Natalie Whatley

Sitting at Gentry Junior School’s start-of -the-year orientation, I was delighted to hear from school nurse, Gayle Boisture, that the H1N1 virus—otherwise known as the swine flu—had been downgraded and was not the concern it was this time last year. But I must warn you all of the latest threat. On your behalf, I stay on the cutting edge of trends and have been monitoring something creepy for a good while. It’s time for me to sound the alarm.

If you are in the least bit squeamish, or if the mere mention of head lice makes your scalp crawl you may want to stop here. My head’s feeling a bit itchy, and I may not sleep for a week, but I’m highly compensated for such burdens.

An infestation eradicated decades ago is rearing its ugly, bloodsucking-insect head here in the good ole United States of America. I’d seen a sprinkling of news stories with professionals warning it was coming as the problem was getting severely worse around the globe, and tucked it away.

Most of what I ran across sounded “chicken little”, but the headlines are popping up in greater frequency and I recently learned that the Environmental Protection Agency held a summit on the impending crisis in 2009. What has some high-ranking officials bugging out? Bedbugs.

The little critters have caused Ohio’s government and the EPA to scratch at each other over the “proper” use of chemicals, and as is usually the case, the good citizenry is hung in the middle—taking to the sidewalks to sleep at night because sleeping quarters are uninhabitable. Now the Centers for Disease Control and, I kid you not, the Department of Defense are involved in the crisis.  

I know, at first glace and from up on a cleanliness pedestal, filth comes to mind. You may want to hop on down, because this is a problem for any one of us who doesn’t reside in a hermetically-sealed bubble. One can pick them up in just about any public place, and bring a happy bedbug couple to reside and start a family in their dream home: your bed.

Back in the day when pesticides were pesticides (I know some have been proven harmful, but in my humble opinion the pendulum has swung too far the opposite direction. Save the hate-mail for someone smarter than me.) DDT wiped out this nuisance in the developed world.

Since about 1995, they’ve been re-emerging: resistant to DDT and any other weenie-fied chemical we now have at our disposal. Some statistics show the infestation doubled between 1995 and 2001 and that the bedbug population has continued to grow as more pesticides used to counter other pests while peripherally killing bedbugs were removed from the arsenal.  

Luckily, extensive lab testing shows that bedbugs are not likely to pass disease from one human to another. However, they can be extremely harmful to mental health. I know some of you are already in a panic and will no doubt soon be suffering from delusional parasitosis, whereby you’ll be certain you are infested with a parasite that isn’t present.

I suppose the world just isn’t right unless we have a certain level of paranoia to contend with. I sometimes lie awake at night wondering what to obsess over next. I bet you’ll do it now, too. Good night, sleep tight; don’t let the bedbugs bite!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Eleven short weeks ago this mother of three school-aged children was ecstatic over trading hectic schedules for the less rigorous days of summer. But today, dear friends, I sit equally as delighted that in just over twenty four hours the 2010-2011 school year will begin. I’m fickle that way. My sanity stays precariously balanced on a time-spent-with-offspring continuum.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sharing days with the ones I love, but we’ve reached the saturation point. In short, we’re getting on each other’s nerves.

With three sets of everything to keep up with over and above myself, each new year presents challenges. But the bright side is watching my babies — two of which tower over me and have facial hair, the other will be looking me in the eye in no time — grow and mature through new experiences. (I just realized as I typed that last sentence: They are progressing, and I seem to be regressing. Oh my. That will have to be a discussion for another day, but thank you for bringing about that realization.)

This year will be full of firsts and lasts. I suppose in many ways each year is, but for this year our milestones are big. I’m bound to shed a tear, or maybe two million. The good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise: My oldest will graduate from high school. (That boy knows I love him to the ends of the earth, but he and I have rarely seen eye-to-eye on educational matters. I’m certain our relationship will improve a thousand-fold when he dons his cap and gown.) The middle child will spend his last year in junior high while the baby girl is just getting started there.  (If you see Jeremy around town, ask him how excited he is to be attending school once again on the same campus as his little sister. He can barely contain his emotions.)

Me, I’m just ready for them to get out of my house. Goodness, that sounds harsh, doesn’t it? Of course I don’t mean forever, just during the day so I can get back to my routine. It’s sort of sad how accustomed to being alone I have gotten. I found myself getting annoyed having to prepare my lunch with others in the kitchen.  Beside the fact that I was lunching while they were foraging for breakfast, I’m used to having all the counter and moving around space I want. It wasn’t such an issue when they were small, but now, they take up some real estate and we sort of get in each other’s way.  Oh, and they’re teen-aged moody. Not good when standing near me and sharp implements. I get ideas beyond slicing tomato.

Don’t worry, though, it’s said absence makes the heart grow fonder, so I’ll be back to adoring their cherubic faces as soon as their not in mine all day.

Hope everyone has a great start to the new school year!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Turn the thermostat down, grab an icy-cold beverage, and have a seat. You’re in for a cool, relaxing treat.

As luck would have it, today not only marks the start of Air Conditioning Appreciation Week, but August 15 is also National Relaxation Day. I imagine you weren’t aware of either of these commemorative occurrences because to be honest I’d never heard of them, either. Desperation of a columnist with a heat-fried brain and a deadline often dredges up such things.

I don’t know about you, but I hold my air conditioning in very high regard for about 9 months out of the year. Here in these parts where we endure high temperatures often coupled with extreme humidity, a mere week of honor doesn’t seem to suffice. But since it’s a special time for my appliance, I’ll be sure to visit both the indoor and outdoor components and let them know how grateful I am for the fine service provided. Maybe I should buy a card.

And since today is National Relaxation Day we can all get away with lounging around in the cool air conditioning while doing an activity that eases our stressed souls – even if said activity is doing nothing over and above being conscious.  It’s the perfect Sunday combination, but only after reading this first, of course.

As Google aided in my travels through vast amounts of information, I learned that air conditioning for the sake of human comfort is—relatively speaking—fairly young. It got going in a few fits and starts in the early 1900s and went way down on the priority list through the Great Depression and World War II. But in the post-war boom of the 1950s it took off and led the way for migration to the Sunbelt. By 1966, Texas was the first state to have more than half of its homes equipped with climate control. 

Almost one-hundred years ago a young engineer, Willis H. Carrier (also known as The Father of Cool), sat waiting for a train on a foggy night and began pondering the problem of temperature and humidity control. He had a ‘flash of genius’ which are the formulas still used today as the basis in all fundamental calculations used in the air conditioning industry.

Yes, I studied Carrier’s famous “Rational Psychrometric Formulae”. Feel free to assume I understood every bit of it. I’ll assume you’d rather I not bore you with the details. In the end, all that matters is that I love the man for what his mind gave us. He didn’t invent the first system used to cool an interior structure, but his ended up being the first truly successful one which started the science of modern air conditioning.  Sadly, Willis Carrier died in 1950 just as his work was on the cusp of becoming a mainstay in American homes.

In closing, a very special thanks to The Big Guy for creating me AFTER air conditioning was invented. And thanks, too, for the person who had the cool idea of Air Conditioning Appreciation Week and having it coincide with the melting of my mind. I appreciate that.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Because I visit the salon chair of Mrs. Sharon Saenz on a very regular basis to keep my tresses not the shade nature is intending, I couldn’t ignore the onslaught of recent articles extolling the wisdom, virtue, and current fashion savvy associated with gray hair.

Bear with me for a moment as I delve into a bit of cliché. Apparently, gray is the new black. But since we’re talking hair color, what I’ve been led to believe is that gray is the new blonde. Maybe some of you who have done both can report which was more fun.

I’ve been fighting my hair’s natural progression of fine textured, dark-honey brown to wiry, dead-rat gray for just over a decade. I could get excited over the change if what my hair was morphing into wasn’t so . . .  well, there’s no other word I can find to describe it besides hideous. You know I would never exaggerate.  

It appears that a metallic head is now a fashion must-have. For the first time — ever — I find myself able to be on the leading edge of a trend and could sport my au naturel self while claiming to be the pinnacle of sophistication and style. But I don’t really want to go there. I’m caught between a bottle of hair dye and showing my true colors.

In the name of liberating those who color their gray, proponents of this movement claim dyeing is a disturbing addiction that robs untold numbers of money and time as they chase youth and shun reality.  What do I know? I just bought a red sports car and it is has already taken me to a hair-color appointment.  

The fad is so white-hot that younger people who haven’t sprouted any gray yet are intentionally causing their hair to take that hue. Pardon me, but it just doesn’t look right. Spooky comes to mind. Plus, it tricks our senses into thinking someone is more mature and sensible than they really are. Life experience is a much slower process than apply, let sit for thirty minutes, and rinse.

In the end, I stumbled across a little tidbit that caused the whole tangle to make perfect sense: The fashion industry is reeling from the economy. High-end designers are now in the position of having to be more relatable to the consumer. Simply stated, they’re desperate.

Gray-haired, “mature” (and GASP! “curvy”) models were spotted on the runways in New York, London, Paris, and Milan in April. “Mature” women, bent on making better spending decisions, will not risk on what may not be suited to them. It’s sort of a shame it took such drastic measures for this change to occur.

So, my new black as I deal with gray in a way that suits me will be to see the silver lining of making it far enough for gray hair to be an issue and for not having much bigger things to worry over at present.  And if genetics are an indicator, I’ll have some pretty, silvery-white white hair in about twenty years.

Until then, I must pass through this awful in-between stage. No matter what color my locks carry, I’ll try to be as authentic as I possibly can. And when I’ve earned the degree of wisdom, virtuosity, and style savvy to sport the silver medal of self acceptance, I will wear it proudly . . . just not today.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

As my deadline approached and before official numbers could be tallied, our area was seriously vying to beat a July rainfall record set back in 1900 mere weeks before a massive hurricane nearly wiped Galveston off the map.

I thought the wet stuff seemed more plentiful lately, but didn’t give it much thought because it was a welcomed relief from the heat. Too bad we’re making up for that break by way of mosquito, but I complained about them a couple of weeks ago, so I’ll move along.

With so much opportunity in the air, I twice witnessed what I now know to be an unusual meteorological phenomenon: sun showers. We don’t typically call them that here in the South, so you may or may not have heard the term. It’s easy enough to figure out, though, and is simply a rain shower occurring while the sun is shining.

In the midst of one of those occurrences, I mentioned it and asked the person to whom I was speaking, “What’s up with that?”

“The devil is beating his wife!”

Wow. Echoed my thoughts exactly, but it had been ages since I’d heard that old saying. I’d be afraid to say it out loud today for a host of reasons, but that’s a topic for another day.

The disturbing phrase was one I heard from peers many times growing up and obviously it stuck with me. I didn’t really understand it then, and not sure I do now, but I gave it a thorough look-see in an effort to broaden all of our horizons.

Usage is scattered around the globe. It’s unclear where the expression originated, but here in the United States it’s fairly confined to the southern region with particular concentration in southeastern Texas and southwestern Louisiana. And there are regional variations. While many expand the phrase to indicate either the angels or the wife crying, some also say he’s beating her with a frying pan or around a stump. 

But the ones that really made me chuckle (and wince) were those that elaborated on the reasons behind the alleged beating. To some, it seems she was in trouble for burning the biscuits (Texas) or the rice (clearly, Louisiana).  I’m offended.

Someone needs reminding that the devil’s home hath no fury like a woman scorned. If he was whipped up in that type of frenzy over the way his food was prepared, why, I’d have turned around, jumped up on that stump and shown him a thing or two with that frying pan! I wonder what sort of freakish weather that would produce? Food for thought.

The weather nerds are all saying our temps this weekend will hit the triple digits as this rain event clears out and high pressure settles over us. I suppose I’ll put that frying pan down since Mother Nature is throwing us all in the fire.  But it was fun watching the devil sweat!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

This past week was one crazy and contradictory journey. It saw me through a road trip I’d fantasized about for quite some time. But much to my surprise, when the light turned green I had a difficult time placing my foot on the accelerator.

Twelve short years ago, while three months pregnant and wrangling two boys ages five and two, I met Blue. It was love at first sight.

He was a brand-new, 1999 Chevrolet Suburban with all the seating and room my growing family would ever need – the quintessential mommy-mobile. (Some hold minivans in such esteem, but for reasons I can’t quite explain, I refused to go there. They’re just not me, but if you love yours, I respect that.)

Blue carried us home that day, and a long committed relationship began. Over the years he’s been present and provided reliable transportation for many major milestones: took all three of my children to their first days of kindergarten, brought home baby number three from the hospital, carried us safely to Florida for a Disney family vacation  . . . the list goes on and on.

Of course it’s easy to remember the big events, but what I appreciate the most about Blue was how he was always there for me day in, day out. There were hundreds of trips to the grocery store, school outings, doctor appointments, containing and transporting treasures I found during the course of my days; he safely delivered me and my cargo to every place we needed to be – even when there was no particular destination save for a needed clearing of the mind.

But life has a way of changing and I now find myself in a much different place. Today I’m feeling blue because my Blue is out in the driveway with “For Sale” painted on his large windows. I can hardly bear it.

Research has been done – some scientifically formal and some pure quackery – on the theory of “you are what you drive”. I read a good deal of it, and can say that Blue absolutely personified me and where I was in life for many years.  As you all know, I’m in a far different place now and so is Blue.

I won’t come right out and tell you what has taken Blue’s place, but she’s red, sleek, has a sun roof, and dare I say, a “Kathunka-boomer” stereo. (Thanks to my fellow columnist, Chris Buckner, for providing me with that term. In honor of you, Chris, I’ll turn it down whilst fueling. I’m classy that way.) You should read what the “you are what you drive” research says about all that. Because I like to remain mysterious, I won’t confirm or deny its validity.     

I’ve already admitted to being somewhat in a midlife-crisis sort of place, so I’m taking all the comments along those lines in stride. Plus, I know that while “crisis” often has a negative feel, it can go the opposite direction and simply be a turning point. For certain, my traveling companions can attest to some sharp turns and being jostled about without warning.

Thanks for all the rides, Blue, and for your gentle way of tempering my spirited flares. I’ll keep those lessons in mind when Red throws too much fuel on the fire.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Ahhh . . . summertime in southeast Texas. The humidity and mosquitoes are in abundant supply. Thusly, this week’s inspiration is brought to you by perspiration and itchy-skin irritation.

I’d much rather be outdoors than in, and the above pesky, summer nuisances are working overtime to assure I stay cooped up. It’s a coup I tell you. And a grand conspiracy designed to dampen my mostly sunny disposition.

I’ve been forced to find things indoors to fill my time. Of course there’s always a swarm of housework, but that’s no fun. I’d almost rather hang out with the skeeters. Almost.

In a brighter moment—between feeling sticky and swatting away pests—I discovered that my friend, Melvin Roark, determined through mathematical calculations (and possibly a little too much time on his hands) that his yard housed at least 1,346,400 mosquitoes.

He started off by counting how many of the little buggers were contained in a single square inch. The fact that he arrived at that staggering result all by himself is mighty impressive. (Pardon me for a moment while I bow to a greater math master. Words, not numbers, are my thing.) However, it wasn’t the numbers that got me to chuckling, but rather what he proposed doing with those tallies.

Melvin said if mosquitoes qualify, he’s applying for an agricultural extension on his homestead because he has unwittingly become a big time mosquito farmer. That’s funny, Melvin. But hang on to your insect repellant, folks. It gets better.  And I have to wonder if Melvin even realized the comedic element of what he proposed. (A little legal disclaimer to protect the innocent Melvin Roark against potential governmental backlash: I did not share with him what I actually found so amusing about his idea. Continue reading. It’s coming.)

Agricultural extension practitioners are usually employed by government agencies – local on up to world wide. Their “responsibilities” are mostly along the lines of educating farmers by bringing proven scientific methods to increase yields, but wait . . . you guessed it, there’s funding involved along the line. (I read a fraction of the fine print for you. I would’ve consumed it all, but it seems I found the cure for my insomnia.) Anyway, do you see the bloodsuckers on both sides of Melvin’s proposed equation?  Heh. Heh.  Using one bloodsucker to gain benefits from another. Pure genius.

Since Melvin is potentially set up to profit from working not-so-hard on the propagation of an annoying insect, I figure someone here in town better counter his measures from another angle. I’m studying and working on lowering our humidity because the thermal sensing capabilities of the mosquito are as much as three times greater when the humidity is high.

I hate to be a wet blanket, but I doubt I’ll make much headway because, unlike Melvin, I won’t have access to any of those fancy-pants-governmental types who fly in and claim they can bend nature. No matter, I suppose, because I understand enough math to know that Melvin’s high crop yield, or not, dew points above 70 and the commensurate high relative humidity totals up to 100 percent misery. And I’m being a real drag, so I’m telling me to buzz off!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Throughout my life I have suffered bouts of sleeplessness. My body can be at the brink of exhaustion, begging to shut down, but the hamster on the wheel inside my mind keeps chugging away. Hamsters do not have long life spans, so I am starting to worry a bit – nothing like a little anxiety to aid an already-present sleep problem.

However, I’m learning to clear my mind and let my little rodent friend run. The trick is not allowing her to have a destination. Eventually she realizes she’s going nowhere fast and hops off the wheel. I wish I could be as smart.

But before that process takes place, I need darkness and relative silence. The tiniest of electronic-gadget lights must be behind closed cabinets, and my three kids know that making noise while mom tries to go to sleep is a crime punishable by . . . well, let’s just say it’s not pretty.

So, the kids, the husband, and even Scooter the dog know the drill. If I could get the latter two, who sleep on opposite sides of me, to quit snoring, my shut-eye quantities would increase three-fold. (Don’t tell Jeff I told you he snores.)

That brings me to a family member yet to be mentioned: Shadow the black cat. Recall that he showed up a couple of Halloweens ago, made himself at home, and adopted us. For a variety of reasons that I won’t delve into today, he’s required to wear a bell around his neck. And, he refuses to follow my sleep-time regimen, but also wants to spend his nights in my bedroom. (If I lock him out, he scratches on the door. Why do I know there are some feline haters out there saying, “That’d be one dead cat!”?)

Anyway, he starts off at the eastern-most edge of the master suite, the closet, and through the night moves his way to the western side, onto the bed, and atop my feet. Both of us are getting accustomed to this, and most nights he can hop on the bed without me hearing his bell.

But a few nights ago, I awoke to a different sound . . . something like a small metallic object clacking against a hard surface. Coming to, I discerned it was Shadow in the water closet getting a drink from the porcelain bowl.

I’d rather he not do that, but it wasn’t worth getting up over. I made a mental note to put the lid on the bowl at night and turned over to resume slumber.

In the next moments I drifted close to sleep only to be jarred to full alert by commotion nothing short of sheer panic meeting chaos. Splashes, frantic scratching, and the eventual flopping of a drenched body onto a splattered floor all added up to: somebody lost his balance and was getting a cold, unintentional bath!

I would’ve gotten up to help, but I was giggling (trying to be quiet and not wake others) and shaking uncontrollably. I knew Shadow was alive because he began darting around, bouncing off walls and basically trying to get away from what he was enjoying just moments prior.  

I settled down and eventually went back to sleep. The next morning, I picked up a still damp Shadow from atop my feet, chuckled, and told him his embarrassing secret was safe with me.

Oops! Well, at least I didn’t tell everyone he snores.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Please join me in wishing the great United States of America a happy birthday.

Comparatively speaking, we’re still quite young as far as countries go. Other localities around the globe feel we still have a lot to learn. And for all the advances we’ve contributed to the world we could certainly make some improvements, but only here do we understand how that knowledge must be gained.

We probably appear as unruly children, bent on pushing boundaries and thumbing our noses at those who wish to bring us in line by swatting our ample backsides. Yeah, I said it . . . ample. Statisticians say it’s the American way. And before anyone feels I’m pointing a finger, know that I’m soldier in that battle as well. I aim to keep my target smaller than those in my immediate surroundings – lessens the chances of a successful strike.

But I digress, and I assure you this column is not about hind ends, collective or otherwise.

I’m just tickled to be here on this July 4 and to have been born into a country that suits my temperament. I would’ve already been beheaded in some other places, or at least had my tongue cut out.

Independence is something I innately understand. My mother, the stunning Linda Rowe, will tell you it reared its head within my personality long before I knew what to do other than assert it.

Nearly 40 years of living with myself has taught me that independence is a sharp double-edged sword that must be wielded carefully. I’ve cut myself and others, even felt like falling on my own weapon a few times, but I learned not to make the same mistake twice.

That’s the beauty of freedom, we have the choice to be or do just about anything our hearts and minds imagine. We’re even allowed to mess up royally or abandon pursuits for any reason.

Am I advocating grand ideas with no follow-through? Heck, no! I just feel it’s great to be able to mess up, discover practicalities, and possibly find a quicker route to the finish line or start another race altogether.

We’re a different breed here – descendants of people determined to go it alone in a vast new world. Their hardships and steely resolve gave birth to the country I love and know as home.

There’s so much happening today that makes me wince, doubt where things are headed, and plain scare the rocket’s red glare out of me, but I wouldn’t trade it. Can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

We’re hardy folks, and sometimes our dumb decisions cause freedom to wring our necks and remind us of the responsibility that comes with it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. We live. We learn.

Remember those brave souls who gave us this day to celebrate and the chance to stumble on greatness . . . even as we stumble over our own feet. Happy Independence Day!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Finally, all the craziness that was the start of my summer is over. Don’t get me wrong, it was all enjoyable in a this-is-the-good-stuff-life-is-made-of way, but rather exhausting. 

I almost hate to publicize this because surely someone will try to find me something to do, but I’ve reached the time of year where I briefly come into an abundance of free time.  Don’t hate me because my time is bountiful.

Not to worry, I know time is precious, and I shall not fritter it away. I’ll spend hours, maybe days deep in the scientific pursuits of nephelococcygia.

If I’m pronouncing it right, sounds something like na-fell-a-cox-a-gee-ya. There’s a high likelihood I don’t have that correct, but I ask that you give me credit for studying such lofty ideas while I could be lying around doing nothing.

It sounds rather complicated; I assure you it’s not.  It can be done almost anywhere, but it is easier during daylight hours.

My favorite place to conduct research is resting on the sandy shores of some body of water. No one else in my family enjoys such pursuits, so I often settle for the lush green grass in my personal backyard.  Said family knows interrupting me carries a stiff penalty. Do not disturb; I will bare teeth and growl.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise that I can be a bit of a dreamer.  Decades of practice have honed skills that allow me to do it eyes wide open and while others suppose I’m doing something productive. (Let’s keep that between us, please. I can’t have everyone knowing my mind isn’t always where they think it is.) But then there are times I make it known that daydreaming is exactly what I’m doing and there’s no better way than nephelococcygia: the act of seeing and finding shapes in the clouds.

If you really want to get involved, there’s even a group you can join: The Cloud Appreciation Society. I kid you not. Look them up.

My favorite type of cloud varies depending on the time of day, but overall the cumulus – those big puffy ones that pile up – are the best for my purposes. Burdens remain grounded as my eyes swim through a pool of blue sunshine, arriving at the exact moment a castle morphs to a butterfly and flutters away.

Wispy brushstrokes of cirrus clouds paint breathtaking sunsets, and who doesn’t feel good about the day to come when stratus clouds create an early morning stairway straight to wide-open possibilities.   

So much of life requires me to be planted in terra firma. I’m so much better at dealing with that reality after walking with my head in the clouds. So if you see me still, eyes pointed upward, leave me be. I’m up on cloud nine. And when I’m enjoying that soft, fluffy place I conjure up guard dogs with sharp teeth to keep intruders at bay. I can’t promise they’ll stop at a growl . . . their owner’s judgment may be a little clouded.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley