Natalie Whatley

Especially this time of year, many parents verbally deliver an idiom in the hopes of gaining a little pre-Santa-visit compliance. It baffles young children and brings about a degree of the desired result in those who haven’t lived long enough to figure out their ignorance is being preyed upon.

But as is the case here in modern times, technology may once again change the very fabric of our lives and make liars out of older kids telling younger siblings, “No, Mom doesn’t really have eyes in the back of her head. Just wait. In time you’ll see with your own two frontally-ensconced eyeballs that there will be times when you’ll get away with close to murder.”  I already sense fear in brats the world over. Of course, I don’t know any personally.

Controversial New York University arts professor, Wafaa Bilal, recently had a thumb-sized digital camera implanted in the back of his head for an art project commissioned by a museum in Qatar. The implications are beyond interesting even if the images captured don’t fall under the mainstream definition of what constitutes art.

The project, titled “The 3^rd I”, is being billed as “a comment on the inaccessibility of time, and the inability to capture memory and experience.” The camera, which will be worn by Bilal for one year, will record images at one-minute intervals 24-hours a day and transmit them to monitors at the museum.

The whole thing teeters on the edge of weird artsy thinking running amok. If I think of my own day-to-day life, it seems the potential is great for there to be a whole lot of nothing. (Let’s hope for the sake of paying museum customers that Bilal leads a far more exciting life than me.) But Bilal said in an interview that he chose to do it as a statement about what we don’t see and leave behind. Whoa. That sort of made the hamster in my brain start running on the wheel.  Now I’m fascinated.

On the one hand, I probably don’t want to know what is successfully pulled off behind my back. In some areas of life, ignorance is bliss. But the “leave behind” part, that got to me a bit. What all have I forever walked away from simply because I never knew it was there in the first place? Yes, the hamster has nearly run itself to death.

I bet in the grand scheme that there’s a reason we were designed with both eyes in the front. (Wait, what if front is really back? How do I know front is front? Because I learned it from someone who told me they had eyes in the back of their head?) Maybe it all somehow ties in with how humans need to look ahead and move forward.

Yeah, we were also given a neck and a good span of peripheral vision, but we weren’t intended to dwell on our behind, I mean, our past. I’m more than a little perplexed by the whole idea. Do I wish to spy with a third little eye? I don’t think my hamster could handle it.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Bear with me if you can. I’m a bit tipsy. I’ll do my best to type in a straight line.

The weather has been intoxicating, and I am guilty of consuming way more than I should have. (Have the tan to prove it.) I couldn’t help myself — probably an indicator that I have a problem.

The thing is: I live for October and April. The comfort and beauty they offer is what sustains me for the other ten months here in sultry Southeast Texas. Plus, with the low humidity I get a few good hair days in, and well, shallow as that may be those make a girl feel like life is worth living.

Each year around this time I admit to imitating my little squirrel friends and going a little nutty. I have a one-track mind and all that matters is being outside. The squirrels, however, at least look industrious as they pack away needed winter supplies.

Me, I just bask in nature with a dopey grin and get rather irritable when responsibility forces me indoors. Thus the reason I’m mostly left alone with my intoxicant; I’m a little more fun to be around after I’ve soaked in it.

I fantasize about researching and finding a place where the climate is like this year-round. But then I realize that this weather seems so wonderful because it is fleeting. A steady diet would assuredly cause me to take it for granted. I’m a firm believer in that experiencing unpleasantness makes me much better at identifying and appreciating pleasantness.

And when I ponder it further, the seasons really do all work together – like it was meant to, I’m sure. Nature’s pressure relief valve — the now shorter days of Fall—give a needed break from the long summer ones where extended daylight made me feel like I needed to cram more into my days.

Then there’s cutting off the air conditioning and opening windows, enjoying the added weight and security of a light blanket (or in my case two . . . my personal thermostat has been declared broken) during slumber, all the pumpkin flavored and scented items, and the arch nemesis of my waistline: candy corn.

There is no other sugary delight that can hold a candle to it. I haven’t bought any yet, but I’m salivating just thinking about it. At some point I will make myself sick with an entire bag . . .  in one private sitting. I don’t share, and I won’t even allow myself to feel guilty. Added layers of fall clothing will hide the evidence that will appear on my backside.

There’s a theme emerging here: overindulgence. But I like to think I have mastered overindulging in moderation.

I can’t help it. I fall in love anew each year with October. It makes me dizzy and causes a sweet swirl in my tummy. Is it the new romance or am I drunk on the cool sunshine? Probably both with a whole bag of colorful confectionary maize sprinkled on top.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Someone out there knows that last week’s column, where I gave an analogy of myself morphing into a jack-in-the-box, was a stunning example of me missing the mark.

See, with a writing gig such as this one, readers are invited to contact me and proffer thoughts and/or suggestions. I enjoy the feedback immensely, but I was given a literary challenge that proved too much for my abilities. Good writers make dull subject matter fascinating. I’m not quite sure what it says about me that when given an engaging topic, I can’t perform. (I bet the pharmaceutical world has a pill for that.)

I was challenged to get you, Dear Reader, to step outside of your box – get out of your comfort zone, embrace the awkward, and grab the true essence of life. The thing was: How do I rally others to a place I’ve been unable to reach?  

I accepted the challenge and if you read last week you know what happened. (Yes, I was informed that I had possibly misunderstood my directive.) But I’m no quitter and thought maybe I could learn something if I studied how over long periods of time humans gather up constricting habits that quite literally smother the spark in many a soul.

Legal disclaimer: I am not advising anyone to completely throw caution and responsibility to the wind. If you become a hooligan, or catch yourself on fire, don’t blame me.

I ended last week by stating that without the spiral-wire attachment to my box, I’d only be a clown. Code words for: Cutting the tie and springing up and out would only result in me making a supreme fool of myself. So, it was ironic that the first piece of getting-out-of-the-comfort-zone advice I found was, “Make a fool of yourself.”  What? Intentionally? (I’m well versed in “unintentionally”.) Supposedly we’ll have more fun and be more memorable if we’re a bit crazy on top of having little to no interest in what others think of us.

The next instruction was to face fears. This could take me a while as I have sort of a list, and I’ll even admit being a slave to it. Most of us spend too much time circumventing potential “negative” circumstances and in the process waste precious time. I was afraid of that.

The third item flies in the face of pretty much everything I’ve ever lived by as a rule-following, first-born, stick in the mud: “Become comfortable with taking risks. Do something simply for the sake of doing it. Let go of any attachment to a certain outcome. Accept when things don’t go well and let go of the notion that the world is safe and predictable.”  Whoa! I once thrived in safe and predictable. Just reading that made my pulse quicken.

And last was learning to enjoy the unknown. It’s exciting not knowing what will happen next; anticipation and anxiety mix bringing a wave of cardiac flutters and flip flopping of the stomach. Sounds like more fun than a person should be allowed to have— pass the nitroglycerin and the Pepto, please.

There you have it. Put on your favorite flame-retardant outfit (safety first) and aim for some adventure in the uncomfortable zone. Let the sparks fly!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Turn the thermostat down, grab an icy-cold beverage, and have a seat. You’re in for a cool, relaxing treat.

As luck would have it, today not only marks the start of Air Conditioning Appreciation Week, but August 15 is also National Relaxation Day. I imagine you weren’t aware of either of these commemorative occurrences because to be honest I’d never heard of them, either. Desperation of a columnist with a heat-fried brain and a deadline often dredges up such things.

I don’t know about you, but I hold my air conditioning in very high regard for about 9 months out of the year. Here in these parts where we endure high temperatures often coupled with extreme humidity, a mere week of honor doesn’t seem to suffice. But since it’s a special time for my appliance, I’ll be sure to visit both the indoor and outdoor components and let them know how grateful I am for the fine service provided. Maybe I should buy a card.

And since today is National Relaxation Day we can all get away with lounging around in the cool air conditioning while doing an activity that eases our stressed souls – even if said activity is doing nothing over and above being conscious.  It’s the perfect Sunday combination, but only after reading this first, of course.

As Google aided in my travels through vast amounts of information, I learned that air conditioning for the sake of human comfort is—relatively speaking—fairly young. It got going in a few fits and starts in the early 1900s and went way down on the priority list through the Great Depression and World War II. But in the post-war boom of the 1950s it took off and led the way for migration to the Sunbelt. By 1966, Texas was the first state to have more than half of its homes equipped with climate control. 

Almost one-hundred years ago a young engineer, Willis H. Carrier (also known as The Father of Cool), sat waiting for a train on a foggy night and began pondering the problem of temperature and humidity control. He had a ‘flash of genius’ which are the formulas still used today as the basis in all fundamental calculations used in the air conditioning industry.

Yes, I studied Carrier’s famous “Rational Psychrometric Formulae”. Feel free to assume I understood every bit of it. I’ll assume you’d rather I not bore you with the details. In the end, all that matters is that I love the man for what his mind gave us. He didn’t invent the first system used to cool an interior structure, but his ended up being the first truly successful one which started the science of modern air conditioning.  Sadly, Willis Carrier died in 1950 just as his work was on the cusp of becoming a mainstay in American homes.

In closing, a very special thanks to The Big Guy for creating me AFTER air conditioning was invented. And thanks, too, for the person who had the cool idea of Air Conditioning Appreciation Week and having it coincide with the melting of my mind. I appreciate that.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Throughout my life I have suffered bouts of sleeplessness. My body can be at the brink of exhaustion, begging to shut down, but the hamster on the wheel inside my mind keeps chugging away. Hamsters do not have long life spans, so I am starting to worry a bit – nothing like a little anxiety to aid an already-present sleep problem.

However, I’m learning to clear my mind and let my little rodent friend run. The trick is not allowing her to have a destination. Eventually she realizes she’s going nowhere fast and hops off the wheel. I wish I could be as smart.

But before that process takes place, I need darkness and relative silence. The tiniest of electronic-gadget lights must be behind closed cabinets, and my three kids know that making noise while mom tries to go to sleep is a crime punishable by . . . well, let’s just say it’s not pretty.

So, the kids, the husband, and even Scooter the dog know the drill. If I could get the latter two, who sleep on opposite sides of me, to quit snoring, my shut-eye quantities would increase three-fold. (Don’t tell Jeff I told you he snores.)

That brings me to a family member yet to be mentioned: Shadow the black cat. Recall that he showed up a couple of Halloweens ago, made himself at home, and adopted us. For a variety of reasons that I won’t delve into today, he’s required to wear a bell around his neck. And, he refuses to follow my sleep-time regimen, but also wants to spend his nights in my bedroom. (If I lock him out, he scratches on the door. Why do I know there are some feline haters out there saying, “That’d be one dead cat!”?)

Anyway, he starts off at the eastern-most edge of the master suite, the closet, and through the night moves his way to the western side, onto the bed, and atop my feet. Both of us are getting accustomed to this, and most nights he can hop on the bed without me hearing his bell.

But a few nights ago, I awoke to a different sound . . . something like a small metallic object clacking against a hard surface. Coming to, I discerned it was Shadow in the water closet getting a drink from the porcelain bowl.

I’d rather he not do that, but it wasn’t worth getting up over. I made a mental note to put the lid on the bowl at night and turned over to resume slumber.

In the next moments I drifted close to sleep only to be jarred to full alert by commotion nothing short of sheer panic meeting chaos. Splashes, frantic scratching, and the eventual flopping of a drenched body onto a splattered floor all added up to: somebody lost his balance and was getting a cold, unintentional bath!

I would’ve gotten up to help, but I was giggling (trying to be quiet and not wake others) and shaking uncontrollably. I knew Shadow was alive because he began darting around, bouncing off walls and basically trying to get away from what he was enjoying just moments prior.  

I settled down and eventually went back to sleep. The next morning, I picked up a still damp Shadow from atop my feet, chuckled, and told him his embarrassing secret was safe with me.

Oops! Well, at least I didn’t tell everyone he snores.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

My heart goes out to those in Haiti, Chile, and now Taiwan dealing with the aftermath of separate earthquakes. None of what follows is in any way meant to minimize that suffering. As you know by now, you get what tumbles out of my brain each week – the good, the bad, and the sometimes hideously deformed.

After viewing recent news coverage of the Chilean earthquake and during a subsequent dinner discussion, I was asked by my middle child if I had ever been in an earthquake. I truthfully answered that I had not, but went on to give accounts of the natural disasters I had survived pre-motherhood: namely hurricanes. Since my kiddos were around for Hurricanes Rita and Ike, they could relate.

Recalling that conversation a little later, I realized my foundation has been violently shaken and crumbled on a few occasions – one being fairly recent. Of course my presence here today proves I lived to tell about it. But I have to admit there were times while underneath the crushing weight of the rubble I didn’t think I had the fight in me to even attempt clawing my way to the surface. It would have been so much easier and far less painful to lie there in silence and return . . . dust to dust.

The hardest part: I have an intensely private (you just think you know me, and I chuckle as I write that), independent spirit. And the quakes registering highest on my Richter scale were endured by me alone – inside the confines of my heart and mind. Had the wreckage been seen, I have no doubt family, friends, and even strangers would have rushed aid to my side, but fear of looters kept me quiet. I couldn’t afford to lose what little I had left – the belief in my own strength.

It took near decimation to stir me from indifference and excite a reaction. I’m stubborn like that. And, no, I’m not proud of it.

So, like our brothers and sisters across the globe, I began clearing away the debris. I’m nowhere near finished and have accepted the fact that rebuilding from the ground up will take far longer than I’d like. Not to mention that new construction must be suspended while I bring myself up to date on the latest building codes that serve to ensure I’ll remain standing when the next big one strikes.

The repairs required for the physical manifestations of such deep tremors are time intensive and sometimes expensive, but doable. Dealing with the ongoing, could-hit-at-any-moment aftershocks is a different matter entirely.

One must learn to expect the unexpected – participate in what’s known as “hindsight bias” and try to imagine that events are more predictable than they really are. Stating that almost makes me feel a tiny bit in control.

Some time in the not-so-distant future I’ll be rebuilt, stronger than ever.  And in the grand scheme of things, I’ll be ready . . . shaken, not blurred.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

So we’re having an abnormally cool winter here in these parts.  While I don’t enjoy feeling chilled as much as I have lately, it’s not the cool temps I find most bothersome, but rather the gray dreary skies that often accompany them. The blah horizon seems to wash over everything, and I’m finding I don’t do well in a colorless existence.

Shades of gray make up many of the nuances that are part and parcel of human existence. Statistically, I’m about halfway through said existence and that fact has caused me to decide that life’s too short to be spent in gray-area neutrality – even if only confined to conversation. And that got me thinking about the saying “Say what you mean, and mean what you say.”

It sounds easy enough to execute, but when we consider that there are three possible meanings for every word it’s easy to see why misunderstandings and conflicts arise. A speaker knows what he means, the listener thinks he knows what the speaker means, and then there’s the actual dictionary definition. Just for grins, I think we can also include male/female communication dynamics. We should all take a bow – it’s amazing that anything gets accomplished.

While I don’t fully subscribe to Dr. Brad Blanton’s Radical Honesty movement – because I’m certain that following the tenets that call for all speech to be unfiltered would have many of us going around beyond angry, if not feeling completely dejected – it does seem things might run a little more smoothly if we could all stop the verbal dance that leads to all parties feeling as if they were trying to nail Jell-O to the wall.

I don’t know, maybe I’m feeling this way because on top of the gray skies, it’s election time. I’m exhausted from trying to decipher hidden meanings and innuendo – just give it to me straight and without sugar coating. From there, I can form a rational opinion. But I digress.

Getting back to gray and throwing in black and white because they can be stubbornly problematic, I’d like to think I can say what I mean and mean what I say in a calming shade of blue – if I were so inclined. I mention inclination because some conditions call for fiery reds (I’m a little too practiced in those), or the bane of many writers, some drippy purple prose. I’ll try to stay away from nauseatingly-sweet pink.  But what if I’m feeling a little envious? Could I not use green to get my point across?

Maybe I should strive for being silver tongued – speaking in lustrous grays that deflect my inability to get off the fence. Nah . . . that wouldn’t be any fun. Like comedienne Lily Tomlin once said, “If you can’t be direct, why be?”  I can’t “be” without any decided qualities or characteristics, and I refuse to be black and white. Fiery reds and calming blues . . . that’s what I say, and I mean it.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Alexander Pope, famous eighteenth century English poet and satirist, once wrote “To err is human, to forgive divine.”  Broken down, it means we’re all going to mess up at one point or another and that it would be of the highest possible testament to goodness if we could grant pardons for true and perceived wrongs while ceasing to be resentful. But I’ve got my own twist, and it may force me to seek chiropractic care in the end.

In the stress-filled world we live in today it’s not difficult, even in a short amount of time, to gather up a pile of grievances large and small. Using an irksome tone of voice after a long day is minor, but depletes goodwill over time. (Raise your hand if you’re guilty of sometimes speaking to strangers in a friendlier manner than family members who share the same home. Sadly, I have both hands up.) And what about the bigger transgressions? How we handle both extremes and everything in between has an enormous impact on our physical and emotional well-being.

There are several “Love Language” books available encompassing many variations of relationships by Gary Chapman, but it was a little different version on the same premise, “The Five Languages of Apology” written by Chapman and Jennifer Thomas, that actually got me thinking about forgiveness and delving deeper into the subject.

What I learned as I made my way through each “language” was that words and/or actions that constitute an apology to one person may not come close for another.  Often times, we go about life thinking something was dealt with while in reality it’s still festering – growing into a barrier that could forever impede forward motion.  Thus the reason genuine apologies are a necessity and in return forgiveness.

Further along in my quest to become fluent in asking others for their forgiveness, I stumbled upon a large impediment to feeling forgiven: forgiving myself. And I’m not talking about excusing behavior . . . more along the lines of, “OK. I’ve turned myself inside out and upside down. Held my feet to fire. Admitted I was wrong and handed down some stiff inner-disciplinary action.” Now what?

It takes some backbone to stand up, look the woman in the mirror straight in the eye, and call her out. She can get pretty testy – may even attempt to look away in the hopes of deflecting my fiery resolve.  But standing toe-to-toe and refusing to drop my gaze, I made my intentions clear: The lashing was over and inner-prison time served.

Shoving pride to the side, she squared her shoulders and stood a little taller. With a shaky yet persuasive voice regrets were expressed, responsibility accepted, restitution offered, and repentance made followed by, “Will you please forgive me?”

A blurred reflection revealed a pile of grievances carried for far too long falling to the floor. A chiropractor won’t be necessary. I feel divine.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Since it’s only mid-January, many of us are still bathing in the fresh-start afterglow. Resolutions promise to deliver conditional change if we’re prepared to do the hard work. The result is often a worthy prize and more often than not, way too lofty a goal. It may help to set several mini-goals and remember that the longest of journeys begins with a single step.

The fact that my running/walking route has been more crowded on the days weather permitted proves I’m not alone in my quest to log some extra miles in 2010. It’s said that to fully understand a man, one must walk a mile in his shoes. Thus the reason I’m going to walk several hundred in my own.

Last summer, and for the first time ever, I got a head start (or maybe it was just a very late start to the previous year’s resolution) on what has become an annual New Year’s tradition: promising to take better care of the vessel that dutifully carries me through both tumult and triumph.

I was glad I did it and vowed to get through the holidays without the scale inching higher – realizing that if past behavior predicts future, I could count on failure. But I made it! And I’m not bragging, although I am very proud of myself. I know it sounds a bit cliché, but if I can do it anybody can, because this girl likes to eat!

Having made it over that hurdle, I was on to phase two: pushing myself out of maintenance mode and into things much harder. With the recent spate of frigid temperatures forcing me indoors, I’ve had ample opportunities (my motivational word for a chunk of time that could be better spent) to go heavy on the weight training and spend some time with fitness gurus who motivate me.

