Natalie Whatley

I know it’s a little early, but Happy Thanksgiving to you all. The days leading up to Turkey Day are always eventful for me. By Friday it will be necessary for me to be fully sedated – tryptophan in turkey does the trick. Just in case you’re in the same boat or don’t care much for turkey, tryptophan is available in other foods. I eat chocolate, oats, eggs, and pumpkin seeds in conjunction with turkey for maximum benefits. It’s legal, and I could argue medically necessary should I be found driving under the influence.

I’m sure you’re wondering what could possibly cause me to anesthetize myself in such a way. The unfortunate truth is that I have no one to blame but myself.

It all started many years ago when as a young wife I purchased a small artificial Christmas tree for our first home. I couldn’t wait to decorate. Jeff grumbled and was less than enthusiastic, but put it together solely to humor his bride. I think he also realized it was only the beginning of my dragging things home for him to assemble.  Like most men though, he couldn’t resist the payoff of a gushing female impressed by his abilities.

While I decorated the tree, he watched and uttered a “bah-humbug”. I put Christmas knick-knacks and decorations all around our humble dwelling. He rolled his eyes.

A couple of years later, while expecting our first bundle of joy, we moved to a bigger place. Christmas rolled around, and in honor of the son who would be born shortly after Christmas Jeff put the tree together, helped decorate, and adorned the outdoors with as many lights as he could. I tear up just thinking about it. He was a changed man.

With a two-year-old in tow, we purchased what I lovingly refer to here as the Whatley estate. It came with a yard, trees and two floors of space we thought we’d never fill.  I didn’t know it at the time, but Jeff was planning Christmas displays long before the papers were signed.  Had I known how many light bulbs were burning in his head, I most certainly would have opted for a one-story home.

Since 1995, I’ve spent the better part of November and December standing, phone in hand and ready to dial 911, as Jeff hangs thousands of lights in places no other human being would dare travel. People drive by, see him way up in the trees or hanging off the side of the house aligning each tiny bulb, and shake their heads. “He’s crazy!” they hollered.

It became so elaborate over the years that it took weeks to complete. It was beautiful, but we’re talking so many lights that turning on certain indoor appliances tripped the breaker! After many nights of being unable to blow dry my hair after a shower, I issued edict No. 97-243a which states all outdoor Christmas decorating must be completed by Thanksgiving weekend, or not be done at all.

My through-the-back-door attempt to appeal to his logical male brain was that it was too much work to have it up for only three weeks. Much to my surprise, he agreed. Sweet victory! I should have known there was a retaliatory strike coming when my smug attitude over having won that battle didn’t bother him in the least. Now, I must bow to The Master of “I don’t get mad, I get even.”    

Every year, Jeff takes the week of Thanksgiving off.  He’s home with me ALL DAY, EVERY DAY dangling from all sorts of precarious locations. I stand at the ready, with the full knowledge of who brings home the bacon and pray it won’t be the year he takes a tumble. He delights in my worry, and gets a real charge out of making some awful noise and seeing how quickly I’ll come running. Thanks, Jeff, for giving me a real turkey story! 

© 2008 Natalie Whatley 

There’s a new man in my house. This is on top of my husband, two sons, and a male dog. My daughter and I are surfing a testosterone tidal wave! I’m trying not to become too attached (which I never in a million years thought would be a problem – I don’t need one more living thing to take care of), because I’m hoping his loved ones are looking for him, or he’ll just decide to go home one day. The prospects of either scenario playing out seem to be dwindling.

This story has somewhat of an odd beginning, or maybe it’s just a very strange coincidence, but “Shadow”, the completely black cat, with the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen, showed up at the Whatley estate Halloween morning.  He’s young, possibly four-six months old, and I have no idea where he came from. However, he seems pretty convinced of where he’s staying.

When I went out to put my daughter on the bus that Friday morning, he ran out from the flowerbed and melted into my little girl. It seemed they’d always known each other. It was rather sweet, and I recognized the “can we keep each other?” look in both pairs of eyes.  We petted him while waiting for the bus, and I set him back in the flowerbed on my way in – only to have the same scenario play out all over again when I took the next child out to the bus stop.

 I told my soft-hearted son the kitty must be someone’s beloved pet, as he seemed well socialized and sported a cute little collar with a bell. Kitty was returned to the flowerbed after my son’s departure. I went about my day not giving dear kitty another thought. He’s not the first, and I’m reasonably certain not the last, to view my flowerbeds as a litter box. He’d be moving along soon enough. 

Greeting my daughter that afternoon as she got off the bus, I was about to answer her question regarding the cat’s whereabouts when he sprang from the flowerbed and began climbing up her leg. She remained outside with him until her brother came home. Minutes later, I was confronted by two very serious children concerned over the fate of a small black cat left to fend for itself on Halloween night. Ugh! Who taught them to think things through in such a manner? We put kitty and a dish of water on the back patio…just to keep him safe Halloween night. 

An ensuing cold front, swarms of mosquitoes, and neighborhood cats bent on making my visitor understand that MY backyard was THEIR territory, caused me to invite him indoors.  I’ve since learned he’s house-broken, loves to play, and that curling up in the arms of a human is just about all he wants in life…well, besides food.  He has a very healthy appetite and has grown noticeably during his two week stay.

“Found” signs have been posted. I’ve asked around, checked the “The Baytown Sun” and called Baytown Animal Control to see if anyone is looking for him. I don’t know if he wandered away from home and was unable to return, or if he was a stowaway in the back of truck and rode too far. I can’t imagine someone dumping him; he’s just too darn sweet.

He did make some pretty big waves when I forced him to bathe.  In time he’ll realize (they all do) that boys and big waves don’t scare me. I’ll happily reunite him with his original family. You all know where to find me. Pounce on it quickly because I’m catching myself humming Sinatra’s version of “Me And My Shadow”.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

Within 24 hours of penning my last article, power was restored to the Whatley estate. Oh happy day! It was a beautiful sunny morning, jaded by the knowledge that it was going to be an uncomfortably warm, humid day. Unbeknownst to me, linemen were working to the side of my neighbor’s home, and when she appeared at my opened kitchen window with a glow on her face, I knew she was bringing good news. She spoke to my back as I was off like a shot to turn off my archenemy: the generator. (My soft underbelly is exposed. I’ll do anything, and give up top-secret information, just don’t make me listen to that awful noise.)

I celebrated in a quiet fashion by turning the thermostat down to a point it rarely sees (it was my patriotic duty to provide the electric company revenue lost while so many of us were “offline”) and crawling into my bed. I didn’t have the energy to do much more than lay around and watch TV – even dozed off for about half an hour.

I was sleeping peacefully (for the first time in over a week sans generators) when my mind decided to take a little vacation and go on a guilt trip. Have I mentioned how quiet it was without the constant drone of generators? How dare my conscience show up at such a time.  I got up, helped friends/family as needed and spent the next few days putting my home, which had been converted to a campground, back in order.

There were countless dark moments, and my heart goes out to those who suffered losses.  It would be all too easy to commiserate about what all stank, besides me after hard manual labor and no shower, about Ike, but I’d rather focus on what Ike couldn’t take away: a region full of people unwilling to take the likes of him sitting down.

Having four nights of good sleep now behind me, I can perform as promised and shine some light on what sparkled throughout the darkness of Ike.  And for those wondering if my head is deeply planted in the sand, I know it hasn’t been all roses and sunshine. I’m choosing not to dwell on what went wrong as it’s a small piece of the big picture. No doubt my silver lining will match that of countless others.

Without further ado, and in no particular order here’s who/what glittered in my corner of the world before, during and after Ike: my family, immediate and extended; my neighbors ; The Red Cross for bringing more than sustenance alone; Bayer for making sure their employees had the gas and supplies needed to survive the aftermath until stores were up and running ; BPD and Chambers County officers for patrolling my dark streets; all the linemen, tree cutters and debris removers  from across the country who came to help in our moments of greatest need; and last, but not least, all of my friends. Among them, Roger King, engineer who wired our generator straight to the house and greatly improved our post-hurricane life, and his lovely wife Kathy, who held a party I refused to attend because I was on sewage back-up watch among a variety of other “excuses”. I must also publicly thank Joe Brazil and wife Kay for their tireless efforts in our neighborhood clean up.  My deepest heartfelt thanks go to all of you.

Ike took something from each and every one of us, but he couldn’t steal what I’m proud to say are shining brightly – compassion, resolve and determination.  Southeast Texas, take a bow.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

Dear friends, I write to you with a heavy heart as it appears we’re in for some rough days and nights. When I started writing this week’s article, Ike was stumbling around Cuba, and it seemed he would track somewhere other than here. Feeling what has been termed “hurricane fatigue” I wrote a funny little rant about the whole mess we lovingly call hurricane season here on the Gulf Coast. That was on Tuesday.

Today, Thursday (late), I’m hammering this out utterly exhausted. I know many of you are in the same shape. My mental capabilities are stretched, and I’m aching in places I forgot I had. I apologize in advance for what will probably not be my finest literary work. I’m not submitting the funny piece because presently looking down the barrel of a gun isn’t one bit funny. However, I must say, lest I offend you at a later date by using humor at a seemingly inappropriate time, that I’ve got to laugh sometimes to keep from crying. And, I’m one of those people who laugh when afraid or nervous.

The past two days have been a whirlwind of activity, and while we couldn’t be any more prepared, I still have that nagging feeling that I’ll realize I forgot to do something important.  My guys have thoroughly prepared the outside by boarding up, and securing everything in the backyard. I took care of the interior. All the supplies are accessible, the tiny room under the stairwell (my junk room) is cleared out and ready for occupants should the need arise. I cleaned, did all the laundry, and cleaned some more, wondering if I was doing it in vain. I bet Ike couldn’t care less if my showers are clean, but it makes me feel better.

I’ve sworn off all media as I can no longer handle the roller-coaster ride. Every time I get an understanding of the implications of where Ike’s going, he changes his mind. I find I’m much calmer not listening to all the “what if” scenarios. I’ll let Jeff handle the information gathering; he seems to process it all matter-of-factly and doesn’t get hung up in any hype.

I’ve also realized that for the most part, what I conjure up happening in my mind is often far worse than what actually occurs. I blame that on watching too much Hurricane Katrina coverage. When I’m not pondering worst-case scenarios, I worry that’ll be when the unimaginable strikes. It is a sickness, and I’m working on a cure.

I’m signing off, and going to try to get a good night’s sleep as I’m hearing tomorrow night is going to be a long, hard one. I hope this finds each and every one of you safe from the battering we’re about to take. I know we’ll all pull through, because I’ve seen over and over what the people of this area are all about. Acts of neighborly kindness and can-do spirit will be alive and well after Ike leaves his mark. We’ll pull together when the chips are down…we always do. Good luck and I’ll see you on the other side.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

Tropical storm Edouard arrived days ago providing a gentle reminder for each of us to assess our current plans and supplies. It’s something the experts say we should have already done, but by watching the news I’m led to believe many of our brethren wait for an imminent threat.

It also reminded me of one of the biggest things I despise about life in a coastal region: hurricane season. Humidity ranks closely as it affords me one bad hair day after another. Shallow, I know, but it affects my life with far more frequency than the storms.

Like many others, I’m completely stressed by things I can’t control. It’s difficult to wrap one’s mind around killer forces threatening cherished people and things. Worse, impending weather events between June and November tend to spawn storms of a different variety on my home front.

I want to be prepared to weather a category 5+ storm and the aftermath, while dear-husband Jeff feels such preparations are overkill fueled by media hype.  Intellectually I know a direct hit from a cat 5 (that’s weather-speak) would wipe out everything, but I’ve got what we need to survive on the roof surrounded by rapid water and critters until we’re rescued and admonished for not getting the heck out of here.

 In my defense, I was a resident of Baytown in ’83 when Alicia hit. The storm itself isn’t etched in my memory, but the aftermath is. Having been born into the luxuries of air conditioning and indoor plumbing, spending an entire month without electricity and water was rough on this girl.

On my storm-tracking chart, coordinates place Jeff dangerously close to nonchalance. In his defense, he’s not a native Texan, and doesn’t have what I would consider healthy fear and sense of urgency in avoiding last-minute preparations. He’s from tornado country, where there was little advance warning of impending disaster. Flying by the seat of one’s pants while assuming the crash position of kissing your hiney good-bye was about all that could be done in the seconds before a strike.

Here, we generally have several days notice, and I get into trouble when I want to discuss potential evacuation departure days out. Irritates the fire out of him, and his irritation is doubly irritating to me. 

The whole Rita evacuation debacle did scoot him somewhat towards seeing things my way as we spent 31 hours on the road, got no further than Livingston, and were forced by fuel constraints to return home to ride out the storm.

Although losing electricity for a week was a bit uncomfortable, it was a shining moment for me. We had everything we needed, and came out on the other side feeling like we’d been on a family camping trip.

Still, when there’s trouble brewing in the Gulf, I can with 100% accuracy predict at least a cat 1 striking our marriage. Given how we weathered Edouard, I’d say Jeff’s done some predicting of his own. His newly-crafted emergency plan calls for removing himself from the path of a storm. He avoided me like the plague last week.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

I’ve been in a real funk this past week.  It’s not a side I generally allow the public to see, but since you’re becoming like family I figure it’s okay to let you view the not-so-flattering, and hope you’ll tolerate me anyway.

It all started with a phone call to the Public Utilities Commission, and the mailing of a $700 check to my now former electric provider. I called the PUC because my now former electric provider was “experiencing heavier than usual call volume”, could not take my call, and asked that I please try again at a later date. I did just that, and I bet you already know I never spoke to a living soul.

Seems many folks were pretty roasted (literally) over the 49% rate increase. The PUC had already heard my story verbatim from countless others. Long story short: Make sure you know your current rate, and when it will expire.  If you’ve not “locked in” on a rate, providers may charge whatever they like, and are not obligated to notify you of an increase – not even of the 49% magnitude. But, “thank you for being a valued customer, who always paid your bill on time, and have a nice day.”

On top of that, there has been way too much economic news that I just can’t peel myself from.  It’s hard to ignore the fact that you and I are going to shoulder even more  as our government plans to bail out yet another large institution that has been geared towards making homeowners out of people who would have been turned away in years past.  It’s maddening, I tell you. 

As an odd coincidence, I happened to be reading a rather interesting recently-published book titled House Lust by: Daniel McGinn.  It comes on the heels of what some are calling a real-estate market bust, and is a fascinating read on how those of us in middle-class America have been marketed to by developers and big-box home improvement stores. We’ve been sold that what was once a dream is now a necessity. 

As I read, I saw the pattern that began to develop right around the time I first became a proud homeowner in 1995.  By today’s standards, my home is sadly lacking. In some eyes, I guarantee we’re downright “slumming” it.  I really don’t know how we’ve managed without granite countertops or a master bath befitting royalty, but I’m told that in the very least I should be unhappy about it.

At the time of my purchase, I worked in Houston with several who saw pictures of my new abode, and teased me about owning a mansion. They lived in West University, where what I paid here would have netted a postage-stamp-size lot, with no improvements.   I thought I had a good thing.

Mulling over our economic woes, and the vast short comings of the place I don’t mind calling home, a silver lining presented itself.  An article entitled, “Is frugal the new black?” by Allison Linn caught my eye. It said my penny-pinching ways are now in vogue as increasing numbers are being forced to at least explore some degree of frugality. If I’m now so cool, why am I burning up? My guess would be to avoid sending another $700 to my now former electric provider.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

I’ve been banned from anything that requires water. I’m not sure what I’ll do with the time made available by that edict, but I’m likely to do it alone after not showering for a few days.

Imagine a Norman Rockwell print: wife standing at the kitchen sink washing vegetables for the evening meal, while enjoying conversation with the husband, who’s at the table with a cold beverage. She’s laughing at something the husband said, while jumping backwards in surprise as water sprays from underneath a closed cabinet onto her feet. 

I’m no plumber, but I knew it wasn’t good.  My personal fix-it man rushed to my rescue, turned off the water (I was too busy looking to see where it was coming from), and brought towels to soak it all up.  He despises plumbing, but deserves an honorary license, as his bride and offspring provide ample on-the-job training.  

He immediately diagnosed the problem as a hole in the garbage disposal.  Weeks prior to this episode, while under the sink muttering sweet nothings as he removed potato peels from the gooseneck (again), he’d warned that the metal on the disposal was deteriorating and wouldn’t last much longer. I made a mental note of it, and upon sleeping, forever purged that information. It’s not my department.

As Jeff and our younger son embarked on a field trip to Lowe’s, I started the wet towels washing, and began mentally preparing myself for the misery coming down the pipes. (As an experienced plumber’s helper, I know these projects never go smoothly.)  Then, through some sick twist of fate, the washing machine sprung a leak, and made a puddle on the laundry-room floor. Not good. I had enough presence of mind to keep that information to myself in spite of the fact that current technology would’ve allowed me to disclose the problem immediately to the man in charge of these matters.  

I’m happy to report the garbage disposal replacement went flawlessly; it works, and it was replaced in less than half an hour. I was mighty impressed, and he puffed up like a peacock when I told him so.  He didn’t strut for long, and I bet you know why.

The man, whose work is truly never done, took the washing machine apart, found a cracked pump, perused his favorite website for replacement parts, and announced the old washer wasn’t worth fixing. Hundreds of dollars, and hours later, a shiny new Whirlpool took the place of the leaker.

I know you’re all wondering what flour has to do with any of the above. Well, the rainy-day fund needs to be reimbursed, and the grocery budget is usually the first to get the ax. A well-meaning friend sent me to check out www.hillbillyhousewife.com for ideas. It’s a must-see, ladies. You’ll find some good information, and get a few chuckles to boot. I discovered I could feed my family for a week by cooking everything from scratch with a bag of flour, and a few other items, for a mere $45!  I think I just figured out what to do with that extra time, but I’ll need my access to water reinstated.  

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

There are a couple of vagabonds running around town, and I hear they’re looking for a place to stay. You may have already served as a gracious hostess (yes, I’m going with the feminine form of the word – we all know who handles these two), but I’m closing the blinds, and telling the kids not to answer the door.

Their names are Ralph and Earl. They show up with no advance notice, and very much uninvited. I dislike these slippery scoundrels so much because they take great delight in turning my world upside down in 24-hour increments. Plus, they’re just plain mean.

They bring fever, cramps and nausea, and go about making dreadful messes they claim are accidental. Earl finds it very amusing to interrupt my cleaning by holding my son’s head way down in the bucket and kicking him while he’s down.  

As if that wasn’t enough, a very specific menu consisting of ginger ale, saltine crackers, Jell-O, chicken soup, and Pepto Bismol is demanded. Feed them something they don’t like, and you’re in for a nasty little surprise.

Even the dog succumbs to their unethical and vile ways. I’ve asked PETA to get involved, but they’re too busy doing celebrity-fur watch to be concerned.

 Sometimes Ralph comes alone, leaves, and tells Earl it’s his turn.  Earl always decides he’d rather stay in another room of the house. I suppose that’s the prudent thing to do since Ralph leaves an odor that only heavy cleaning and time can erase. 

Having chased these malcontents through my house, I realize they have absolutely no respect for my belongings. My furniture, carpets, linens, clothing, and the interior of my vehicle are all trashed with projectile accuracy. They have a knack for hitting things that can’t be easily cleaned or replaced.

The bathroom, which must be sanitized over and over, is their playground. They enjoy taunting the children, and making them believe they can make it down the hall to the bathroom before the unspeakable happens. They never quite make the intended destination. Close, but I’ll spare you the details.

I know what you’re all thinking: this woman is on her way to sainthood, and a reward surely waits. You’re right. After they’re done with the children, Ralph and Earl announce they’ll stay just one more day in order to spend some quality time with me. I tell them I really don’t have the time, but they insist.

Nearly paralyzed by sheer exhaustion, I manage to throw a party as they prepare to leave. The beds are stripped and remade with fresh sheets, every surface in the house is wiped down with a bleach solution, and a meal fit for a king is prepared. I’d like to give them an even more elaborate send-off, but I fear that will only encourage them to return.

I know they’ll be back. They’re watching me, and waiting for the most inopportune time to show up. People that conniving make me sick.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

Early spring is upon us, and I’m preparing for the annual sprucing-up of our flowerbeds.   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. Maybe I’m asking too much in wanting nice flowerbeds before I’m pushing up daisies.

Jeff and his aching back are the brawn behind the operation, and I, of course, am the brains. I must tread lightly here as I don’t want him to resign from his esteemed position. He’s been around long enough to know that my mind tediously creates a beautiful image, while he has the much-easier task of reading my ruminations, and doing my horticultural bidding. I’ve kept him on the job for so long because he’s good at it, and frankly, I can afford what he charges.

Long walks this time of year, under the guise of exercise, are actually reconnaissance missions where I meticulously choose my victims. No lawn is safe from my spying eyes. Those who have nothing better to do or maybe they’re just good at the flower-gardening thing, already have pansies blooming, and color abounding.

 Adding color is my major goal, as my beds are a bland wash of too much green.   By copying a little from here, and a little from there, I too can appear to be a gardening genius – for a few weeks, anyway.  Some lucky souls (it is luck, and I’ll accept no other explanation) have figured out the right combination of plants for having year-round, practically-effortless color.  I’m hopeful that one day I’ll stumble upon what will be my flowering magnum opus.

Home improvement chains love me, as my inability to keep things alive for the long haul keeps profit margins favorable.  Over 13 years, I’ve tried just about every variety of plant offered, and no doubt spent a small fortune.  “You can do it. We can help”, surely refers to emptying my wallet. I’m starting to realize I can’t do it, and no one can help.

Genetically speaking, I should be able to hold two green thumbs way up, as my lineage boasts of some rather impressive gardeners.  Somehow, I learned to enjoy the results far more than the process, and to this day cannot engage in plant-related conversation without my eyes glazing over.

I have a small library of plant and gardening books. Even there I managed to contribute to the death of a tree by consuming the paper they’re printed on.  As interested as I am in the end result, I can’t bring myself to care how to get there.     

All issues aside, my spring is not complete without this ritual. I love to stand in front of my freshly done beds each year, close my eyes, breathe in the scent of fresh mulch, and know that budding new promises are poking through. Then I open my eyes, see the leggy, fried mess, and realize being green with envy is about as good as my thumbs are going to get.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley