Southern Hospitality

Ok, so maybe we don't have polar bears or electric eels to contend with in Texas. But we got some scary bugs. And weeds. (Can I get a witness?) And Bermuda grass, which I think I'm gonna start calling Bermuda Weed. Yep, that sounds more like it. Anyway, we have to look for our adventures around here in more modest ways than in bear conflicts. That is why we go Dale Gribble on the local fire ant colonies, trying to get inside their heads in the expensive and unwinnable war we have going with them. But this is the New American Way.

"I think they're gonna move toward the Bradford Pear and set up a strategic base camp there. They know that it'll be a weak point for us. I've just got this feeling."

I've poured boiling water on hills, knowing that it would not win the war, but wanting to make them re-think their proximity to my sidewalk. It's tough making the decision to move ahead with it, despite the certainty of casualties in my day lily bed. This is war. Sacrifices are made.

David grew up in Idaho and represents it as the land flowing with milk and honey. He paints a picture of an idyllic childhood, roaming the neighborhoods, hillsides, and forests with his little brother and sister, Mike and Debbie. There were numerous camping trips with his family, all without a single fire-ant encounter.

I even remember a time before fire ants, believe it or not. I grew up in Southern Oklahoma before they had migrated that far North. I remember plenty of other bugs to avoid while growing up, and many varieties of ants. But these usually minded their own business instead of having a preemptive foreign policy of attacking anything that moved. An enjoyable childhood activity of mine was to disturb part of an ant hill so I could see how they repaired it. Fascinating stuff. I enjoyed their unswerving devotion to perfection in making their beautiful hill just as beautiful as before.

But if you do that to fire ants, they just want vengeance, and they'll worry about rebuilding after they have demolished anything living within chomping distance. Less fascinating than exceedingly creepy is the way they boil out of their dens. Yeesh. Idaho is sounding more and more inviting all the time.

Texas is always using size as a marker for the reasons for its greatness. If we're talking beef ribs, belt buckles, or even hair, that's one thing. But insects that are large enough to be chipping in on property taxes? Or large enough to be wearing a seatbelt (nod to Larry)? Alleged friend and Boise resident Pam Blue even goes so far as to so sweetly remind me that they don't even have cockroaches up there. Probably no termites, either. Those Idaho license plates which currently say "Famous For Potatoes" should be boasting "Very Few Bugs." But I bet their beef ribs are really small. And probably tough, too.

Farewell, Trans Am

We sold the Batmobile last week, courtesy of a Craigslist posting, and I feel that a farewell is now in order.


Though we will miss the sounds of your snarly exhaust, the adventure of your racing suspension, and the wind and gnats in our hair from the open T-tops, we know that you will have many years of adventures ahead of you in Finland. Perhaps even now you are on a huge boat, sailing across the seas to your new home--a place where your beauty and American muscle will be appreciated even more for its rarity.

Do not cry, dear. You will need your wiper fluid for removing the remains of the numerous Finnish insects that you will exterminate with blunt force trauma by your gleaming brow. Even now, these insects are gamboling about the Finnish countryside and mocking with abandon the teeny cars which swish quietly along the highways. Cheer up, Love--how many of your friends can say that they've flattened Finnish bugs? Hmm? This is the adventure of a lifetime! Bon Voyage!

Driving With Larry: A Post-Camping Story

Occasionally there is a moment when you are keenly aware of your human frailty, your incomprehensible emotions, your most unwarranted fears, and your utter ridiculousness. I will share such a moment with you.

After a full weekend of camping and alleged "relaxing," David and I, along with all of the mountain of gear that we'd stuffed in the Subaru, made our way home on Sunday afternoon. Our foreheads and noses were sun-seared and served with a side of broiled ears. These paired nicely with freshly-scratched legs and sore muscles. My exhaustion was done to a turn from the combination of two nights of sleeping bags, pushing thirty, and being an introvert among a lot of people I didn't already know very well. Did I mention the pushing thirty bit? David drove home, since he had slept like the dead until an obscenely late hour on Sunday morning, and my pillow and I settled in as grateful passengers to drowse away the return trip. Closing my eyes was so very delicious that I just leaned my head back and embraced the weariness.

All of this peace was short-lived, since a giant black cockroach had just sprinted across David's lap and was now continuing at cheetah-like speeds across the pillow on my lap. David yelled "It's on your pillow!!" Of course my heavy eyelids sproinged open nimbly, instantaneously communicated to my brain what "it" was, and convinced my body that my best defense was to shriek wildly while attempting to carry out a brilliant plan which involved simultaneously rolling down the window with my right hand, picking up the pillow with my left, and trying to shove the offending occupant out the window without ever touching him with any part of my person, since it is well-known among womankind that touching a cockroach, spider, or anything disgusting in the insect world can cause irreparable damage to the body part involved. I could have died, people. It was a big cockroach.

Did I mention we were on the freeway at this point? Oh yes, David did a manfully good job of keeping the car between the lines as his usually-calm wife thrashed violently in the next seat over and assaulted his ears with all the noises that come out of a scared soprano. Needless to say, my incredibly well-developed plan did not work, and the cockroach merely retreated from the maniac in the front passenger seat by crawling hideously down under her seat and cloaking himself in darkness and safety until he could disembark more securely.

Larry, as we called him, remained there for the duration of the trip--over an hour. I kept a wary, sunburned eyeball patrolling the perimeter for as long as I could manage, but ultimately succumbed to dozing off for long periods. These were punctuated by the occasional start and wild-eyed look around my seat and over my shoulders, with suspicious squints down at my pant leg openings. Once home, I think I saw Larry make a run for it on the driveway as I shook and pummeled the pillows that were stowed directly behind my seat. But a thorough car-cleaning this week will provide insurance, as eye-witness testimony is yet inconclusive.

Later I laughed until I cried at the remembrance of acting like such a girl about a bug--one that doesn't even bite or sting. As David says, "it's just a big beetle." This may be true. So I suggested to him that if it wasn't such a big deal, an alternative plan might have been for him to drive with his knee while rolling down the window and grabbing Larry with his other hand, tossing him out, and telling me about it later when I woke up. Hmm--sounds better than my plan at the time. At any rate, that evening was a prime opportunity to settle in and watch the movie Starship Troopers. It seemed like the thing to do after such a drive home with the likes of Larry.

"The only good bug is a dead bug."

Staff Appreciation Day

In the Whitlark household, we take special care in our laundry duties. We find it very satisfying to take a heap of chaos and transform it into a tidy stack of something functional, which is why we use only the highest standards for those who make up our Laundry Support Team. Meet Sebastian and Belle, who take their work as senior staffers here very seriously. Here they are seen in a Laundry Protocol Meeting, which they diligently hold on an almost daily basis. It must be noted, however, that final protocols have yet been determined, despite a tremendous number of cat-hours spent on the project.


Both Sebastian and Belle have taken a proactive stance on laundry creation, citing the economic benefits of a frequently-laundering society through regular shedding. They therefore make a solid effort in hairing up any potentially launderable surfaces. Sebastian, who recently earned the title of "Chief Lolling Officer" works hard to accomplish this goal, as you may see here.

Another part of their tireless effort is to provide quality sheet cleanliness inspections for each bedding change. Belle is primarily in charge of this department, and may always be found in close proximity to clean sheets, offering her advice for future washings, working to stretch top sheets that she deems too-tightly tucked, and taking extra care to shed as much as possible during these tasks so as to speed the next laundry day and strengthen the economy.

Meanwhile, with intensive research spanning several years, Sebastian has developed his patented system for multiple-garment-ironing using an exciting new napping schedule.


First, clean, warm t-shirts are stacked neatly over the ironer and left for a napping period of about 20 minutes.


After this, the ironer relocates to the top of the stack and naps for approximately 30 minutes to complete the smoothing process. Voila!



Understandably, these modern heroes of laundry are exhausted after a full day of meetings, hairings, inspections, and ironing and may on occasion be found recovering in the conference room.

Kudos, Team Laundry!

If Darth Vader Had Ever Designed A Salad...

It's funny the things we remember from the mean streets of Kindergarten. It really was the first time in my life that real and tangible enemies came into the picture and presented themselves in various forms. The first was a boy named Jerry Don. He was blond and was, in my 5-year-old condemnation, a "meanie" of a high degree. I was always a sensitive child ["Hello, Narcissism, how are you this fine evening?" "Oh, flourishing, flourishing--and how do you think I am?"], and it seemed to be Jerry Don's especial mission in life to get me to cry. This wasn't an especially difficult task, but he seemed to get something out of it anyway.

I remember one particular day when his method was to block the aisle so that I couldn't get to my desk to sit down, and if I moved to the next aisle over to get around him, he just hopped over as well, thereby blocking every route to my desk and staring me down. The conflict ended with me crying from the utter helplessness and frustration I felt. I probably could have punched him, but my mother discouraged this kind of behavior among my sisters and me, and anyway, I was a sensitive child--empathetic and unwilling to solve my problems via violence, even though I probably would have found that to be much more satisfying in the short-term. I chose tears, instead. I don't remember exactly what happened after the release of tears. I think the teacher came back into the room at that moment and he had to let me pass. But my first real enemy had made an appearance.

The second was of a different kingdom altogether: school lunch salad. It was this anemically pale pile of iceberg lettuce (iceberg always sounds so exciting--I mean, it is named after this beautiful, dangerous, and exhilarating frozen wonder--but it always fails to deliver on the splendor of its nomenclature) which was accompanied by a mealy tomato wedge and perhaps a few slivers of uninspired carrot. All this was topped with a dressing that was always blobular, somewhat wiggly, and usually an alarming shade of orangey-peach. Needless to say, I have since always had a healthy suspicion of orangey-peach colored blobs served on salads.

The thing I remember most is not the physical makeup of the salad, but the importance of them. They were not just a nutritionless pile of plant cells, topped with a cry for help; they represented the Jerry Don who stood firmly between me and putting my sticker on the big white poster board of lunch accomplishment. It hung on the wall for all to see, and each child had a long row of small squares to be filled in every day with a shiny metallic star if they finished their lunch. So many children had so many stars! Some had these long, proud rows of stickers, which reflected enticingly in shades of magenta, blue, green, and silver. And then there was mine. One star. Obviously, all those children with so many stars were born with taste buds that functioned only at partial capacity, and were also gifted with an ability to eat orangey-peach colored blobules on command. They were rewarded accordingly with the opportunity to post their star on the day's square. Every day we formed in our single file line before leaving the cafeteria, and every day the stark emptiness of my row stared at me in cold, matte judgment. I was different. I could not eat orangey-peach blobules without gagging, even though I desperately wanted to shovel down that all-important portion of my daily nutrition so that I, too, could be proud of my achievements in salad-eating.

On the other hand, maybe it is ok to be stubborn about some things. To this day, I defy blobule dressings. I embrace Newman's Raspberry Walnut Vinaigrette because it resembles a liquid and is generally awesome. Jerry Don turned out to be a nice guy in high school, so I also embrace letting go of grudges occasionally. I defy the societal rewards for being mindless robots working for appreciation in the form of sparkling stars on poster boards. I embrace Romaine and many of its leafy brethren. I shall spurn iceberg as long as we both shall live. Unto death! [Brandishes light saber and charges off into the night].

Lunch? Definitely Yes! (or: An Odd Poet is Me)

Kami, do you remember this one? You and Eric had asked me if David and I could do lunch with you guys. I promise that I don't use drugs--but the response:

Lunch? Definitely Yes!
by Dr. J. Suesslark-Whitworth

We'll be there,
and we'll be square,
with purple hair
and fleece underwear

Then hunger shall lack
Since we'll have our snack
Which comes from a sack
(Sonic could get some flack)

"Please Sir, can I have some more"
Of the fries which have the oily core?
And I'd be much obliged if you would pour
Some extra Heinz from the packets, four?

Memo: TPS Reports Due Today

Today is "have some fresh donuts on us and forget about the things you don't like about us here at the office" day. I already had breakfast, but I still accepted when one was offered me and I inhaled 3/4 of it with an ease that borders on absurdity. I know it will make me feel like crap in about 10 minutes, yet still I take bites between sentences. As I chew the final bite placidly, I realize that my armpit itches slightly because I forgot to apply deodorant this morning. I don't have a spare with me. This does not bode well for the other occupants of the building, but neither does the recent inhalation of aforementioned donut).

(Note: This was written back when I was working in the "corporate world." Now, if I forget my deodorant, I just walk into the bathroom and apply liberally).