Natalie Whatley

While a writing gig such as this one is loads of fun, there are times when the thorns of the rose garden we call life distract me to the point of having nothing amusing, meaningful, or sarcastic to say.

I know many don’t like sarcasm, but like a T-shirt in my possession says, “It’s one of the services I offer.” I can smell irony miles away, and have been known to taunt people. It doesn’t help that I’m married to someone who has the ability to hold his own in verbal sparring matches – keeps my skills honed.

But lately, the briers of real life – cleaning dog snot off the floor (poor Scooter and his allergies), mountains of laundry, kids’ homework, attempts at meal planning/grocery shopping and teen angst – are working against my creative process.  I get my best ideas while performing manual labor and/or worrying about things over which I have no control. There’s been plenty of that, and . . . nothing. Well, nothing I should say out loud – you’d think far less of me.

As I fold socks . . . OK, socks aren’t really folded, but you know what I mean. And, raise your hand if “folding” socks for several people makes you nutty. All my guys are wearing the same size now; sometimes it’s difficult to determine the owners. I’ve heard, “Buy all the same, and divide them up.” Won’t work.  Some people, I’ll refrain from naming names, pull theirs off in the strangest places and miss having them laundered. That would leave one person, who provides 99.987% of the family income, without clean socks. (Yes, I did the math. And the answer to your burning question: No, money doesn’t come with all this fame.) He wouldn’t stand for it. Another well-meaning person said to use a permanent marker and put initials at the toe. We weren’t looking ahead or thinking of socks when naming our boys. They all have the initials JLW. Maybe I could try numbers.

Anyway, I got off on a tangent, but was about to say that while I fold socks, and other items for that matter, some crazy stuff pops into my head. Most of the time, things come to me in the form of questions.  If I knew the answers my mind would rest and allow more inventive thought, or at the very least make me feel sane. I’ll provide below a sampling of what goes on inside my noggin, but I must warn you: these are weighty matters.  

Will my children ever brush their teeth without being hounded? And, do at least a decent job before the third round? What is that smell in my son’s room? Why is there soap smeared all over the shower walls? Why is the door on the hamster cage, with an opening large enough for the cat to squeeze through, open when kids are away at school? Isn’t that paper on the kitchen counter the homework we worked on until eleven last night? How many days can my son wear his contacts without removing them for cleaning before a nasty infection, or heaven forbid, blindness sets in? Who ate the last Pop-Tart and left the empty box in the cupboard?

Minor annoyances?  Absolutely. I try not to dwell on them, lest they become real thorns in my side and cause me to miss smelling the roses.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley