Natalie Whatley

Last week was a sad one, and the world lost one of the gentlest souls it’s ever had.

Mr. Clint Prothro passed away on Tuesday, September 19 after a short, yet courageous battle with cancer.

The evening prior I was surprised to hear he had taken a turn for the worse. Last I’d heard he was down a little from his “fighting weight” but holding his own.

I can’t even imagine Mr. Prothro taking a swing at anyone, but I envisioned some fancy gold boxing trunks and matching gloves clobbering cancer. I was even going to tell him about it when I saw him next. He’d blush, flash an aw-shucks grin and play it off like fighting for his life was no big deal. 

That day will never come.

There is a poem by an unknown author that begins, “People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.” 

Mr. Prothro came into my life for a season. And while I wish the season could have been longer, I know they must change for time must march on.

I met him four years ago as a newly-elected member of the Chambers County Appraisal District Board of Directors.

NON-EDITORS NOTE: If the mere mention of “Appraisal District” makes you want to jump in the ring and tussle over property values, know that this particular board has no say in those matters.  Spare me the hate mail . . . on this point, at least. All other malevolent love letters will be addressed in the order in which they are received. Thanks for your cooperation, and have a nice day.

From the beginning of my tenure on The Board I was seated just opposite Secretary Prothro.

Most times we saw eye-to-eye on the business at hand and on those rare occasions we didn’t, well, we still had to look straight at each other.

Being the absolute gentleman he was, he always kept his long legs curled up over on his side of the table. Invariably, we’d kick each other from time-to-time.

 So kind and soft spoken, he’d start apologizing before I could. Now that was a feat because where he was wise and thoughtful —slow to pick just the right words before speaking—my mouth runs at light speed, often unaided by my brain.

Anyway, the kicking was never his fault.

He was the still, dignified elder forced by nameplates to sit across from a rambunctious young’un who squirms in her seat.  He was far more patient than I can ever hope to be.

He loved his family and church family—always had plenty of tales on their adventures to tell.

I also had the privilege of hearing about some of his childhood antics. It was hard to picture such a genteel man having ever been a mischievous little boy.

He listened to the escapades of my boys and reassured me they’d be just fine in spite of themselves.

And sometimes after meetings we’d talk national politics.

It wasn’t until then that I really learned of Mr. Prothro’s sense of humor.  He was one of those folks who spoke gently and even in mimicking a yell remained quiet about it, but he’d slip a zinger in.

I learned to catch it by the twinkle in his eye as he anticipated those listening to “get it”.  As soon as we did, a broad, toothy smile would span his face.  I’ll miss that the most.

Farewell, my friend.  I’m a better person for having had my feet planted close to yours, if only for a season.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Life surely hums along. We’re nearly a month into the new school year, and with any luck the next few weeks will move the stifling heat to the rear-view. Change is good.

Seasonal variations have always captivated me. I have a hard time deciding whether I like the transition from summer to fall or winter to spring better; suppose I love them equally but for different reasons.

What I’d really love would be to live in a location where there were four distinct seasons visible to the naked eye and even felt by not naked skin. A girl can dream, but I digress. 

As of now, our neck of the woods is geographically in the migratory path of the Ruby-throated Hummingbird, which must exit its northern home for the upcoming winter.  Yea for us!

Before I go any further, please know I am not a member of the Audubon Society or even a serious bird watcher, but rather a curious rank amateur who thoroughly enjoys sitting on the back patio watching the hum of activity around a feeder filled with sugar water.

A quick search brought up long reading.  I’ll aim to hit the highlights. If I miss something pertinent, let me know.

Generally speaking of all hummingbirds, aptly named because of the “hum” of their rapidly moving wings: Did you know they are the only bird that can fly backwards? They owe that to the fact that unlike all other birds, they can rotate their wings in a full circle. They can also fly upside down.  

Watch two males fighting and you’ll see “rollover maneuvers” mimicked today by fighter jets.  Add that prowess to the fact that proportionately speaking they have larger brains than others in the feathered kingdom and these tiny iridescent wonders pack a punch. They can fly at speeds averaging 25-30 mph and dive at 60 mph.

While we spot others here besides the Ruby-throat, named for the red band on the males’ throats (the females lack the colorful attribute), that’s the variety I’m seeing at my feeders.

And as I’ve enjoyed their territorial feeder-fighting antics, I had no idea they were feeding—needing to double their weight— for a feat that baffles scientists: A non-stop, 18-20 hour, 500-mile flight across the Gulf of Mexico to their warmer-climate winter home in Mexico and other parts of Central America.

In late July the males began their southward movement close to our coast, followed by the females and young.  They’ll spend weeks here fattening up, and will start flying over in mid October. By mid November the migration will be complete.

When they head back north in March, they’ll stop by again only briefly as the long flight is then behind them. Plus, they’ll have a trail of spring flowers providing nectar all the way back to Canada where they will spend their summer.

With the severe drought this year, these birds don’t have many nectar-producing flowers to feed upon. And while they get most of their nutrients from eating insects, the nectar is essential in getting ready for their lengthy travel.

If you’re interested in a great show or just helping them in their journey, hang a few feeders (out of sight from each other helps with the territorial bickering) with a boiled 4-to-1 sugar solution (1/4 cup sugar to each cup of water). No need for fancy commercial food or even food coloring, but do allow it to cool before offering it to our little friends. They will come.

Sit back and enjoy the frenzied pace of life humming along. It’s a sign cool changes are coming.

 © 2011 Natalie Whatley

Ten years ago this morning I stood stunned in K-Mart’s electronics department trying to understand the images on at least 30 television screens airing the exact same footage: a second plane hitting The Twin Towers in New York. It seems like a lifetime ago, and it seems like yesterday.

Having already heard of the first plane “accidentally” hitting on the drive over, I suppose I knew at precisely the same time every other American did: We were under attack. The first one was no accident.

It was a beautiful September morning, much like the ones we’ve enjoyed this past week. The day had promise as I embarked on a shopping excursion in preparation for my son Jeremy’s fifth birthday party scheduled that weekend.

I was on a mission to snag a radio shown in the sales flyer for the birthday boy and gather up party supplies to boot.

My usual modus operandi would have been to make a beeline to secure the on-sale radio first, but for some reason I attended to the other items on my shopping list instead. That turned out to be a wise move.

Watching the fiery explosion and smoke billowing out of the high rises, knowing the horrific fate of the air passengers and building inhabitants, I no more could have remembered what I was there for or even comprehended my own handwritten list.  

Something as important as celebrating the birth of one of my own children all of the sudden seemed trivial and selfish. (Of course it wasn’t, but that’s how I felt at the moment. And by the way, I got the radio. ) And as bad as it was; the nightmare wasn’t over.

Tearing my eyes away from the suffering of fellow Americans, I believe I floated up front to pay. The entire store was eerily quiet.

I vividly remember a whispered conversation with the older lady working behind the register. I can still see her shaken, angry face. She had been around far longer and experienced more than me. I’ll never forget how her immediate resolve assuaged my fear.

Upon arriving home I went straight in and turned on the TV. It didn’t matter what channel . . . the broadcast was the same on every network. I sat down and stared helplessly through teary eyes while trying to wrap my mind around the new news and images of The Pentagon having also been hit. Then came the crash of Flight 93 in a Pennsylvania field.

In George Bush’s book Decision Points, he talks about that day and what was going through his mind as the events unfolded: “The first plane could have been an accident. The second was definitely an attack. The third was a declaration of war.”

If there was any silver lining to be seen, it was a unified America in the days following.  

A mere two years later, singer Darryl Worley had a smash hit with the title “Have You Forgotten?”

Have you forgotten, how it felt that day? To see your homeland under fire and her people blown away. Have you forgotten, when those towers fell? We had neighbors still inside goin through a living hell.

You took all the footage off my TV. Said it’s too disturbin for you and me. It’ll just breed anger is what the experts say. If it was up to me I’d show it everyday.

Amen, brother.

God bless the families who lost a loved one that day, the President and his staff who steered us through some of our darkest hours, the first responders, and the soldiers who continue the fight for our freedom.

I’ll never forget.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Sometimes life stings. We’ve all had our bee-in-the bonnet moments and some of us handle such excitability and/or distress with style and grace. Others of us, not so much.

Earlier this week a Lynden, Washington man took rather explosive retaliation against a beehive.  One of the hive’s inhabitants had stung the man’s friend earlier in the day.

The online Associated Press story stated the man dumped gasoline on the beehive in a tree, and then ignited the hive, causing an explosion heard throughout the man’s suburban neighborhood.

The fire chief also reported that the night fire caused a large “whoosh”, singed the tree and killed the bees. No humans were hurt.

At first glance, I harbored some admiration for the unnamed man who took decisive action rather than brooding over the seeming injustice.

 I recall many times when life buzzed on over to my person and planted its bee-hind’s stinger into my flesh, enraging me with a trivial annoyance that provoked a way-too-explosive response. Raise your hand if you can relate.

Anyway, my smug grin and I were about to move on when I noticed plenty of folks were inflamed and felt compelled to comment.

As I read others’ thoughts, I became very ashamed of having related to bee-havior that was deemed idiotic and irresponsible by the masses. How embarrassing. Please forgive me for enjoying living vicariously through—in the words of our brethren— “an idiot”.

Now, I’m usually a big-picture kind of girl, but I have to admit I totally missed the horrific implications of the bar-bee-cue.

While the fire and the ensuing explosion could have been big trouble for the man’s neighbors, it was the killing of all those bees that had folks fired up.

Without getting all scientific and further showing my ignorance, bee populations have been dwindling since 1972 and folks who are up on apiculture (beekeeping) have been buzzing the alarm.

In 2006, the term “colony collapse” started circulating as concerns rose over lack of bees to pollinate food crops, and in the past five years the problem has only gotten worse. Recent studies suggest the issue is a combination of environmental stressors that are setting off a cascade of events that in turn cause worker bees to be more susceptible to pests and pathogens.

In short, we need every bee we can get.

And there I was: sad, stupid sap thinking he sure showed those stingers who was boss! 

But then I was zealously reminded of certain death by starvation coming to all human-kind should bees die off entirely – some say they’re closer than they’ve ever been in our recorded history.

Local officials involved in the incident stated the proper course of action would have been to call a beekeeper for removal. It did not appear the man was going to be cited.

I’m sure the public humiliation of his bee-havior being the “demise of all mankind” (that’s an actual quote from an interested party) will be punishment enough.

I think the bigger story was in how anger often moves us to fiery explosions – the implications of which we simply don’t see in our enraged state. I certainly don’t bee-grudge the man on getting his retaliation, but since I was so sympathetic, anger should get thee bee-hind me before I blow something up.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I know you’ve all been waiting with bated breath to hear of my kids-are-back-in-school adventures in holding down the couch. And I’d be glad to tell you all about it, but my brain is caught in a continuous loop of regurgitating my name, address, phone number, relationship to my children, and emergency contact information.

For good measure I’ll throw in what I had for my last meal; that’s about the only thing I haven’t been asked by the schools to divulge. Of course I speak in jest.

For those of you who are years removed and have forgotten: allow me to remind you of all the forms that must be filled out at the start of each school year. I’d even wager that if you have been removed for some time, the paper has increased by at least double. Bureaucracy is not a beautiful thing.

I’m considering the launch of major reform in this area as I believe each piece of paper should be uniform, allowing me to have a stamp made whereby a single movement would replicate all the particulars that have remained constant since my children entered school over a decade ago.

I want to scream from my rooftop, NOTHING HAS CHANGED!

I know that’s probably odd in this day and age and definitely boring (it’s exciting being me), but seriously . . .  I know there is someone, sitting somewhere with a horned head, wearing a red body suit and holding a pitchfork, thinking up a new form where I can be asked for my specifics yet one more time  . . . in my personal handwriting.  With all the technology available . . . really?

With each piece of paper I watch my somewhat beautiful longhand degenerate to the point of where it appears I need to go back to second grade. I can’t help it. I try to complete everything legibly, it’s just that my brain goes on auto-drive, my mind wanders to something far less tedious, and before I know it I’m rambling incoherently via ink pen. And you thought I only did it here.

I’ve often wondered what the point even is in offering up the various phone numbers requested, “should they not be able to reach me” at the first one.

I can recall every occasion I was ever contacted at home by any of the schools, and few times did someone have to use the second line of defense: my cell number.

You see, school nurses and some teachers have this special radar that is highly tuned to my personal whereabouts. I only receive phone calls needing my immediate attention in two scenarios: 1) while showering; 2) on the rare occasion I leave the greater metropolis of the Baytown area during school hours.

The first scenario is the most popular and I’ve usually just lathered up my hair with an ample dollop of shampoo.  I gave up on the slippery dash to the phone and now the landline’s cordless device and cell phone remain perched in an area of special reverence as I attend to my hygiene.

The second: I may leave town twice in an entire school year—take a day and enjoy some shopping and dining in a different locale. Never fails.  Those are always the days my otherwise healthy cherubs fall to some unknown malady.

Oh well. I suppose they can call me any time. And when I answer, I’ll dutifully recite my name, rank and serial number . . . just don’t make me write it one more time, please.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

When the human body becomes overheated, or maybe it’s half-baked, things go haywire.

Bad timing like no other, my home’s air conditioner chose this past week with its 100-degree temps to have issues. In a heat-induced hallucination I began dreaming of an ice cold “Winter Wonderland” devoid of heat and bickering teens.  In that snow white pleasant state of delirium I heard bells. School bells.

Then I found myself humming Felix Bernard’s famous winter melody and taking liberties with the lyrics Richard Smith added to it. I’m certain they won’t mind the ramblings of a deranged woman.

 Open your freezer door, stand in the crisp coolness bellowing out, and sing along in celebration for what is truly the most wonderful time of year:

                School bells ring, are you listening

                In the lane, Mom’s smile’s a glistening

                A beautiful sight,

                We’re happy all right.

                Kids are back to school throughout the land.

Gone away, is the summer,

Here to stay, homework’s a bummer

It brings smarts along

To even the headstrong,

Kids are back to school throughout the land.

In the classroom they can’t visit sandman,

And someone will be acting the class clown 

He’ll say: Are you buried?

They’ll say: YES, man,

‘Cause who can do a job

When they’re this down?

Later on, they’ll aspire,

As they scheme with some ire

To launch a tirade,

Over assignments displayed,

Kids are back to school throughout the land.

At the schoolhouse they will now spend their days,

And complain it’s really quite a bore

I don’t care the complaints leave me unfazed;

I did my time, now you must do your chore.

When school starts, ain’t it thrilling?

‘Cause young minds get a filling

They’ll whine and they’ll cry,

For summer’s gone by,

Kids are back to school; life is grand!

Ah! Back to school is so refreshingly cool.  The thermometer can explode tomorrow for all I care because life will be good, and more importantly: quiet. 

Summers with my children are special, but mostly because they’re fleeting. No way could we all handle so much together time year-round.

The last couple of weeks are always an extreme exercise in toleration. And to have the indoor climate control on the fritz when folks are already hot under the collar: not pretty.

But we made it through and fully recovered with the help of a skilled repairman and several hundred dollars.

We’re cool, calm and collected—ready to take on the new school year and jam-packed calendar.  And I can’t stop myself from singing: When school starts, ain’t it thrilling . . . 

While I was growing up my parents always lamented over some difficult task “taking an Act of Congress”.  As a grown-up, tax-paying voter watching the news and cringing, I get it.  Why must things that seem so commonsensical to us ordinary folks be so mired in a wormy-muck maze?

I experienced such duress trying to—of all the silly things to get miffed over—shut off a cell-phone line.  Previous attempts had proven fruitless even though the 18-year-old I-want-my-own-phone-plan-apart-from-mommy-and-daddy user of said line was readily handing over the early termination fee.   

With elevated and then subsequently-lowered blood pressure, I left my provider’s establishment telling yet a different child accompanying me to handle his own cell-phone issue, “Well, that took an Act of Congress!” 

And I should also make clear that it wasn’t a local in-store issue putting me through my paces, but rather a rude man sitting in some unknown super-secret location at the end of a “customer service” number. I tired of dealing with him and showed up where I could talk to another human face-to-face.

As if living with three teenagers isn’t trying enough, today’s technology adds a heaping, wriggling can of worms. And I’m not even talking about the venomous-snake mess that is troubling content potentially at a young person’s fingertips. No, I’m referring to just the basics: music, pictures, games, and their storage and retrieval.

When it comes to technology, there is a GIANT chasm between my children and me. It’s nothing personal, and we try not to let it affect otherwise loving relationships, but more often than I’d like to admit, there are things I simply can’t help with. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know how.

So when a speaker went out on my middle child’s phone, making it impossible to hear the person calling, I knew exactly what to do: get another phone. But wait. Middle child had spent hundreds (of his own hard-earned money) on music and games. Those purchases and copies to be downloaded to a new phone were available . . . somewhere out in cyberspace.  Retrieving them proved to be a long, winding road.

 As you all know I’m profoundly techno-challenged and to the degree that I can, I’ll keep it that way. I’ve only mastered what was necessary for survival.  And believe me when I say I’m dragged kicking and screaming when survival ups the technological ante.

But back to being at my service provider’s brick-and-mortar: I was there because I needed help. (You’re right: Verizon Wireless cannot provide the help I really need. I’m almost ready to check myself into the nearest psych ward.) More importantly, my child needed help.

Laptop computer in hand, Momma Bear charged in to show the techies who had so carefully—just days before—given precise instructions on how to accomplish the retrieval mission that I apparently wasn’t doing it right. Error messages don’t lie.

Like a true saint, Verizon’s Senior Sales Rep Mr. Ronnie Chaidez patiently worked through the very same walls I was running into. (It was somewhat comforting to learn I was indeed following directions, but hitting an account snag that I didn’t have the proper national security clearances to override.) Only he didn’t stop at each one to bang his head, but rather knocked them down and made my and Jeremy’s world all better.

And even though I’m not savvy enough to grace Verizon’s 4G network from my own personal phone, I hope Mr. Ronnie Chaidez can here me now . . . THANK YOU!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Would one of you please turn off the oven! I’d do it myself, but I’ve half melted into a puddle. Try as I may, I can’t reach the knob.

While reflecting on what to share with you all this week, I opened the morning paper to the headline “ERCOT urges power restraint during peak hours” and I already heard on the news that rolling black-outs were a possibility. The power grids: “She can’t take much more of this, Captain!”  

Since I’m committed to the let’s-keep-us-all-cool-enough cause (note I didn’t say “cool”, but rather “cool enough” . . . there is a difference) I’m tapping out this week’s column with a stone tablet and chisel. I bet you had no idea my writing methods were so versatile.

I’ve taken some time over the past several months to scan a few articles on the extreme temps—both hot and cold—that we have “enjoyed” in these parts over the past months.  Most of it was very scientific, and I couldn’t bring myself to really care about the whys and whatfors, but rather looked for someone, anyone to tell me when we could expect to feel extremely normal again. 

Anyone else not like the answer, “No end in sight”? That’s unacceptable. Let’s all have a word with the man in charge.

And I get a kick out of the recommendations for weathering the heat. But I suppose when it gets to the point of reviewing said recommendations we’re talking basic survival versus luxurious comfort.

Straight from a governmental agency’s website: “Wear as little clothing as possible when you are at home”.

 Have you noticed that some of our brethren extend that directive to the public domain? Normally I would be upset with them as most of us only remove so much clothing in polite company, but it’s been so darned hot that even wearing my birthday suit makes me sweat. So, I sort of understand and find myself extending sympathy.

And while I sit around my home, skeleton exposed because I’ve stripped down as far as I could go, I’ve been doing just as ERCOT has asked: conserving energy. I don’t do anything I don’t have to. I’m so good that I’ve added five additional pounds of reserve. I couldn’t be more proud of myself.

All non-essential electronic equipment is powered down, thermostat is set several degrees above my standard comfort zone (and the a/c still can’t keep up) and other household occupants have been advised to “use restraint” lest they want to cut off entirely.

In short: It’s a bit warm. Folks are running around nearly naked and fully agitated. Who could blame us?

It’s disconcerting to learn firsthand the feelings of a frankfurter encased in a convenience-store rotisserie. And I must speak to one of them and get some hydration tips. They always look so succulent. I feel beyond parched.

All this extreme heat and so little precipitation . . . it’s extremely uncool!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I have admitted before that today’s technology is often the bane of my sometimes pitiful existence.

This past week, in a moment of almost sheer exasperation while sitting in a snarl on the nightmare that is Interstate 45 under construction (isn’t it always?) I nearly smashed a human-sounding Garmin Street Pilot —a navigational GPS device for those even more technologically challenged than me. I’m not typically that violent, but I was having a “moment” as another crooked issue was coming to a head.

The Big Guy saw fit to bless me three times with healthy babies. And with the exception of the usual childhood maladies my kiddos have remained that way. However, we had a bit of a scare and I was in no mood to deal with a testy woman. You decide who was being testy . . . me, or her.

A routine physical for a young man who grew a foot in height in just shy of 18 months turned up a spine that looked like it was making a wrong turn. Possible scoliosis.

Of course that scared the heck out of me, but worse than that was the worry over a young man whose dream it has been to be in the U.S. military since 9/11/01.

Days shy of his fifth birthday and having seen news coverage of the devastation at the Twin Towers he patrolled our front yard with a plastic gun.

Go ahead and shoot me. I allowed my boys to play with toy guns —with caps even— and now go the range and fire the real thing alongside them.

“I’ll protect you, Mom,” he said in his Texas twang with dogged determination in the brown eyes set into a little, cherubic face.

Hands down, one of the most touching moments of my life.  And being a soldier and protecting this entire country is all he’s talked about career-wise since. He’s almost 15 now.

Even the slightest possibility that he would not be able to recognize that dream had me reeling. It’s that important to him.  And I know he was worried, too, even though it’s not in his nature to say so.

Anyway, the two of us embarked on a bit of a field trip to have the potential problem area thoroughly photographed at a Texas Children’s outpost.

Even though I pretty much knew the way to our destination I handed navigational control over to Ms. Garmin. I just didn’t have the mental capacity over my worry to bother and assumed she’d do her job and do it well.

A third of the way there she took me off in a questionable direction, but I figured with all those maps in her head she knew exactly where she was going – or possibly even a shortcut. I followed her directions dutifully.

For some unknown reason and just minutes away from where we were supposed to be going, she kept “recalculating” and I kid you not sent me on three left turns in a row. Jeremy and I got a chuckle over having been sent in a circle (actually a square) around our intended location and he even suggested I turn her off.

Problem was: all that turning had me turned around and I was lost as a goose or at least a directionally-challenged female. Ms. Garmin knew where we were, if not where we were going.

All said, between the three of us, we made it.

His spine had its picture taken and we heard back that afternoon that while he did have a slight curve it was not going to impede him in any way and was not scoliosis.

In the end I was glad I didn’t throw Ms. Garmin into oncoming traffic because we wouldn’t have made it there without her. Three lefts eventually made everything turn out right. 

 ©2011 Natalie Whatley

I humbly stand before you all today to confess that I have a problem. An addiction. An obsession.  

Since the outdoors in these parts has been downright unbearable in recent months, this outdoorsy girl has taken to the comforts of air conditioning and embarked upon laziness of epic proportions. And when my body isn’t moving, my brain demands some at least semi-challenging activity.

Ninety-nine percent of television programming does not interest me, so I’m left with books and the computer. (Yes, there are other human beings living in my very close vicinity—in the same house even—but the situation at the most base level is that they have a life. Apparently I don’t.)

Of course there’s plenty of housework to do, but as I approach the 15th anniversary of stay-at-home motherhood I find myself severely burned out in that regard. I do some of what’s necessary, delegate out what I can’t bring myself to do, and nothing else.

Then I’m left with too much idle time. And what’s that saying about idle minds being the devil’s workshop? I’ve become the poster child.

It was a bad time for Lex, the handsome bespectacled and bow tied green worm to inch his way back into my life. I bade him farewell some years ago when we first met. I quickly realized we were spending far too much time together. Plus, our relationship became frustrating at best as I pushed for more and he held me at bay.

Lex is the star of Bookworm, which is a word-forming computer puzzle game. Wikipedia describes play like this: From a grid of available letters, players connect letters to form words. As words are formed, they are removed from the grid and the remaining letters collapse to fill the available space. As in Scrabble, players earn more points by creating longer words or words which use less common letters.

But it goes beyond that. Some of the tiles that fall through the grid are on fire. Those have to be used quickly because if they reach the bottom something truly horrific happens: The library burns down . . .  with Lex in it. Oh, and it’s “Game Over”, too.

Sounds innocent enough and like good, clean fun, but this non-addictive personality now understands what a bad habit can do.

I’ve gone through an addiction questionnaire and answered yes to all but one. And I could only answer that one —do I have it with me at all times?—in the negative because I’m still in the stone ages with my non-internet-connected flip phone. (That’s entirely by choice and given my current state it’s probably best I leave it that way.)

Words are a huge part of my life, akin to sustenance and air. I need them to survive. What’s a girl to do? I can’t quit them cold-turkey.

When I try to read, I catch myself looking at letters on the page and rearranging them into new words . . . totally missing out on the meaning of what’s before my eyes. I do the same with street signs, store names and even license plates. Worse yet, I’m playing in my sleep! Sweet dreams aren’t made of this.

So, I’m here today admitting that I am powerless over my addiction and that my life has become unmanageable because of it. Next week, I’ll work on coming to believe that a Power greater than myself can restore my sanity.  

Sorry, Lex, but “Game Over”.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley