Natalie Whatley

Sometimes life gets busted up into fine debris, and I’m happy to have it pass quickly through the hourglass.   

MONDAY — Gathered all the dirty laundry on my bedroom floor for sorting. Standing amid piles, I made the mistake of turning a swimsuit right-side-out over Jeff’s side of the bed. No less than a pound of sand sifted onto the sheets. (Yes, the bed was unmade. Sue me.) Since I wasn’t in the mood to strip the bed, I vacuumed it. And much to my surprise, Mr. The-Bed-Has-To-Be-Just-So was none the wiser – fell right asleep without ever knowing the sandman paid a visit.  

TUESDAY — Went to see “Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs 3-D” with my younger two. Yawn. Not my type of flick, but it gets five stars for not exposing their impressionable minds to obscenities or any unsavory themes. The highlight of the trip was when I tried to move a straw dispenser over and away from the sprinkle-form popcorn toppings. The dispenser, held in place by rubber feet, didn’t budge, but the cover fell off and hundreds of straws rolled onto the floor. I was mortified, apologized and began picking up what fell on the patron-side of the counter. One sweet, very young, cherub of an employee treated me like an imbecile. Being a semi-public figure, I held my tongue.   

WEDNESDAY — I know many are fans of “Dancing with the Stars” and others have spent vacations swimming with dolphins. Me, I’ve been showering with ants. Big ones. They appear to be coming in through the plumbing, and my shower hit peak occupancy just before we got that touch of rain. Before I rinse, lather and repeat, I squash, drown, and laugh as they swirl back to where they came from. (I don’t like squashing insects, but started after one got away and told his friends I was only armed with a loofah sponge. Who’s laughing now? Keep it up, and I’ll put my quadruple-bladed razor to creative use!) I’m hoping the others making their way up will take the carcasses as a warning.    

THURSDAY — I’m giving serious consideration to going completely blonde. Ever since I started getting a few gray hairs, blonde high-lights and strategic plucking have handily camouflaged the aging process. I had to stop plucking a long time ago, or sport partial baldness. Now I fear I’m becoming a bit “high-maintenance” trying to maintain brunette-ness.  The upside:  With such a drastic change to my look, I could show my face at the movie theater again. Hey . . . I could play dumb and possibly be treated like someone who spent forty dollars on seeing one movie!

FRIDAY— Feeling a bit vain about obsessing over my hair, I sank into a deeply depressed state. Does it really matter? YES! Massive caloric intake was in order. Jeff and I made banana splits, crawled in bed and watched some mindless TV while we ate. I’ll worry about my waistline when I get my tresses lined out.

SATURDAY — Middle child said my name should have been “NAGalie” instead of “Natalie”.  My initial response was the same as yours: sounds a bit disrespectful. But he and I have that kind of playful relationship. He said it with a huge grin as we were arguing over/discussing the state of his room. While we literally see eye-to-eye because he’s about to be taller than me, we have differing ideas on what constitutes “clean”.  When I tell him I’d like to be able to walk across the floor, he hears, “shove the mess to the perimeter”. 

. . . So are the days of my life.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

There’s a long-standing tradition at The Whatley Estate regarding birthdays. The honoree gets the home-cooked meal and dessert of his or her choice. Up until a couple of weeks ago when Jeff celebrated another turn through the calendar, the cuisine requested has been well within my culinary abilities. I guess he decided to take advantage of the fact that I’ve been in a mood to challenge myself lately.

I knew I was in trouble when he got a cookbook and started thumbing through it. For 18 years the man asked for cheesecake; the toppings varied, and there was a “turtle” rendition thrown in at some point, but it doesn’t get much easier than no-bake cheesecake. (Some people don’t do windows; I don’t do cheesecake that has to be cooked in a spring-form pan.)  “Oooh, this looks GOOD”, he said pointing to “Italian Cream Cake”.  “If that’s what you want,” I said having no idea what I’d just committed to.

I didn’t give it another thought until the next day when I read the recipe and made a list of what to buy at the store. I recognized all of the ingredients, but started worrying about the long and winding road that led to the finished product. It was quite possible I was in over my head.

The dear man in my life, who on a whim one day whipped up a lemon meringue pie fit to grace any magazine cover, broke out in a fit of hysterical laughter when I told him I needed an “egg separator”. (I wasn’t home when he made that pie, and I questioned witnesses to confirm it wasn’t store-bought.  When those witnesses started explaining how to make meringue, I accepted my inferior dessert-making rank.) “You don’t need a gadget to separate eggs”, the man who has a tool for everything snickered. Hmmpphh!  He stopped laughing long enough to give gadget-less egg-separating lessons. I wanted to crack the practice eggs on his head.  

The big day arrived, and I was confident in my new skill. Everything was creaming together quite nicely until I got to the part of beating five egg whites stiff. Fork in hand I whipped them for several minutes to the point of a blister on my middle finger and quivering muscles. Stopping for a needed break, I realized I didn’t know what stiff egg whites looked like. I searched images online and found plenty of examples. Mine weren’t nearly there yet, and I also noticed an electric appliance in many of the pictures.  I glanced at my blister, chuckled, and got the electric beater out. Wow! Stiff egg whites in seconds.

Things went well from there; three cake pans full of sweet goodness went in the oven. I should have taken a picture of the aftermath. Have you ever seen a kitchen where a three and five year-old “made breakfast for mommy”? Multiply that by 1,000, and you’ll be close to what my kitchen looked like. Unlike Mr. Meringue, I don’t clean as I cook. It looked like two bombs went off, and I was spattered with gooey shrapnel. 

Nearing Jeff’s arrival time, I pushed through fatigue and the wound on my finger to clear a small spot for icing. Butter, cream cheese, powdered sugar, vanilla, and chopped nuts: the tastiest concoction known to man.  Putting the fourth spoon-full in my mouth, I realized I needed to save some for the cake.

The three layers came out of the oven smelling divine; they cooled while I continued cleaning. With the kitchen down to a one-bomb-went-off level of cleanliness, I centered everything on the cake plate and finished my masterpiece. It looked pretty good! And in time we learned it tasted great.

Italian Cream Cake

 © 2009 Natalie Whatley

I’ve contracted a slithering case of the heebie jeebies. If you’re in snake-oil sales and have a potential cure, you know where to find me.

I’m always thrilled when something semi-exciting happens in my life –gives me something to write about—but I’d gladly skip this “episode” to regain my peace of mind.

Since I spent last week recounting my fear of public speaking and how what psychologists refer to as “immersion therapy” forced me to get over it, I’m embarrassed to say that another of my fears has taken the spotlight this week. I will not immerse myself in this one.

I grew up with brothers and now have two boys of my own; reptiles, regardless of whether I like them or not, have always been a part of my life. I’m not the pass-out, run-away-shrieking-at-the-mere-sight type, but I keep my distance.  (Imagine my horror when my younger son “clipped” lizards to his ears and took great delight in freaking me out with his dangly “earrings”. They were alive and biting his ears to hold on!)

The mighty hunter... all wore out

He earns his keep by bringing lizards, skinks (which I recently learned emit a toxin from their tails that make cats sick; Shadow hasn’t made the connection between his apparent stomach upset and what he dined upon), and small snakes (no longer than six inches) to the mat at the back door. I’ve watched him catch his prey.  He carries on as if he’s fighting an anaconda before taking a victory lap around the yard with something small hanging from his teeth. 

“Now that’s a snake!”  Words I never want to hear uttered inside my house again. “It must be 18 inches long!” I began feeling faint. Eighteen inches, 18 feet, one in the same when we’re talking snakes.  I had been in that bathroom barefooted a couple of times that morning. How long had it been there? Had that thing made its way across my toes while . . . You would have heard me across town, and Jeff would be repairing sheetrock. “It’s a harmless garter snake,” he said holding it far too close. I don’t care. 

I’m telling you this story in the event you end up on my jury after I’m hauled in for assault. Jeff has been very busy at work this week and hasn’t had the time or energy to be up to any of his usual shenanigans. Know that I can finish the man’s sentences; he will capitalize on my fragile mental state for amusement.

If you see him with a black eye it’s because he thought it would be funny as I dozed off to recreate what a slithering snake would feel like making its way up my leg or the side of my face. I know you all will understand and do the right thing when I stand before you to account for my actions.

Jeff, don’t mess with a girl suffering from a case of the slithering heebie jeebies. She will strike!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

I know it’s a little early, but Happy Thanksgiving to you all. The days leading up to Turkey Day are always eventful for me. By Friday it will be necessary for me to be fully sedated – tryptophan in turkey does the trick. Just in case you’re in the same boat or don’t care much for turkey, tryptophan is available in other foods. I eat chocolate, oats, eggs, and pumpkin seeds in conjunction with turkey for maximum benefits. It’s legal, and I could argue medically necessary should I be found driving under the influence.

I’m sure you’re wondering what could possibly cause me to anesthetize myself in such a way. The unfortunate truth is that I have no one to blame but myself.

It all started many years ago when as a young wife I purchased a small artificial Christmas tree for our first home. I couldn’t wait to decorate. Jeff grumbled and was less than enthusiastic, but put it together solely to humor his bride. I think he also realized it was only the beginning of my dragging things home for him to assemble.  Like most men though, he couldn’t resist the payoff of a gushing female impressed by his abilities.

While I decorated the tree, he watched and uttered a “bah-humbug”. I put Christmas knick-knacks and decorations all around our humble dwelling. He rolled his eyes.

A couple of years later, while expecting our first bundle of joy, we moved to a bigger place. Christmas rolled around, and in honor of the son who would be born shortly after Christmas Jeff put the tree together, helped decorate, and adorned the outdoors with as many lights as he could. I tear up just thinking about it. He was a changed man.

With a two-year-old in tow, we purchased what I lovingly refer to here as the Whatley estate. It came with a yard, trees and two floors of space we thought we’d never fill.  I didn’t know it at the time, but Jeff was planning Christmas displays long before the papers were signed.  Had I known how many light bulbs were burning in his head, I most certainly would have opted for a one-story home.

Since 1995, I’ve spent the better part of November and December standing, phone in hand and ready to dial 911, as Jeff hangs thousands of lights in places no other human being would dare travel. People drive by, see him way up in the trees or hanging off the side of the house aligning each tiny bulb, and shake their heads. “He’s crazy!” they hollered.

It became so elaborate over the years that it took weeks to complete. It was beautiful, but we’re talking so many lights that turning on certain indoor appliances tripped the breaker! After many nights of being unable to blow dry my hair after a shower, I issued edict No. 97-243a which states all outdoor Christmas decorating must be completed by Thanksgiving weekend, or not be done at all.

My through-the-back-door attempt to appeal to his logical male brain was that it was too much work to have it up for only three weeks. Much to my surprise, he agreed. Sweet victory! I should have known there was a retaliatory strike coming when my smug attitude over having won that battle didn’t bother him in the least. Now, I must bow to The Master of “I don’t get mad, I get even.”    

Every year, Jeff takes the week of Thanksgiving off.  He’s home with me ALL DAY, EVERY DAY dangling from all sorts of precarious locations. I stand at the ready, with the full knowledge of who brings home the bacon and pray it won’t be the year he takes a tumble. He delights in my worry, and gets a real charge out of making some awful noise and seeing how quickly I’ll come running. Thanks, Jeff, for giving me a real turkey story! 

© 2008 Natalie Whatley 

The woman in charge of computing for the Whatley family passed away a couple of weeks ago.  After deep mourning, making final arrangements, and what I thought would be the unbearable task of finding her replacement, I can finally speak of her unexpected demise.

Approaching thunderstorms caused me to pay her a visit one evening and make sure she was properly bedded down. When I went to wake her the next morning, she was gone. Had I known the moments I spent with her the night before would be her last, I would have backed up the contents of her vast mind, thanked her for many years of service, and held her hand as the power light dimmed. She saw me through countless school projects, online forum debacles, the balancing of my checkbook, and the forging of many new friendships.  She brought me out of my shell, and I will miss her.

The term “motherboard” is thrown around often in our technologically advanced times. Prior to last week, I had no clue what one really was and furthermore, didn’t care what it did. I have since learned it’s a piece of equipment encased in the CPU that ties everything together, allowing all the parts to receive power and communicate with one another. Is there any question, ladies, why it’s called a “motherboard”? I think I know why she felt weary enough to cross over to another dimension.

She could have confided in me regarding her troubles. I’ve become adept at talking myself off the ledge when I get that “why must I do everything around here” feeling; I would have helped a friend in need.

Upon finding her lifeless, denial quickly began to rule my emotions. Convinced I was missing something electrical, I summoned my personal fix-it man.  He almost always makes everything better in my world. His diagnosis: “your computer is fried”. I said “almost”. Not what I wanted to hear and I was plenty mad at him for not breaking the news in a gentler fashion. A girl needs to be coddled sometimes, and this occasion rightly called for such treatment. Did he not understand the gravity of his words? Hundreds of pictures were gone if that were true. Sensing the murderous intentions of a female about to shoot the messenger, he removed himself from my presence.

Overcome by emotion and blinded by tears, I dialed 281-628-5099 to reach the business of Texas Computer Guru, owned by fellow columnist Aaron Barbee and his wife Sherri. Upon performing the CPU’s autopsy, they discovered the cause of death: dead motherboard. They handled my delicate mental state with the greatest of care. On top of that, they hooked up my hard drive to life support and retrieved the six years of photographic memories I feared were gone forever. There aren’t words to express my gratitude.

In addition to providing in-home or business computer, server, and network service, Aaron and Sherri are the proud new owners of The Cartridge World of Baytown.  At Cartridge World, located at 5055 Garth Rd., the Barbees remanufacture laser ink cartridges. Used cartridges are given some new parts, cleaned, refilled with ink or toner for reuse, tested, and 100% guaranteed to perform.  Drop by the store, or call them at 281-421-8987 if you’d like to utilize that service.  It’s a great concept in that it keeps those reusable cartridges out of the landfills, and conserves the oil needed to make new ones.

Thank you, Aaron and Sherri, for easing my pain during a difficult time. I’ll heed your advice and pre-plan the funeral of my new computer by keeping things backed up.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

Last week I told you hurricane season spawns storms of a different variety in my house because I start plotting the Whatley course of action long before a storm nears land. Jeff prefers the wait-and-see method. I also mentioned his storm plan calls for removing himself from the path of Hurricane Natalie. You’ll never guess where he goes.  

Thirteen years ago we purchased a home boasting 33 windows (it’s not a typo); Jeff started buying plywood here and there as the budget allowed. Piece by piece and over the course of years, every window received its own custom-cut cover spray painted with a number correlative to a meticulously drawn diagram. It was a massive undertaking, and took time an approaching storm wouldn’t allow.

With the approach of Rita on the heels of Katrina in 2005, the dear man in my life didn’t sleep for at least three days. After fulfilling his duties at Bayer, he jumped right on the task of boarding up our home. It was brutally hot that day, and I was worried sick as I watched him haul large, heavy pieces up a ladder to the second-floor windows. He looked like death, and wouldn’t even stop to eat. The City of Baytown was considering an evacuation, and I was to pack as we’d be leaving ahead of the mass exodus.

Given all the Hurricane Katrina coverage, I was having a difficult time as weather forecasters were predicting Rita would bring similar devastation to our area. Just prior to leaving, Jeff found me crying in our bedroom. I knew we had to leave, but my heart wanted to stay and go down with the ship. He looked straight into my watery eyes and said, “We’re going to be just fine.”

We left 12 hours before Baytown was officially called to evacuate.  The gridlock was a nightmare to say the least.  After 31 hours on the road, and no fuel to be had, we had a decision to make: spend another dangerous night (people were getting desperate) on Highway 59, or take our chances returning home.  The distance traveled on our road trip to Hades was only a 45-minute return.   

Hours after arriving home, the storm turned. We’d have some nasty weather to endure, but it wasn’t going to be catastrophic to Baytown. Since hurricane-force winds were still expected, we decided to bunker down in the living room of our boarded-up fortress.

Jeff, completely spent, fell asleep on the way down to our queen-sized air mattress. The kids slept as well, while the dog and I kept vigil, prayed no large trees would fall on our home, and that the roof held. All night I listened to large chunks of natural debris slam into the plywood covering the many windows. Given all the crazy circumstances of Rita, I was as safe as I could possibly be.

I poked a little fun at Jeff last week, but I know he’s removed from my path because he becomes the clear, calm eye at the center of Hurricane Natalie. He’s told me, “we’re going to be just fine”, more times than I can count. He’s by far more accurate than the weatherpersons I watch.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

Tropical storm Edouard arrived days ago providing a gentle reminder for each of us to assess our current plans and supplies. It’s something the experts say we should have already done, but by watching the news I’m led to believe many of our brethren wait for an imminent threat.

It also reminded me of one of the biggest things I despise about life in a coastal region: hurricane season. Humidity ranks closely as it affords me one bad hair day after another. Shallow, I know, but it affects my life with far more frequency than the storms.

Like many others, I’m completely stressed by things I can’t control. It’s difficult to wrap one’s mind around killer forces threatening cherished people and things. Worse, impending weather events between June and November tend to spawn storms of a different variety on my home front.

I want to be prepared to weather a category 5+ storm and the aftermath, while dear-husband Jeff feels such preparations are overkill fueled by media hype.  Intellectually I know a direct hit from a cat 5 (that’s weather-speak) would wipe out everything, but I’ve got what we need to survive on the roof surrounded by rapid water and critters until we’re rescued and admonished for not getting the heck out of here.

 In my defense, I was a resident of Baytown in ’83 when Alicia hit. The storm itself isn’t etched in my memory, but the aftermath is. Having been born into the luxuries of air conditioning and indoor plumbing, spending an entire month without electricity and water was rough on this girl.

On my storm-tracking chart, coordinates place Jeff dangerously close to nonchalance. In his defense, he’s not a native Texan, and doesn’t have what I would consider healthy fear and sense of urgency in avoiding last-minute preparations. He’s from tornado country, where there was little advance warning of impending disaster. Flying by the seat of one’s pants while assuming the crash position of kissing your hiney good-bye was about all that could be done in the seconds before a strike.

Here, we generally have several days notice, and I get into trouble when I want to discuss potential evacuation departure days out. Irritates the fire out of him, and his irritation is doubly irritating to me. 

The whole Rita evacuation debacle did scoot him somewhat towards seeing things my way as we spent 31 hours on the road, got no further than Livingston, and were forced by fuel constraints to return home to ride out the storm.

Although losing electricity for a week was a bit uncomfortable, it was a shining moment for me. We had everything we needed, and came out on the other side feeling like we’d been on a family camping trip.

Still, when there’s trouble brewing in the Gulf, I can with 100% accuracy predict at least a cat 1 striking our marriage. Given how we weathered Edouard, I’d say Jeff’s done some predicting of his own. His newly-crafted emergency plan calls for removing himself from the path of a storm. He avoided me like the plague last week.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

For those of you who may have been hiding out in a cave, or just prefer to keep your head stuck in the sand, Valentine’s Day is this Thursday. Your significant other will want to hear your accounting of Victorian-era poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways”.  

Valentine’s celebrations became very simple for Jeff and me 15 years ago when we celebrated for the first time as parents. In honor of our new son, and to avoid over-drafting the bank account, we renounced the commercial side of the holiday. Sounds a little sad, I know, but we couldn’t have been happier.

I’ve never missed the “stuff”, and I receive roses periodically, and “just because” at other times of the year. I’ll refrain from explaining why, as I don’t wish to upset my floral friends. I recall a conversation, shortly after quitting my job to become a full-time mother, where groceries vs. flowers was discussed. It was a short conversation. Bless his heart for asking, “Would it be okay if we eat for the next couple of weeks, or can you make some sort of soup with the dead flowers?”  Of course I let him off the hook; we managed just fine, and the pantry was not bare.

Middle age and expanding waistlines have given us many reasons (pounds) to eliminate candy in February.  We spend most of January trying to undo the Halloween through New Year damage, and by Valentine’s we’re feeling pretty good about our progress.  The very recent memory of just how uncomfortable our jeans had become is a powerful motivator.

We’re not exchanging cards this year, as the box containing nearly 17 year’s worth is full. I think we’ll open that box, and visit Valentine past. We’ll chuckle over the fact that Jeff has purchased the same card multiple times over the years, and enjoy all over again the cards proudly crafted by tiny hands.

I’m afraid even Valentine’s dinner out at a restaurant has suffered the ax. This one no longer has roots in budgetary constraints; we just prefer less-crowded dates, and much shorter waits.

Our leanest financial years have been behind us for some time now, but I learned through that period that I truly enjoy the simple things life has to offer. It’s a good thing I had all of those years to practice because that same little boy who inspired Mom and Dad to think beyond themselves will start driving exactly 11 months after this Valentine’s Day. Maxine at Ken Mitchell’s State Farm office has given me a pretty good idea of just how lean it’s going to get.

It’s OK, really. What I’ve given up absolutely pales in comparison to what I got in return: a husband who has encouraged and allowed me to follow my dreams, and three no-longer-little people who have made all the struggles worthwhile.

I can only hope that the semi-constant supply of clean clothes, meals, and my undying love can come close to showing my heart-felt thanks to my valentine.  My answer to “How do I love thee?”   I couldn’t possibly ever count all the ways.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

Back in October, I went on an interesting ride-along with the man in my life. He’s been looking way ahead to retirement, and has requested that I pick up a new skill before he gets there. With the intent of fostering long-term marital harmony, I agreed to a day of observation. I even got to drive the cart! Since hand-eye coordination has never been my strong suit, twenty years may not be long enough to master what has been asked of me, but I’ll give it my best shot.

Golf slowly encroached upon my life through my husband and oldest son, who plays for his high school. Dinner conversations have become difficult for me, as my comprehension of the subject is sub-par. I have no choice but to learn, or be left behind.

Our field trip to Eagle Pointe landed on a crisp, serene day. The sun was shining brightly, a gentle breeze blew through the leaves of the many trees, birds were chirping, squirrels were amorously chasing one another, and men (I was the only female around) were basking in the radiance given off that only a Monday spent absent from work can produce.

The miniature hills were slightly covered with dew, the sprinklers were sprinkling, ducks swam happily in the ponds (sorry, water hazards), and water softly flowed over the rock waterfalls. Sights and sounds that should have been soothing and relaxing actually proved to be problematic. The “facilities” on the back nine were out of order, and I was told the tee box wasn’t at all intended for what I had in mind.

In an effort to ignore the water, I thought I’d concentrate on the much-needed vocabulary lesson. I had no idea my man was a hooker, and the worm burners were amusing given dear hubby seemed very upset over having hurt the poor creatures. I overheard him muttering something I’m certain were condolences. The ball washer was particularly funny, but I thought better than to ask for a demonstration. Oh, and don’t be a divot out on the course. Have you seen that tool? Ouch! Through my own efforts in self education, I have found that the tees work nicely for propping my eyes open while I watch the Golf Channel. 

And, speaking of tools and gadgetry, I don’t ever want to hear another male peep about what us ladies carry around in our purses. Check out those enormous golf bags; I can confirm the contents of a Golf Galaxy store are inside. It’s no wonder they need a cart to drive that thing around.

I’m not sure that at any point in my life I’ll be able to deal with the sort of frustration I witnessed on the golf course. I presently go to great lengths to avoid that very thing. I’m just a little birdie hoping to one day fly with the eagles. Heck, I’ve got twenty years, and I’m a clean slate with no undesirable golf habits. Yep, I’ll be able to beat the pants off him. Oh wait…I think that may be what he wants.  

© 2008 Natalie Whatley