Natalie Whatley

Pardon me while I sigh and fall into a chair. I’m going to rest a spell and let my mind and body digest Christmas 2009. Am I relieved it’s over? Maybe. Of course there’s still some clean-up and waiting in return lines, but being over 300 days away from the mass preparations for the next one is a good feeling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

If you were reading my column this time last year you’ll probably realize that I cheated a bit this week. I’ve been mildly scolded in the past for saying there’s not a thing in the old noggin to write about, but sometimes, ‘tis true. Or, at the very least, some episodes playing in my mind don’t need to find their way to paper – you’d think I have a penchant for the melodramatic. How’s that for exaggerating emotion?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

All right, so I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. Actually, and since I’m among friends, a “bit” doesn’t do my funk justice. I’ve spent some time standing near the edge of a black hole, mesmerized by the swirling vortex at the entrance to a place where not even light escapes. Just when I think I may succumb to the intense gravitational pull, the sounds of sleigh bells ringing during “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” (can you hear the song?) take me somewhere else. Whew!  

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Imagine if you will a strobe-lit room filled with balloons, streamers, and me throwing confetti above my head. Today marks a special day for me, and I decided to throw myself a little party. Welcome to episode 100 of my column! (I realize 100 is a mere drop in the column-writing bucket, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it this far.) Incidentally, my little celebration is a twofer as I’ll also be observing my very last birthday on Monday. I’m turning 39.

I’ve decided to stop there, because, well, the thought of admitting I’m 40 makes me cringe. I’ve got a year to make peace with it, so I guess I better get busy and seek professional help now.  

I keep hearing that 40 is the new 30, or even the new 20. Yeah, right. I suppose if one’s a multi-gazillionaire and has access to all the latest-and -greatest treatments and procedures, plus on-staff nutritionists, personal trainers, stylists . . . For the rest of us, 40 is 40. Sigh. I haven’t heard the song “Landslide” in quite some time, but for some reason it just popped in my head. And I prefer the Stevie Nicks version:

                Can the child within my heart rise above?

                Can I sail thru changing ocean tides?

                Can I handle the seasons of my life?

                Well I’ve been ‘fraid of changing ‘cause I

                Built my life around you

                But time makes you bolder

                Children get older, I’m getting older too

 As far as I can tell, I’m not buried under a large mass of earth that has fallen down a steep slope, so just maybe this phase in my life will be an overwhelming victory. Only time will tell. Stinks to be impatient.

It seems like just yesterday I was introducing my column and inviting you all along on the ride that’s shaping up to be my midlife crisis, uh, I mean journey to rediscover the parts of me that took the backseat to motherhood.

Putting aspirations on hold – at least temporarily – was a conscious and necessary decision given the particulars of my family. Then I found out like many before me that despite educating myself on the finer points of parenthood and giving it most of what I had, the whole business is a risky, uncertain venture riddled with variables that cannot be controlled.  

Those “variables” are going to force me to ratchet up my maintenance if I’m going to remain 39. Heck, who am I kidding? There’s already too much wear-and-tear.  I might have to revise my plan. Plus, I had some goals I wanted to reach by 40, and it looks like I may need a little extra time.

On second thought, I don’t think I want to be stuck at any age. Through hard-earned wisdom I’ve learned there are some points (possibly years) in life, where it’s desirable to move through a phase quickly. Not that I’m wishing away a single minute. I need to live through it all . . . that should provide at least another 100 columns.   

Thanks for celebrating with me, and for reading. I couldn’t have done it without you letting me know I’m not alone in struggling with the “variables”.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Now that Thanksgiving is over, let the hustle and bustle begin! In recent years, retailers forced us into Christmas mode the day after Halloween; some sneaky ones started before that. I fell prey to such tactics and in years past gloated over having shopping completed by this point. I wish I could get back in that pattern because having that task out of the way cleared my mind and calendar for appointments with joyful and triumphant. For some, desiring the company of those two is, “no appointment necessary” – if only I could be so spontaneous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

For those of you who enjoyed my brush with the law and ensuing speeding ticket, that confession wasn’t the end. While losing a clean 17-year driving record was traumatic, the ticket was easy to divulge. What I didn’t tell was that September brought another hit . . . literally. (State Farm knows all about this one.)

It was an ordinary week day. I was out running errands — driving the posted speed limit or below — and stopped by Sterling Municipal Library to turn in some books BEFORE they were due. I’m a rule-follower like that. I secured a parking spot where there weren’t many other cars and took care of my business in mere minutes.

I’m not sure whether I noticed before, or if it occurred to me afterwards, but it was a dreary day outside – one of those days when one wouldn’t notice much color because the sky was a blanket of gray.  At any rate, I got in my tank (Chevy Suburban), started it, looked back, checked mirrors, etc. like I have always done, put it in reverse, backed up, and CRUNCH!

See, a CRASH would have sounded as such, but since I was moving slower than a snail’s pace CRUNCH was the exact sound I heard. My initial thought was, “What in the heck?” as I knew there was nothing behind me. I pulled forward a tiny bit and got out to inspect.  Imagine my surprise in finding a fairly new light-grayish silver Cadillac with a hideous depression shaped like my bumper. When I do things, I do them up right! (Incidentally, my bumper sustained a mere scratch.)

Stunned, I pulled back into the parking spot and wondered where in the world that car came from. It wasn’t there when I looked, or was it? Sheesh! I’ve got enough on my plate to worry about these days to have my visual perception playing tricks on me! Of course the car was there, but from the on-high perch of the Chevy Suburban and against the gray-sky backdrop it was camouflaged and stealthy.

It had been over 20 years since I was to blame for any insurance claims. I didn’t know what to do. The car was unoccupied, so no personal injuries there. I checked myself . . . all was intact save for my ego. I needed to get in touch with the owner, but I was at the quietest place on Earth. Dare I waltz into such a serene place and announce I’d hit someone’s car? Sit and wait for the owner? What if the owner was a large goon easily angered? Plagued by indecision, I called State Farm.

A true angel on Earth, Maxine at Ken Mitchell’s State Farm office, answered. Ugh!  I didn’t want to tell her what I’d done, but did so and asked what to do. She was so sweet and lifted me from the pit of idiocy. “We have a sign here in the office that says ‘Life Happens’”, she said, and I could tell she was smiling or possibly laughing at my expense. She went on to praise my honesty and reported many drivers in the same predicament just drive away. I’ve been on the receiving end of such treatment; it feels pretty crummy.

I did as instructed and left a note on the car with contact information and stated the “accident” had been duly reported. My hands were shaky as I wrote. I know the owner was able to make out the phone number as I’ve received confirmation that my insurer settled the claim. But I also hope they were able to read my apology, because if my eyes did not deceive me (again), they were without a car for a few days. If it’s any consolation, I was without my pride, too.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

I have a little confession to make: Back in August I was caught in a moment of lawlessness and was singled out by an officer of the law. (If anyone from my State Farm agent’s office is reading:  Be a good neighbor, and stop now. Thank you, and have a nice day.)

It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I was driving my middle child out of town to stay with grandparents.  I don’t know about other parents, but I have the best conversations with my kids while we’re alone in the car. Anyway, Jeremy and I were having such a good time conversing through a 50 mph zone that I failed to slow down when it dropped to 40 mph. 

I’ve traveled down this very road many times in the past three decades – even laughed when I saw other poor souls pulled over. It would never happen to me. I knew officers camped there among the trees, and besides, I’m not a habitual speeder. Plus, on more than one occasion I got a teeny little charge out of slowing down to 40, angering the driver behind me, watching them come flying around me and . . . BEEP went the radar! Who got the last laugh? It’s the little things in life.  

I was cruising along with a little old lady in front of me when I saw the officer — radar gun in hand — come out from hiding and motion me and granny to pull over. Drats! No worries, though – my inspection, registration, insurance, and license were all in order. I wasn’t going that fast. Would probably get a verbal warning and be on my way.

Officer as he approached my window “Let me tell you how this ticket is going to work.”

He was no nonsense and apparently had no sense of humor, either. I was stunned. No “is there some emergency?” or any other niceties for that matter.  The ticket was already filled out (he had a whole pad of them ready so he could get on with writing the next one) with the exception of my particulars.

He took my license and as he copied the information asked when I’d received my last ticket. I remembered because I was pregnant with my first child, and in that instance was also pulled over by an officer on foot. For whatever reason, I don’t attract the attention of those actually in patrol cars.

“Last ticket was 17 years ago,” I beamed.  I figured that information would alert him to what a good driver I am (and he could easily verify it on his in-car computer) and he’d decide to cut me a break.

“That’s pretty good. I’m issuing you a citation for 50 in a 40. I’m cutting you a break as I actually clocked you at 51. Your options for taking care of this are . . .”

I didn’t hear much more. But I was incredibly polite and even thanked him. I know he was just doing his job and that a criminal who musters up her prettiest smile along with some southern charm must be dealt with in an unbiased manner.   

My retribution for endangering all others on the road, besides the $103 in court fees, was spending the beautiful last Saturday indoors with a group of other troublemakers. There was one sweet gentleman sitting next to me “for the insurance discount only”.  You can all feel safer on the road because my driving skills have been defensively fortified. It was actually a good refresher. Since I sat through it and passed the test at the end, the ticket will not officially count against me.

I admit I wasn’t paying full attention to driving, but paying attention to something important nonetheless.  I hope you, the motoring public, can forgive me.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

There isn’t a day, week, or month left on the calendar that isn’t set aside to observe, commemorate, or otherwise notice a cause, individual, or group. Some are worthy of ignoring, such as National Grouch Day, but one commemorative week I was unaware of needs a little attention.

The second week of November, which will officially begin tomorrow, is Pursuit of Happiness Week. I know it sounds a little odd, but the purpose is to remind everyone, as stated in the Declaration of Independence, that all men and women “are endowed by their Creator with certain unalieanable rights, that among them are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” It would be unpatriotic not to recognize this one. You’ve got from November 8 – 14 to perform a search. Feel very fortunate if you don’t have to look long or far.

Happiness is defined in different ways depending on who’s providing the definition, but Webster’s says it is a state of mind or feeling characterized by contentment, love, satisfaction, or joy. And pursuit: Until I looked it up, I never realized an important piece that sets it aside from simply following something is the intent to catch.

Since I have been on a mission of sorts to find my place in the world while my children explore the things that bring them joy, it occurred to me that sometimes hunting for happiness involves not chasing after some things, or possibly bringing other things to an end. If capturing some empty space opens up a spot for something that makes me smile, why not?

Those in the business of studying happiness say much of our disposition in that regard is genetic and to a large degree formed during childhood. It’s also a lot of work. But the good news: Happiness is a choice. It’s tricky for sure, but we all know it’s possible as most of us are acquainted with someone who is happy despite some crummy circumstances.  Some say life is 10 percent events and 90 percent how we react to those events. I believe there’s a great deal of truth there.

Once we decide ourselves happy, we have a real proverbial bucket of cold water to deal with in a phenomenon known as hedonic adaptation. I know, big words for a Saturday, but you’ll thank me for explaining how it works. Knowing is half the battle. Maybe you can keep this from dampening any new-found joy.

Hedonic adaptation occurs because humans are very adaptable – some of us more than others— and as soon as something better than our “normal” becomes habit or a routine part of our day, it loses its shine so to speak. Think past lottery winners who manage to become miserable despite having money troubles wiped away.  And raise your hand if you’ve reached a goal you thought was going to bring the epitome of happiness, only to find that happy feeling was short-lived. We’re always raising the bar. I don’t know when the concept of contentment was lost, but I know I don’t see enough of it – too much of the grass-is-greener syndrome going around if you ask me.

Gretchen Rubin, author of “The Happiness Project” says that one way to combat hedonic adaptation is to cut back on luxurious enjoyment. (That almost sounds un-American.) Also, try stopping each day and just being grateful for the things in your life.  Avoid including external things – look to your inner resources. Take pleasure in the little things.

Get out there and go after something delightful . . . and intend on catching it!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Happy Halloween! I hope this finds you all scaring up some fun – even if you don’t officially celebrate. It’s difficult to escape all that surrounds what has become a cauldron filled with a mixed brew of beliefs and customs.

That said an entire industry has been built around the day and people’s enjoyment of fear. To be fair, there is also a whimsical side – adults would rather not be awakened by frightened children – complete with festive thank-goodness-it’s-finally-fall fun.  There’s something for everyone.

Listening to the radio for a few minutes will garner several locations within driving distance where you can pay to enter and enjoy a fearful adrenaline rush. Those venues come with names like Phobia, known for featuring clowns of all things; Screamworld, and of course all the haunteds  . . . woods, houses, etc.  I suppose phobophobiacs, those who have a fear of fear, avoid those. I’ve never attended any, but have heard the scariest parts are often the lines and wait to go through. No thanks.

If you’re one who would rather place your money on actual goods versus an experience, retail data shows Halloween only second to Christmas in home décor and the third largest party day of the year. Those in the business of making a profit off the day are quite spirited by the fact that despite the lagging economy, most of us were in the mood to spend more this year than last Halloween.  

Retailer Steven Silverstein, President of Spirit Halloween costume stores, says sales increase by 30 percent when Halloween falls on a Saturday and that Halloween should be officially moved to the last Saturday in October, regardless of the date. He and like-minded individuals descended on Capitol Hill earlier this month asking Congress to do just that. I can think of other things I want my elected officials working on.

Silverstein’s movement termed “Halloweekend” is currently circulating a petition. He claims “the recession can be ended, jobs created and Halloween will just be more fun”. While a staunch believer in capitalism and free markets, I’m not so sure this could get us out of the mess we’re in. I like his spirit, though – far better than the apparition of our government officials announcing just this week that it appears the recession is over.

Yes, the economy grew at 3.5 percent in the third quarter, ending four straight quarters of contracting economic activity. But . . . and it’s a big BUT . . . that “growth” was spurred by brisk federal spending and government-supported spending on cars and homes.  Think Cash for Clunkers and federal tax credits for first-time homebuyers. Sigh. Those willing to remove the masks are already stating it will be difficult to sustain such a recovery after government support for the programs end. Is it really a treat if we trick ourselves?

On a much lighter note, if you will be hosting trick-or-treaters at your home, be on the lookout for the vampire-costume trend.  We have once again (it goes in waves), due to the popularity of some books and movies, become entranced by vampires. But it’s different this time. They don’t look so scary any more. In fact, they’re quite good-looking and overtly seductive – be careful not to look them in the eyes.

After costumes, it wouldn’t be Halloween without jack-o-lanterns. Have you seen some of the elaborate designs? I’m amazed at what some can do with small tools and too much free time. I mean, it is going to rot. My children bought some rather large pumpkins to carve and plan on scooping out the innards of one and draping it out of the mouth to appear as though Mr. Jack O’Lantern has either a) partaken of too many confectionary delights, or b) spent a little time with me discussing the “end” of the recession. I know just how he feels. Have a Happy Halloween!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

The planets and stars were in proper alignment Tuesday evening at The Whatley Estate, and I took off the evening mom/chef/tutor hat for something I’ve always wanted to do. OK, I must confess. Nothing was aligned. I got dressed and announced I was leaving for an hour. Surprise, confusion, and even a glimmer of panic crossed some otherwise carefree faces. There was no meal cooked, homework had not been done, and showers not taken. Lo and behold, the earth did not stop spinning on its axis.

Sterling Municipal Library’s Starbooks at Starbucks, presented by librarian Jamie Eustace, boasts “Tired of the same old grind? Perk up your routine!” I met with Jamie in previous years in a book club and having now seen her in action reviewing books, I personally guarantee more than your routine will be perked. Her enthusiasm was evident as she reviewed numerous titles shelved at the library. “I just want people to know that the book is alive and well and the library is the perfect place to discover something new!”  She accomplishes that goal and so much more. How’s that for a review of the reviewer?

The program actually started in the summer of 2008. Now that I know what I was missing, I could kick myself for not getting there sooner.  I was notified well ahead of each meeting, but something always stood in the way of going. Since I’m now a bona-fide escape artist, this will be an area where I’ll use my newly-acquired skills.  

I intended on arriving early and learning a little about my co-attendees. Instead, I pulled in to the nearly-full Starbucks parking lot just minutes shy of the 6:30 p.m. start time. Thankfully there were a few vacant chairs awaiting occupation at the outer edge of the gathering, and I didn’t have to enter the dreaded center of the room whereby all eyes would notice the newbie.  Jamie says she usually has about two dozen people at each gathering, and while I didn’t take a head count, that looked about right.

I enjoyed it so much that I e-mailed Jamie the next morning in hopes that the old book club was still meeting. Sadly, it’s not.  If I get the chance to get in on another one, I will. Book clubs always pull me out of reading ruts, and I end up fascinated by something I would have never given a second look. And then, to hear what other people take away from what they read – that’s fun in my book.

The highlight and disappointment of the evening was one in the same for me: One of the 15 books reviewed was “The Slippery Year” by Melanie Gideon.  Just a few years my senior, she digs into being female and hitting mid-life. I’ve already placed a hold at the library and can’t wait to read it. My disappointment came from the fact that someone else beat me to writing about it. I thought I had the market cornered on that craziness.

All said, it was five-star entertainment in a nice cozy setting – perfect for a little weeknight pick-me-up with the added bonus of leaving with book titles you know won’t be a waste of time.

Jamie will hold another fun-filled hour of what’s hot off the publishing presses at the Starbucks on the I-10 feeder and Garth Rd. on Tuesday, November 17 at 6:30 p.m.  If you’d like more information, or would like to be on the e-mail list to receive reminders of upcoming events you can reach Jamie Eustace at 281-427-7331 ext. 230 or jamie.eustace@baytownlibrary.org

© 2009 Natalie Whatley