There is a simple phrase I tell myself that should start danger lights flashing. Those five words are: “how hard can this be?”

I can’t list the number of times I’ve overestimated how easy a project can be to complete and how I’ve underestimated my ability to finish the project.

I bought windshield wiper replacements, thinking all I had to do was slide those on.

Wrong.

Bought a stand for my bike to convert it to a stationary one, thinking that would be a piece of cake.

Wrong.

My latest project is assembling a simple, one-drawer nightstand for our guest bedroom.

Our eldest granddaughter stays there when she comes over. Her family moved into their new house, and Kylie needed a nightstand. She liked the one in the guest room, so we gave it to her.

No problem replacing it, I thought. I found some at a local furniture store, and they ran about $150 each. But when shopping in Target, I found a simple white one for $70.

Although the directions on the outside of the box stated, “assembly required,” I thought “how hard can this be?”

My husband is usually the one who puts things together, but he was camping with the Scouts. I had free time and a screwdriver, so I sat down when I got home and opened the box.

My usual way to put things together is to dump everything out in the middle of the floor and sift around until I find the right piece. I look at the pictures and figure it out, using the directions as a last resort.

But this time, following how my husband puts things together, I organized the bags of screws and bolts and checked to be sure I had all the wooden parts listed in the directions.

They were all there and labeled A-K.

I patted myself on the back, thinking I’d not only have a nice little dresser for that room, but my husband wouldn’t have to put it together. I could take pride in having assembled a nightstand.

Because, how hard could this be.

Turned out, I got stuck on the first page.

The directions said to stick round screws into the holes on the wooden panel. I looked at the pieces again. All of them were labeled A-K. None had a label of “wooden panel.”

I looked at the picture and compared it to all the pieces. None of them seemed to have holes in the same place as in the directions. I knew from experience once I stuck those round screws into the wood they weren’t coming out.

For 30 minutes, I tried matching up the directions to the pieces in front of me. Frustrated, I stacked everything up, put the screwdriver on top of the neat pile and went about my day.

When my husband came back, he looked questioningly at the pile and then at me.

“It’s a nightstand for upstairs,” I said.

He nodded.

“And it’s out of the box because…”

I smiled.

“Because I thought I could put it together, but it’s way over my head,” I explained.

He sighed.

“I’ll put it on the list,” he said.

Once again, my belief in my abilities was bigger than my real abilities. It would’ve been easier to get the nightstand that was already put together. But I told myself I had what I needed for half the price, and that statement won out in the end.

The next time I see something in the store that requires assembly and think “how hard can this be,” I need to remember the answer – “harder than you think.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the topics “old timers” love to discuss is the weather.

Since I’m no spring chicken, it’s my turn to take a seat on the front porch rocking chair and discuss what’s happening outside.

It’s officially fall in Texas and, as the memes and jokes go, that means absolutely nothing. The days are still clocking in at over 90 degrees, and I’m sweating whenever I go outside.

Instead of four distinct seasons, we only have a few here in Texas – bluebonnet, brutally hot and football.

Because I grew up in the North, autumn always takes me back to my childhood. There was a definite shift between summer and winter in Olean, the small city where I grew up.

Olean is ringed by gentle mountains. When autumn arrived, the leaves changed colors, and the effect was profound. What was once a green backdrop became a palette of scarlet, marigold and tangerine surrounding the entire city.

For kids, the falling leaves created a new level of fun. Olean High School’s front yard was filled with stately trees, and leaves fell by the bushels in September and October.

We’d head to the school and rake the leaves into giant piles. There’s no greater fun than running and jumping into a pile of crisp leaves.

I can still hear the crunch of the leaves and smell that autumn aroma as we’d land in the middle of the pile, laughing underneath a quiet blanket of red and gold.

We’d jump until the pile was flat and then rake everything back into a big pile and repeat until we were exhausted.

Once the trees had given us all their leaves, it was time for winter. According to The Olean Times-Herald, the city receives about 60 inches of snow each year.

My memories of the snow are waking up to a back yard covered with snow. Bushes were transformed into snow globes, and icicles hung from the bare tree branches like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

We’d bundle up and run out the back door to make snowmen and snow angels until it was time to come inside.

Childhood memories, though, can be deceiving. What I remember as a winter wonderland caused havoc for my Southern father.

The chemicals the city spread on roads to melt the ice rusted out the bottoms of our cars.

My dad put chains on the tires, and I remember him complaining about doing all that work in the freezing cold. Then he had to defrost the handles on the car and use a snow scraper to clear the windshields.

Shoveling the snow from the sidewalks was a pain, especially because we didn’t have a snow blower.

In the mornings, we’d lay out our clothes on the furnace grate to warm. We didn’t leave for the five-block walk to school unless we were wearing snow pants, boots, a jacket, scarf, gloves and a hat.

The snow eventually melted, and I remember how dirty everything looked. The bottoms of the cars were covered with brown snow, sleet covered the streets, and it seemed mud covered everything.

Whenever I grow nostalgic for a “white Christmas,” I remind myself that even though the Texas winters are usually mild, we’re not putting chains on our tires.

We’re not shoveling our vehicles out of a snow pile, and we usually don’t worry about driving on roads that are so covered with snow we can’t see the middle line.

While others are eagerly awaiting the cold weather, chomping at the bit to pull out the pumpkin candles and cinnamon sticks, I’m grateful I live in a part of the country where I never have to worry about putting chains on my tires or wonder when the snowplows will come through.

Plus I can wear sandals and shorts until Thanksgiving.

It’s fall in Texas, y’all.

What’s not to like?

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Friday nights are movie nights for us. It’s a holdover from our working days when Friday signaled the end of the work week.

The 2025 “Superman” was on our streaming service, so we settled in for a night of fun movie watching.

I grew up on Marvel and DC Comics and was a fan of Superman, Batman, and Spiderman. My brother took our grandson to see “Superman” over the summer, and they loved it.

A third of the way through, I wondered what I was watching. Was this a comedy? Action film? An attempt to reignite interest in Superman?

If so, they’ve made a huge mistake.

I kept hoping the movie would decide what direction it wanted to go. But after seeing some woman in the Daily Planet office whose only job was to look like a bimbo, I’d had enough.

What happened to the really good movies? The ones where you rooted for the heroes, booed the bad guys and, at the end, wished the movie would go on for another two hours.

Sadly, they’re in short supply.

I remember the first time I saw “Star Wars.” This was the only movie I’d seen that had nothing to do with Earth. The story line was filled with a variety of people struggling with decisions.

Luke wanting to strike out on his own, Princess Leis taking charge of saving the galaxy, and Obi Wan coming out of retirement to teach Luke the ways of “The Force.

I walked out of that movie with my head spinning.

It was the same with “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Great characters, a great script and action from beginning to end. The story line was easy to follow, and we rooted for Indiana Jones every second of the film.

When it came to comic book superheroes, the first “Batman” movie was a bit off the wall, but the story of The Joker and Batman was true to the comics.

Seeing Batman’s co-creator, Bob Kane, having a cameo was icing on the cake. Same goes for seeing Stan Lee in all the Marvel movies.

The first “Wonder Woman” movie was not only true to the story line in the comics but added depth and humanity to Diana. Seeing a strong woman on the screen made my heart soar.

But somewhere along the line, filmmakers got off track. They changed superhero story lines, and I’ve yet to figure out why they thought it was okay to alter a 50-year history to make major no-turning-back decisions.

They changed the fate of Captain America. They retired Batman, and killed Superman, Ironman, and Wolverine.

True Robert Downey Jr. and Hugh Jackman were perfect in their roles as Ironman and Wolverine, but the beauty of a well-written story is the characters live on no matter who’s saying the lines.

Sean Connery might be the ultimate James Bond, but Daniel Craig did a bang-up job carrying on the 007 dynasty.

For some reason, whether it’s to sell tickets, feed their own or the short-sighted belief that the stories have all been told is ridiculous.

There’s a reason Superman, Iron Man and Batman have survived over 50 years. They are troubled characters who strive to do the right thing even though they are in personal pain.

That makes them relatable and evergreen to humans.

In the end of the first Superman movie starring the late great Christopher Reeve, he flies off into space as the beautiful theme song written by John Williams plays.

Reeve looks straight at the camera and smiles. The first time I saw this movie, my young son turned to me and said excitedly, “Superman smiled at me!”

That’s the magic of movies. To make the audience believe.

Somewhere we lost that magic.

I hope we can get it back again.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The other day, my husband mentioned we’ve purchased three vehicles in the time he’s had one truck.

He logically explained the math. We sold vehicle number one when the mileage was high. Then we bought vehicle number two. That vehicle was toast when some guy ran a red light and totaled my car. Then we had to purchase another vehicle.

“That makes three,” he said.

Oh, my dear husband.

The answer is “one.”

He might be a certified financial planner, but he doesn’t understand “Dee Math.”

“Dee Math” is named after my mother, Dee Hebert. The term came into my vocabulary a few years ago. She called to say she’d saved $100.

“Wow, Mom, how did you do that?” I asked.

“I bought a comforter for your brother, and it was $300,” she said. “I returned it and bought another one for $200.”

Triumphantly she added – “I saved $100!”

I was quiet for a minute and then I countered her crowing.

“Mom, you spent $200,” I said slowly.

She was quiet for a minute.

“Denise, you don’t understand math. I saved $100,” she said.

Ever since that conversation, my family refers to the method of making numbers work out in your favor as “Dee Math.”

I’ve been using some form of “Dee Math” all my life, mostly because I’m awful with numbers.

Not all numbers give me fits. Without cheating, I know my address, my Social Security number and my drivers license number. That’s about the extent of current numbers I can recall on the spot.

I’ve used one particular credit card for years, but I still have to get the physical card out of my wallet to get the security code, and that’s only three digits.

Every company wants you to enter a password that includes numbers. In these days of hyper security, I don’t understand why a password has to be a hundred digits long.

A line from a song would work wonders as a password. Think how much more fun “This gun’s for hire” or “She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah” would be as your passwords instead of the impossible to remember XY17##*jei@@ , but no, they want numbers.

To create a password with numbers I can remember, I have to go back to my childhood home and phone numbers. Those numbers, for some reason, stick.

Not my current home phone number. We still have a land line, but whenever I’m asked for a back-up number, I have to look up “Home” on my phone.

Whenever I use Google Maps, I can remember the street I’m looking for, but not the number. My son and daughter-in-law live in a beautiful home in Houston. I know it’s on Woodway Drive, but I text them every time I go to get the house number.

My son finally put the address in my phone, but I can’t remember how to find it.

I saw a YouTube video about the numbers on a Ross Department Store tag and what those numbers mean. These numbers are important because you can save money if you know how to decipher the code on the tag.

I’ve seen the video three or four times, and I still can’t remember what the numbers mean unless I call that video up on my phone.

Back to the real number of cars I’ve bought.

“We bought the first car because it was time to get another car,” I said calmly. “That’s one. The second car was totaled, so that doesn’t count. The third one is a replacement, not really a car I wanted to buy. So the answer to the number of cars I’ve purchased is one.”

They say math is important, and I agree. If only it wasn’t made up of numbers, then math and I would get along just fine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.