Courtesy of Billy Blanks (Tae-Bo), Jillian Michaels (Biggest Loser), and Denise Austin, I hurt in places I forgot I had and amble about like I assume I will 50-plus years from now. (No offense to those blessed to be in their 90s. I bet the spry Gladys “Granny” Adcox of Highlands could run circles around me on my best day.)

To provide more depth to the experience, I’m also working towards increased mental strength. In so many ways, it’s much harder than the physical. I dig deep, unearth regrets, get angry, get sad, cry, laugh, and repeat. Mental gymnastics are exhausting.

Why am I intentionally inflicting pain upon myself? To get something that won’t be as immediately recognizable as a more toned physique. The body will shrink, but hopefully the mind will grow. I know it’s working to some degree as my threshold for discomfort has risen. Naturally-occurring anesthesia gained through perseverance is a wonderful thing.

I’m learning a great deal – mostly along the lines of pain being a great motivator. Running away and cowering from the source doesn’t mesh well with my independent spirit. So, I’ll stand toe-to-toe, look my adversary square in the eye, and turn the tables. Anguish can be a powerful propellant.

When I rise the following morning, stiff and painfully aware of the battle waged, I’ll grin, bear it, and remember no pain, no gain.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

As I mature (sounds better than “age”), I’m learning the value of seeing the glass as half-full. I work hard to put things in perspective, and when my mind isn’t up to the task the Big Guy puts someone in my path eager to lend some real obstacles to my ears.  I trudge away, eyes pointed northward. Message received. I’m travelling over molehills while others scale Mt. Everest.

That said, sometimes my children, uh, I mean life (Did I say “my children” out loud?) hands me things that cause my face to contort and pucker. I become a sourpuss. Summertime bickering, anyone? How about a tall glass of fresh lemonade? It’s not summer without them.

I personally love pink lemonade. It’s a sweeter version than the yellow variety –more sugar and a little grape, strawberry or cherry juice for its pink tone.  I’ve never tried any of the fancy recipes –the ones that use mint, ginger, or ginger ale –but with a bumper crop of little lemons I’m sure to try them all.

Dale Carnegie, writer and self-improvement guru from a by-gone era, was credited with coining the proverb, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade!” Basic lemonade: water, lemon juice, and sugar. As stated above, it can get far more complicated, but the classic taste requires the proper ratio of sweet to sour in order to be agreeable to taste buds. What’s a girl to do when four weeks of kids being out of school have already used up all the sweetness she had?  Mimic the Europeans, I suppose –they enjoy “clear lemonade” unclouded by sucrose.

To deal with my influx of yellow citrus, I also considered another little gem (author unknown) I came across in a when-life-hands-you-lemons discussion: “When life hands you lemons, squirt juice in his eye!” It sounds good in theory, but then I’d have to take him (or her) to the doctor. Oops! I did it again!  I’d have to take “life” to the doctor. Research tells me it would only cause irritation, not blindness, but I bet I’d still be in trouble.  Headline: “Columnist’s children had one lemon of a mother! The fruit will do hard time”.  

Lemons shouldn’t be getting such a bad rap from me. They look, smell, and taste refreshing in the proper context, and the juice, which contains citric acid, has uses galore. It’s in many types of household cleaners; according to some, one doesn’t need fancy chemical-based concoctions –lemon juice and water will do the trick.

The culinary possibilities are only limited by your imagination, and you’ll get a healthy dose of Vitamin C to boot –not to mention your liver cleansed! (If it’s on the internet, it’s gotta be true!)  

Lemon juice also has antiseptic qualities and was used back in the day to clean wounds. (I believe they stopped using this method because the wounded passed out from blowing on the mother of all stinging.)  And did you know a nose bleed could be stopped by putting a couple of drops in the affected nostril? Maybe the nose stops, but I bet the eyes start hemorrhaging. Sounds unpleasant.

Me, I think I’ll take my lemons and work out my summer frustrations with a micro-grater. Sunny zest for life makes everything sweeter!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley