "insist" because I am one of those idiots who has to be coerced to love on. I used to just curl up in a ball, take a day or two to be an utter disaster, then pull up the ol' big girl panties and move on. But I don't really think that will work in this scenario. Trust me: I've tried.

I am an absolutely believer in people and experiences shaping who we are. And yes, it tends to be true that the really awful, garbage situations are the ones that end up having the most impact. So boo on that. And yet, I've kind of surrendered to the shaping that is taking place for me as of late.

For starters, I find that I am completely wrapped up in my own little life. I hate that. I'm usually mildly thoughtful and try to remember all the (big and/or little) things going on in friends lives. (Side note: I worked with this psychologist while I was a health educator at the teen sex clinic--which isn't actually as sketchy as it sounds--and she used to make notes in her date book about goings-ons in each of the staff's lives so that she could remember to ask about it. "Hey, Natalie, how did the AP Bio test go? Did that guy ever ask you out?" The answers: aced it, and no. Per usual. Even if I felt slightly duped when I found out that she was "cheating" by writing down notes to facilitate her thoughtfulness, it was still such an awesome little picker-upper to know that someone cared enough about my mundane crap to follow up. And so I attempted to pay it forward by implementing such thoughtfulness into my own life. If I could find a pen.) But are my friends/family members complaining about my egocentrism? Nope. They just smile, catch me up, and feed me treats. For what more could I ask?

There is also a lot going on in terms of sculpting my heart. Not like I've been doing cardiac crunches or anything. That'd be weird. But I'm finally learning how to share my life with people, truly. As I mentioned before, I'm an idiot and don't find this comes naturally. I've been criticized by past loves (read: disasters) for not allowing my walls to come down fully. (To which I could have fairly replied that I would be much obliged to pull a few bricks out of said wall and chuck them with great force at him. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that is not what dude had in mind.) Despite the heartache and frustration at still being single with nary a flicker on the horizon, I know that I will not be the kind of wife and partner I want to be without having reached the stage I'm at (and will continue to progress through).

I've been keeping "Your Love is a Song" on steady rotation as of late. Partially because of my fairly recent obsession with Jon Foreman. Partially because it speaks to how I view my relationship with God: He knows I'm a "show me" kind of person, and He responds in kind. Always. Given the way things have played out as of late, I feel now, more than ever, that life is an intricate, gorgeously orchestrated symphony of sorts. Thing just work out too poetically for them to be anything but remarkably planned and intentional.

Maybe it's just me. But I'll take it.

Austin According to Nat

LOVE

~Copious amounts of delicious vegetarian food

~Wi-Fi everywhere

~Three words: Flagship Whole Foods

~Your favorite "underground" singer/songwriter is in heavy rotation on the radio

~Trees

~Good coffee EVERYWHERE

~The city is always awake

~I'm pretty sure a large population of the residents are actual pirates. Rad.

~Whatever you're wearing is perfectly acceptable/appropriate for any given venue

~Even if your destination takes 45 minutes to get to, it never feels like more than 10 minutes*

~Recycling is the norm

NOT SO MUCH

~Copious amounts of delicious vegetarian food (I'm preparing for Winter. Or twins.)

~Possibly the worst drivers in Texas

~There is always traffic on I-35 between UT and Oltorf.** Both directions.

~Young 'ens are running amuck and manning most retails stores/restaurants

~The temptation for tats is out of control

~Friends and family from DF-Dubs aren't here....yet

More to come as I settle in.... (I know you'll be waiting with bated breath.)

*Assuming you've avoided said stretch of 35 (**).

The Gift of Giving a Damn

I recently finished The Five Love Languages, a book I cannot recommend highly enough for anyone who wishes to have more meaningful, effective relationships (romantic or otherwise). (I read the Singles Edition; there are various versions available for whatever your current status or focus, but you'll get the gist of the theory, whichever version you check out.) I am not usually a big fan of anything that even resembles a self-help juggernaut, but it was recommended by my dear friend Ro, and I'm so glad I put my preconceived notions aside to delve into this wise easy-read.

The theory posits that there are five ways in which human beings essentially communicate love: words of affirmation, physical touch, quality time, acts of service, and receiving gifts. We may respond to (or "speak") all of these in some way, but there is always one that means more to us than the others. This is our "primary love language." Not only will we respond better to those who recognize (or luck out, to be cynical fair) our own language, but if we wish to show someone how much we care for them, we should also strive to speak their respective language.

(Barf. Gag. Ugh. I know...but I got the rant out of my system last night/this morning, so just bear with me through my brief bout of soul-searching. Kay? Thanks.)

So much of this makes sense to me because I have (more than once) found myself wondering why the hell a boyfriend or friend insists on executing the relationship on their terms. "Why," I ask myself, "is it all about them?" After I've exhausted myself throwing a hissy fit and start acting like a big girl again, I inevitably realize that my disappointment is partly my fault. I never communicated how I wanted to be treated. (I don't want to hear a WORD from the peanut gallery about my inability to communicate emotions/feelings in general. I am AWESOME.) Now, some things, such as Natty doesn't appreciate it when you fall in love with other women while we are in a relationship, should be understood. (Seriously?) But others could have been addressed if only I had (a) recognized this need and (b) shared it with Captain NotWorthy.

(Rambly, rambly, rambly....the point, already?)

This entire theory presupposes that you give a crap enough about the relationship on which you are focusing to even attempt to recognize the needs of another. And, if you're feelin' ambitious, you might even go out of your way to try to meet those needs. For another person. Crazy talk, I know.

The lesson I'd like to leave you with, dear children, is that we all want to feel loved and appreciated. For those people already in your life (as well as those who have yet to arrive) who matter to you, know that with just a modicum of effort you can make all the difference in their hearts and in their heads. Pay attention to what makes them light up. And if you're lucky, they'll give a damn enough to do the same for you.

[Women's Writes] Hormones are no joke, y'all...

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of May, we’ve chosen to write about Women’s Reproductive Rights and Issues. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read the first installment, click here.

This post is not going to be some diatribe about freaking the eff out on the boyfriend/husband/stranger on the bus because “he sniffed funny” in your general direction, and then blaming this behavior on the monthly cycle we ladies know and loathe. (Oh please, Gods of Foot-in-Mouth, don’t let anyone post about said bashed topic.)

Nay, I’d like to talk about the mother eff of a conundrum in which we ladies find ourselves when it comes to selecting a birth control method. I’d like to be PC and include the boys in this, but...well...y’all have the luxury of a fairly simple choice between one of a few birth control methods, none of which suck even an eighth as much as the choices with which we’re left. (Not hating on y’all. I speak the truf.)

It has been a while since Natty got her groove back, but after a few years (SHUT UP) of being pill-free, I am all sorts of pissed off about my options when it comes to keeping my body sans baby when the time does come to once again frolic among the birds and bees. Having been on the pill for almost ten years (stop doing the math...yes, I was young) when I discontinued, I didn’t realize how pervasive were the effects of those little bastards (God bless ‘em) on my body, my moods, my appetite, my sex drive, etc. It’s wacky, y’all! And after two years (and counting...) of being hormone-free (well, of artificial, elective ones, anyway), I’ve never felt better or more capable of keeping my shit in check. (Which is pretty huge considering my "mood moments" sometimes resulted in hurled books--preferably large hardbacks--and abusive behavior toward customer services reps at any given utility company. But seriously, aside from that, I was an absolute peach. Don’t know why things didn’t work out with the dude.) (/sarc)

See, most of the truly effective methods of birth control are as such because of hormones. (I’m not really including abstinence in my discussion of BCMs; though, obviously, I don’t discount that method. I mean, HELLO.) They alter the way our bodies work (by halting ovulation, thinning the lining of the uterus, thickening the cervical mucus...sexy, right?) to ensure that there aren't any unplanned, pigtailed, baby Hot Messes running amuck.

Moreover, I believe that many of the unpleasant side effects are intended to keep the sex from happening in the first place because, let's face it, folks, there is no better insurance against babies than proceeding sans sexing. (Unless you're the Virgin Mary, in which case hormones are likely the least of your worries, Mommy Jesus.) I mean, being an emotional A-bomb is a sure fire way to keep from getting pregnant seeing as how NO ONE WANTS TO BE NEAR YOU when you're vacillating between tears and rage every two minutes.* I swear, it's a conspiracy that the no-baby pill/device-makers have expertly designed, making us ladies look like total basket cases so that we (a) don't steal their jobs (which we could likely do with our eyes closed and in five-inch Christian Louboutins) and (b) don't call our boyfriends/husbands/friendboys on their idiotic behavior. Clearly, we're hysterical. (/sarc) (duh.)

What the hell was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so it totally sucks that in order to utilize safe, effective birth control, I pretty much have to sacrifice my sound mind and lovely countenance. OR! I could use one of those hormone-free contraptions and only risk sacrificing the walls of my uterus.

Oh, the joys of being a lady. (Do I even need to tag this?! Me thinks not.)

*I realize that not everyone experiences the emotional ups-and-downs (to put it really effing mildly) that I did while on the pill, but none of the side effects are generally enjoyable. Except for the bigger boobs. Which I never got. Sonofa.

I present to you....my sarcasm tag

I'm still sans computer, but that should be remedied this week, just in time for my Bloggy Date with the girls. (A Bloggy Date is a wonderful afternoon spent at either a coffee shop or very accommodating restaurant with laptops and girlfriends in tow--and, most likely, mimosas--working on our respective blogs/blog posts. A whole lot of yammering, a little bit of writing, and endlessly awesome.)

I know there are various incarnations of a sarcasm font floating around the internets, but I frankly don't like any of them. As I love me some HTML tags (nerd alert!), I've decided that my personal sarcasm font is going to be more of a sarcasm tag. It looks a little something like this:

My ex just proposed to a twenty-two-year-old. Awesome. (/sarc)

Please note that I've opted to not use a leading tag as that is just too much work. I realize this may create some confusion as to what part of the phrase/sentence/aside I mean sarcastically, but, well, I can't do all the work. I mean, if you don't understand my sense of humor, I doubt a leading tag is going to make the difference.

Also, I'm using parentheses versus...um...these things "<>" so that the machine understands that I'm not actually trying to use a real tag. (I tell you, the attitude I get from the machines...)

So there you have it. You've been warned and shall begin seeing this tag pop up in my Tweets, Facebook updates, and blogs effective immediately. Feel free to have at it, as well.

No wonder everyone has resorted to text speak...not that it's OK, BTW

Have you ever noticed that there seems to be a disconnect between the spell checking mechanisms available in most online resources? Like, depending on whether you're checking the spelling in a Word document, a Hotmail draft, or even a Blogger post, there are apparently variables that exist in each arena that will yield different misspellings.* I mean, we're talking words, people. Are they really that capricious?

Granted, I do on occasion just straight make up words (usually faux expletives), and I'm not surprised when the spell check doesn't know what the french toast to do with those. But adverbs? Uncommon verb tenses? Come on!

(Somewhere, some brilliant code writer is cursing my name for whining about some insignificant detail of their masterpiece. Do I have any idea what it takes to make a functioning system? Nope. Does this mean I can't thrash about over a sub par spell checker? Noooo.)

And, to be fair, the English language is inordinately cruel. I could barely get my near-genius high schoolers to understand half the rules of grammar in my SAT prep classes; how can I possibly expect a series of codes and equations to correctly identify what it is I am doing with my words?

But I am a Wordie. (For sure just made that word up, so I won't hold that against you, Spell Checker. It's like Foodie, see, but I am ardently interested is in words. More specifically, grammar, but I didn't want to walk around claiming to be a Grammie. That's just awkward.) And thus I get worked up about situations such as these.

Except when it comes to the LOL Cats. That's just good, clean fun.

*To demonstrate my point, I have taken the liberty of making red all the words that Blogger does not recognize in its spell check. They are, in fact, actual words. At least they are according to Dictionary.com. I heart Dictionary.com.

[Monday Rant] I am an artist, people!

I realize there are many aspects of the acting/modeling biz that people don't understand. This is one of the primary reasons that I maintain (and I use this term loosely as of late) this blog and share my experiences from the casting couch (so to speak...I'm a lady!) and on set.

Nevertheless, there is one comment in particular that always gets under my skin...

"You made how much doing that gig?! Well hell, I can sit in front of the camera and look pretty. Where do I sign up?"

(...or some variation of this.)

I do realize that the income I make from acting and modeling is pretty sweet given the relative work that is sometimes required on a gig. I have spent many an hour on set with the most enjoyable, accommodating people I've been fortunate enough to meet, all the while having my makeup and hair perfected every moment, and often doing little more than smiling at the camera and moving around. (I mean, what's not to love?)

But I don't think people have any clue what it takes to get there. There is a huge misconception in terms of what we go through as actors to land a gig. It is so much more than simply securing a decent headshot, waltzing into a talent agency, and watching the Benjamins roll in as I sip my Perrier.

This business requires 24/7 commitment and effort, yo!

For example...
~ As sick as it sounds, I'm a product. Period. This means I'm responsible for maintaining flawless skin, perfect smile (well, as close as one can get when you've got Chicklets for teeth, big bastards), clean hands, slender frame (epic fail), marketable look and dress, and top notch memorization and improvisation skills.
~ I have to hustle for every dime I make. There is one person responsible for my success: moi. The mere mention of "networking" makes me cringe, but it's a necessary evil in this biz. Lucky for me, I am in a market that is chock full o' awesome folks who make this aspect of work very enjoyable. These southern folks know how to have a good time. Just sayin.
~ If I make any sort of travel plans, I have to accept that I will likely be turning away whatever jobs are coming down the pipe around that time (for which, it never fails, I totally meet the specs and the rates are great). The alternative is being super last minute in making/booking plans, which means more moolah and stress for a vacation. In short, it's not worth the hassle.

Not to mention, for every sweet, simple gig, there are about five gigs that push me toward the brink of insanity. Copy changing at the last minute, conflicting direction coming from five different people, hideous wardrobe/hair/makeup, ill-prepared co-stars (don't even get me started on working with animals)...all must be endured with a willing attitude and a smile on my face. (Hey, I am an actress, after all. There is no greater performance than this.)

I don't take a single moment in this crazy industry for granted, and I hope it never comes off otherwise, but I just can't help but feel frustration when people (usually unintentionally) belittle what it takes to make this lifestyle work.

I mean, you don't see me underestimating the sheer willpower it takes to sit in an office for 8 hours a day, dealing with idiot bosses and drama-loving coworkers. I don't know how y'all do it, to be honest. I'd for sure be taking handfuls of lithium and pounding coffee on a regular basis. (Well, more so than usual.)

[Monday Rant...a day late] - Sealtbelt Safety is a Sham!

Dear Seatbelt,

I know we've already had beef in the past given that I don't think our government should mandate grown adults to wear you. (I mean, I get the spirit of the law, but I just don't see how it's anyone's business if I want to risk flying through the windshield into oncoming traffic should I get into a collision.)

But now, I officially hate you. And I just think it's better to come straight to you about this, versus sullying your name all over town behind your back. I think we're both mature enough to handle direct confrontation, especially given our recent run-in.

I am diligent about wearing you on a regular basis (which may or may not have something to do with the fact that my uber-safe vehicle will not stop pestering me if I don't), but when my lovely gentleman and I smacked into a median this past snowy Saturday evening, you straight up screwed me. Not only did you give me a nice shiner on my chest and hips, but you did a number on my sternum as well. In fact, you gave me a straight up panic attack yesterday morning when I supposed I was bleeding internally. (I do accept some fault for this assumption. It was a bit unfounded, but I was scared. Leave it alone.) Your actions resulted in worry for my friends, my family, and the aforementioned fella, and for that, I could punch you in your shiny, smug clasp.

Had the accident been worse, we may well be having a very different conversation (if at all), but it wasn't. And so you remain on my Shit List.

I just wanted you to be aware.

I hope you're happy with yourself,
Natalie Cottrell

[Monday Rant] Free Clinic or Bust

Dear BC/BS,

I have paid my health insurance premiums diligently for, oh, a decade now. Having been self-employed for the majority of my adult years, I nevertheless always found a way to pay for my individual policy. And regardless of the fact that I am a very healthy young lady and never plan on having children (ergo saving you, like, a bagillion dollars...you're welcome), I never bitched about paying premiums, nor did you ever have to pay more than a few hundred bucks each year (as most visits went toward my deductible).

And yet, despite all the effort on my part to be a good "member," you have denied me coverage. DENIED. ME. COVERAGE. And your "reasoning?" Because I had some pre-cancerous moles removed.

First of all, I apologize. Yes, that's right. I. APOLOGIZE. profusely for being super pale and having ever stepped foot in the sun. (Don't worry, I also intend to write a very strongly-worded letter to the sun. It's only fair.)

Secondly, my bad for going to my yearly dermatology appointments (which is an absolute treat, let me tell you) and ALLOWING this health care professional to remove these dangerous spots from my skin. How selfish of me to not just take one for the team and let them progress to full blown melanoma so that you're gazillion-dollar company doesn't have to process the claim, seeing as how it's not like y'all actually paid toward that visit or anything. But I understand the administrative burden and it really is a lot to ask, dear Insurance Carrier.

Third, I am sure it is no big deal at all that you've cast me out into the world with no coverage whatsoever. BUT! I appreciate you referring me to the Texas Health Insurance Pool, seeing as how I'm most definitely a "high risk case." Sure, I'm unemployed and doing everything I can to keep gas in my car, but I can TOTALLY afford $500 a month. I think that's more than fair given that I go to the doctor twice a year for preventative care. I'm sure it balances out. Again, those administrative costs are a bitch, eh?

In closing, I understand the profound burden you bear as a ginormous conglomerate. I clearly asked way too much of you in my application for coverage, and I guess I really am just too much of a high risk for y'all. I would be happy to offer up my uterus in return for consideration of an appeal as a good faith gesture that I have intention whatsoever of using it, and therefore will never incur the cost of all those silly medical expenses associated with the children.

Regardless though, I totally hope you sleep well and don't at all dream of zombies eating half your organs, only to find out that you don't have a "zombie snack" clause underwritten in your own health insurance policy.

Happy trails,
Natalie Cottrell

How do I love thee...

(I am admittedly stealing this brilliant idea from fellow blogger Peter DeWolf. And I am totally allowed to do so even though I don't have his permission because I just called him brilliant. That's the rule.)

Dear future husband,

Hey, hun. I'd like to take a moment to thank you in advance for all the sweet little things you're going to do for me, none of which you will likely enjoy. But I'm gonna treat you real nice-like and sleep with you (unless you snore, in which case you're just going to have to sleep in your own room, which will exist regardless of whether or not you snore, just to be clear).

I think I am most thankful for you...
- staying on top of the Draino situation and making sure that I never have to wade in my own shower water because my insane head of hair has once again gone berzerker on the pipes.
- putting up with the lack of meat on your dinner plate because, quite frankly, what kind of vegetarian would I be if I had the first clue how to perfectly grill a cow? 'Preciate your feigned enthusiasm for side items.
- rubbing my back and feet every time I ask even though I consistently promise to pay you back and will never deliver (unless you had, like, a wicked bad day).
- understanding the importance of spending time with my friends and family. I heart you so hard. Lots o' lovin' for you, champ.
- respecting time out.
- putting up with the crumbs in bed. I blame this, once again, on Spicy Nacho Doritos.
- keeping the butterflies alive and well long after I should have customarily grown bored of the same person.

You're aces, hubby.

Love,
Wifey

I'm on to you...

I observed an interaction as a young girl that informed at an early age what I believe about men and how they operate...

My dad was sweeping our kitchen. Badly. He was dusting crumbs to and fro, and basically making a bigger mess than we started with. So Mom grabbed the broom and shooed him right out of his chore. He shrugged his shoulders, said, "I tried," and plopped down in front of the TV to watch the hockey game.

Fast forward to the very next day.

Dad, broom in hand, is sweeping the sidewalk outside of our business. (Yes, we sweep sidewalks. Publicly shared concrete. We like it tidy, folks.) His technique? Perfect. Never once having to backtrack, no wayward scraps, solid coverage, etc.

What I learned from Dear ol' Dad? If you don't want to do something, pretend you don't know how.

My brother was also a big fan of this technique and used it on more than one occasion growing up (apple, tree). He would do friggin' donuts with the vacuum so he wouldn't be responsible for this duty again, seeing as how we Cottrells are not fans of jacked up carpet patterns. (If you don't understand where my OCD comes from by now, you probably never will.) But after living with him in college, I learned that he is diligent about making sure all the carpet fibers are laying the same direction once he's vacuumed a room. Interesting his sudden skill, no?

The point: most men (see how I avoided the absolute there...even though it felt correct) apply this same strategy to dating/relationships. If you don't want to do something, pretend you don't know how. Don't want to commit? Come up with a myriad of excuses for why you're not ready (as a man) to put a ring on it. Not sure if you're really interested in someone? Cough up a laundry list of "issues" that render you ill equipped to get involved at the moment.

And ladies, for sobbing out loud, this is not a cry for help to which only you can respond by ushering them through this difficult time. THEY'RE FULL OF IT*. If you aren't there to hold their hands, guess what? They'll survive. Even if you are there to hold their hands, they will likely maintain the same stance they told you from the get-go (some call them "red flags," I call them "turn ons"), and remind you of said issues when they break your heart and go marry a twenty-two year old fresh out of college. (Nothing cures a crisis of manhood like a recently sprung co-ed. Bottle it up.)

So what are we NOT twenty-two-year old co-eds to do? Dunno. But I will say that we should at least acknowledge what is likely going on and stop being so willing to accept the crap that is spoonfed to us by these very tasty losers. If you want something, ask for it. If your dude can't deliver and it's something you truly deem important (like, say, monogamy), it may be time to start looking for a guy who can. (Now, after a dozen or so attempts, it may be wise to re-evaluate what you're asking for. Like, a proposal within six months of dating? Maybe not.) But if every time you explain to your friends/family/therapist why you're unhappy with someone, you fall back into a script of excuses, maybe you take a look at all the stuff you are juggling to take care of this basketcase and realize that life (for the most part) should be enhanced by your relationships. Not drained by them.

In short: give 'em the damn broom and make them do it right. Or no dessert.

(You know..."dessert." You probably got that. Just checking.)

*To be fair, it is possible that guys have real, legitimate issues when you come into their lives. For the most part I am saying that guys make up a lot of crap to justify not having to do anything, but they're not always deceptive. Nevertheless, my point stands. Justifiable issue or not, you can't take responsibility for or owndership of an issue that isn't yours. How you respond to what those hurdles mean you are likely going to get out of this guy? That's on you.

Tough love time.

Dear Self,

What are you doing? What. Are. You. Doing.

I realize things are a little rough as of late, but you cannot just go off the deep end.

You don't even like chocolate that much. In fact, you don't really have a sweet tooth to speak of. (Cupcakes and tiramisu are awesomeness, for sure, but in calculated moderation.) But lately? Any and all chocolate bits put in front of you are disappearing. Fast.

The wine? Well, that's good for you. Besides, we're all allowed one vice. (Well, one culinary vice. At a time.)

But chocolate. Seriously. You don't even taste it half the time. In fact, I'm pretty sure you swallowed the majority of that bag of M&Ms you devoured just a minute ago. Swallowed them whole, for sobbing out loud. What's the point if you're not even going to savor and enjoy it? I mean, you could have had a whole Grab Bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos for the same calorie exchange.

Please. For the sake of your sanity (and your ass), lay off the hardcore milk chocolate noshing.

Here's hoping,
Natty

Because I'm clearly a huge star.

OK, so let me begin this post by saying that I am NOT complaining. This is not a rant. I am not a brat. You don't even know what I am writing about yet. Nevertheless. Calm down.

Every once in a while, I get a request via my website asking for an autographed headshot. For a brief moment, I get really excited because (1) someone not related to me knows about my acting career (the kids are calling them "fans," I hear), and (2) I get to use a Sharpie. (I mean, how can you not feel cool when signing your name all fancy with a delicious marker?)

But this excitement only lasts for a moment or two before I simmer down and think, 'Wait, why would I have a fan?' (This is not a fishing for compliments situation so shut. up.) Seriously, my longest on-screen moment in any given film is probably two minutes max. And while I give it a genuine effort, there is just not a whole lot of range to be seen in a five minute scene. Even if I am dying/being killed. Which happens. A lot.

Once my prudence (Dear Prudence) kicks in, I am overcome with creeped-outness. How did this person find me? How many times have they looked at my site/picture/reel? Are they wearing pants when they do so? Ok, ew. But for real.

I understand that this is part of the deal when you enter into a career as a "public figure," whatever the H that means. I'm not like those celebrities who complain about being followed by paparazzi. I mean, for starters, I don't parade around with my uber-famous best friends right in front of the hottest nightclub in L.A. while gorked out of my mind on illegal drugs and sans underpants. Lock. It. Up. (By the way, I hate paparazzi and the assumption that privacy is a luxury in the entertainment business to which no one is ever guaranteed. I jest because I enjoy making fun of hot messes. We're amused by our own.) But it is a little unnerving to be a no-name, fledgling actress in Dallas and to be contacted by someone claiming to be "a huge fan." Um...of what? My expansive body of work? Wrong.

Here's a letter I would actually appreciate (and probably reward with an autographed headshot)...

Dear Ms. Cottrell,

I don't know you. You don't know me. We'll probably never meet.

I haven't really seen any of your films. (Except for that video on imdb. Was that a commercial for a real film or something? It's short. And I got confused. But that's probably my
fault.) But I think you're pretty. You kinda remind of that girl in that princess movie or whatever. But she's kinda slutty. You don't seem slutty. But I don't know, I guess.

It may sound weird, and you may just ignore this email anyway, but I was wondering if you would send me an autographed photo or something. You're not famous or anything. (Sorry if
that makes you mad. I always say the wrong thing.) But if you get famous someday and move to L.A., I could probably get $50 on eBay for an autographed photo of you before you were famous. That's probably not very much money to a big actress or whatever, but that's enough to reserve my copy of the new Bioshock coming out
next month. (That's just an example.)

You don't have to if you don't want to. But I still think you're pretty.

Hope you get famous and send me a picture,

Marv

P.S. I heard you dressed up as Lara Croft for Halloween one year. Is that true? If yes, maybe you could send a picture of that. You could autograph that picture. I would probably save
that for myself. Unless I need the money. Or you get famous.

Call a spade a spade. For the love.

A funny, silly little moment in the life of a Walking Contradiction...

While running errands this afternoon (quick "Woop woop!" for days off in the middle of the week), I pulled up to a shopping center in my sassy little white Volvo S40. My outfit: a baby pink Banana Republic turtleneck, gray slacks, and black ballet flats. My hair was pulled back in a sophisticated chignon (who doesn't love that word, yo?), and I had some very pink blush going on (can't remember why exactly I felt like playing Dolly Natty today). My iced coffee was nestled comfortably in my cup holder, and the sunroof was cracked just a hair to let in some of the crisp February breeze. I gathered my Kate Spade bag and Blackberry, kicked open my car door...and quickly noticed a fairly handsome middle-aged man staring at me like I had sprouted two heads (both with bubblegum pink cheeks, presumably).

Oh, did I forget to mention that I had Nine Inch Nails' "Pretty Hate Machine" cranked up to full volume? No? How about the fact that I was screeching along to the lyrics while bobbing my head like a fool? Not so much? My bad.

See, now how could I sacrifice such amusement by listening to something more appropriate given my get-up (something in the neighborhood of early-Norah Jones, maybe Colbie Caillat), or by dressing the part (Seriously, do you know how hard it is to get all that black eyeliner to come off? At a certain point, there aren't enough Q-tips in existence.)?

Is it really so odd to heart both Trent Reznor and Audrey Hepburn equally? Me thinks not.

[Monday Rant] Don't think I don't see you creeping up...

Dear adorable, disgusting candy hearts,

I hate you.

The very sight of your distinctive, chalky shape makes me feel all violent and stabby on the inside. Even if I do have a Valentine. Which I don't. But I'm OK with that. Really. I am.

You should be ashamed of your unabashed declaration of sweet sentiments. I mean, you're just giving the goods away. You're setting an unnatural precedence given the current state of dating. (Hello, have you been out there lately, dear Conversation Hearts? It's madness. And innuendo. Bad innuendo, at that.) I sincerely think you should reconsider your message.

In fact, I have to give props to your uber-angry cousins: sweet little hearts with statements like "Hate You" and "Go Away." I know this seems counterintuitive to the Valentine's Day vibe, but I don't see that whole charade lasting much longer anyway. Perhaps you should get on board.

Like now.

Suck it,

Natty

We the People....are over it.

So I had my first jury duty experience today. Great times.

Highlights?

- There were some power issues this morning in areas of Rockwall County, and the A/C in the court house was not working properly. Chubby bumpkins corralled into a very small, sun-drenched room? Awesomeness.
- Once the A/C kicked in, it was apparently thrown off from the abrupt power outage and its damn belt blew. Not only were we now sweating in close proximity to country strangers, but the smell of burned toast permeated every square inch of the dinky room.
- Being called "Lady Drinker" by a fellow juror. It was a DUI case. There were some questions asked of the class. Long story short: honesty gets you nowhere.
- After one of the two hundred breaks (in a three hour span), being asked by aforementioned fellow juror if I got drunk during our recess. Not nearly enough, Sir.
- My dismissal. At noon. Just in time to change and go in to work. Sa-weet.

I honestly don't take my civic duty lightly. I also imagine the woman charged wasn't enjoying all the hijinks as nearly as much as the rest of us. (Seriously, where do these damn lawyers come up with their make-the-jury-like-our-team jokes?) Part of me would have enjoyed being selected, if for no other reason than I really, really wanted to know what homegirl (at the age of 45-ish) was up to when she got nicked for being crunk.

I'm easily amused.