Natalie Whatley

Sometimes things that are supposed to bring comfort to our lives become a real pain in the neck.

Take for example your personal bed pillow. Sounds trivial, but considering its job of ushering you into sweet slumber 365 times a year it becomes pretty important.

I’ve learned just how high a place mine holds in my life as I’ve awakened with neck pain for months now.

I’m a little slow sometimes and initially blamed my discomfort on the stresses of living under the same roof with three teenagers. I almost always harbor tension in my neck. But for the most part, my teen cherubs are good eggs and not nearly that constantly a pain in my neck.

 Now, I’m pretty certain the aged pillow is to blame. Easy enough to remedy, right? Wrong.

If you’ve ever read The Paradox of Choice by psychologist Barry Schwartz, you already know the problems I encountered.

I left stores –pillowless–and with a much bigger pain pulsing behind my eyes. I guess the silver lining there was I forgot about my neck briefly.

Anyway, ultra-soft, soft, medium-soft, firm, or semi-firm? Plain feathers, down–goose or duck? Fiberfill, synthetic, or whatever in the heck poly cluster is? Then there is foam–of the breed that will memorize my exact head.

As if that weren’t enough, do I need hypoallergenic, “cooling” (has some sort of strange beads that will forever stave off hot flashes, thank heavens I’m not there yet) cervical contour, wedge-shaped to raise my esophagus higher than my stomach?

I have a good sporting chance of not entirely slipping into insanity over this because I at least know what size. King, please.

Dr. Schwartz contends in the previously-mentioned book that too many choices leave us paralyzed in indecision. That was me.

I simply could not determine which one would be suitable. Upon returning home I did the worst thing imaginable and researched the whole fluffy mess on the Internet. And I just thought I had problems while standing in the stores.

If and when I do find my body’s perfect match, I’ll record the combination and store it in the safe-deposit box with all my other important papers because advertising has forced me to know replacements should be purchased every 12-18 months. 

What really ruffles my downy feathers is that I know in the 12-18 month replacement time the model I choose this go-round will be discontinued.

 At the very least I hope to have a general idea for the future. Or maybe I could buy several (hundred) spares and rent a storage unit . . . decisions, decisions.

I won’t tell you which leading columnist confided he has been sleeping on his current pillows for DECADES. His name might rhyme with “him”. I remembered a column from years ago wherein he described his own pillow woes. Thought he might have some sage advice. “I dug my old ones out of the trash.” Thanks, “him”.

As of this writing my noggin is still not getting rest as it lies painfully atop a member of my sleep team that is no longer offering me proper support. It doesn’t even try. I think it knows that being a pain in my neck pales in comparison to finding its replacement. Maybe it’s right, and it pains me to say that.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I know you’ve all been waiting with bated breath to hear of my kids-are-back-in-school adventures in holding down the couch. And I’d be glad to tell you all about it, but my brain is caught in a continuous loop of regurgitating my name, address, phone number, relationship to my children, and emergency contact information.

For good measure I’ll throw in what I had for my last meal; that’s about the only thing I haven’t been asked by the schools to divulge. Of course I speak in jest.

For those of you who are years removed and have forgotten: allow me to remind you of all the forms that must be filled out at the start of each school year. I’d even wager that if you have been removed for some time, the paper has increased by at least double. Bureaucracy is not a beautiful thing.

I’m considering the launch of major reform in this area as I believe each piece of paper should be uniform, allowing me to have a stamp made whereby a single movement would replicate all the particulars that have remained constant since my children entered school over a decade ago.

I want to scream from my rooftop, NOTHING HAS CHANGED!

I know that’s probably odd in this day and age and definitely boring (it’s exciting being me), but seriously . . .  I know there is someone, sitting somewhere with a horned head, wearing a red body suit and holding a pitchfork, thinking up a new form where I can be asked for my specifics yet one more time  . . . in my personal handwriting.  With all the technology available . . . really?

With each piece of paper I watch my somewhat beautiful longhand degenerate to the point of where it appears I need to go back to second grade. I can’t help it. I try to complete everything legibly, it’s just that my brain goes on auto-drive, my mind wanders to something far less tedious, and before I know it I’m rambling incoherently via ink pen. And you thought I only did it here.

I’ve often wondered what the point even is in offering up the various phone numbers requested, “should they not be able to reach me” at the first one.

I can recall every occasion I was ever contacted at home by any of the schools, and few times did someone have to use the second line of defense: my cell number.

You see, school nurses and some teachers have this special radar that is highly tuned to my personal whereabouts. I only receive phone calls needing my immediate attention in two scenarios: 1) while showering; 2) on the rare occasion I leave the greater metropolis of the Baytown area during school hours.

The first scenario is the most popular and I’ve usually just lathered up my hair with an ample dollop of shampoo.  I gave up on the slippery dash to the phone and now the landline’s cordless device and cell phone remain perched in an area of special reverence as I attend to my hygiene.

The second: I may leave town twice in an entire school year—take a day and enjoy some shopping and dining in a different locale. Never fails.  Those are always the days my otherwise healthy cherubs fall to some unknown malady.

Oh well. I suppose they can call me any time. And when I answer, I’ll dutifully recite my name, rank and serial number . . . just don’t make me write it one more time, please.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I humbly stand before you all today to confess that I have a problem. An addiction. An obsession.  

Since the outdoors in these parts has been downright unbearable in recent months, this outdoorsy girl has taken to the comforts of air conditioning and embarked upon laziness of epic proportions. And when my body isn’t moving, my brain demands some at least semi-challenging activity.

Ninety-nine percent of television programming does not interest me, so I’m left with books and the computer. (Yes, there are other human beings living in my very close vicinity—in the same house even—but the situation at the most base level is that they have a life. Apparently I don’t.)

Of course there’s plenty of housework to do, but as I approach the 15th anniversary of stay-at-home motherhood I find myself severely burned out in that regard. I do some of what’s necessary, delegate out what I can’t bring myself to do, and nothing else.

Then I’m left with too much idle time. And what’s that saying about idle minds being the devil’s workshop? I’ve become the poster child.

It was a bad time for Lex, the handsome bespectacled and bow tied green worm to inch his way back into my life. I bade him farewell some years ago when we first met. I quickly realized we were spending far too much time together. Plus, our relationship became frustrating at best as I pushed for more and he held me at bay.

Lex is the star of Bookworm, which is a word-forming computer puzzle game. Wikipedia describes play like this: From a grid of available letters, players connect letters to form words. As words are formed, they are removed from the grid and the remaining letters collapse to fill the available space. As in Scrabble, players earn more points by creating longer words or words which use less common letters.

But it goes beyond that. Some of the tiles that fall through the grid are on fire. Those have to be used quickly because if they reach the bottom something truly horrific happens: The library burns down . . .  with Lex in it. Oh, and it’s “Game Over”, too.

Sounds innocent enough and like good, clean fun, but this non-addictive personality now understands what a bad habit can do.

I’ve gone through an addiction questionnaire and answered yes to all but one. And I could only answer that one —do I have it with me at all times?—in the negative because I’m still in the stone ages with my non-internet-connected flip phone. (That’s entirely by choice and given my current state it’s probably best I leave it that way.)

Words are a huge part of my life, akin to sustenance and air. I need them to survive. What’s a girl to do? I can’t quit them cold-turkey.

When I try to read, I catch myself looking at letters on the page and rearranging them into new words . . . totally missing out on the meaning of what’s before my eyes. I do the same with street signs, store names and even license plates. Worse yet, I’m playing in my sleep! Sweet dreams aren’t made of this.

So, I’m here today admitting that I am powerless over my addiction and that my life has become unmanageable because of it. Next week, I’ll work on coming to believe that a Power greater than myself can restore my sanity.  

Sorry, Lex, but “Game Over”.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

NON-EDITOR’S NOTE: I have not taken a break from column writing since I started this craziness three-and-a-half years ago.  And because the recent heat has fried what few brain cells I have left, I decided a small hiatus was in order.  I’m handing the reins over to the capable hands of the most wonderful daughter to ever grace this planet. I’ll find some special way to properly thank her.

Hello, Dear Readers.  My name is Erin, Natalie’s wonderful daughter.

I asked to take over her column this week so she could have a “break.” But really I’m here to give you some details of what really happens at the Whatley residence, because my mom only tells her side.

First off I’d just like to say for the record that my mom really does need a break. She does a lot of stuff that the rest of us could easily do for ourselves. Then she drives us places and spends hard-earned money on things we’ll often use for three seconds and get bored.  Or at least how she tells it. You would think she would know me by now. I get bored after four seconds, not three.

So I guess that means that she hasn’t been paying attention to me for the last twelve years or so, but I can kind of understand why. You see she’s been busy taking care of the food chain in our house. We have a cat, a dog, and two hamsters.

The cat gets the hamster and the dog gets the cat right? Not at our house! In our house it goes the cat gets the hamsters and the dog. She’s been trying to train the cat not to abuse the dog, or eat the hamsters.

But that doesn’t take all of her time, so I’ve been watching to see what all of her fuss is about.

She wakes up. As in by herself without anyone yelling for her to get out of the bed and put her “feet on the floor”.

Puts on make-up

Eats breakfast. The woman needs her fiber.  And who else puts a scrambled egg in oatmeal? Gross.

Taps on the computer. Says she’s “writing”, but I’m thinking I should have seen a few completed novels by now.

I know she does the above because for a few days and before I got into stay-up-all-night and sleep-half-the-day summer mode I spied on her.

She attempts waking me. This isn’t fun for either of us. And by noon after she has visited me several times getting up is no longer a sweet request. 

She tries to entertain me.  She’s not good at it. Something about how I should know how to occupy myself. Not so sure I agree.

Late afternoon I catch her on the couch reading a book while eating Bon-Bons. I interrupt with an, “I’m bored.” She tells me to go clean my room. Doesn’t she understand it’s my mess and I’m comfortable in it?

Since I’m locked in my room after that, I really can’t say what happens. But at some point a meal that will go uneaten by me and my brothers will be cooked. Is it our fault that she prepares things that she knows no kid would ever want? (I believe that broccoli was never meant to be eaten by humans.) 

And of course that’s a slow day. Somewhere in all that the laundry, dishes, vacuuming and dusting gets done. She acts like it’s a full-time gig or something.

 It’s been fun giving her a break from her job, but I guess all great things must come to an end eventually, so I bid you farewell.  Maybe I’ll come back and tell some stories on her.

By: Erin Whatley

It’s watermelon season and that makes my mouth very happy.

On average, each American consumes 15 pounds of the juicy fruit annually. Only 15 pounds?  I can triple that without even picking up a fork.

I know you’d expect someone as dainty as myself to politely slide the seeds off the fruit and onto the plate prior to consumption and cut bite-sized pieces, but it doesn’t go down like that. More along the lines of a sumo wrestler bellying up to a stack of hot dogs in an eating contest.

And seed spitting . . . I’m a pro.

It’s every bit as attractive as you imagine. Feel free to add the sound effects you’d expect hear to your mental image.

Watermelon is known as a special kind of fruit among the folks who’ve made studying plants their life’s work. Who knew this food that easily makes my must-have list is—to give the proper botanical term—a “pepo”, which is a berry that has a thick rind and fruit? It’s only loosely considered a melon.

And you know I had to be kidding about the seeds above, because who can find a seeded melon anymore?

 I swallow those scrawny white ones. They don’t look like they could do much harm. And I never believed any of those goofy old tales about swallowing watermelon seeds anyway. I’m smarter than that. Plus, my stork subscription was canceled years ago.

Anyway, speaking of seeded melons, or the lack thereof, I wonder and worry that this favorite food of mine will become extinct. I suppose somewhere, somehow we’re still growing melons with seeds for reproductive purposes. If not, I stand here today sounding the alarm.

Now you know what kinds of high-order issues keep me awake at night.

Folks who have been around a good, long while tell me that since we started tinkering with genetics to remove those “pesky” black seeds the melons don’t taste as good.  Since the popularity of the seedless breed has steadily increased during the course of my lifetime—I do recall a more potent flavor—I think they’re probably right.

And all this melon talk reminds me: Many years ago and before I became fashion forward, I used to make an outward show of my love and appreciation for the fine produce with a watermelon outfit. You know, the kind once sold at craft shows . . . painted shirt that donned my upper half with a likeness of a big slice complete with the seeds AND matching watermelon earrings. Oh, and I bought the pants, too.

I thought I looked pretty darn cute in that get-up. Wore it proudly here around town and received many compliments. Maybe people were saying, “bless her heart” when I moved out of earshot.

But one fateful day as I was boarding a flight wearing my melon pride, a woman (I won’t call her a lady) —obviously not from the South— asked where I was from. After my reply she repugnantly looked down her nose and said, “I knew you were from the South” as she made a show of scanning up and down my attire. I was ashamed. Never wore the red, green, and black display again. It has been 20 years.

Funny because if I were to run into her again, today, I’d stand up a little taller, and answer where I was from a little louder. And before she had the chance to look down that snooty nose, with laser-sharp accuracy I’d spit a big black seed in her eye! Why, yes. I am from the South.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I must make you all aware that my fellow columnist, the great Jim Finley, does not have the market cornered on mentioning our fine weatherpersons. I have listened to them going on and on about the fog we have experienced as of late. One night, it was proclaimed that we were in for a record fifth night of the soupy mix with the possibility of more beyond that. Queue the doomsday music.

Bill Watterson, cartoon genius behind the popular Calvin and Hobbes comic strip, once said, “The purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure pure reasoning, and to inhibit clarity. With a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog!”  Oh boy. How true. It’s takes special skill to inflate weak ideas, and I’m almost a master. And I can obscure pure reasoning as well as inhibit clarity, thus the reason I wanted to talk about fog.

I’ve made no secret about being on a strange journey since exiting what I considered the most labor-intensive childrearing years. Of course I’m still on duty or maybe just on call with three teens, but my role has drastically changed and so have I.

I remember back in the day when I controlled almost all the details of their young lives. Now, I control very little. It’s terrifying and invigorating all at the same time. It’s also painful . . . in a rebirth kind of way. I’ve grown weary from the labor pains, and would like to see the new baby to be named “My Life” even though she promises to arrive with the requisite feedings and dirty diapers. I just thought I was through with that, but I’m battle trained through three tours. I will survive. 

Anyway, it’s probably a little vain speaking of this strange phenomenon, but the weather mimics me. And I have been in a fog of sorts. Funny thing about fog: While standing in it, things immediately surrounding look crystal clear, but try casting your vision farther than a few inches and  . . . an infinite wall of haze. Recall that I’m a planner – a certifiable (of the fit-to-be-declared-insane variety) “looker aheader”.  Frustrating!

Of course there are long spans when the fog burns off and I can see as far as my eyes will allow. However, it’s a cruel twist that I’m allowed vision only to have it severely clouded once again, paralyzing navigation.  That qualifies as fogbound.

The safest thing to do in such conditions is to pull off the road and wait for clarity or in the very least try using less light. What’s an impatient, shine-a-big-light-on-the-situation soul like me to do? I’m in no mood to stop or use the low beams.

Can I take some comfort from the weatherpersons who say our recent plentiful fog is rare, and won’t be seen again for a long time? I know what Jim Finley would say. Suppose I’d better learn to drive myself through it.

© 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

Ever have one of those days, or maybe weeks, where it seemed your world had been upended? Like there was a planetary shift or something? It wasn’t your imagination, and there is an explanation. I sort of like it when I find out things didn’t go according to my plan for an interstellar reason— shifts the blame and reminds me there are things out of my control.

By now, most of you have probably heard that one Parke Kunkle of The Minnesota Planetarium Society set out to create a collective tailspin for those of us born on certain dates. I’m sort of amazed we all continued to function, but life has gone on. We’re a tough lot.

Kunkle created the stir when he publicly stated that due to changes in Earth’s alignment many zodiac signs have changed.  Say what?

Dates have been tinkered with and a “new” zodiac added. Some of us are not what we thought. The new sign: Ophiuchus, the serpent holder, includes those of us born November 30 – December 17. Supposedly I am one.  I can’t even pronounce it not to mention the fact that I’d rather die than hold a serpent.

Not all of us were affected by this revelation—which hard core astrologers rebutted by saying what Kunkle mentioned is something that has been previously noted and accounted for, thus changing nothing —but for a time and while the sides argued I was plunged into a yet deeper identity crisis in that according to this “new” information I was no longer a Sagittarian. (It took me almost 40 years to figure myself out. Now I’m supposed to embrace a serpent?  That’s just great. And, thanks, but I’ll pass.)

It was hard enough accepting  the fact that I was already a freakish hybrid – supposedly introverted Sags are not common—but in my own quirky way I wore it as a badge of honor.  According to Kunkle, everything I thought I knew about me: wrong. While I take delight in keeping others guessing, it’s not so funny when even I can’t figure me out in light of his “new” information. Lunacy?  Quite possible.

I’m clearly a centaur archer: half human, half horse. (Have you seen a centaur? Upper half human, lower half horse. Yes, I have plenty of moments where I’m half human, half horse’s behind. Figured I’d say it before someone else beat me to it.) So, I’ll politely thumb my nose at Mr. Kunkle, because I don’t have the energy to reinvent myself at this point in the galactic game.

But as it turned out, some kind soul finally stated in all the confusion that the changes only apply to those born in 2011 and after.  What a relief. There’s no way I could make these kinds of changes now. It’s not in the stars I see when hit with something so life altering.

Yes, my eyes are rolling, and it will take me a week to dig my tongue out of my cheek.  But for the record: I’m still not touching a serpent!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I suppose a sign that I’m getting older —as opposed to old—is that I’m becoming set in my ways. And to be honest, I’m not interested in changing.

Nowhere in my life is the preceding more true than when it comes to electronic gadgetry. In case you haven’t noticed, small hand-held electronics have taken over some individual worlds and are collectively taking over the universe. My stubbornness causes me to be left behind the trend.  I use the ones I must to survive and only because I went there kicking and screaming.  

Take for example my cell phone:  You should have seen the confusion on faces when I walked into my service provider’s store and explained I wanted one that made phone calls. Period.  Because all phones have text messaging capability, I have graduated and become quite adept. It was that or lose all contact with some of the humans in my life.

The “smart phones”, I’m not smart enough. But it doesn’t matter. When I step outside the confines of my home I enjoy being away from the internet and phone.  Only a select few have the number to the Nat phone  . . .  not to be confused with the super-secret Bat phone. Facebook (I have a love/hate relationship with the social network, but that’s another story for another day) and email have no place in my away-from-home life. I’m simply not that important, nor do I want to be that accessible all the live-long day.

It’s no secret, either, that I am an avid reader. So, the e-reader craze —Amazon’s Kindle and Barnes and Noble’s Nook—has been brought to my attention plenty of times. Close family members own them, and I have had a chance to explore the electronic wonders. I don’t like them.  I know, I know, I can carry an entire library in my purse and have it at my fingertips any time I please. Doesn’t matter.  I like the feel of a book in my hands. And I don’t care how realistic the sound of an electronic page turning is, it’s not the same.

My new car: More bells and whistles than I know what to do with! The push of a button (if I knew which one to push) will do and tell me all sorts of things I supposedly need and need to know.  Accelerator, brakes, steering wheel, and basic radio. That’s all I need because the car “senses” everything else and adjusts for me!  I will never use the full capabilities of that machinery. Sort of seems like a waste.

And someone near and dear to me keeps his grocery list on a cell-phone “app” (that’s an electronic program application for my brethren even less informed than me) . . . sorted by the aisles of the grocery store! I’m sorry, but faster than he can consult the extra appendage now permanently attached to his hand, I can write it down on the magnetic notepad stuck to the side of my refrigerator.  Since I spend countless hours in the stores, no need for aisle numbers; I know where everything is located.

Come to think of it, maybe I am smart enough.  I have all the information I need to function through my day right up in the old noodle. I guess that’s why I don’t panic when I’m not electronically tethered, unlike some people I know.  So in this case, I’d say ignorance is bliss!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Running up to Election Day when the fate of our red-light cameras would be decided, I listened to quite a bit of discussion about driving—specifically the drivers sharing the streets of our fair city. Folks had strong opinions and often used colorful language in describing others’ driving abilities or lack thereof.

Recall that a little over a year ago I announced placing one of the flashing contraptions at the intersection of Natalie Street and Whatley Drive because I was in need of some external control. I made huge profits off myself. Now I’m awaiting specific instructions on its removal. But I digress.

All of us despise the flagrant red-light runner who pulls such a stunt because he or she can, endangering innocents, but discussion has proven people see many shades between black and white on the topic. In the end we must all use our gray matter when behind the wheel. And if said gray matter isn’t fully up to the task, maybe staying home is in order.

Recently I was among the ranks of bone-headed drivers and driving while distracted. While I didn’t run a red light or a stop sign, I failed to follow standard operating procedure after coming to a complete halt at a four-way stop.

Enjoying catchy tunes and some very pleasant weather through rolled down windows and an open sun roof, I pulled up to a stop sign focused on the car just opposite me. I failed to look to my left, but took off and turned that direction anyway.

Apparently, it wasn’t my turn.  How embarrassing; most of the time I have better manners than that.  And I thoroughly appreciate the other driver’s full attention as I know we would’ve endured a slight collision had it not been for her supreme diligence.  

Through her driver’s-side window I saw the vivid animation of one using the full range of the rainbow to express her feelings. Had she not thrown both hands in the air signaling her absolute disgust with my transgression, I may have been able to read her lips. (For the record: I felt it was all a little over-the-top in a punishment-didn’t-fit-the-crime kind of way.) In passing, I clearly annunciated an “I’m sorry” and plastered on my best sheepish look.

There are many things that can steal a driver’s attention: other passengers, a slew of technology and in my case, the very brain we all need to operate a motor vehicle. Like my careful-driving brethren, I make a concerted effort to follow the rules of the road. I had a lapse, and I would claim it was only momentary if I could, but honestly I don’t know how long my mind was absent.

All I know is that I didn’t turn right and that far worse than a potential traffic citation or minor accident was the thought that I angered another human being to the point of flashing a theatric performance I saw fit to forever memorialize.  To this unknown thespian:  my deepest apologies. And it’s a shame it wasn’t all captured by camera; you’d be a star!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley