Natalie Whatley

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!

Back in 1984 President Reagan designated July as National Ice Cream Month and the third Sunday of July National Ice Cream Day.  Guess what today is? You got it.

Reagan recognized that ice cream was enjoyed by 90 percent of the nation’s population and that with such a thing tying most us together we should observe the day with “appropriate ceremonies and activities”.

In support of our dairy farmers and because I consider it my patriotic duty, I will overly indulge today. I’ve never needed an excuse to shove heaping spoonfuls of the creamy, cold concoction into my mouth, but today I’ll do it for a cause and without guilt.  Feel free to do the same.

Most folks have a favorite flavor —mine being mint chocolate chip—and don’t veer too far into the grocer’s freezer or from their palate’s comfort zone.  I admit to searching out my family’s favorites and ignoring the rest. And a quick search around the internet made it clear it’s probably best I stick to what I know.

Hands down Japan is the winner of weird when it comes to frozen “treats”.  Ever had a hankering for some octopus meat in a slushy cherry ice? How about raw horse flesh in vanilla ice cream? Or chicken wing ice cream? If none of those bring excitement to your salivary glands, they also have squid ink flavor (the ink actually gives it a dark charcoal color) and even fish ice cream. Seemingly that market sends a resounding “YUM!” since producers keep cranking those out, but I say YUCK!

Venezuelan ice cream makers provide a spaghetti and cheese flavor (without tomato sauce) while Italy boasts spleen (didn’t say from what) and artichoke. France comes in with caviar. DOUBLE YUCK!

I had no idea what the rest of the world’s ice cream shops were serving up when last month I was thoroughly grossed out as Sparky’s Homemade Ice Cream in Columbia, Missouri made headlines over its cicada ice cream.

Sparky’s whipped up a batch of the frozen insect treat –fully cooking the rather large bugs before adding as an ingredient—and the day before its big debut they had already sold out. Faced with such demand and prepared to supply, Sparky’s management decided they’d better check with Columbia/Boone County Department of Public Health before the cicadas overtook vanilla sales.

Turned out, the local food code didn’t directly address cicada preparation. Thusly, officials couldn’t exactly prohibit sales, but “advised against it”. Second-batch production was halted and I suppose someone, somewhere is disappointed over it.

The queasiness I imagine would ensue just from the sight and definitely the smell of the flavors mentioned above make the temporary brain freeze I occasionally suffer seem quite mild.

All of that said, here in the good old United States we’ve come a long way with our frozen, dairy confections since Quaker colonists introduced their recipes on this soil.

Pile your cones high. Enjoy some sweet goodness . . . let your troubles melt away, drip down your arm and puddle at your feet. And let’s not even scream over the sticky mess.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It used to be the stuff of science fiction: living to 125. Scientists now say it’s not only possible for those born today, but probable. But how about living to 1,000? And if that can be done, why stop there?

Since a little before I hit 40—what I deemed “middle aged” although it has statistically shifted forward— I have spent some time reflecting on my own mortality. I know, not the most pleasant of thoughts, but it’s part and parcel of the human experience. Thus the reason I had to read when I came across an article that caught my eye with living 125 years and then blew me away with 1,000.

When I dug deeper into the subject matter, I found that some scientists have actually been making the 1,000 claim for almost a decade. Don’t know how I missed that.

Dr. Aubrey de Grey, English author and theoretician in gerontology (study of social, psychological, and biological aspects of aging) says that the fundamental knowledge needed to develop anti-aging medicine mostly already exists, but that science is way ahead of funding. In some ways I’m thinking that may be a good thing because we have a few things to sort out.

Aside from my personal feelings about very long life, I couldn’t help but wonder how a massively increased population would affect our planet.  And what about quality of life?

Never ran across anything regarding population. That’s probably a very negative side effect proponents like to ignore or at least downplay.

And many scientists—even those not suggesting we go stretching life expectancy to some crazy-high number—say that the aging process can be stopped and even reversed on a scale unseen by us modern folks. That means quality of life will not suffer. Being greatly “aged” (it all becomes quite relative) will not equal frailty. Forget about the Fountain of Youth; we’re talking immortality.

At what age should we “freeze” everyone?

Would we all be allowed to choose?

How old do you want to be for the rest of time?

When do we “retire”? Talk about worrying over “outliving your money” . . . SHEESH! But maybe we’d work to the age of 980.

Of note, and while I realize mathematically it will take a long time to reach 1,000, is that in recent modern times each year we add about three months to statistical life expectancy. Researchers point to obesity and its related maladies as the only real thing keeping that number down. But with cell and gene therapy it could all become moot making age limitless.

I don’t know. It’s all pretty mind boggling. Imagine the possibilities —or maybe the impossibilities—of having the wealth of our most brilliant minds over that long a time period. Would there be anything left to discover if immortality was?

Of course living in the times I do and having no other frame of reference, it seems to me that a big part of what makes mortal, human life special is that it is finite. Given my tendency to wander off on tangents I’m not so sure I’d ever be properly motivated to get anything done if I thought I had that much time.

I can’t wrap my throbbing mind around it. “Cure” old age and possibly death? For right now, I’ll settle for curing the headache all the questions the topic brings.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It’s as American as apple pie. Some would even argue it has become a recreational sport. I’m not sure if I should be proud or ashamed to be darn good at it and proclaim I would have the fastest mouth if not for my southern drawl. I refer to our collective love for bemoaning our individual busyness.  Admit it. It’s a favorite pastime when we gather in groups. And I’m as guilty as any.

With that confession, I’d like to state here on this Memorial Day weekend that I’m eternally grateful for all the men and women who died in the service of this country so that I can enjoy the freedom to be busy at whatever I choose. I never forget that freedom of choice comes with a heavy price that is still fought for and paid today. And while I have no specific plans set for tomorrow, I’ll be pausing my chosen activity or inactivity at 3 p.m. for a few moments of remembrance. I hope you’ll do the same.

That 3 p.m. local-time pause was brought about in a year 2000 resolution entitled “National Moment of Remembrance”. Supporters of the resolution hoped to re-educate and remind Americans of the true meaning of Memorial Day, which seems to have been lost in the retail and barbecue frenzy of the three-day weekend.

We’re asked to “voluntarily and informally observe in our own way a moment of remembrance and respect, pausing from whatever we are doing”. That’s the least each of us can do when we consider what’s been given to us by brave, honorable soldiers. As a nation we used to do so much more to observe the day. Have we forgotten?

And what happened to the red poppies? I remember seeing them when I was a child. Maybe I’m not hanging around in the right places or with the right crowd, but I don’t recall seeing them anywhere in recent years. It used to be tradition for them to be worn on Memorial Day and the sales by local VFW’s helped support programs benefitting the families soldiers left behind.

“They fell, but o’er their glorious grave floats free the banner of the cause they died to save.” –Francis Marion Crawford

Don’t let this weekend pass without spending some time reflecting on what it took to gain the freedom you enjoy. And better yet, pass on the true meaning of Memorial Day to children so that they may also learn to have an appreciation for the cost of freedom and the price paid by people from a different place in time.

Soldiers who turn their lives over to the service of their country recognize something bigger than themselves, and so should we. Remember the patriots who made our pursuit of life, liberty and happiness in whatever makes us busy possible.

 © 2011 Natalie Whatley

Since today marks a very special day for all mothers to be honored, I spent some time searching out greeting cards with just the right sentiments for my own set of maternal figures. The major producers of such cards aim to hit every angle of motherhood and supposedly have something fit for everyone. But as I read I realized I may have created a potential problem for my own offspring. 

But first, a little history on the greeting card: The beginnings of the likes of Hallmark and American Greetings date back to civilizations from over 500 years ago. Ancient cards were simple slips of papyrus exchanged by Chinese and Egyptian cultures with wishes of fortune and goodwill.

Sometime in the 1400s the Europeans caught on to the social wave and the wealthiest among them had cards hand-delivered. Around the globe, most of the population could not afford such luxury, but in the 1840s the invention of the postage stamp gave true birth to the greeting card industry.

Today, there are seemingly endless possibilities in store greeting-card aisles and computers have even provided us the ability to customize and print a card in the comfort of our own homes. Thanks to often sappy marketing, we all know what we’re “supposed” to do and when . . . what’s polite and expected.

Looking through the lens of some of the shenanigans perpetrated by my own three darling not-so-little-anymore cherubs, I get a slight thrill out of the bullets I know they will sweat in trying to find the perfect card for their own mother.

I’m a mish-mash of all sorts of parenting styles depending on the kid and the moment, but I’ve been consistently inconsistent. That counts for something, right?

Anyway, reading card after card I wondered how my children will view me from their own adulthoods. I’m hoping history will be kind. We only get one shot and with less-than-perfect vision I’ve tried to hit the constantly-squirming target.

What memory will stand out the most as they reflect on Mother’s Day with supposed 20/20 hindsight? My best days or my worst? Kindness or anger? Smile or scowl? Sanity or lunacy?

From my perspective, all my patience and goodwill were used up back in a time they probably don’t remember. Not that I want to change the practice, but it’s sort of a shame that kids tend to leave the nest on the heels of the tumultuous teen years when angst and strife have peaked.

Only time will tell what kind of history memories will produce. If I had to guess from the midst of where I stand now—between young folks and perils they readily dismiss—I’d say all the prefabbed sweetness and light is not in the cards for my foreseeable future. But in finding greetings for my own moms, I know the day will come when the benevolent struggle will be seen with clarity and finding just the right card will be easy.

Happy Mother’s Day!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I got a harebrained idea and decided to get on the Easter Bunny’s trail and work backwards to see just where he came from. I backtracked and burrowed deep. My mind is now scrambled.  If any of you are experts and spot an error, feel free to set me straight and know I tried to get it right. I’m like a moth to a flame when it comes to topics where conflicting information abounds.

To start off I learned that the Easter Bunny started out as the Easter Hare. By strict definition a hare cannot be a bunny as a bunny is a baby rabbit. Rabbits are not hares; there are differences. If you want to chase your own cotton-picking tail on the subject and how it relates, have at it. It’s a little confusing, but most agree the change to “bunny” in our modern times probably occurred because that sounded cuter and most people don’t realize rabbits and hares are not one in the same. It’s all about slick marketing.

At first glance, it appears the egg-laying bunny (I’ll get to that) has nothing to do with the Biblically-based holiday. But like many other parts of our culture, it all dates back to pre-Christian mythology somewhat melding with Christian celebrations and then morphing into one of our heavily-marketed special days. I know I make that sound not so warm and bunny fuzzy; I’m a capitalist with a more than slight disdain for commercialization. Yes, it’s a conundrum being me.

The beginnings of what we now see as Easter festivities started in 13^th century Germany where feasts were held in honor of the Vernal Equinox – the beginning of spring. Of course rabbits were a great symbol of fertility and spring renewal. Plus, legend has it that German mythological goddess Ostara (Anglo-Saxon name Eostre) had a hare (Lepus) as a consort (just repeating what I read, folks). She became angry with Lepus and cast him into the heavens . . . where he became the constellation Lepus the Hare at the feet of Orion.

At some point Ostara’s anger dimmed and she gave Lepus the gift of laying eggs once a year. (Ok, I can be creative, but even I couldn’t make this stuff up!) Eventually, Christianity adopted this same time of year to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ where renewal and new life were also central themes. Traditions that had been in place prior became part of the Resurrection celebration.   

In 1680 the first published story appeared about a rabbit laying eggs and hiding them in a garden. And then, all of this lore was brought to what is now the United States by German immigrants settled in Pennsylvania Dutch areas in the 1800s. Those children had a firmly held tradition of making nests  out of bonnets and caps hidden in their homes and gardens for the “Osterhas” (that’s German for Easter Hare) to lay his colorful eggs.

As you can surely imagine, those “nests” morphed into our modern-day Easter baskets where generally children leave their own colored eggs atop plastic grass to be swapped for candy, treats, and other small gifts.  

No matter from which angle any of it is traced back, it’s all celebratory of new life and new beginnings. And that’s eggstra special!  Happy Easter!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I bet none of you knew today, Sunday, February 20, 2011 would be so hectic. Sundays are all about rest and rejuvenation, but there’s no time for resting on our laurels today. This could be the busiest day you’ve had all year. I certainly didn’t see it coming.

Consult your local television guide for time (my satellite guide is easy enough for a monkey to use, but alas I still don’t know how to work it)because today 43 of the best stock-car drivers in the world will compete in “The Great American Race”, NASCAR’s most prestigious event, the Daytona 500. (I bet a bunch of you thought I didn’t care about such things. I don’t, but I live with a couple of gear-heads and it was brought to my attention that it has been 10 years since Dale Earnhardt lost his life in the event. Wow. I remember that, and time surely does fly.) I personally can watch cars go in circles for about 2.4 seconds before I lose interest.

If racing doesn’t make your wheels turn, today is Cherry Pie Day. It’s pretty self explanatory, and I happen to love cherry pie. You know where to find me if you decide to appropriately celebrate. I take mine with Blue Bell’s Homemade Vanilla on the side.

It’s also Hoodie Hoo Day. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it because I am a repository of useless knowledge, and I had never run across such silliness. Anyway, it’s a day to officially chase away winter and bring in spring. I’m all for that. The celebratory ritual calls for all of us to go outside at noon, wave our hands in the air and chant, “Hoodie Hoo!” Sounds suspiciously like “loony tune” . . .  But who am I to judge?

And I saved the best for last (The NASCAR fans may disagree): Today is Love Your Pet Day. I’m hoping you’re all catching this announcement early and will have many hours to shower your beloved critter(s) with affection and their favorite treats.

Just last week I was at Cedar Bayou Animal Clinic visiting with the wonderful Dr. Mat Dobbs as Scooter and Shadow were due for annual exams and shots. The slightly overweight Shadow is a young, stealthy squirrel-hunting machine.  I hung a bell around his neck to alert my cute rodent friends, to no avail. I fear that one day the squirrels are going to gang up and make a fine, fur-lined nest out of “Killer”. Time will tell.

Scooter, on the other hand, is now among the ranks of the senior citizenry — has the gray hair, arthritis and clouding eyes to show for it. It’s hard for me to believe he’s been a member of our family for 10 years. We adopted him from the city’s animal shelter back in 2001 because our then four-year-old son had been carrying around a ripped-in-half plastic fishing worm as his “pet”.

Turned out Scooter sensed I was the hesitant party in the pet-acquiring process. He has been at my feet proving his undying devotion all day, every day since we brought him home. I imagine he thinks I hadn’t noticed. So, I’ll forgo the roundy-round racing, pie and chanting away winter like a nut. I’ve got to get busy making sure Scooter knows I love him, too!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Because I aim to provide some service through my silliness and knowing some guys have forgotten or procrastinated until now: Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. The mere mention makes males the world over shudder. I imagine that’s especially worse here in our Western culture where “goods” are held in high regard. Anyway, you’ve been notified. In writing. Happy shopping.

In light of the heartfelt holiday, I thought I’d share something that’s unknown about me. I’m sure it’s hard for you to believe after all I’ve shared in this little corner of the newspaper that I’d have any secrets left. It’s hard work maintaining an air of mystery in such a situation, but somehow I’ve managed.

Anyway, what you don’t know because I keep it well hidden is that at my very core I’m a mushy, gushy romantic. (Please keep this between us; I can’t have everyone knowing about my soft underbelly.) And I chose the eve of what’s “supposed” to be the most romantic day of the year to make this confession because tomorrow is just another day to me. All the commercial, frilly, frou-frou fluff: silly. A seeming contradiction? Maybe.  I’m full of them. But that, you already knew.

Before you start thinking that I forgot to pack my inner Scrooge away with the Christmas decorations, allow me to submit that I have paid (with the giver’s hard-earned money, of course) the credit card bills containing costly Valentine’s flowers and waited ridiculously long times in restaurants to “properly” celebrate.  Call me strange, but not exactly my definition of a good or romantic time. And I want to know I’m loved and love others on any old ordinary day . . . not just because we felt obliged to express it on yet another over-commercialized date on the calendar.

Because feelings at my house would be hurt if I totally ignored the festivities (I’m sensitive to those who don’t share my views), I do my part in helping the economy by purchasing some of the day’s accoutrements. However, I don’t expect it in return and honest to goodness don’t get my nose out of joint over it. It’s really not important to me. I know, men have been warned to be VERY suspicious of my kind . . . “It’s a trick!” No, I like to think it’s a treat for those who love me. And of course they are free to shower me with gifts and/or loving sentiments the other 364 days of the year.

Do I begrudge those who place high importance on the day? Absolutely not.  The sweetest thing about love is knowing what makes your beloved’s heart beat (or not) and specifically aiming Cupid’s arrow. Some of us are good shots while others miss the mark.  And maybe that’s how all of this got started: A day to spray shoot all our arrows and pray one hits the bull’s-eye.

There’s an easier, and I’d wager cheaper, way. It can be a win-win and we are all equipped with the proper investigative tools: eyes, ears, and a mouth. (Remember we were given two ears and one mouth . . . listen twice as much as you speak.) Know the object of your affection and every day will be Valentine’s Day.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Oh my gosh! Or OMG! For the more youthful among my readership. I can barely contain myself. It’s Stupor Goal Sunday!

I apologize if you’re a crazed football fan already offended by my taking the name of the holiest of all NFL holidays in vain, but know that I am an admitted, complete idiot when it comes to football and to be honest, sports in general.  Of course I’m capable of learning, but the fact of the matter is: I don’t want to. Sometimes it’s just plain fun to revel in one’s own ignorance. And it annoys know-it-alls, which is entirely too much fun to pass up.

Anyway, isn’t the whole point of this fine day to suspend ourselves in a state of reduced cognitive function by staring into a large electronic screen while eating and drinking ourselves silly? (I did my research.  Today’s food and beverage consumption is only trumped in the U.S. by Thanksgiving Day.) It’s not hard to do, and even we lesser football idiots succumb.

As a little background on my lack of knowledge: I’ve watched my own boys run up and down the gridiron, but most of my pigskin education comes from one of my all-time favorite movies: “The Waterboy”.  I’ll pause and allow you to groan, but come on, what’s not to love about Kathy Bates’ “the foosball is the devil!” and Henry Winkler’s slightly neurotic rendition of a football coach? And Adam Sandler . . .  just makes me laugh. Although clueless, I can still enjoy today and all of its splendor.

I’ll watch the game because the commercials will be awesome. Sure, the cost of a snippet of the airtime is enough to support a third-world country for a year (didn’t research this point, so don’t quote me), but companies go all out in developing ads they assume will bring the most bang for their buck.  And I find them rather amusing in an absurd kind of way.

And then there’s the half-time show.  Yes, I saw (well, not really) the infamous “wardrobe malfunction” a few years ago. While I understand many found it in poor taste, I thought the ensuing hubbub was a colossal waste of time. I mean, I blinked and missed it. The men folk in my house did not, but there was a, “Did I just see what I think I saw?” Millions of viewers probably uttered (or maybe excitedly exclaimed) the same words, but you have to admit we shined a big ole spotlight on it – making a mountain out of  . . . never mind.  We let far worse things observed by our peepers slide every day.

But the real reason I must include myself in all the fun and frivolity are the chips and dips, because like the gorgeous Fergie, who will perform with the Black-Eyed Peas during half-time today, I only allow 7-layer dip to cross my lips on this one sacred day.  I’m disciplined that way.  And because you’re all no doubt already in a trance, you’ll believe that. That’s one score for me in the Stupor Goal!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I’ll confess from the outset that my mind is all over the place this week. For starters, I’m cohabitating with kids full time while school is out. That on top of messed-up sleep patterns and a recent patch of watching too much television caused my disorientation. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

 On this second day of the brand-new year I sit contemplating that 2011 is a Rabbit year under the Chinese zodiac. No, I’m not “up” on the subject, nor do I dwell upon this type of thing, but I frequently immerse myself in Asian culture while dining at the Hibachi Buffet. 

Being so cultured, my ears perked when I heard a news story about the approaching Rabbit. Supposedly, this will be a more peaceful, fun, relaxing year as the ferocious 2010 Tiger leaves.  Be patient, though, the change won’t be official until February 2; calmness may not settle over us until then. I’ll take serenity whenever I can get it.

Anyway, I know you’d expect no less from me, so I have derived my own little system of prognosticating. 2011 will likely be the Twilight Zone for me. I got the notion from an annual tradition that causes me to glue myself to the TV overnight and for hours longer than I will watch combined for the remainder of the year: watching the SyFy —used to be Sci-Fi— channel’s “Twilight Zone” New Years marathon. (Should you ever need a cure for insomnia look up that name change and the resulting whimpering and gnashing of the teeth. Some people really need to get a life. Seriously, is that all you have to be upset about?) Yes, I’m aware I could own them all on DVD and view at my leisure. That takes all the fun out of it.

In spite of the fact that the series started a decade before I was even born, I love it. So what if it’s black and white with now laughable special effects. The stories are classic—written by the likes of Ray Bradbury among others.  Episodes deliver a mix of fantasy, science fiction, suspense, and horror often concluding with an unexpected twist.  Most were weaved into what could have been real life upping the ante and causing the viewer to feel a little (or a lot) unnerved.

Even better, writers were using science fiction for social comment and going uncensored because television networks at the time were ignorant of such a delivery method. Brilliant. What stark contrast to where we are now: We let it all hang out, heck, spoon-feed it, no need for any thought process. Sad.

Long before the popular TV show took the name, twilight zone simply meant “gray area”. And that’s precisely what I’m feeling for 2011. Tough for a girl who spent most her 40 years categorizing life events black, white, or other colors of the rainbow. Gray was never an option, and I certainly shied away from unexpected endings – gave me some silly sense of control. (Insert maniacal laugh here.)

Armed with a nice span of powerful ideas brought forth through cautionary tales more about human behavior than aliens and/or monsters, I’ll enter this “dimension of imagination” and do my best not to appear cheesy with dramatic flair. It will be a journey of sight, sound, and mind, for I have now entered The Twilight Zone.

© Natalie Whatley 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2010 Natalie Whatley