I’ve been doing a lot of escaping lately. Not by literally going through one of those escape rooms or on an airplane to some exotic location.

My escaping has been through mindless scrolling on the internet.

One of my favorite escapes is the reels and short video option on Facebook. These are mini stories, usually less than two minutes, and the content is probably decided from my past viewing history and some faceless artificial intelligence being in the blogosphere.

Most of the time, the videos on my reel are cute kids. I love watching Frankie and Stevie, two sisters, as they go through life. Frankie’s got a huge vocabulary and her sister’s right behind her.

There’s also quite a few medical videos. I clicked on Dr. Pimple Popper a couple of times, so now I’m offered gross medical procedures from Dr. Karan Raj. I’m sorry I clicked on him and some of the others because now I think there’s at least three undetected major medical issues going on simultaneously in my body.

Craft and home make-over videos show up all the time. The last time I undertook a craft project was when my kids were in elementary school, and that was years ago.

My craft supplies include Elmer’s glue, pom poms, scissors and pieces of felt. Modern home crafters have power saws, electric sanders and all kinds of goop to put on refinished furniture.

A female comic, Leanne Morgan, showed up one day, and I’ve been hooked on her videos. She’s from Tennessee and is over the age of 50. She talks about being low on hormones, the many diets she’s been on and her wild days in the 80s.

She’s coming to the Smart Financial Center in September, but paying $150 for a ticket is a little over my price range. Didn’t those robots see I choose a lot of videos on how to do things on the cheap?

I think I’ve seen every funny clip of “Modern Family” and “Young Sheldon” on that reel option. I cannot resist Gloria, Mitch and Cameron and the best of the best from their time on television. Clips from “The Office” are always entertaining as are classic skits from “The Carol Burnett Show.”

The artificial intelligence genie knows I’ll watch recipes that include dumping bags of Fritos, ground meat and cheese in a slow cooker. I’ll sit there and watch those videos for a half hour, hoping something, anything, will come up that’s healthy, quick and cheap. No luck so far.

There’s two new guys that showed up this week, and I keep clicking on their videos in hopes that they’ll become regulars. One wears a red tie and tries out some of the “hacks” on TikTok, like how to unlock your iPhone. Khaby Lame tries out some of the hacks people post and, without saying a word, sheds light on some of the ridiculous ideas people think are ingenious.

There’s always the down-home advice of influencer Ophelia Nichols, also known as “Mama Tot” who invites people to eat lunch with her while she dispenses words of wisdom. She’s always inspirational and fun.

I’ll watch every hair cut and hair style video that appears on my feed even though I’ve had the same basic hair style for years. I’d never shave my head or spend $500 to have somebody put yellow then purple then blue goop on my hair.

Rosie’s been making me look better than I deserve for three decades and it only takes her an hour to work her magic on my hair.

Housework and dishes can wait because I’ve got a few rabbit holes to disappear down. When I see you in a few hours, I’ll have the answer to whether or not chocolate-covered pickles taste good and the easiest way to cut up a lime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Mother’s Day is this weekend, and our family is lucky our mom is still with us. She’s 90 years young and going strong.

Others aren’t as fortunate to have their moms here, and I know this holiday is difficult. It’s also painful for those who’ve lost a child because the mother’s heart always yearns for the one who’s not here.

Motherhood can be either through birthing a child, adoption, or embracing someone who needs a mom. Men can serve the motherhood role in a child’s life as can an aunt, uncle, grandparent, neighbor, friend or teacher.

No matter where a mom comes from, they usually have words of wisdom we hear all our lives. Most are practical – brush your teeth before you go to bed, eat your vegetables and always wear clean underwear.

These gems are practical, like teaching you how to make your bed, wash your clothes or drive a car. The real gold comes from the advice our moms have given us that serve us well every step of the way.

The women in my family have tossed out a few memorable pieces of advice over the years. My Grandmother Marguerite had dozens of sayings about life, some of which are not suitable for this family newspaper.

These are ones I remember, and I promise, they will serve you well:

“Never turn down an opportunity to go on a date, even if you don’t particularly care for the boy. Others will see you’re out and know you’re available.”

“Always remember to have fun along the way.”

Our cousin, Sylvia, is the eldest girl in the Hebert clan. She remembers quite a few Marguerite sayings:

“Act as if you belong wherever you are. If you don’t, someone will let you know, and it may or may not be true.”

“Always put your travel on credit cards. That way, if you die on your trip, you won’t have had to save up for a vacation.”

“Always date younger men. The ones your age are too old for you.”

“Listen to your body. It will tell you everything you need to know.”

Marguerite also told us to always buy nice, shoes. Forget sensible – high heels should be in every girl’s closet. Our Aunt Kathy told us to always keep a pair of gold shoes handy – they are a go-to when going out on the town.

My mom is well known for the advice she’s given over the years. My siblings remember these diamonds: “Getting old is not for sissies,” and our absolute favorite, “All my children are perfect.”

I’d like to think I’ve given my boys the usual momisms – “Your face is going to freeze like that” and “I’m going to count to three.”

I’d like to think those are words of wisdom because all children need to learn how to mask the times they think someone’s an idiot. They also needed to learn how to count.

Some of my phrases they quote come from driving. I have a short fuse in a vehicle and a low tolerance for people who behave stupidly behind the wheel of a car.

Whenever someone would zoom past us, I’d yell one of two phrases:  “Somebody better be bleeding in that car” or “speed on brother, hell aint’ half full.”

To this day, if they’re in the car with me and someone goes by us as a high speed, they turn to me and say “Don’t even think about saying it.”

I like to think I created something memorable for them. Not helpful memorable, but memorable all the same.

Take some of the advice from these savvy women. Listen to your body. Never turn down an opportunity to go out on the town, in your gold shoes, and, remember, have fun along the way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When we moved to Pecan Grove over 35 years ago, one of the restaurants everyone said should be on our “must-visit” list was The Swinging Door.

We followed that advice, and The Swinging Door is still one of our favorites.

After over 50 years in business, owner Steve Onstad announced he’s moving on to another chapter, and The Swinging Door will close as of July 1.

The rumors about the barbecue place’s closing were rampant on social media until Onstad made the announcement official.

For many people, especially those in Richmond, this establishment has been part of their lives. We visited so many times when our boys were young. Because of the concrete floors and relaxed atmosphere, spills and noise didn’t matter.

Many an end-of-the-year baseball party was celebrated there as were engagement parties, weddings, funeral receptions and family get-togethers. The staff and Onstad welcomed everyone.

Besides some of the most delicious slow-cooked brisket in east Texas, The Swinging Door offers something that’s quickly disappearing – they are family owned and operated.

Most stores and restaurants these days are corporate owned. You can go to a McDonald’s or Chili’s in any city and the taste and choices are the same. At The Swinging Door, the choices are based on what owner Steve Onstad wanted to serve:  beef brisket, pork ribs, chicken, sausage and turkey.  Side dishes are creamy potato salad, potatoes, beans, cole slaw, green beans, dirty rice or mac and cheese.

Some restaurants serve chips and salsa – here you’ll get warm bread you can dip in Onstad’s famous barbecue sauce. Desserts are simple yet delicious. If it’s fancy you want, go spend three times what you would at The Swinging Door and you’ll find that.

No menu choices with fancy names or created with spices few people can pronounce. Just meat, slow-cooked until it’s fork tender and can literally melt in your mouth. Some of us love the huge baked potatoes, and children enjoy a familiar PB&J sandwich.

It’s impossible to drive down FM-359 and not have your mouth water when you pass by the restaurant – that smell of meat over pecan wood is distinct and enchanting.

When our son was returning to Taiwan a few years ago, he’d promised some of his friends he’d bring them back genuine Texas brisket. We ordered a brisket from the restaurant, and we wrapped it carefully in foil, hoping it wouldn’t get confiscated by a jealous TSA agent.

He said everyone on the plane wondered about that wonderful smell. When they found out he was taking back a couple of pounds of Texas slow-cooked brisket, they all wanted just a little taste.

He politely refused. When he got to Taiwan, his Texas buddies felt like they were back home.

We met our son’s future in-laws at The Swinging Door, and we got to know each other over a barbecue sandwich and tall glass of iced tea. When out of towners come and want some genuine Texas food, we take them to The Swinging Door.

So many of our sons’ friends worked there, and we’d always beg for the recipe to the wonderful sauce they serve. Nope, they’d say. Restaurant secret.

Most people agree The Swinging Door is one of the best around. From reviews on TripAdvisor to Facebook, Onstad’s barbecue earns five out of five stars or the top recommendation they can bestow.

The Swinging Door is a restaurant owned by a family where you can take your family, at least for the coming few weeks. They’ve opened their doors to at least three generations of Texans looking for a taste of their state’s most honored meal, brisket and beans.

You’ll be missed, Steve Onstad.

Thank you for a half century of good eating and good company.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Professor John Lienhard with the University of Houston hosts a program about the way inventive minds work. The show highlights people who’ve made the world a more interesting place.

One of the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen was at my sister’s place this past week. A little background – her house has flooded twice. Once was from a freak storm that settled over Alexandria, La., and the other was also weather related.

As anyone who’s ever had water damage knows, repairs are costly, and the house has a reputation, one that’s impossible to erase. Their home is on a slab, so Diane and John initially thought they were stuck – their beautiful home’s value would sink, and they’d always have the fear of flooding in the back of their minds whenever heavy rains hit the area.

But my sister never gives up. Whether it was fate or “big brother” listening in to her and John talking about raising the house, an ad for David Shoring, a company specializing in raising houses, appeared on her social media feed.

Intrigued, Diane started researching and found FEMA offers a Flood Mitigation Assistance grant that could pay up to 100% of a contract to raise a house that’s flooded at least twice. She remembered the ad and, two years ago, applied for the grant.

Diane would call and email every couple of weeks, but the federal government is a slow-moving machine. A few months ago, she got the word – her application had been fully funded.

They got bids but went with fate and lined up Davie Shoring to raise the house. A crew started with digging tunnels under the house by hand – some from the back of the house, some from the front. Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow was filled, and there were mountains of dirt all around the house.

The technology uses stacks of concrete, square blocks with a whole in the middle, to stabilize the house. Inserted into the blocks would be steel bars. These blocks would be stacked up as the house rose and would serve as a new, higher foundation. The bars keep the concrete in place.

Thirty-six jacks were placed underneath the house on load-bearing walls. Each jack was connected to a giant meter board with thick cables to make sure all parts of the house were being raised at the same level at the same time.

Finally, lift day arrived. With wires and levels in place, Foreman Josh gave the word – they were ready.

Diane and John were nervous – this is their home and a company was promising they could safely raise their home five feet in the air.

Would the house crack? Would the walls cave in? Would the house fall to one side?

The motor started and the house went up one inch. Workers checked every meter on the truck and under the house to make sure the jacks were working in tandem.

Foreman Josh walked the inside of the house to make sure none of the walls were cracking. The process was working perfectly, so they cranked up the jacks again.

By the end of the day, the house was up almost five feet, the height the state of Louisiana now requires for homes to be raised.

By the end of the next day, stairs were in place in the front and the back. Dirt was smoothed back in place and concrete skirting will surround the house followed by landscaping.

My sister said the only thing out of place in the house was a picture fell over. The view from the windows now offers a beautiful panoramic of their property, and they are relieved and relaxed now that their beautiful home is safe from flood waters.

I keep picturing people who found a way to help owners whose homes were on a slab. Either due to changing weather patterns or newly created drainage problems, their homes were in danger.

Some creative folks found an innovative way to do something nobody ever thought possible.

Now that’s the way inventive minds think.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was listening to the radio when an old Beatles tune came on – “Day Tripper.”  I’d always thought the song was about a girl who liked to take trips to the sea, the beach or shopping for the day.

But then, 50 years later, it hit me – this song was about a girl taking an LSD trip. It took me a long time “to find out, but I found out.”

Why it didn’t occur to me that this song was about drugs makes me embarrassed. Most of the songs from the 60’s were about drugs.

“White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane was the most obvious. “One pill makes you bigger, one makes you smaller.” Even someone as dumb as me could figure that one out.

With Paul McCartney’s “Michelle,” I didn’t feel so dumb because some of the words were in French. Besides, most of us just mumbled the lines after “Michelle, ma belle.”

The theater was packed when I saw the movie “Hard Day’s Night.” I can blame all those girls in the audience for not knowing what line comes after “’cause when I’m lectured at home…” because everyone was screaming so loud.

I still get a smile on my face whenever I hear the song “Tiny Dancer” because someone in my family innocently sang “Hold me closer Tony Danza” instead of “Hold me closer Tiny Dancer.” I had to leave the room before busting into laughter.

Some 1980’s songs are still hard for me to figure out. Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” is one of those. So is Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer.”

After reading the lyrics online and slapping my head for not being smart enough to figure out what the singers were saying, I’ve got a solution to not knowing the lyrics.

No, it’s not looking them up on your phone and then using the phone as a microphone so you can look at the words.

It’s mumbling.

Let’s face it – a lot of musicians are hard to understand so mumbling is quite all right. If the person with you is under the age of 40, they have no idea what the lyrics are about anyway.

Doubt that? Ask them what place in pop culture the phrases “dy-no-mite” and “good night, John Boy” hold.

Years ago, I took my teenage son to see “City Slickers.” When Billy Crystal, Bruno Kirby and Daniel Stern rode out at the end of the cattle on their horses drive humming the theme song from “Bonanza,” the entire audience erupted in laughter. My son leaned over and asked what was so funny.

The lyrics to kids songs are sometimes hard to remember. Maybe it’s because we’re sleep deprived. So forgive young moms if they can’t remember the third stanza to “Frosty the Snowman” or what foot comes first in “The Hokey Pokey.”

But, just like we can do with songs we can’t remember, all you young moms and grandparents have to do is mumble along or repeat the stanzas you know with a smile on your face. The toddlers will think you’re absolutely magical.

Don’t worry about knowing the lyrics to current pop songs. If those of us over the age of 30 knew the lyrics, the kids would drop those songs like we ran away from bell-bottom pants in the 80s.

So, if you don’t know all the words to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” just play the air guitar. Your kids will think you’re a rock star.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Spring is finally here. The trees are blooming — ask my allergies – people are strolling around the block after dinner and the weatherman is no longer predicting a sudden freeze.

But the best sign of spring is seeing youngsters out in the ball fields, practicing tee-ball, baseball, softball and soccer.

I’m not someone who likes sports. I was always the last one chosen for the team. Not even love could save me – my high school boyfriend didn’t pick me for his team when he was the coach. His reasoning was sound – I was the worst one.

In college, the only way I passed a tennis class was because I made 100 on the written test. I was the only person in the entire class who never won a point. You read that right – I never earned one point, much less won a match.

So it’s a little odd that I love sports, especially spring sports like baseball and softball. Because I’m the mom of boys who enjoyed sports, we were at the baseball field a good bit of the time during their growing up years.

It was a stretch at first, learning the game, not getting upset at other parents and especially watching my sons strike out, miss a foul ball or not make the throw from the outfield to the infield.

It’s the process that’s fulfilling in sports. Watching your child go from swinging and missing at a baseball to finally connecting is a thrill for the child and for the parent.

Seeing them learn the difference between offense and defense on the basketball court was like watching them learn the difference between salt and sugar.

We watched our boys work, and it was like manna from heaven to see that hard work pay off. But there were the darker moments – the missed tackle, an unfair coach, a surprise foul.

There were the injuries as well. Our middle son broke his collarbone when a kid slid into him while he was protecting second base.

There’s the burn out – school plus homework plus practice is tough for a young person to juggle. When they don’t get picked for the team, that’s a difficult conversation to have on the way home from tryouts.

Teaching them to roll with the punches, to try harder the next time and to shake it off is all part of being the parent of a young athlete.

We’ve had our share of bad coaches – men and women who were only wearing a cap because they wanted their son to be the pitcher or they wanted their daughter to be the goalie.

In all our years of being bleacher parents, only one young player made it to the minor leagues.

I wish these coaches had realized the real lessons were instilling a sense of teamwork and the realization that practice is vital for success.

Our boys have had some extraordinary coaches who taught the basics – how to catch and throw a ball and guard an opponent. More importantly, they taught them how to win and how to lose. To this day, I’m grateful for their guidance and support.

Our young grandson had such a soccer coach last year. He saw a spark in Jason and encouraged, praised, corrected and liked our grandson.

We have a picture of Coach Josh and Jason on display. Whenever I see that photo, I think about all the men and women who’ll step up this year and, without realizing it, will be the brightest spot in that child’s life for many years.

Load up the lawn chairs and the Gatorade.

It’s go time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

With Easter this coming weekend, my mom asked if I remembered the Easter egg hunts we had growing up.

I vaguely recall looking for eggs in the big yard next to my grandparents’ house. Mostly I remember dressing up for Easter Mass with a new hat, gloves and shiny white patent leather shoes.

The Easters I remember the most, I told her, are the ones when our children, her grandchildren, were young. Those I remember like they were yesterday.

On the Saturday before Easter Sunday, we’d sit around the bar in my parents’ house and let the kids dye eggs. At least half ended up on the floor because those excited little hands couldn’t quite hold on to a hard-boiled egg.

Before the hunt began, the uncles would hide the eggs while we’d hold the youngsters inside. It was an unspoken rule – the ones on the patio, the ones in plain sight, were for the youngest cousins.

Then, the kids would line up on the steps by the back door, and when an uncle gave the word, off they’d go.

Some of the children would find an egg, stop, sit down and peel it right there. Forget about looking for more eggs. Their philosophy was I got something solid here – why waste time chasing after things I can’t see?

The older ones always helped the younger ones, and we still talk about their generosity and kindness.

There was a limit as to how many they could find so the hunt would be fair. The kids always accepted that rule without question. Well, with little questioning.

The afternoon ended with the egg cracking contest. Although I can’t remember who won those contests, I remember the older ones trying every strategy to win – holding the egg so just a little bit showed, spinning the egg to see which end had air and would be vulnerable.

Finally, we’d clean up, pack up and head home, ready for another week of work and school. We’d reminisce every year about the year before, retell the stories and add a few more.

Over the years, some of us moved out of state so we created our own Easter memories and traditions. For us, Saturday evening was for dyeing the eggs, and Sunday morning for combing through our baskets to see what the Easter Bunny brought before heading to church.

Sunday afternoon was for hunting eggs and silently wishing we were back at Mom and Dad’s to be with everyone.

I didn’t realize those fun everybody-together moments would become precious memories. I took for granted the Hebert siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, spouses and friends would spend holidays together.

Those times together have become gold in my memory because we were gathered as a family. Didn’t matter about the spilled Kool-Aid, the stacks of dirty dishes, nor the dozens of toys scattered all over my mom’s living room floor.

Those hectic days are what I remember when my house is quiet. I replay watching my brothers play basketball in our parents’ driveway, slowly evolving into watching our nephews and nieces shoot hoops.

The same kids who once looked for Easter eggs are now hiding eggs in their back yards for their children or enjoying their own Easter traditions as a couple.

As we all make new memories, I’ll be remembering Easter egg hunts at the Hebert household, a holiday together we didn’t think was all that special.

At the time, it was simply a Sunday afternoon. Now, those moments are precious gold.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One morning, my Yahoo Mail wouldn’t load.

Instead, an odd error message flashed on the screen. I did some digging and found an 800 phone number that was supposed to be the Yahoo help desk.

Turned out to be a company trying to get money out of me, but the Yahoo account acted up for a couple of days. I worried my computer had been compromised because of the odd message. My neighbor, Arthur, is a computer whiz, and he offered to check out the system.

By the end of the day, he said the computer was fine but I should change from Yahoo mail to Gmail. My husband had been telling me to switch over for months, but like so many people, I didn’t want to give up the familiar.

Changing what’s comfortable isn’t easy.

I’m comfortable with the familiar.

Checking my email with Yahoo is familiar. There’s a shortcut on my desktop and I can get right to my email in seconds.

The books on the bookshelf are in the same order as when I put them there 10 years ago. I know where they are – why change that up?

The pictures I hung on the family room wall 12 years ago are still in the same place.

My computer sits on the same desk it has for the past 20 years. My son keeps telling me to get a more efficient set up, but that requires one word I try and avoid – change.

My hairstyle is familiar. When Rosie, my friend and stylist, was out for a few weeks, a different stylist cut my hair.

That was a disaster – I couldn’t style my hair the way she had, the cut was too short and the style required using a hair brush in ways I knew I’d never master.

Uncle Ben’s long-grain rice is the only brand I use because my grandmother and my mom used it. I see no reason to change what’s worked for two generations.

I’m not always such a stick in the mud. I change my attitudes and opinions when presented with new information. Being able to check information from a variety of sources is a challenge I enjoy.

But it looked like I was going to have to move out of my comfort zone and do something different with my email.

I grudgingly took my husband’s and Arthur’s advice. I went through all the steps to set up a Gmail account. Trying to hang on to something familiar, I tried using the same email name as I’d been using for the past 20 years.

No go.

Someone had already chosen that name. The names Gmail suggested were too long and, let’s face it, I’d never remember those. After 10 minutes, I finally typed a password Google found satisfactory.

Then there was the next step of setting up a password. I’m awful with passwords. Super secure ones are too long for me to remember and require upper case, lower case, symbols and numbers.

But after 15 minutes, I submitted a password Google found safe and acceptable. I wrote it down and haven’t told Arthur or my husband I committed that email faux pas. I know I’m prone to forgetting passwords, so I followed a familiar routine, hence the reason the password is written down in a book.

When I finished setting up the Gmail account, my husband asked if I wanted a tutorial on storing documents in the cloud and using One-Drive.

Overload, was the word that flashed in my brain.

Until I get an error message or I’m forced, I’ll follow my familiar routine of saving things to an external hard drive and the desktop.

My brain’s tired. I think I’ll pop a tape in the VHS recorder and relax.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com. Yes, I’ll still check it. Old habits die hard. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Many scientists believe strong nuclear force is the most powerful force in the universe. Others believe gravity is the most potent while some would put hurricanes and avalanches at the top of the powerful category.

Albert Einstein said that compound interest is the most powerful force. If you started saving money at an early age and cash it in after you retire, you’ll believe the genius was correct.

The romantics among us believe love is the strongest emotion while the pessimists would argue that hate is powerful and dangerous.

These are sound theories. However, there’s something more powerful than keeping planets in line or making sure the sun stays millions of miles away.

I believe guilt is the most powerful force in the world. Guilt can make the strongest person cave under pressure. When used effectively, guilt can make us into better people.

Guilt was one of the strongest tools I had as a parent. If one of the boys hit the other, I had the standard reply.

“You hit your brother,” I’d say to the guilty party as the innocent one cried loudly and without taking a breath. I’d shake my head in disappointment while consoling the wailing child. I’d look straight in the eyes of the offender and ratchet up the guilt.

“Look how bad he feels. Now tell him you’re sorry,” I’d say.

Usually that philosophy worked. That is until the day the hitter said they didn’t feel bad about hitting their brother.

“He deserved it,” was the answer. Out went that line of guilt shaming because guilt only works if you feel bad about what you did.

When they were older, instilling guilt became a little more sophisticated. But I had the guilt grand master close by – my grandmother. She’d cook a huge meal, fill a plate to overflowing and then put it down in front of me. She’d sit next to me, point at the plate and smile.

“Looks good, doesn’t it,” she’d say. “I made all of this for you.”

The food looked delicious, but she and I both knew there was no way I could eat everything she’d heaped on the plate.

“I can’t eat all of this,” I’d say, trying to weasel out of all that food. She’d dab at her eyes.

“You don’t like what I fixed you,” she’d say. I’d reassure her I did and then she’d look at the plate and at me. I’d end up eating everything on there, just so she wouldn’t feel bad.

My mom updated the guilt about food with a line we knew was coming if we turned our noses up at what she’d fixed.

“There are starving children in China who’d be glad to eat this,” she’d say. That worked until my brother talked back one night.

“Well, then, they can have this,” he said. Let’s just say he was one of those starving children because he went to bed without any supper that night.

I tried to soften the guilt for my boys, but I’d been trained by the very best. I’d find myself mouthing words I couldn’t believe were coming out of my mouth, but there they were.

“I slaved for hours in front of that stove and you tell me you ate a taco over at your friend’s house so now you’re not hungry!” was one of my lines. “Fine, then, I’ll just throw it away.”

I never could throw away perfectly good food, so I’d just put it in the fridge for lunch the next day. Still, I never could tell them that – the guilt was so much more fun to dish out.

The romantic in me believes that love is the strongest force and will always win out over hate. Gravity keeps the universe in check and Mother Nature is savagely powerful.

But as a person who’s dished out guilt as well as crumbled underneath it, guilt is the ace of hearts in the deck of life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Social media is having a field day with comedian Chris Rock’s Netflix special “Selective Outrage.”

Every review I’ve read about the hour-long show has zeroed in on the last eight minutes. That’s when Rock addressed the big incident – Will Smith came up on the stage at the Academy Awards and slapped him.

Netflix viewers came to hear what Rock would say about Will Smith. They wanted blood. They wanted vengeance.

But I tuned in because I’ve seen most of Chris Rock’s stand-up specials, and they were raunchy but funny.

As the special progressed, I stopped wondering about “the slap” and was, instead, intrigued by a couple of stories Rock told.

One was when Rock’s daughter, Lola, snuck out on a high school field trip, went to a bar and got drunk with some White friends.

The school threatened to expel them. The parents banded together and said they were going to get lawyers and sue the school for not supervising their daughters.

Then Rock overheard his daughter and her friends laughing about the incident and how they’d all get out of it. Without telling her or his daughter’s mother, Rock drove to the school, found the dean and told him to expel his daughter.

The dean complied. Rock said his daughter had to write letters and essays to other high schools to find admittance.

She did it.

When it was time to apply for college, she had to write more essays and took responsibility for her actions. She wrote those as well.

Today, she’s in culinary school in Paris doing extremely well.

But that story wasn’t in any review I read. Nor was the story he told about his mother having to go to a vet for dental work when she was a child because White dentists wouldn’t treat Black children.

I thought a lot about those two stories and why the media didn’t at least mention the incidents about the women in his family. For me, those were powerful stories, ones worth hearing and understanding.

But people didn’t tune in to hear Chris Rock talk about parenting or prejudice. They wanted to hear how he was going to get even with Will Smith.

Sensationalism is what gets people to click on articles which generates income. Take a look at the headlines on your news feed. There are certain phrases webmasters consistently use to get you to click on their story – “tragic mistake,” “baffled viewers” and “shoppers swear by this” are a few of the most common ones I see.

Probably a headline promoting how to handle the hard things in parenting wouldn’t generate the same clicks as “A serial murderer lived on my street and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

We’re being led down the path savvy marketers and artificial intelligence wants us to travel. They wanted us to watch the Chris Rock special to find out how he felt about Will Smith. They completely bypassed the first 50 minutes of the special to get to the “juicy” salacious, gossipy part.

And even then, they thought Rock was too easy on Smith or he deserved to get slapped. Our society has gotten quite good at negativity, criticism and sinking to the lowest common denominator.

I wouldn’t put Chris Rock down as a parenting expert. But I would put him down as someone who watched his mother overcome prejudice and poverty.

I’d also say he made some tough decisions to ensure his daughter grew up taking responsibility for her decisions.

Too bad he only gets credit for the “big slap” at the Oscars.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.