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

In keeping with my word I set aside my semi-Grinchy ways, armed myself with some holiday spirit, plastered on a smile, and mostly worked my way through the holiday shopping list. Incidentally, that list gets harder and more stressful to make each year because the people in my life already have everything within my monetary grasp.

Wearily returning home and without missing a beat I became determined to put additional unpleasantness behind me by embarking on a marathon wrapping session.  For good measure, I taped my grinning-while-bearing-it mouth shut to avoid verbally spoiling the outward appearance that I was enjoying the task.  I know, what is wrong with me?  It’s the most wonderful time of the year! (And, ladies, Scotch tape does a fairly decent job of moustache removal.)

Somewhere along the line I picked up that finding a special, meaningful gift and packaging it in a way that incites anxiousness and intrigue on the recipient’s part is supposed to be one of the highlights of life. ‘Tis better to give than receive, right? Absolutely.  I’m just so much better at giving, well, not material stuff. I partially blame it on having far too many options — a nightmare for those of us who aim for “just right” in the gift department.

Anyway, the wrapping made me think about outward appearances and how it really is possible to dress up practically anything and have it look fabulous on the outside. But isn’t what’s on the inside what really counts?

I suppose there is something magic about the possibilities of what might be inside . . . right up until the contents are found to be a disappointment after lavish packaging built lofty expectations. Precisely why I avoid elaborate wrap jobs. That explanation also doubles to conceal the fact that my skills in that department are lacking. Not much in life intimidates me more than fancy gift-wrap accessories. I do well to tie my shoes. Enough said.

Enter the gift bag.  Why didn’t someone think of it sooner? Even I was able to quickly master the art of fluffing the tissue with relative ease. I use them as much as I can and they have eased my gift-giving woes, but they’re not practical for family members prone to pre-presentation snooping.  (In case they are reading: I refer to those who rifle through my closet. And you thought I didn’t know. If you really want to pull it off, pay closer attention to putting things back the way you found them.)  

Deep down, I know I shouldn’t let the whole gift-giving frenzy spoil my good cheer, but as I near the big day I like to make sure all the present stress is wrapped up so that I might enjoy the future holiday. And when it’s done, I get a twinkle in my eye thinking of all the reasons I want to give to others while remembering that the reason for the season has nothing to do with packages, boxes, or bags.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

One holiday down. I bet most of you have come out of the Thanksgiving-food coma, but I’m happily still sedated. Don’t worry. I did it on purpose as it’s my preferred state this time of year.

I thoroughly enjoy holiday get-togethers and spending time with extended family. However, I hate shopping. Period. Any time. And the shopping atmosphere during the holidays: loathe entirely. Even the music gets on my nerves. Do I sound Grinchy? Good. That’s what I was aiming for.

I’m not sure when or how I turned so sour on the holiday season, but I am concerned that my awful attitude will grow and I’ll be an old, bitter, nasty woman who no one will want to be around. Oh my. How sick is it that that almost sounds like a good plan? Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to get a little peace and quiet.

Kidding aside—and maybe there is more than a slight possibility I wasn’t kidding— why does it take so much stuff to celebrate? Yes, I’m a mom. I get it. It’s incredible to behold the sparkle in a young child’s eye as he experiences the magic of Christmas, but I’m a firm believer in “less is more”. Trust me when I say that sweet little cherub will one day be a hormonal teenager. Save some of that wanting to “give ‘til it hurts” in reserve . . .  you’re going to need it.

Anyway, getting back to our compulsion for over-the-top consumerism, I’d just like to buy myself a little sanity and tranquility for the holiday season. Then I’d be fully equipped to give respect, common courtesy, a helping hand, a smile, and even the benefit of the doubt that underneath that crabby lady who elbowed her way to snatch the last whatsit from my weary hands is under normal circumstances a decent human being.

My bah-humbugness aside, people I love would be disappointed if I didn’t hop on the runaway holiday freight train, so I will join the masses and do my part in keeping retailers merry. And because I know many of you will be there with me, I’d like to remind everyone of a few things.

The Baytown Police Department’s Crime Prevention Office doesn’t want the spirit of giving lulling us into providing opportunities for crooks.

Park in well lit areas and make note of where you parked. Upon returning to your vehicle, have your keys ready. (Ladies, this is NOT the time to be digging through your purse.)

If you will be shopping several stores, hide previous purchases in the trunk or somehow place items of value where they are not visible by a passerby.

If possible, don’t shop alone. Stay alert and be aware of your surroundings. Carry purses close to the body and avoid carrying large amounts of cash. Also, don’t overburden yourself with packages.

Remember if you’re stressed out and in a hurry you’re more likely to become careless and unwittingly assist a real Scrooge. I know . . . IF?  Be careful out there, my friends.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

In a few short weeks you’re likely to find me railing against holidays. The big, over-commercialized ones are around the corner. Retailers make certain I’m aware far earlier than I find necessary. Annoyed, I look away. Some would say it’s a form of denial, but I prefer to think of it as thumbing my nose at the ridiculous.

That said, today is a special day and one that I’ve never allowed to go unnoticed here in my little corner of the paper. Today —the first Sunday after Labor Day, and as presidentially proclaimed in 1978—is Grandparents Day.

I walk a fine line here in that I know if I continue to build this one up, the retailers will come. But this is one I feel doesn’t get enough recognition.

When I think of the word grandparent, I hear emphasis on the grand. That sentiment increases when one can add great in front of it, and I was fortunate enough to have had great-grandparents far enough into my life that I have many fond memories of them: The funniest being that I called my great-grandfather “granddaughter” until I was well into my teens.

I started calling him that as a toddler and no one ever corrected me (that I can remember). It took my Aunt Bonnie, who is only five years my senior and known for telling things like they are, to set me straight. Yes, I was embarrassed. But, hey, I still love “Granddotter” (that’s how it was spelled in my misinformed-by-omission mind), the late Johnnie Spaulding, and think of his ever-so-sweet coin-doling self frequently.

As I move down the family tree and remember those I’ve lost, I’m happy to report that I still have “Granddotter’s” daughter, my grandmother. She recently moved to town, and some of you may have met her: Ruby Watson. If you know her already, you no doubt see where I get the fiery spunk that stays hidden beneath a genteel exterior. (We’re those publicly quiet types who surprise people with what we say when we decide to speak.)

Then I get to my children’s grandparents. It’s hard to know where to begin with this bunch. As I think of them and their contributions the thought of “where would we be without them?” is what repeatedly surfaces. These folks have come to the rescue countless times.

They talked me down from the parenting ledge during many instances when I struggled to survive their darling grandbabies. And on those days when I thought I’d snap, they graciously swooped in and carted off my offspring for days of spoiling. That was always a win-win.

The kids always had a great time under the doting glow of patient people who thought they could do no wrong, the grandparents got to enjoy some mostly-not-responsible-for-the-daily-grind kid fun, and I regained a shred of sanity. Not one of my children recognizes how much they owe their very lives to these people. Recall that I’ve spoken of why animals eat their young.

Many thanks and Happy Grandparents Day to those of you who make life grand!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Sitting at Gentry Junior School’s start-of -the-year orientation, I was delighted to hear from school nurse, Gayle Boisture, that the H1N1 virus—otherwise known as the swine flu—had been downgraded and was not the concern it was this time last year. But I must warn you all of the latest threat. On your behalf, I stay on the cutting edge of trends and have been monitoring something creepy for a good while. It’s time for me to sound the alarm.

If you are in the least bit squeamish, or if the mere mention of head lice makes your scalp crawl you may want to stop here. My head’s feeling a bit itchy, and I may not sleep for a week, but I’m highly compensated for such burdens.

An infestation eradicated decades ago is rearing its ugly, bloodsucking-insect head here in the good ole United States of America. I’d seen a sprinkling of news stories with professionals warning it was coming as the problem was getting severely worse around the globe, and tucked it away.

Most of what I ran across sounded “chicken little”, but the headlines are popping up in greater frequency and I recently learned that the Environmental Protection Agency held a summit on the impending crisis in 2009. What has some high-ranking officials bugging out? Bedbugs.

The little critters have caused Ohio’s government and the EPA to scratch at each other over the “proper” use of chemicals, and as is usually the case, the good citizenry is hung in the middle—taking to the sidewalks to sleep at night because sleeping quarters are uninhabitable. Now the Centers for Disease Control and, I kid you not, the Department of Defense are involved in the crisis.  

I know, at first glace and from up on a cleanliness pedestal, filth comes to mind. You may want to hop on down, because this is a problem for any one of us who doesn’t reside in a hermetically-sealed bubble. One can pick them up in just about any public place, and bring a happy bedbug couple to reside and start a family in their dream home: your bed.

Back in the day when pesticides were pesticides (I know some have been proven harmful, but in my humble opinion the pendulum has swung too far the opposite direction. Save the hate-mail for someone smarter than me.) DDT wiped out this nuisance in the developed world.

Since about 1995, they’ve been re-emerging: resistant to DDT and any other weenie-fied chemical we now have at our disposal. Some statistics show the infestation doubled between 1995 and 2001 and that the bedbug population has continued to grow as more pesticides used to counter other pests while peripherally killing bedbugs were removed from the arsenal.  

Luckily, extensive lab testing shows that bedbugs are not likely to pass disease from one human to another. However, they can be extremely harmful to mental health. I know some of you are already in a panic and will no doubt soon be suffering from delusional parasitosis, whereby you’ll be certain you are infested with a parasite that isn’t present.

I suppose the world just isn’t right unless we have a certain level of paranoia to contend with. I sometimes lie awake at night wondering what to obsess over next. I bet you’ll do it now, too. Good night, sleep tight; don’t let the bedbugs bite!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Please join me in wishing the great United States of America a happy birthday.

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