Natalie Whatley

It’s an annual tradition for me to perform deeper-than-usual cleaning in tandem with packing away Christmas décor. This year I became June Cleaver, Good Housekeeping seal-of-approval scientist, and Jane Jetson . . . all rolled into one.  And I have the minty-fresh floors to prove it. Shoot, now all I need is one of those nifty Wonder Woman outfits.

Several years ago three young kids, their friends, and our household pets convinced me that carpet—especially of the light-colored variety—was not practical unless the lady of the house didn’t mind standing on constant guard and at the ready to clean potentially permanent stains.

At a not-so-small expense the lower floor of the Whatley Estate was transformed to something harder, darker, and multi-toned neutral.

I instantly fell in love. It’s the perfect camouflage for tracked in dirt and pet hair. Life and my general sense of well-being were greatly improved. Oh, and I nagged less.

However, my feet don’t like to be shoed. Nor do they like walking around on the fine grit that’s perfect for gathering the dog’s hair into a dust Sasquatch. (My accumulations are too large to just be “bunnies”.)

Those are most attractive stuck to the bottoms of my feet, but even worse they feel —let me scan my brain for a scientific term—yucky. For that reason I became the proud owner of roughly 40 pairs of flip flops. 

Life went on and my pseudo shoes bore the yuckiness while my soles lost all hope of being bare in the downstairs of their own home. Queue the sad violin music.

But then Christmas 2011 came and my grandmother, the lovely Ruby Watson, generously gifted me with the Mint Plus Automatic Floor Cleaner which sweeps and wet mops all by itself.

 I’m almost certain the lady who spent years as an Air Force wife —always at the ready for a white-glove inspection—was not making any sort of statement about my housekeeping prowess.

And recall that I was born in the wrong era and that technology is often the bane of my existence. I have a love/hate relationship with it. We tolerate each other on good days. So, I was skeptical of Mint as I’ve never personally known a robot or been a fan of gadgets.

Jeff removed him (why my mind assigned a gender is a question without an answer) from the box and plugged him into the electrical juice for charging.

For days I eyeballed Mint, who was sitting in the corner ready, willing, and able to make my life easier if only I’d allow him. (There’s a much broader statement made there. The males in my life are chortling, rolling their eyes and thinking, “how true!”, but that’s a story for another day.)

 Not one member of my household failed to ask, “When are we gonna use that thing?”

When I was good and ready. That was when.

Finally school was back in session and our routine back in place.

Mint and I were left all alone to get to know each other. I read his manual and learned exactly what buttons to push. By the way, I’m superb at button pushing.

Using North Star Navigation GPS technology Mint super quietly went all through my house doing his work. Much to my surprise he did it quite well.

For the first time in ages I meandered around barefooted.  Heavenly music played in my head  . . . to the hymn tune “It Is Well With My Soul”. It is well with my soles.  You’re an angel, Grandmother.

© 2012 Natalie Whatley

Here at the Whatley Estate, we’ve been decking the halls with boughs of holly because ‘tis the season to be jolly. Oh, what the heck, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! Wow. I sing so much more beautifully in print.

As you all know, I quite purposely became a slacker in the holiday-decorating regard after many years of going way overboard both inside and out. And it was without cheer in my heart that I spent weeks after the big day carefully packing and putting away.

Did my home’s occupants even notice how it all went up and then back down, or have a clue why I wore a frown? I thought not.

Two scaled-back, far-easier-on-me seasons passed and truth be told, I was fine with it. Pleased as holiday punch. Life in the new, less-is-more era was good.

BUT. You knew there was going to be a “but”, didn’t you? Parental guilt. It makes us do nostalgic and other insane things.

How were Jeff and I to refuse when faced with, “You know this could be one of my last Christmases at home.” (That same cherub used similar logic last spring break to score a week-long family trip to sunny Orlando, Florida. I think he just wanted to check out the Minnie Mice, but I digress.) Anyway, my spine slipped completely from my body.

So, out from the deep recesses of the Whatley Estate’s belly came boxes left undisturbed for nearly three years.

I did have some backbone and told darling cherubs and their daddy that I would not touch, or hang, a single strand of outdoor Christmas lights. Sounds harsh (bah humbug!), I know, but you must understand that Jeff can’t (finds it physically impossible) hang a few lights . . . more to the tune of about 10,000. You know I wouldn’t exaggerate.

I have awakened some nights to the sounds of hovering aircraft mistaking it all for a place to land. And then there’s the minor detail of not being able to run a hairdryer upstairs while the “display” is lit . . .  trips the breaker. Get the picture? 

My thinking was that if I left cherubs to put in the hard outdoor labor, they’d determine it was all too much work. Not for the first time, I was wrong. Guess who will not go outside and direct air traffic with wet hair?

For the most part I ignored my outdoor workers, refused to be sucked into that bit of madness I’d easily given up. Oblivion to non-working strings of lights, blown fuses, and the disposition of the individual tending to same is a beautiful thing.

 Wearing blinders, I’d occasionally step out and at least offer food and drink – wanted them to remain strong enough to finish what they’d started.

But the highlight came when after hearing oldest cherub’s name called by an excited-sounding, way- up-in-the-air Jeff. 

“Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash!”

“When what to my wondering eyes should appear” but a man whose ladder had fallen, he was bear-hugging a tree, holding on to life and unbroken limbs (tree and body) so dear.

And oldest cherub so lively and quick ran to the scene . . . it was pure slapstick.

After a fleeting moment of horror and then the viewing of things quickly turning out OK, I lost it in a fit of hysterical laughter.

I even acted surprised when the story was later relayed with great fanfare.

“Dad fell out of the tree, but had the presence of mind to grab the trunk on the way down? You don’t say.”

I think they were disappointed over eliciting only a slight giggle from me.

I never told them I saw it all go down and laughed myself to tears and stomach cramps.

Yule keep this between us, right?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Here on this first day of spring, I can’t tell you how happy I am to now be able to read Randy Lemmon in The Sun. In case you’ve missed it, the host of 740 KTRH’s Garden Line now has a column running here on Tuesdays. Fabulous addition. Kudos to whoever fertilized that idea and made it grow.

I have listened to Randy many times, and he has tried his best to impart basic lawn-care knowledge. My ignorance is no reflection of his vast abilities. He led this horse to the water hose and well, you know the rest of that story. Anyway, nice to see him in print. Maybe I’ll absorb the message better if I read, reread, and read again with a nice, cold beverage while I lounge in my chair and wish for beautiful, lush surroundings. (I bet there will be a lesson on how the lawn and garden fairy doesn’t show for little girls who sit on their behinds watching and waiting.)

This time of year my mind starts conjuring up all sorts of beautiful possibilities for the sprucing up of the flowerbeds. Given my track record, it’s a mystery why I haven’t been investigated by one of Baytown’s many garden clubs and eternally banned from landscaping attempts. Exasperation, amaryllis envy, and far too many errors in my trials have proven me an herbicidal maniac. Is it asking too much to have some lovely flora before I’m pushing up daisies?

And it’s a strange thing: Immerse me in words and the creative engine sparks, but when it comes to horticulture (and many other things for that matter) I’m a dud. So, under the guise of exercise I take off on neighborhood reconnaissance missions whereby I carefully choose the victims . . . uh, I mean the plant species . . . that I will bury in my own plot. My choices have become fewer in that I have learned to accept the limitations of my non-budding talent, but I’m still plowing through to see just how far I can push the seed-packet envelope. Not far.

It’s all a shame because genetically speaking I should be able to hold two green thumbs way up as my lineage boasts some impressive gardeners. Somehow I learned to enjoy the end result far more than the hard-work process. Suppose it’s a generational thing? What’s a girl to do? I can’t even engage in plant-related conversation without my eyes glazing over and my ears obviously don’t work in the regard, either.

I take some comfort in that I’m not a complete failure: I have plants nearly twenty years old that have somehow survived. Survival of the fittest, I suppose. Hey . . . that means I’m an expert on what won’t survive. I think I just found my horticultural niche. There may even be a radio show and book deals in my future. The list of what I can manage to kill is endless.

Anyhow, I’m rolling out a big welcome mat for Randy. Maybe he can turn me around with some printed Lemmon-aid. Or maybe I’ll just sit back and watch him do all the work. I’m good at that!

 © 2011 Natalie Whatley

It’s not often that I allow all of you into the inner sanctum of my mind. I know you’re thinking, “My gosh, woman! If what I’ve seen comes only from the outer surface, you are a total fruit loop!” You’re probably right.  And I’ve had a busier than usual week which left me little time to dream up something silly for your edification. So I’ll try a different route this week. It should suffice beautifully since someone told me when I started this gig that most folks just enjoy observing someone else’s craziness. Stay tuned. There will be a fantastic train wreck. Who knows when, but in the end I’ll probably not disappoint. Anyway, recent excerpts from my diary:

Any day: My long stint as a live-in maid is drawing to an end, and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. For the second time, I have checked out from the library “What Color Is Your Parachute? : A Practical Manual for Job-Hunters and Career Changers” by Richard Bolles. Poring over each page for the second time while taking notes, I thought of all that inspirational talk about “who is packing your parachute?”.  I’ve determined I don’t have a parachute to pack. Guess I better get one. Pronto.

Everyday: Laundry. Laundry. And more laundry. Like my MawMaw King used to say, “It’s like the tide.” It’s never going to stop coming in. And I can’t find the words to describe the special feeling that washes over my entire being when I find FOLDED, clean clothes from the last batch in the dirty clothes hampers.  If I really wanted to live up to some of the names I’ve surely been called by the not-so-little teenage darlings who put them there, I’d place the now-smells-like-dirty-socks clothes in the drawers for wearing. (I don’t do it because the adults around my children during the day would surely notice the odor. A stay-at-home mom sending her kids out in filthy-smelling clothes . . . I don’t need that kind of publicity.)

Today: I didn’t exercise AND treated myself to nearly an entire box of Nabisco’s Chicken in a Biskit crackers while I—just for grins—read Clinton Kelly’s (Of TLC channel’s “What Not to Wear”) book “Oh No She Didn’t : The Top 100 Style Mistakes Women Make and How to Avoid Them”. I’m a fashion failure. I lost count, but I had committed at least 96 of his so-called “crimes”.  Lock me up, please.  I need a vacation and wearing the same jumpsuit everyday would remove the stress I’ll now feel upon entering the little house of horrors: my closet.   

Someday: I have big plans. I don’t know exactly what they are yet, but they’re big. Where do I want to be in five years? HA!  More realistic might be to think about where I’d like to be in five minutes. I might have some shred of control there.

And there you have it. Putting it all down on paper I realized that my surface thoughts are actually far more interesting that what’s going on in the under-construction deep far reaches. It’s pretty barren and there’s an awful echo. Hear the train whistle?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Greetings everyone! I hope this finds you all basking in the afterglow of a beautiful Christmas. Because this time of year gets so busy, I enlisted some help with my column. I’d love to give credit where credit is due, but as is my luck there’s controversy buried in something as simple as determining who penned the famous “‘Twas the Night before Christmas”.

To avoid potential problems, I’ll say thanks to Clement Clarke Moore OR Henry Livingston for providing inspiration way back in the 1820s. I’ll let those two hash it out.  And without further ado, on with the show!

(Disclaimer: In no way do I advocate the use of a Taser on cute little sugar-plummed-up human beings, but who among us hasn’t at least thought about it? Don’t implicate yourself out loud. I, of course, make my inner-most t ruminations known for your amusement.  That I might be arrested, or locked in a rubber room for doing so is a job hazard I accept; money and fame have a way of negating such things.)

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the town, parents lying passed out, drooling, face down. The stockings are emptied all over the floor, sweet-candy contents consumed, hyperactivity hard to ignore. The children are crazed darting to and fro, with so much that is new, which way to go?

Mamma in her robe and Papa with his new razor, decided they should have asked for a Taser! Because all through the house there’s nothing but noise, whose idea was it to bring all these toys?

Up from the floor they arose feeling numb, remembering it all came with a rather large sum. The smiles seemed worth it leading up to the day, who imagined there would be such a fray? When what to their haggard eyes should appear, youthful energy waning, relief may be near!

Small little people beginning to yawn, they’ve not slept a wink since yesterday’s dawn. More rapid than the effects of sugar, energy tumbled. One tripped over strewn packaging and wearily stumbled. “Now, sleep! Now, Slumber, Now, Nap! Now, Doze! On Dream! On Hibernation”, sleepy parents propose. Don’t worry about a bed, right there is fine. Relax little darlings it’s all by design.

Like a litter of pups nestled in a papered box, they curl up wearing pajamas, feet covered by new socks. Silence reigns and a sweet sigh released, for all the mayhem has finally ceased. And then in the silence, the feeling, it grew. It really was worth it, what an incredible view. The moment, it sparkled.  The minutes began to pass. I wanted to freeze it, stop the hourglass!

Beginning the clean-up, trying not to disturb, the trash was cleared and hauled to the curb. Tired, but feeling renewed, my heart swelled, began to protrude. For it was all over, at least for a year. I leapt through the air and yelled a loud cheer.

Returning to ground and zipping across the drive, I rejoiced as I realized I’d made it through alive! And with that it was done, over, the end. At least until next year I mused as I grinned.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Happy Labor Day weekend to you all! I hope you’re enjoying a last summer hurrah as we conclude this seasonal chapter.

Back in the day, school children would be preparing for their return to the classroom, but here in modern times we already have two full weeks of instruction under our belts.

It’s always a little weird to get those weeks in and then have a long weekend. I suppose it’s a good thing, though, as the first days are an exhausting exercise in getting sleep schedules back on track (you know I allowed my kiddos to sleep until noon all summer – the less time I had to endure bickering the better), learning new teachers’ personalities and getting in some semblance of a routine.

Let me preface the tirade that is forthcoming with a statement: No, I don’t look for things to complain about. These things find me, and I seem rather adept at voicing my displeasure. Honed skill or obnoxious habit? You decide.

The routine for the 2010-2011 school year will be that every single person in my house is on a different schedule. I’m tough and will adapt. However, I swear by Betty Crocker that I’m on the cusp of throwing in the apron when it comes to meals.

How many times has it been pounded in our collective head that family meal times are important? And that all sorts of familial crises can be averted if parents would just sit down and eat at least one meal a day with their children. I try, and I’d love to, but . . . By the time everyone rejoins me at home in the evenings, I don’t want to eat – my body’s screaming, “it’s bedtime!” or I’ve already succumbed to starvation and chewed my arm off while waiting. I’d attempt breakfast if anyone was sociable at that hour.

Since I let the pantry run bare just prior to school starting, I had some massive grocery shopping trips shortly after school started. And this is how the food has been rotating: I drag overflowing carts to my car, load the trunk while sweating profusely and deliver it all home where it’s unloaded and put away. Still sweating. Then, in a labor of love and sweating yet again over a hot stove, I use said groceries to prepare a meal that sits uneaten by at least three-fifths of the family. Since I can’t stand to see it go to waste, I pack it up and move it to the refrigerator. A few days later I’m pushing the remains down the garbage disposal.  And while I don’t have violent tendencies, the next person who says, “There’s nothing to eat”, may provide the garbage disposal with something a little more substantial to chew up.

It’s apparent I’m the one who will have to be more flexible. But I must draw the line at performing dinner-time gymnastics. I have upheld my end of the household labor agreement. If folks residing at The Whatley Estate aren’t careful, a strike may be in order. This laborer and her trusty disposal are fed up!

© 2010 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

Being an adventurous sort, I have many days when I desire a little excitement outside of the mothering-teenagers variety. My wish came true last Sunday morning.

I try to be out of bed before everyone else because it’s important that I have some quiet time to gather my thoughts and goals for the day before semi-organized chaos ensues.

I was doing just that while catching up on some reading and enjoying a cup of hot tea in what’s referred to at The Whatley Estate as the computer room, which abuts the backyard. (More refined folks would call the room a “study”, thus my use of “abut”. My persona is carefully balanced between down-home and pretentious.)

Lost in what I was reading, the subconscious parts of my brain began alerting me to trouble.  Coming to, I realized there was an awful racket coming from the backyard. Then I remembered Shadow the cat (aka “Killer”) was outside. The squawking and screeching of what sounded like an entire flock of birds prompted me to my feet.

Glancing through a window before flinging the door open, I saw a wild menagerie. The violence so intense that I threw reason aside before running full bore into the scene . . . in my nightgown and completely unarmed save for a loud voice. (I had been reading a fascinating book by FBI special agent, Joe Navarro, discussing how to override the limbic system and go against the body’s natural ability to flee danger. I soldiered in. No doubt he would’ve been proud.)

Shadow was hunkered down, apparently on top of prey and was being attacked from above by a pack of Blue Jays. Deduction told me he’d caught a bird and that the family had swooped down to take revenge.

“Shadow! Come here!”

He minds far better than my children, and because I think he appreciated the back-up, Shadow quickly gathered his catch and bolted towards me – with a SQUIRREL, who didn’t appear to be doing so well, flailing under the pressure of his jaw!

I love squirrels and have since hand-feeding them as a child with my Pawpaw on his porch to the east in Nederland, Texas. It was a sad day when I removed the corn feeders from my trees months ago. But I’d taken in a killer (this wasn’t Shadow’s first squirrel rodeo) and felt it was cruel to entice my furry little friends to their demise.

“Shadow! Put that down!”

The wounded was dropped and it scurried into some high, decorative grass close-by and collapsed.

I know Shadow was doing what cats instinctively do. And I did what I instinctively do when a young male in my house perturbs me:  He was read the riot act.

Oh well, it was a good training exercise. I have a few wild males around here to tame. Thinking I should take a cue from the Blue Jays – swoop down, peck some sense, and make them believe I’ll take an eye out if necessary. They meant business!

Can a cat be trained to override his limbic system? I may need some back-up.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Leave it to me to have something as simple as a furniture delivery causing me to question the status of my mental health. I can’t help it.

Psychology is fascinating and studying it is a demented little hobby of mine. If I do the mental gymnastics required to wrap my mind around possible reincarnation, I realize that I could’ve possibly been Sigmund Freud or Carl Jung in a previous life. Or, at the very least, occupy a twig on their family tree.

That wouldn’t be a problem except that the more I learn the crazier I become. Psychology courses always start with the caveat, “Don’t diagnose yourself.” One can only read so much in the DSM IV —Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—before seeing bits and pieces of their own being in this psychosis or that neurosis.  However, it was actually a couple of television shows that alerted me to my potential disorder.

Disclaimer: This soul would never, in this lifetime or possibly others, poke fun at those with bona fide, certifiable “issues”. The following will simply be the inner ramblings of my really-does-have-bigger-things-to-worry-about conflicted mind.

My daughter was the lucky recipient of the new furnishings. The impending delivery date (we had a “back, back, back order slip”) gave us ample time to clean out and prepare for the big rearrangement of her room. She’s headed to junior high next year and that fact put her in just the right frame of mind to get rid of many things.

In the bittersweet end, we had cleared the room. It was a great feeling . . . until I realized just how much didn’t make the “donate” pile and had shifted to my bedroom for storage.

In an exhausted state, it hit me that I was going to have to clean out my closet to make room for a few things. And that, my friends, is where my troubles began.

I am the offspring of people who like to keep things – seemingly for sentimental reasons. And over the years as my parents cleaned out their homes they sent boxes to mine. The contents of said boxes were mostly unknown. A quick glance let me know the items were once prized possessions, but I didn’t fully inspect.  I kept it all because . . . well, that’s what I was supposed to do, right?

Having watched one too many episodes of Hoarders on A&E and TLC’s Hoarding: Buried Alive,—series that deal with the compulsive accumulation of too much stuff — I knew that holding on to things could generate massive problems over time.

Here’s what worries me: I had not a single worry standing over a rather large trash can and throwing away a good percentage of my closet contents.

Days later and completely unbothered I watched my “memories” loaded onto the garbage truck.  Then I wondered if the opposite of a hoarder is a cold, heartless, unsentimental shrew. No. The fact that I couldn’t possibly keep a lifetime of memories in my home doesn’t mean I can’t hoard memorable sentiments in my heart. There’s plenty of room in there, and the portability can’t be beat.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I’m not one to sit and watch television. There isn’t much offered in that medium that grabs my attention and leaves me wanting more. I am, however, suffering through the last season of “Lost” – only because when I start something I like to finish. I’m nearing the finish line of the final season and quite frankly, I’m still . . . lost. Sigh. But that’s not what has my mind a-whizzing as I sit down to pen my weekly offering.

It’s no secret that I’m spending some time muddling around in life’s middle ground. It’s a place I knew I’d visit “someday” but who knew I would arrive when I did. Every time I checked the roadmap, it always seemed far, far away.  Now, here I am, supposedly in the heartland. Yeah, it’s a region of special importance all right, and I could wax eloquent about its specialness ad nauseum. Let’s just say it’s an OK place to visit, but I don’t want to live here, or is it there? Doesn’t matter. The passing of time guarantees I won’t be staying.

That brings me back to television programming. (You know I have a quirky habit of flying around the runway a bit before landing the plane. Please remain seated and I promise to make a point.) Have you seen the television show “The Middle” with Patricia Heaton as Frankie Heck, the mom?  It airs on channel 13 at 7:30 Wednesday nights and is about a middle-class family, living in the middle of Indiana. I’m convinced the writers of the show have hidden cameras in my house and follow me around. Sure, they switched up a few minor details for cover, but the underlying themes: my middle life.  

For a long time I operated under the notion that middle ground was a great destination – a place of harmonious compromise where all parties were at least somewhat agreeable. HA! Ever heard of Buridan’s Donkey? He stands an equal distance between a stack of hay and a pail of water, but dies of hunger and thirst because he couldn’t make a rational decision to choose one over the other. I’m that donkey! And I’ll tell you why I can’t make a rational decision: mid-life. Believe me when I say I’d take a simple crisis over what this craziness has become any day.

I’m stuck on high center – front and rear wheels spinning like mad. I’m not allowed to go back and as hard as I may rock, I can’t quite get traction on forward, either. To make matters worse, I’ve learned I could spend a decade here! Starvation and dehydration are looking attractive.

Back to the show: The writers of “The Middle” are brilliant. Take the premise and consider the family’s last name: Heck. We all know what other word that one can fill in for while in polite company. (I’m a little embarrassed since I’ve used it here frequently.) I can’t help but to think the name is intentional.  I get it, and I take some comfort in knowing somebody somewhere, fictional or not, understands why being stuck here in the middle has turned me into the biggest donkey ever.  After all, it is asinine to stand still and expect to get anywhere.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley