Comparatively speaking, we’re still quite young as far as countries go. Other localities around the globe feel we still have a lot to learn. And for all the advances we’ve contributed to the world we could certainly make some improvements, but only here do we understand how that knowledge must be gained.

We probably appear as unruly children, bent on pushing boundaries and thumbing our noses at those who wish to bring us in line by swatting our ample backsides. Yeah, I said it . . . ample. Statisticians say it’s the American way. And before anyone feels I’m pointing a finger, know that I’m soldier in that battle as well. I aim to keep my target smaller than those in my immediate surroundings – lessens the chances of a successful strike.

But I digress, and I assure you this column is not about hind ends, collective or otherwise.

I’m just tickled to be here on this July 4 and to have been born into a country that suits my temperament. I would’ve already been beheaded in some other places, or at least had my tongue cut out.

Independence is something I innately understand. My mother, the stunning Linda Rowe, will tell you it reared its head within my personality long before I knew what to do other than assert it.

Nearly 40 years of living with myself has taught me that independence is a sharp double-edged sword that must be wielded carefully. I’ve cut myself and others, even felt like falling on my own weapon a few times, but I learned not to make the same mistake twice.

That’s the beauty of freedom, we have the choice to be or do just about anything our hearts and minds imagine. We’re even allowed to mess up royally or abandon pursuits for any reason.

Am I advocating grand ideas with no follow-through? Heck, no! I just feel it’s great to be able to mess up, discover practicalities, and possibly find a quicker route to the finish line or start another race altogether.

We’re a different breed here – descendants of people determined to go it alone in a vast new world. Their hardships and steely resolve gave birth to the country I love and know as home.

There’s so much happening today that makes me wince, doubt where things are headed, and plain scare the rocket’s red glare out of me, but I wouldn’t trade it. Can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

We’re hardy folks, and sometimes our dumb decisions cause freedom to wring our necks and remind us of the responsibility that comes with it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. We live. We learn.

Remember those brave souls who gave us this day to celebrate and the chance to stumble on greatness . . . even as we stumble over our own feet. Happy Independence Day!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Most of my recent writings have been a little heavy, so I went on a quest to find some quirky Father’s Day facts with the intent of making this one at least a little lighter and hopefully humorous.

The holiday is fairly young — made official in 1972 — but even considering its relative youth, I was puzzled over finding nothing beyond the sad truth that there are more collect calls placed on this day than any other. Just a shame. But dads already know that fatherhood comes with a price far greater than the cost of a phone call.

I suppose I couldn’t find anything silly because fathering is serious business. Many of us are blessed to have had a man who did the job well – without an instruction manual (not that they would’ve read it) and through countless societal changes in paternal expectations. Two thumbs up, guys, for hitting that moving target.

According to anthropologists, it’s given that a child will bond with its mother. Dads, however, have to work at it. That would explain why they’re just plain more fun to hang out with. Not to say that moms can’t have fun, but we’re certainly not known for ignoring all sense of decorum in the name of garnering a few giggles.

And as if having to best mom to be in the pecking order wasn’t enough, then there’s the job of being a provider.  Even in these days of moms being a mainstay in the workforce, it’s hard-wired for a man to furnish that which a child needs to grow and prosper. The pressure is enormous and goes far beyond monetary.

While dads provide the obvious: food, shelter and clothing, it’s the non-tangibles above and beyond those necessities that really allow for the spreading of wings and eventual flight.

Being a role model, administering discipline, believing in his children, providing physical and mental protection, showing pride, giving of his limited time . . . the list goes on and on as does the investment that often takes a lifetime to mature. It’s a remarkable thing to watch.

I don’t know where we would all be if not for the men who show tremendous inner strength in the face of their own personal challenges and insecurities while being a rock for their children. A look through history shows fathers have seen unique challenges since the dawn of time. They always find solutions.

And while the ladies may sit back and bemoan how it all must look – not so refined, maybe even a little brash – it doesn’t matter because the kids are giggling and deep down they know Dad’s no fool. Thanks dads, for all you provide and especially the laughs along the way. You’re the best!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

The dyeing of eggs is a custom that can be traced back to the Middle Ages. Colors used, methods, and styles of decoration vary to reflect ideals important to specific cultures. However, the symbolism of the egg representing new life remains constant. For hundreds of years those symbols have been carefully prepared and offered as gifts signifying wishes for new life and fresh starts. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take all the rejuvenation I can get. I’m trying to coexist with teenagers. Need I say more? You know where to send the eggs.  

Since I’ve been working on my rather fluid insides – preparing for the necessary hard boil that will hopefully sustain me through some trials and tribulations – I decided my outer shell is quite ready to sport a bright, new paint job. I’m thinking something sophisticated with strategically-placed jewels to draw the eyes away from imperfections. Optical illusion is the name of the outer-shell game, is it not?

As is my life, boiling water was readied only for me to discover that I wouldn’t be enjoying the innards-hardening hot bath because I was glued to the carton. At some point in transit I cracked and oozed. Since the fissure was located just below the cup line of my cozy left-bottom-corner compartment – hidden to onlookers – my intact traveling companions were unaware of my unfortunate circumstances and left me all alone.

 I carefully considered eggstrication options which presented quite the dilemma: Pull too hard . . . my shell would break up, and I’d be quite the Humpty-Dumpty mess. If I did nothing, I’d surely rot; the smell would be most unpleasant.

Cemented in the realization that there would be no removing me from the carton, I thought maybe I could remove the carton from me. Piece by tiny piece I picked away until . . . Free at last! I didn’t look or feel so bad save for the tiny flecks of pastel-green lumpiness that were the Styrofoam sutures still holding me together.  Those would have to stay lest I wanted to perish.

Although the journey took a little longer than anticipated, I reached hard-boiled status and got a fresh, new outer look to boot. Notice I skipped the glitzy gems and went with colors and materials that complement green foam. (I’m spinning so you can get a good look.) Not eggsactly the level of refinement and high fashion I had envisioned, but I need those pieces of the carton that stuck with me during difficult times and my subsequent dive into hot water – good reminders of where I came from.

Remember the words of Bernard Meltzer, “A true friend is someone who thinks you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked”. Happy Easter, friends!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Today is No Brainer Day. You probably weren’t aware because documenting it wouldn’t have fit the spirit of the “holidate” as founded by “America’s Premier Eventologist”, Adrienne Sioux Koopersmith.  Koopersmith wears many professional hats, but I had to look up eventologist – never heard of the profession, but it’s someone who makes up altruistic, educational, recreational, or just plain fun events. Sounds like interesting work.

By definition, a “no brainer” is a task that is simple, obvious and/or totally logical. Is it just me, or we could use several of these strategically placed throughout the calendar? Then again, I revel in over analyzing stuff and would become suspicious of being asked to shut my brain off too frequently. I probably wouldn’t cooperate more than once a year, or better yet, I’d secretly declare my own brainless days. I’ve had moments where I was clearly not using the old noggin. This should give me a valid excuse for faulty decision making.

I’ve mentioned a time (or maybe two) that all the over-commercialized holidays aren’t for me. Not that I don’t appreciate the meaning behind them, but I could live without the stress associated with what’s considered “proper” celebrating.  

No Brainer Day requires no decorating, no cooking, no spending sums of money greater than the entire economy of a small country and lastly no supporting a massive greeting card industry. I’m a tiny bit peeved I didn’t think up this special day myself. And for the record, I have no beef with greeting cards, but I’ll buy them when I feel like it and not because sappy commercials tell me I should.   

The premise behind it all is that we should spend today doing simple things that require little or no mental effort. So, write this down and stick it to your bathroom mirror: “Turn brain back on”.

Now, go ahead and shut down the frontal lobes – command central for self-control, planning, reasoning, abstract thought – and the neocortex which is the center of high-order thinking, learning, and memory. Because you’ll likely want to live through this brainless day, leave the brain stem (controls breathing, heart rate and other processes we don’t even realize are being handled) and the cerebellum (responsible for balance, posture and coordination of movement) in the “on” position. Enjoy your day minus the brainwashing life has bestowed.

As you awake refreshed tomorrow morning, mind free from years of clutter, don’t forget to read the instructions you left yourself on the bathroom mirror. Oh no. You can’t read or remember how to get to the bathroom. What have I done? This may be my biggest cranial misfire ever. Happy No Brainer Day!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Unless you’re a podiatrist or in shoe sales, I bet you had no idea that today, January 23, is Measure Your Feet Day. No, I’m not pulling your leg.

Most of us have probably gone through life post-childhood – barring foot problems – without measuring the foundation upon which we stand. I take my feet for granted – file them under “if it’s not broke don’t fix it” – but upon further review, a couple of minutes spent gathering dimensions could be a positive experience. I need all of those I can get.

There are various methods and correlating opinions on what works best given your motivation (shoe shopping or just for grins) for measuring. The Brannock device (that funny looking silver and black thing you see in shoe stores) seems to be the most standard, effective way. If you don’t have one handy, tracing your foot while you stand on paper and measuring from there is also acceptable. Because I never give the size of my feet a thought unless I’m on a quest for footwear, I’ll probably stick to my tried-and-true method of sticking my foot in a shoe. If it’s too big, locate a size smaller and vice versa.

Equipped with pencil and paper, I decided to pay a few minutes homage to my feet and the lesser-known “holiday” mentioned above.  While bent over and close enough for a thorough inspection I became dizzy as blood rushed to my head. Just shy of a hallucinatory state I had a revelation: I was wasting precious time measuring the wrong feet! And you thought the creative process worked in some other mysterious way, didn’t you?

I’m learning with far too great of frequency that life throws curve balls, which disrupt a batter’s timing. The good news: If hit well, that curve ball has the potential of gaining tremendous backspin giving it added distance.  I’d like to think I have it in me to hit it out of the park, but given the speed these things are coming at me I’ve realized my mental foundation needs some bolstering. It’s high time to yank the yardstick away from the list of defeats and measure my feats.

Taking stock of the instances in life that required remarkable skill or valor seems an excellent source of “I’ve done it before, I can do it again” strength.  Each year, it can only get better as I add new feats and see tangible progress and my footing in life expanded.

I hope you’ll join me in participating in this little twist on an otherwise obscure day of observance. Make that list and delight in adding to it each year. Don’t ever take your feats for granted. They’ll carry you wherever you want to go. I’m going to take extra special care of mine—might even treat them to a pedicure.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

The title and author, whose other books I’m currently reading, came to my attention during the last Starbooks at Starbucks presentation by Sterling Municipal Library’s Jamie Eustace. Check the library for availability of the book and future Starbooks dates.

A.J.’s intentional shenanigans include posing as a beautiful single woman (he’s a married man) on an online dating service (that should serve as a warning) and following the teachings of the Radical Honesty Movement’s guru, Dr. Brad Blanton.  He lives through each of these little slices of life—among others—for a month and gives hysterically poignant accounts of his findings.  If you enjoy the nonfiction/humor genre – one of my personal favorites as it provides the best medicine, laughter – I highly recommend it.

It was fitting that The Guinea Pig Diaries and the idea of experimenting with life came to me as 2009 drew to a close. I was in a period of intense introspection and was already thinking of trying on a few radical changes. Why not? There are plenty of days when I get the feeling I’m a lab rat – the subject of scientific study on the pliability of the human soul. Any loud “SNAP!” you hear coming from my direction, will be indicative of my personal study’s conclusion if not my demise. Rest assured science will go on as specimens living with teens are in plentiful supply.

For longer than I care to admit, I’ve been scurrying around the bottom of a beaker. (No trying to bust a glass ceiling here – just glass walls, mostly of my own construction.) Some days I felt the Bunsen burner was on its highest setting; I reached melting point and came close to boiling before the gas supply was exhausted. I won’t be refueling that particular device, but must find another source of heat or risk having the contents of my beaker reach freezing point. Science is complicated.

In the spirit of the new year, I’ll be donning a white lab coat and goggles. Please join me with some of your own ventures and tell me all about them. We only get one ride through this thing we call life. Who knows what I’ll put myself and my family through, but it sounds fun.

For all the things that don’t prove to be too embarrassing, I’ll give an account of my findings here, lab-report style – complete with hypothesis, method (to my madness), supplies (this could get funny) and results.  Goodness, just expecting a little unexpected is exciting.

Since it may be impossible to remain objective and avoid skewing data in the roles of scientist and subject, I might ask for outside input from unbiased parties. You’ll know you appear a reliable soul if I walk up and ask you to participate.

Gosh this is going to be fun – sort of like going to the high-school-chemistry lab knowing the potential exists for a spectacular explosion. Happy New Year! It’s going to be a blast!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I mentioned in previous columns that the holidays have become too over-the-top for me, and I probably led you to believe that I don’t care much for the season. That’s not the case at all. I do, however, get stressed-out over all that the holidays entail and in this year’s seasonally-induced delirium realized why. (Been digging deep, lately, as I’m sure has been evidenced by my writing. Rest assured my mental health is mostly intact.)

The truth is: I could use a little rationing of the holiday cheer. I’m force-fed large amounts – way beyond the point of feeling stuffed – in too short an amount of time. Why must such a high percentage of all the “good will toward man” be so concentrated and confined to a few weeks out of the year? Seems I require a steady diet of good tidings of comfort and joy and don’t do well with the extremes of feast or famine.

Sure, there are people all over doing nice things and speaking kind words year-round, but it’s not as noticeable outside the November-December realm. Don’t think I’ve ever been told to be “merry” in August. (Yes, I know, it’s a bit steamy here at that time and bad hair days abound, but wouldn’t some “Christmas cheer” make it more tolerable?)

And while I’m on the topic of more equally spreading Christmas, why do certain foods only make an appearance on the holiday menu? I figure if I more evenly distributed my fudge intake through all the months of the calendar, I could avoid tight jeans in January. On second thought, that may not work, and I would look a little strange wearing sweatpants in July. Cranberries on the other hand definitely deserve more space in our diet as they’re full of health-boosting stuff (phytonutrients). But I digress.

Back to the topic at hand, I’m certainly glad the shopping (despise it), wrapping (tolerate it for the sake of surprised faces), and having far too much on the calendar (I’m truly blessed) are over, but I’m not happy the spirit of the season is over. There will be nothing more said after perfunctory niceties as I go about my days, and it will likely be many months before I sit around a table and have actual face-to-face discussions with people whose company I enjoy.

Why don’t we all get together more often, sit and chat over what seems to be nothing but turns into everything – without a TV playing in the room? GASP! Regression back to the Stone Age? Can conversation start without the prompting of “news” regarding Joe Celebrity and Jane Starlet? It might start off a little awkward, but I have faith that some sparks could catch fire. (If you want a full blaze for New Year’s gatherings, bring up health-care reform and call the fire department.)

So, am I relieved it’s all over? Yes and no. Take away all the tangible trappings and wish me merriment when I’m in the throes of starvation and wearing sweatpants in July.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

I hope you all enjoy it, again. I had fun writing it even though I shed a few tears. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

‘Twas the week of Christmas, and all through my mind, not a coherent thought was stirring, not even a rhyme. The lights were hung ‘round the house without harm, no body parts broken, or much cause for alarm. Christmas parties were held, social obligations fulfilled, and all I wanted was some quiet and still. The children wrote lists as long as North Main, while dollar signs floated ‘round their father’s brain.

And Papa with his headache, and I with my cat, were hoping one day it’d be possible to just take a nap. When from the upstairs there came a horrid smell. I looked up at the ceiling and started to yell. Away to grab Lysol, I ran a mad dash, began spraying the air wondering which kid to splash.

The light on the carpet outside the bathroom lit the offending parties — they’ll be needing a broom. When what to my frustrated eyes should appear three young people frolicking in good cheer. With an old dog in on the fun, I knew right that moment they’d better run! Faster than lightning the children they split, as they had no idea which gluteal target I’d get.

To a clean bathroom before the herd bathes, I pay homage to my silly rage. So down to the rooms I fly lickety-split, with a few thoughts in mind and envisioning a sit. In that moment, I felt in my heart, the tugging of strings from children so smart.

As I drew in a breath and dared turn around, up in years they went, almost without making a sound. Dressed in much bigger clothes, they’ll all be taller than me. I barely saw it happen. Could it truly be? Larger amounts of knowledge they now hold in their heads. Looks like they’re growing up; it’s full speed ahead.

Their eyes how they wonder, their smiles, how toothy. Their faces are changing, and at times they act goofy. Their mouths sometimes speak in ways that amaze.  And the kind things they do leave me in a proud haze.

With a tiny bit of childhood left, maybe they can handle my not always being deft. The years they’ve gone by faster than I ever imagined, like the blink of an eye, faster than I ever fathomed. It’s had its ups and downs — I always had doubts. And sometimes I cried after filling their day with shouts.

On the brink of tears, and with a new vision in sight, I’ve learned that giving my best would make things mostly right.  They love me anyway, in spite of mistakes. And I’ll see them through no matter what it takes.  Bowing my head, I pray they’ll be safe, while asking forgiveness for decisions made in haste.

Onward and upward, I hope we’ll proceed; it’s not easy being the one in the lead. But a quiet voice tells me as I turn in for the night, it will all be OK, for your path I will light.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Since admitting a couple of weeks ago that the holiday season doesn’t exactly put a sparkle in my eye anymore – believe I even muttered a bah-humbug – I decided to take an Ebenezer Scrooge-inspired journey in the hopes of reigniting some personal Christmas spirit.

Christmas Way in the Past: Picture me with pig-tails, teeth missing, and running to a real tree covered with C9 lights burning hot enough to intensify the pine aroma. Life was good on Christmas mornings. The magic started with a very bright Super 8 camera light blinding me almost to the point of not being able to see that Santa brought most of what was on my wish list and few extras on top. And since I’m grown with my own family now, it is a mystery how my mother, the lovely Linda Rowe, managed to look fresh as a flower and fully made-up without so much as a strand of hair out of place while still in her pajamas. Mystery solved: She got out of bed looking that way . . . two hours before the rest of us.

Christmas Past: It was so easy, aside from the lack of sleep. Christmas-morning photos confirm that I looked as tired as I felt. Doesn’t every parent have at least one hold-out child who’s certain he heard Santa land on the rooftop compelling an immediate investigation? (That kid is also the first one out of bed the next morning.) Visions of Legos, remote-controlled cars, baby dolls, and young children rubbing wonder-filled eyes as they made their way down the stairs fill my mind. Life was simpler, wasn’t it?

Christmas Present: It has been said that today is a gift. I believe that, but lately I’m asking where I can return a few. If I can’t give them back entirely, can I at least make an exchange? Surely there’s something that fits a little better. In spite of my lackluster enthusiasm this year, the tree is decorated (but not the mantel), and I’m going through all the motions.  My current mantra: Fake it ‘til you make it! Case of the holiday blues? Nah! Probably my rebellious streak coming out to play. I’ll feel merry when I’m good and ready – not when the calendar dictates.

Christmas Yet to Come: This one gets a little tricky because (gasp!) I can alter it somewhat by my behavior during Christmas Present. That’s an eye-opener and a serious conundrum all rolled into one. If I continue along the path of being the ogre who expects grades, a respectful attitude and a certain level of cleanliness, Jeff and I could spend some holidays alone.  If I throw all expectations out the window and befriend those I was charged with raising, I’ll never have a moment of peace.

I returned from my excursion with Christmas spirit renewed. While the season sometimes seems too much on top of what already hangs from my limbs, time spent with family and friends is a welcomed diversion from that swirling vortex. It’s quite possible that this year I’ve been saved by the Christmas bell.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Part of the problem: I’m just not that into the holidays any more. Sad, but true. It’s all become over-the-top and too much for my enjoys-peace-and-quiet, introverted self. Cindy Lou Who, of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”, summed it up quite nicely when she told her father, “It’s just that I look around at everyone getting all kerbobbled. Doesn’t this seem superfluous?” I’ll say it for you, “Bah humbug!” It’s just that I’d rather make a special day over something unimportant to the rest of the world than participate in mass festivities; I’m a bit of a rebel that way.

To get through the season with a socially acceptable level of style and grace, I employ a multitude of coping strategies. All the usual suspects are used: exercise (I’m convinced the mental health benefits far outweigh the physical), eating healthily, taking vitamins, getting adequate amounts of sleep, drinking plenty of water,  not overloading the calendar, beating my head against the wall while mumbling incoherently . . .

This year, I researched additional prospective tactics to add to the tool chest as I found myself stressed long before the holidays arrived. An article on the Mayo Clinic website suggests “being realistic and planning ahead”.  Shoot, there’s another problem: I’m steeping in realism, and “planning ahead” (laugh). I try, but with four other people, a dog, a cat, 2 hamsters, 3 automobiles, and a home, the monkey-wrench possibilities are endless. 

Another interesting pointer came to me via e-mail from Dr. Oz’s Real Age Newsletter and caused me to welcome a germ into my world with open arms. Supposedly, I can introduce the inner embryo of the wheat kernel to my oatmeal and it will make me feel less stressed.

Wheat germ contains the phytonutrient octacosanol, which is known to help increase physical endurance and improve the body’s ability to handle stress. From the virtues extolled, one could sprinkle this stuff on just about anything – even glazed, fried-in-lard donuts – and make it healthy. OK, not really. But seriously, sprinkling is for stress sissies; open the jar and dump it down the old gullet. (Maybe have a glass of water handy. I haven’t tried it yet, but it looks pretty dry. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention wheat germ is very high in fiber. How to put this politely? Well, if the bathroom isn’t a place of refuge, don’t follow the whole-jar advice.)

 It will all be over before we know it, and it’s coming regardless of whether or not the house is decorated and the “perfect” gifts are under the tree.  And I will enjoy numerous things, but I can guarantee not one of them will come with tags, my peace and joy always comes without packages, boxes, and bags!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley