Not to sound like a 1950s suburbanite, but when it comes to my automobile, I haven’t a clue what really makes that vehicle run. I depend on the car to tell me if something’s wrong.

  It’s a sweet deal as dashboard lights come on whenever the tire pressure is low or I need gas. A bell chimes if I forget to turn off the lights or leave the keys in the ignition.

  Best of all, my husband keeps up with major maintenance issues, so I’m on autopilot most of the time.

  Recently, though, my car was due for an oil change, and I told my husband I’d take the car in because, I was thinking, how hard can it be to get the oil changed.

  Certainly easier than replacing the windshield wiper blades.

  When the rains started up earlier this year, the streaks on my windshield were a red flare that the wiper blades had dry rotted during the long drought. I was in front of the auto parts store, so I pulled in, thinking I’d run right in, get some replacements and be ready for the threatening thunderstorm.

  Forget about a less-than 10 minute errand for something as seemingly straight-forward as windshield wiper blade refills. The clerk had at least six questions about my car before we even got to the wiper issue.

  And, of course, his first question was one I didn’t know the answer to – what length blades did I need.   

  “They’re different sizes?” I said, puzzlement written all over my face, and I told him I’d text my husband to get the size of the wipers. The clerk looked at me, sighed, and then said he’d not only find the right wiper blades but he’d also put them on the car for me.

  Sweet.

  Which is why I felt empowered to take my car in for an oil change. My husband used to keep a case or two of motor oil in our garage for the numerous oil changes three teen-age drivers require.

  But with advances in engines and more computer-driven parts, a stop at one of the local quick oil-change business seemed the most economical path.

  I pulled into the bay, handed my keys over to the mechanic and sat down in the lobby to leaf through a “Motor Trend” magazine.

  A few minutes later, he returned and asked if I wanted petroleum-based oil or synthetic oil. My first thought was “there’s a difference in oil that comes out of the ground and goes into the car?” and my second one was “why does something that should be so easy require a master’s degree in engineering.”

  I didn’t have a clue what kind of oil to use, so I texted my husband. While I was waiting for a reply, the nice man behind the counter tried to explain the pros and cons of synthetic and petroleum-based  oil.

  I nodded and tried to sound like I was keeping up, but he lost me about the time the issues of oil weight and temperature under pressure came up.

  Then there were questions about the oil filter and how many miles I wanted to wait until my next oil change. I texted my husband again with those questions, and we finally agreed on a plan of action.

  Thirty minutes later, I left with fresh oil in the car, a new oil filter and a sticker on my windshield reminding me to take care of my car’s needs on a regular basis.

  My husband said whenever my car needs the tires rotated – because he only has so many text messages on his cell phone plan – he’ll be happy to take care of that maintenance item for me.

  Sweet.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When I was expecting my first child, I was convinced the baby was a girl. I was so convinced, in fact, I spent weeks making a pink blanket and tucked a pink coming-home outfit for the baby in my suitcase.

  I was shocked when the doctor announced “it’s a boy,” and I referred to the baby as a girl for about two weeks after we came home from the hospital.

  Knowing the sex of the baby 30 years ago was impossible. We guessed, of course, and I performed all the folklore remedies around. I held a needle over my tummy, watching which way it spun, and dangled my wedding ring to see if it swung back and forth or circled over the unborn baby.

  Both wives-tale procedures indicated a boy, but I said I’d wait until modern science came up with a sure-fire way to discover the sex of the baby before I’d believe predicting the sex was possible.

  We came close with my second child. I had an ultrasound early in the pregnancy as we weren’t sure when the baby was going to be born.

  I can still picture that black screen with a white form moving around, but comparing that picture to what’s out there today is like playing the early “pong” game versus today’s realistic “Call of Duty.”

  And what’s out there now is 4D Ultrasound technology.

  My son and daughter-in-law invited the grandmothers to go with them to see the ultrasound for their baby who’s due in December. I was expecting the old grainy black-and-white image.

  Instead, a 4D ultrasound allowed us to see facial features, a leg and a tiny fist curled up underneath a developing chin.

  We also found out grandchild number three is a girl, and it’s a mixed blessing because the wondering if it’s a boy or a girl is eliminated. Science has removed the waiting game.

  Today, it’s possible to know within minutes whether or not a woman is pregnant. As a baby boomer, most of us grew up listening to our moms and aunts talk about waiting for the rabbit to die.

  I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but I knew it had something to do with all the maternity and baby clothes my aunts were dropping off at our house.

  Over coffee, they’d toss around boy and girl names and it seemed everything in the nursery was either light green or a pale yellow. Once the baby got here, aunts came around with the right gender clothes, but not until the baby got here.

  Back then, there were two ways to feed a newborn – breast feeding or glass baby bottles my mom put in a big pot and boiled for 10 minutes. Today’s bottles are plastic, scientifically angled and come with an assortment of accessories.

  Baby shoes were easy years ago – kids went barefoot until they were big enough for the big white shoes with the hard tan soles. Today’s infants are wearing couture Mary Janes retailing for $31 a pair or Skechers black boots selling for $55 online, both for kids who can’t even walk yet.

  Even though technology allows us to know what sex the baby is going to be almost before the baby itself knows what path it’s heading down, I miss the old days of playing the guessing game and waiting for the doctor to say “it’s a girl” or “it’s a boy.”

  But now that I know, instead of stocking up on pale green Onesies™, it’s time to start buying some pink Mary Janes and frilly bows for Miss Katherine Elizabeth Adams.

  Baby girl, we can’t wait to meet you.

 This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

  It’s the sounds that echo in my mind – water splashing in fountains, horns blaring from irate taxi drivers and horses’ hooves clopping along cobbled brick roads.

  Images play through my mind as though they’re on a revolving carousel – towering 15th century pillars standing next to modern office buildings. Walking into a neighborhood church and seeing life-sized statues on Egyptian marble floors and protected by solid gold ceilings.

  These are the memories I have of Rome, a once-in-a-lifetime trip my husband and I took last week. He was there for business, but I got to tag along and see the sights.

  Luckily, I joined up with two women, Kim and Karen, whose husbands were also on the trip, and we walked miles throughout Rome accompanied by Karen’s 6-year-old son, Will, who never once complained. Bribes of chocolate gelato and visits to Italian toy stores helped keep him in good humor.

  The guide books describe Rome as the eternal city, fitting as it was settled in 753 B.C. and has survived through invaders, floods, famine, bad times and good times.

  Wandering through ruins that were built hundreds of years before Christ was born seemed unreal, especially when examining the artistry and workmanship created without modern tools.

  We followed our tour books through the city and made sure we stopped at all the major tourist stops – the Pantheon, the Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain. We read descriptions at all the churches, looked at gorgeously painted ceilings until our necks ached and savored Italian pastas and freshly baked bread every evening.

  We walked miles and miles, it seemed, and priests, nuns, school children, tourists, natives, beggars and business people surrounded us. Buses and taxis roared through the streets, filled with people on their way to the Coliseum, the Pantheon and the many piazzas and fountains around the city.

  Although the well-known sights were astounding, Rome is filled with surprises around every corner, and those are the ones that stand out for me. There was the kind, elderly priest in a magnificent church who reminded Will to give his mother a kiss and tell her he loved her.

  There was the delicately baked eggplant-and-cheese dinner my husband and I dined on in a family-owned restaurant off the beaten path.

  Walking through numerous basilicas and churches, some historic and some off the beaten path, we were rewarded around every corner with huge tapestries, marble sculptures and Renaissance paintings. Although they were all beautiful, the crown jewel was the Vatican.

  As a Catholic, standing on the cobblestones in St. Peter’s Square was a dream come true. Even more incredible were the treasures inside the Vatican.

  We heeded good advice from my sister-in-law and purchased online tickets. Thanks to those passes, it only took us a couple of hours to wind our way past hundreds of gorgeous museum artifacts until we found ourselves at the heart of the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel.

  Standing underneath the stunning paintings of Michelangelo, we were surrounded by languages from around the world – Russian, French, English, Portuguese, Italian. All were speaking in hushed tones, their faces reflecting an appreciation for the masterpieces surrounding us.

  We didn’t need a common language to understand that talent and craftsmanship crosses all boundaries. The beauty of the art found in Roma, as they call her, speaks to all those who come to this historic and unique city.

  For those able to make the pilgrimage to Rome, this regal and grand signora will reward visitors with thousands of memories and sounds of a long-ago past to last a lifetime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.