I enjoy having people over for dinner. I love spending time with friends, chatting about politics or what’s going on in our lives . But I’ve had company for the past three weeks, and I’m ready for this visitor to move on.

This pesky guest butts into conversations, is loud and makes sleeping practically impossible. The culprit is a hacking cough, courtesy of a summer cold.

I seldom catch a cold, and when I do, it’s usually gone in a couple of days. But this cough is stubborn and refused to leave when the cold fled the premises. After two weeks of almost non-stop coughing, I broke down and paid a visit to the drug store.

The cold and flu aisle designate an entire section to coughs. Is it a cough due to allergies? A cough due to colds? How about a cough due to the flu? I have a nagging cough that’s due to an unwillingness to leave the building.

Not one bottle stated it was good for that kind of cough.

There’s cough suppressants and expectorants, and I had no desire to start spitting in addition to the coughing. So I read the labels on the suppressants. These meds are primarily used at night, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to sleep through the morning alarm, so I kept looking.

Finally, the tried-and-true methods won out, so I picked up a bottle of Robitussin as well as my mom’s remedy for colds – Vicks Vapo Rub. Many a night we went bed with Vick’s Vapo Rub all over our chests and a clean cloth diaper keeping the messy goop off our pajamas.

At 3 a.m., when the Robitussin wasn’t doing its job and I was desperate, I fired up the computer and started searching for cough remedies on the Internet.

Home remedies came up first, and dozens of people have their own cough cure – steamy, hot showers, hot teas and adding turmeric to hot milk. I haven’t a clue what turmeric is and no idea where to start looking for it in the store.

A little less confusing is the home remedy of boiling a stick of cinnamon in water and then drinking it. If that didn’t work, one person suggested crushing a clove of fresh raw garlic in a small bowl and mixing that with honey followed by a chaser of butter pickles.

I think I’d rather have the cough.

The home remedy of sipping Jack Daniels every time the cough came around sounded like a sure-fire way to get stumbling drunk and then we’d probably not care if we were coughing.

One site claimed that if you cover the bottoms of your feet with Vicks Vaporub, put on thick socks and go to sleep, the cough will magically disappear. Somehow I’m just not sure how covering my feet with menthol will do something for a cough, but when that cough got me out of bed at 3 a.m., I was willing to try anything.

So I glopped on the Vicks, pulled on some thick socks, went back to bed and was up at 6 a.m., still coughing but with feet that smelled like a eucalyptus tree.

I think I’ll go back to my sure-fire method for getting over a nasty cold or cough – wait it out – and see if I can find a cure for coughing that includes Blue Bell ice cream and Dove chocolates. Those might not cure the cough but that cure sounds a lot more appetizing than butter pickles and garlic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As someone who trips over her own feet, I’ve been watching the 2012 Summer Olympics games with amazement. From archery to wrestling, the Olympics allow the world’s top athletes to compete on an international level, and there’s been incredible highs and gut-wrenching lows.

Watching Serena Williams take the gold, individually and then with her sister Venus, was incredible. The “Fabulous Five” surpassed the media hype surrounding the gymnastics competition as did the women’s soccer and volleyball teams that kept advancing.

Teenager Missy Franklin was all smiles as she won swimming medals as did the incomparable Michael Phelps who won eight Olympic gold medals and set a world record. But at the end of the competition, it didn’t matter if the viewer knew the athletes or not – the dedication they showed to their sport was inspiring.

Of course, NBC news has turned the Olympics into an “event,” complete with logos, theme music and short segments highlighting every athle

te they deemed “newsworthy.” We probably know more about Jordyn Wieber, Ryan Lochte and Gabby Douglas than we do some of our own relatives.

Olympic commercials have especially played on our heartstrings as they showcase athletes preparing for the Olympics. With Morgan Freeman narrating and violins playing against images of children thanking their mothers for their sacrifices, it’s impossible to stay dry eyed.

Televising the back story of how an athlete went from a 4-year-old doing somersaults in the living room to turning in almost perfect gymnastics routines makes for an interesting back story, but what the hype doesn’t show is the day-in and day-out grueling training schedule, money and sweat that goes into an Olympian’s performance.

Every athlete at the games has put in hours to fine tune their performance. Their parents have been getting up early, taking them to practice or working an extra job to pay for coaching lessons. They’ve allowed their children to live far from home, just so they could train with a better coach.

In preparation for the games, these Olympians were up at 5 a.m., swimming countless laps in the pool before school started or turning endless flips on a sweaty gym mat before they tackled their homework.

Although most athletes never make it to the Olympics, what they do share with those in the games is a dedication to practice and perfection. Serious athletes understand that commitment to physical fitness and pushing themselves beyond what they think they can accomplish.

Teenage boys are already on the football fields, sweating and practicing blocks and tackles. They’re in the weight rooms, building muscle mass and fine tuning their coordination skills. Coaches are putting them through the drills, both physical and mental, to make them the best they can be.

Amateur runners are racking up miles running on subdivision roads early in the morning or late in the evening. Accountants and teachers are lacing up their sneakers after work and running up and down stairs to get in shape.

People are in the pool at the YMCA early in the morning, swimming lap after lap. There aren’t any crowds to cheer them on nor are there coaches shouting support from the sidelines. The only encouragement they have is the voice inside their head.

No cheering crowds at the finish line. No product endorsement. No television interview with Bob Costas. Just the inner satisfaction of knowing they accomplished their goal. And, after all, that’s what every athlete dreams about.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Just wait.

That’s what my mother said when I wanted to play in her make-up bag.

“You’ll be old soon enough,” she said, putting away her tubes of red lipstick and containers of pressed powder.

I didn’t understand why I had to wait. The grown-up world was mysterious and exciting, much more so than being a little kid who had to leave the room when adults were talking in low voices.

Just wait.

“Your face will freeze like that,” my mother said to me on more than one occasion. My face didn’t freeze with my tongue sticking out, but those crow’s feet and wrinkles did eventually show up, just like my mother told me they would.

Just wait.

That’s what my high school teachers told me when I questioned why we had to follow the outdated dress-code rules. How did the length of a boy’s hair or a girl’s dress keep them from learning?

When we got into the real world, our teachers said, we’d understand the reasons for these grown-up commands, and we could change the rules when we got to be adults.

Just wait.

That’s what I told my children whenever they’d misbehave. You’ll be a parent one day, and you’ll understand what it means to be at the end of your rope with 10,000 things to do and not enough time to do them. One day, I told them, you’ll understand.

Just wait.

That’s what we do when we go in for a checkup and the doctor tells us she needs to run a few more tests because something doesn’t look right. We wait for the phone call with words that will either put us on Cloud 9 or send us to the depths of despair.

The moments waiting are spent in either denial, agony or deal making – “Lord, just get me through this and I’ll be good forever.”

Waiting.

That’s where we spend most of our lives. We wait in long, slow moving grocery lines while playing mindless games on our cell phones to pass the time. We wait in bumper-to-bumper traffic, our anger growing with every annoying red light and every slow poke in the left-hand lane.

Waiting.

For that first kiss, our first job, our first child and especially the day we’ll retire. When that day comes, we tell ourselves, we’ll be on Easy Street, able to kick back, put our feet up and enjoy life. No worries, no work and no bills, we think, just rest and relaxation.

But not now because we’ve got kids in school, the car needs new tires and the water heater isn’t going to make it another six months. We believe our golden days are ahead of us or out of our reach, but if we can just wait out the next six months or the next few years, we’ll eventually end up free from aggravation.

Except during all those impatient moments, a quiet symphony plays out around us – an afternoon watching children dancing in the sprinkler, the give-and-take rhythm of family dinners or relaxing on the back porch, waiting for the sun to set.

So no more griping about waiting for the traffic to clear or thinking everything will be okay when that raise comes our way. No more gritting our teeth while waiting for the kids to grow up and move out. No more waiting for the good times or the right time.

Because while we’re complaining about having to wait, we’re missing out on what’s happening all around us.

And that’s life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When I was in middle school, the priest at our church agreed to allow girls on the altar as servers, or altar boys, during Mass. I was thrilled I might have the chance to be the first girl to serve in our home parish.

My dad, however, said the altar was no place for women, and I was crestfallen as I watched other girls serve. My dad thought his girls could accomplish anything they wanted; however, there were limits to what women should be allowed to do.

In my lifetime, I’ve watched women hammer away at that glass ceiling, and we lost one of the best, Sally Ride, to pancreatic cancer this week. Most Americans know why she’s in the history books – she was the first American woman to fly in space.

But Sally Ride was more than a notation on the history timeline. After the space program, she started her own company, Sally Ride Science, where middle-school girls were introduced to the excitement science offers.

She made sure chemistry, physics and science were presented in a fun and educational way to girls across the country. The positive impact she made on young women is just as important as the historic Ride made in that space shuttle.

Despite the gains my gender has made since women gained the right to vote in 1920, it’s sad that many women fail to appreciate the females like Ride who cracked open the glass ceiling for them.

Elizabeth Stanton and Susan B. Anthony fought long and hard for women’s rights in the early 1920s and went to their graves without ever stepping into a voting booth.

Love or hate their politics, Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan and Bella Abzug were activists in the 1960s and 1970s who railed against the myths and stigmas associated with being a female.

Here in our own community, there are countless women who’ve pushed for positive changes. In the late 1800’s, Polly Ryon was instrumental in expanding her father’s lands, turning the George Ranch into a successful business.

In our lifetime, Viola Randle and Frances Smith both served as mayor for the city of Fulshear back in the 1970s when many women felt they had to wear pantsuits and imitation ties to be taken seriously.

Some of our public schools are named after local outstanding female educators like Antoinette Reading and Cora Thomas. Jane Long Elementary and Susana Dickinson Elementary honor women who hold a place in Texas history.

Numerous female judges, attorneys, doctors, dentists and teachers hailing from different races and cultures leave their positive mark on this community through their civic efforts.

But let’s not forget the trailblazing women who quietly work behind the scenes. They might not be orbiting the earth in a spaceship, but these women are running our food and clothing banks, personally reaching out to others in need.

They might not be heads of major corporations, but they are standing up for abused children in the Fort Bend County judicial system.

These women might not have an office in Washington D.C., but they’re helping battered and physically abused women get back on their feet.

There are men performing the same courageous acts, and we owe them our gratitude. Women, however, owe the females who came before them and chipped away at society’s prejudices.

Thanks, Ms. Ride, for your contribution to NASA but especially for encouraging young girls to reach for the stars. Because of some brave female pioneers, they really are there for the taking.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Paint brush. Check.

Drop cloth. Check.

Carpet cleaner, soap and water. Check.

It’s painting time over at my son and daughter-in-law’s new place, and the two grandmothers volunteered to paint our grandchildren’s rooms.

Decorating and how-to articles make painting look so simple. Why with a gallon of paint and a little elbow grease, they promise, anybody can turn boring harvest wheat beige walls into a bold, artistic statement or a calming oasis.

But there’s a whole lot decorators leave out in between deciding to paint and sitting back in the La-Z-Boy enjoying another episode of “Duck Dynasty.”

First there’s picking out the paint color and paint finish. Sherwin-Williams has over 1,500 paint colors, including 169 warm neutrals. I’m not exactly sure what the big difference is between a warm neutral and a cold neutral or the subtle difference between powder blue or blue cruise but choosing takes hours.

There’s also the choice of the type of finish – eggshell, satin, flat, or whether you want the primer mixed in with the final paint color.

Once you decide and lug home two heavy gallons of paint and all the supplies – a roller, roller pads, trays for the rollers and the trim work, a couple of paint brushes and a drop cloth – you can begin the thankless task of prepping the room.

Some people clear the room completely, but I take the lazy way out and pile all the furniture in the middle of the room and then cover the mountain with a drop cloth. I spend a lot of time climbing over and around beds and dressers but I convince myself that’s the easiest route.

Once the furniture’s out of the way, it’s time to protect the woodwork with blue painter’s tape. I used to think I had a steady hand and didn’t need the tape. After years of putting on eyeliner, how hard could it be to follow a piece of baseboard and not get paint on the wall or carpet?

It’s practically impossible. So I learned to use the tape, and that task takes about an hour, scooting along the baseboards and then climbing up and down the ladder to tape off the ceiling.

And let’s not forget the drop cloths. Some of us think we’re not going to drip any paint and skip this step. That would be a mistake because paint splatters are difficult to remove from the carpet and the tops of furniture one was too lazy to move out of the room.

Once all that preparation work is finished, then it’s time to actually paint. I start by rolling paint on the wall because it’s the most satisfying part of painting a room.

The new color appears immediately and you can actually see progress, unlike the painstaking job of trim work that takes forever.

Once all the painting is finally finished, it’s time to clean up. I used to faithfully wash out all the rollers and pans. But when I discovered disposable pan liners, inexpensive rollers and cheap drop cloths, clean up is now a breeze.

The last step is going back and wiping up all the paint splatters, a big job for me because I drip paint on the carpet no matter how many drop cloths I use. I also splatter paint all over the ladder and my clothes, the windows and the doors.

So the next time I read an article on how easy it is to transform a room with a simple gallon of paint, I’m going to sit back in the La-Z-Boy, look at my already painted harvest wheat walls and smile.

The best paint job is the one that’s already finished.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

“We need your help.”

That was the frantic phone call I received while at a high school journalism camp in downtown Austin. Three of my broadcasting students needed someone to interview, and they were desperate.

Finding a quiet spot, we discussed what they needed. They were in an intensely competitive class, and all week, they’d been receiving scathing reviews. It was time for the final project, and they were adamant their video be the best.

We decided to search for a college student, perhaps working in a coffee or gift shop. While heading toward Sixth Street, we walked in front of the University Catholic Center, and we could see students talking with a priest in the foyer. My students decided to go in, anxious, but determined to get their video.

However, I was reluctant to enter the building. For the past few months, I’ve had difficulty attending church services. Not because of a lack of faith but because I felt someone I admire had been unfairly treated by my home church.

I know that in business – and running a church is a business – some decisions aren’t popular with the populace. Many of us spoke up but nothing was resolved. Weeks went by and my frustration turned to anger.

In some faiths, decisions are not supposed to be questioned, but reform and change doesn’t happen unless people stand for what they believe. Doctrine is seldom the issue – it’s the way people interpret the words and the way others are treated that causes rifts.

My faith in God was as strong as ever; my faith in people, however, was shattered. For six months, I avoided attending services and looked at other faiths and denominations. My heart was heavy because of the distance I was putting between myself and the church.

I hid my feelings as my students approached the group, nervous but hopeful. The young priest smiled and listened as we asked for an interview. He hesitated, saying he had quite a few things to do.

But when one of the teens explained how they were tired of getting picked on, The Rev. Jamie Baca immediately agreed to help them.

UT student Daniel Gonzalez works at the parish, and he also agreed to be on the video, even though his girlfriend was waiting and he’d been working since early in the morning.

Daniel helped the students set up their equipment and then Father Jamie came in, sat down and told them to ask away.

The interview took longer than five minutes, but the two weren’t in a hurry. They talked about their backgrounds and how much they enjoyed working with college students. Daniel told the students about struggling with coming to Mass once he arrived at the university.

Their words were honest, and as I watched my teens film, the smiles returned to their faces. We left the church with ample footage, and the teens eagerly headed off to edit their video.

That evening, the anger and disappointment I’d been feeling melted away as I sat in Mass for the first time in months. Instead of feeling distanced from a church, I felt immense gratitude for having met Father Jamie and Daniel.

People will always be motivated by greed and goodness, pride and piety. There will be those who do what they do for personal gain. But two strangers reminded me that people doing the right thing are usually right around the corner.

I need to remember to have faith that God will place them in my path.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

“You beat everything, you know that,” is the exasperated phrase Deputy Barney Fife used whenever his boss, Sheriff Andy Taylor, played a joke on him. This week, one of America’s founding television fathers, Andy Griffith, passed away at the age of 86.

“The Andy Griffith Show” has played almost continuously on television since its beginning back in 1960. TAGS is the often-funny television show about Andy Taylor, the sheriff of friendly Mayberry and the people in his and the town’s life.

But the show is much more than a sit-com, and a large part of that is due to the excellent writers and the high standards set by Griffith.

Born in 1926 in North Carolina, Griffith began his acting career on Broadway and later in films. He was featured on “The Danny Thomas Show” as a small-town sheriff who gives Thomas a speeding ticket.

The character was well received, and “The Andy Griffith Show” became a reality. Originally, Griffith was to be the comic and fellow actor and friend Don Knotts would play the straight guy.

But Knotts’ comedic talents were quickly realized, and the two switched roles for the betterment of the show. Throughout its long run, Griffith allowed other characters to have the limelight but he remained the central, stable character of the show, and my generation loved him.

We baby boomers grew up with TV dads Andy Taylor, Jim Anderson and Ward Cleaver who dispensed sage advice. By today’s standards, these shows might seem hokey, portraying an America that existed only in Norman Rockwell paintings.

But the timeless lessons Andy Taylor taught his son, Opie, still ring true, such as the episode “Opie and the Bully.” Andy finds out his young son is being bullied for his milk money on the way to school every morning.

Instead of filing a lawsuit against the family, Andy tells Opie about the time he was bullied and how he had to stand up for himself against the bully, swinging like a “windmill in a tornado.”

There’s no way to stay dry eyed when young Opie looks up at his father, asking for reassurance that the fight really won’t hurt. That’s a tough situation almost every parent has faced.

Andy also taught us another life lesson when Opie claims to have a friend, Mr. McBeevee, who walks in the trees. Opie’s story is preposterous, and Andy thinks he’s lying. But when Opie asks his father to believe him, Andy finally does for only one reason – he trusts his son.

Andy taught us a lot about friendship. Even though the bumbling Barney deserved to lose his job dozens of times, Andy found ways to boost Barney’s self esteem and regain his faith in himself. Those timeless lessons cross racial, gender and cultural lines.

Many episodes ended with Andy, Barney, Opie and Aunt Bee relaxing on the Taylor’s front porch at the end of the day. Andy would be strumming his guitar as they quietly sat together, seemingly without worries or fears.

For the 1960’s, that scene was far from reality – protesting hippies, assassinations of political leaders, the turbulent Vietnam War, economic woes and fighting for civil rights filled the nightly news.

Perhaps we used Andy and Barney to escape, and many of us still use the show to hide from life. Whenever I’m having a tough day, I pop in one of my well-worn DVD or search for Andy Griffith on YouTube, sit back and escape to Mayberry for a half hour with these cherished friends from my childhood.

Andy, one day, we’ll see you down at the fishin’ hole.

Thank you for the memories.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m a predictable person. I follow the same routine day after day, sometimes coasting along on autopilot. But this summer, I wanted to shake things up.

Nothing’s better than staying in town and spending my time and money here, but it was time to take a step into the unknown and unfamiliar.

Not a leap. Just a step.

I called a friend who’s willing to step out on the ledge with me, and Pat said to count her in.

I headed into Houston and stopped for breakfast at The French Riviera, a place I always drive past, knowing indulging in pastries isn’t good for my cholesterol level.

But this day, I pulled into the bakery on Chimney Rock and was greeted by the smell of freshly brewed coffee and hot croissants. I lingered over the display case and ordered two sinfully rich pastries and two small éclairs.

My friend and I split the pastries, licking our fingers, leisurely talking about life, politics and philosophy. After a bit, we headed down Westheimer, deciding we’d stop at a restaurant for lunch before starting our adventure.

When we saw the bright sign for Chuy’s, we knew we’d found the right spot. Sure enough, we walked into a bustling, loud restaurant, chuckling about the back part of a car embedded in the front wall of the dining section.

The bright pink walls, linoleum floors and diner-style tables fit our mood; and when we tasted the creamy jalapeno dip, we were in heaven. We had to practically shout to hear each other, but when you’re on an adventure, that’s simply part of the deal.

Our tummies full, we headed toward Montrose, parked and decided to walk around the central part of one of Houston’s most eclectic, and often bizarre, parts of town.

We wandered in and out of musty furniture stores and gift shops. At a antique jewelry shop, I tried on vintage hats, calling back memories of how my aunts and grandmother looked on Sunday mornings as they headed to church.

My friend knew about a resale shop in the area, so we maneuvered our way through the narrow streets of Montrose and parked next to The Guild Shop on Dunlavy. I’ve visited resale shops before, but this place is a resale shopper’s paradise.

Every inch of this giant building is filled with knick-knacks, lamps, furniture and kitchen items. Beautiful jewelry and crystal are available for reasonable prices, and there was no lack of lookers at the guild.

Art work – some original, some from the 1970s – covers almost every inch of wall space, and an outdoor section offers a variety of patio furniture and unusual items for a garden or yard.

The fun really begins when shoppers roll up their sleeves and take their time looking behind and underneath the layers of furniture. We climbed over chairs, looking at dressers and tables, and we had a blast wondering if we wanted to buy a piece that day or wait for the mark down a few days later.

Deciding we were being adventurous – and our trunk space was limited – we decided to come back another day.

Because any adventure involves food, we stopped for a snack at a small bistro. Despite being the middle of the afternoon, the place was hopping. College students were gulping down coffee and working on laptops, and business people were quietly conducting business deals over spinach salad.

Back home, I thought about our day and realized there’s nothing better than staying in one’s home town where the merchants and owners know us by name and routines allow us to feel safe and secure.

But, every once in a while, venturing into the unknown keeps life exciting. Adventures await those willing to step outside the comfort zone, and when éclairs and cheap furniture are part of the deal, then count me in.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Sunday is a day we celebrate fathers, and advertisers have all kinds of ways for us to express our thanks. Walking down the greeting card aisle, there’s humorous cards, sentimental cards and some that simply acknowledge the day.

The Internet’s filled with sites allowing visitors to order gift baskets filled with all types of goodies, from chocolate tools to the standard shirt and tie.

The handyman big-box stores are filled with everything a man could want for Father’s Day – drills, screwdrivers, gas mowers and hedge clippers.

If guys are anything like the girls, though, nothing’s worse at saying “I appreciate you” than a gift that requires work or self improvement, so leaving the “how to build a new deck in three weekends” book in the store is probably a good idea.

Advertisements promise guys will love a new barbecue grill, but those babies require someone to put them together, refill the propane tank every few weeks or fill up the bottom with charcoal every time somebody wants to eat outside. Guess who’s the one stuck next to a hot barbecue grill on Father’s Day?

But no matter what gift is on the kitchen table Sunday morning, the idea of Father’s Day is to show fathers our appreciation for the people who take on the biggest responsibility in the world, a parent.

Many of us, however, have a tough time on this holiday because our dads are absent – overseas fighting in a war or away from home due to divorce or death, their memories all we have to remember them.

Then there are the fathers absent from the home by choice. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how a man could turn his back on his family, and my admiration for the people who fill that slot in a child’s life knows no bounds.

Different people accept that parenting role – a grandfather who steps in when his son or son-in-law is unable or unwilling to fulfill his duties to his children.

Stepparents and adoptive parents all take on the mother or father role, and there’s a place in heaven for those who willingly accept parenting duties from driving carpool for Little League to getting up in the middle of the night with a sick child.

There are moms who do double duty, and these handle-it-all parents deserve all the credit we can give them. But there’s a subtle difference between being a father and being a dad, and although both love their children, fathers and dads show that love in different ways.

Fathers let you drive their truck after you’ve made the first insurance payment.

Dads let you take the truck to go mudding.

Fathers write the check for your college tuition.

Dads haul all your dresses, shoes and stuffed animals up three flights of stairs to your dorm room.

Fathers buy you a fishing pole.

Dads whoop and holler when you haul in a six-inch trout, proclaiming it the biggest fish they ever saw.

Fathers pay the fee for you to play in a basketball league.

Dads go to every one of your games, even if you always sit the bench.

Fathers aren’t quite sure why girls need 20 different bottles of nail polish.

Dads let you paint their fingernails every shade of the rainbow.

Fathers are at a loss for words when you come home with a broken heart.

Dads put their arms around you, tell you everything will be all right, and you know, if your daddy says something is true, it is.

On this holiday that honors fathers, let’s remember it takes somebody special to be a father.

It takes a superhero to be a dad.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.