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

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

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

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

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

Many Moon Pies ago I enjoyed going out into the vast world – like my ancient female ancestors – picking berries and gathering supplies necessary to run the hut…uh, I mean household.  Now I detest the job.

In order to make it palatable, I schedule the misery. Yes, I check my vast social calendar and the weather (a beautiful day will not be wasted) before spending an entire day engrossed with the grocer. And I’m usually not motivated to make that date with destiny until the hunter of the hut, the man who brings home the bacon, makes a comment along the lines of our pantry resembling the cupboard of Old Mother Hubbard. Then I’m forced to make a day of it. Really.

I shop one store after breakfast, loading the always-has-at-least-one-square-wheel cart as full as I can before taking thirteenth place in line at the front of the store with 15-plus check-stands available, but only one employee. Sigh. A fun little tip, though: Watching fellow line-standers is far more entertaining than the sordid magazine covers.

Once payment is made, I haul my vast booty (referring to the spoils gained as opposed to my posterior) home where I delight in unloading it all once again. A quick lunch is my prize after it’s all put away. Then it’s time for round two.

Different store, same cart, I embark on the second half of pure drudgery. It’s further complicated by the fact that most people are out of bed by this point and this market is more crowded . . . by people stopping in the aisles to have reunions and/or carry on conversations via cell phone.

While I appear patient and ever-so-sweet, I’m raging on the inside. Don’t they realize they’re standing right in front of the item that correlates to number 37 on my list? I’m looking to check off through 105 and be home before the school bus.  

I’ve tried to include the entire family in the fun and festivities by asking for meal ideas and items they’d like to see stocked on our personal grocery shelves. Heck, I even invited people to come along on my trips. I need sound effects for my column. Do you hear the crickets chirping just above the silence? I heard it, too.

Oh well, I’m done for a couple of weeks, and now that I’ve vented I’ll not give it another thought.  But lettuce all remember not to tarry too long in the aisles. If you’re standing in front of item number 37, plastic cutlery, things could get ugly.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

My personal yard man, Jeff, gathered all my potted favorites prior to the cold-weather event and put them in the shed. The one I most wanted to save (received it at the hospital after the birth of my now 17-year-old) fared quite well, but all of the others, not so much. I’m hoping to nurse them back to health.

The flowerbeds went uncovered as the major occupants are freeze-hardy, and the lesser inhabitants, well, I’ve wanted to dig them out and do something different for a good while.  It seemed harsh ripping up live plants while they still served their purpose, even if they were no longer what I desired. In a cruel act, I allowed them freeze to death. Until very recently, I busied myself to assuage the guilt and turned my eyes from the carnage upon entering and exiting my home.

Since February is knocking on our door, I began my customary early-spring cleaning. (We only get so much sunshine minus the sweltering heat. I’ll not waste one minute of it cooped up indoors once spring has officially sprung.) Worked like a mad woman inside, cleaning this, scrubbing that, gathering up items and clothing no longer wanted or needed, etc.  Long, boring story short, and since I refuse to clean kids’ rooms, I finished with time to spare.

A couple of nice sunshine-filled days prompted Scooter (my guard dog) and I to begin working in the yard – assessing what needed to be done by the resident yard man. (I should mention that Jeff LOVES for me to do this. He more appreciates it when I prepare a written list where he can check items off and track his progress. It’s the least I can do.)

The nice weather also provided me an excuse to stay outside post assessment and actually do some work. I pulled up the victims of my premeditated herbicide and began plucking the weed-infested areas.

True to my form, I started thinking of the parallels between the human condition and nature. (Yes, it’s sometimes exhausting being inside my head. Planning to spend some time thinking about whether or not I overthink things. ) Anyway, it occurred to me that over the course of many years I’ve blown a few of my own arctic blasts – froze a few things and left them to rot.

Through a great deal of reflection and a subsequent thaw, I realized that I had turned my back, chose not help those things recover, or bother to clear away the weeds that nearly choked them out for good.  My flowerbeds have been sprinkled with my blood and sweat on numerous occasions.  I can now add tears to the list.

The upside: as I care for my still-alive plants, I realize that a hard freeze doesn’t necessarily mean the end. Pruning away damage and providing tender loving care makes way for something fresh, new, and possibly better than what was there before. And since I remember how quickly I frosted a few things, I have the added comfort of knowing that rapid freeze-drying actually prevents decay and spoilage – what’s underneath has been perfectly preserved.

So don’t be alarmed if you see a woman watering flowers with tears on a sunny day, she’s pouring out her heart and melting some frosty layers away.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

The Whatley Estate has been transformed, and all I knew about traversing its interior has to be re-learned using sound waves to locate objects. Scientific folks call that echolocation.

A shrew is a small mouse-like mammal with poor eyesight that emits a series of ultrasonic squeaks to navigate its habitat, or a woman who finds fault and has a nagging temperament.  Feel free to form your own opinion on which one I’m mimicking.

Recall last summer when I complained about my electric bill that more than tripled (our usage didn’t) and how I dumped my former electricity provider for playing games with the rates. Once I got settled in with my new provider and a locked-in rate, I began looking for other ways to beat the summer heat.

First order of business was turning up the thermostat a few degrees.  Those not responsible for paying the bills commenced with the “it’s hot” whining.  I explained how “hot” was relative and asked if they’d also like to be hungry; if only man could live on air-conditioning alone. 

Jeff installed solar screens on the area receiving the most complaints (the upper east wing) with commendable results –so much that I had the brilliant idea of covering all 33 windows! 

This spring, before the sweltering heat made its early arrival, Jeff complied with my request. The Whatley Estate, with its rooms once bathed in sunlight, went dark. I caught window-cover man measuring the last sources of natural light.

“Don’t worry about the north side,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask why all of the sudden I was eager to have him stop seven windows shy of completion. Trying not to rouse his suspicions I added, “Really, it’s fine. The north side is shady anyway. It’d just be extra work. Here’s something cold to drink. Take a load off, and I’ll put everything away.”  I may give up writing for acting.

Now, the flick of a light switch causes me to wince. My eyes no longer want to adjust from dark to light. Daylight burns. My lateral incisors seem to be lengthening. And people are starting to wear garlic necklaces around me.

With the solar screens, blinds, and curtains, I wake not having a clue what time it is. When I get up, I bump into things. KABAM! My shins will never be the same. Living in constant darkness has made my vision less keen, but my hearing –incredible! Jeff, I can hear you snickering. Gosh, Batman, that’s not very polite.  When I find you . . . BAM!  BIFF! SOCK!

I don’t know if we’re saving any money, or not. Seems like in lieu of the air-conditioner running we’re turning on lights. I’d compare last summer’s usage if I could, but right now I’m hanging upside down by my feet. All the blood is rushing to my head, and I can’t see worth a darn.

Keep laughing . . . I’ll use the sound waves to find you!

 © 2009 Natalie Whatley

I knew I was in trouble when he got a cookbook and started thumbing through it. For 18 years the man asked for cheesecake; the toppings varied, and there was a “turtle” rendition thrown in at some point, but it doesn’t get much easier than no-bake cheesecake. (Some people don’t do windows; I don’t do cheesecake that has to be cooked in a spring-form pan.)  “Oooh, this looks GOOD”, he said pointing to “Italian Cream Cake”.  “If that’s what you want,” I said having no idea what I’d just committed to.

I didn’t give it another thought until the next day when I read the recipe and made a list of what to buy at the store. I recognized all of the ingredients, but started worrying about the long and winding road that led to the finished product. It was quite possible I was in over my head.

The dear man in my life, who on a whim one day whipped up a lemon meringue pie fit to grace any magazine cover, broke out in a fit of hysterical laughter when I told him I needed an “egg separator”. (I wasn’t home when he made that pie, and I questioned witnesses to confirm it wasn’t store-bought.  When those witnesses started explaining how to make meringue, I accepted my inferior dessert-making rank.) “You don’t need a gadget to separate eggs”, the man who has a tool for everything snickered. Hmmpphh!  He stopped laughing long enough to give gadget-less egg-separating lessons. I wanted to crack the practice eggs on his head.  

The big day arrived, and I was confident in my new skill. Everything was creaming together quite nicely until I got to the part of beating five egg whites stiff. Fork in hand I whipped them for several minutes to the point of a blister on my middle finger and quivering muscles. Stopping for a needed break, I realized I didn’t know what stiff egg whites looked like. I searched images online and found plenty of examples. Mine weren’t nearly there yet, and I also noticed an electric appliance in many of the pictures.  I glanced at my blister, chuckled, and got the electric beater out. Wow! Stiff egg whites in seconds.

Things went well from there; three cake pans full of sweet goodness went in the oven. I should have taken a picture of the aftermath. Have you ever seen a kitchen where a three and five year-old “made breakfast for mommy”? Multiply that by 1,000, and you’ll be close to what my kitchen looked like. Unlike Mr. Meringue, I don’t clean as I cook. It looked like two bombs went off, and I was spattered with gooey shrapnel. 

Nearing Jeff’s arrival time, I pushed through fatigue and the wound on my finger to clear a small spot for icing. Butter, cream cheese, powdered sugar, vanilla, and chopped nuts: the tastiest concoction known to man.  Putting the fourth spoon-full in my mouth, I realized I needed to save some for the cake.

The three layers came out of the oven smelling divine; they cooled while I continued cleaning. With the kitchen down to a one-bomb-went-off level of cleanliness, I centered everything on the cake plate and finished my masterpiece. It looked pretty good! And in time we learned it tasted great.

Italian Cream Cake

 © 2009 Natalie Whatley

I’m always thrilled when something semi-exciting happens in my life –gives me something to write about—but I’d gladly skip this “episode” to regain my peace of mind.

Since I spent last week recounting my fear of public speaking and how what psychologists refer to as “immersion therapy” forced me to get over it, I’m embarrassed to say that another of my fears has taken the spotlight this week. I will not immerse myself in this one.

I grew up with brothers and now have two boys of my own; reptiles, regardless of whether I like them or not, have always been a part of my life. I’m not the pass-out, run-away-shrieking-at-the-mere-sight type, but I keep my distance.  (Imagine my horror when my younger son “clipped” lizards to his ears and took great delight in freaking me out with his dangly “earrings”. They were alive and biting his ears to hold on!)

The mighty hunter... all wore out

He earns his keep by bringing lizards, skinks (which I recently learned emit a toxin from their tails that make cats sick; Shadow hasn’t made the connection between his apparent stomach upset and what he dined upon), and small snakes (no longer than six inches) to the mat at the back door. I’ve watched him catch his prey.  He carries on as if he’s fighting an anaconda before taking a victory lap around the yard with something small hanging from his teeth. 

“Now that’s a snake!”  Words I never want to hear uttered inside my house again. “It must be 18 inches long!” I began feeling faint. Eighteen inches, 18 feet, one in the same when we’re talking snakes.  I had been in that bathroom barefooted a couple of times that morning. How long had it been there? Had that thing made its way across my toes while . . . You would have heard me across town, and Jeff would be repairing sheetrock. “It’s a harmless garter snake,” he said holding it far too close. I don’t care. 

I’m telling you this story in the event you end up on my jury after I’m hauled in for assault. Jeff has been very busy at work this week and hasn’t had the time or energy to be up to any of his usual shenanigans. Know that I can finish the man’s sentences; he will capitalize on my fragile mental state for amusement.

If you see him with a black eye it’s because he thought it would be funny as I dozed off to recreate what a slithering snake would feel like making its way up my leg or the side of my face. I know you all will understand and do the right thing when I stand before you to account for my actions.

Jeff, don’t mess with a girl suffering from a case of the slithering heebie jeebies. She will strike!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley