I was at a seminar with a co-worker and we decided to head to another part of the building. She put her hands in her pocket and I grabbed my bulging camera bag, stuffed tote bag and my 10-pound purse.

“Where’s your stuff?” I asked.

Smiling, she showed me a pouch the size of a business card. Inside was her driver’s license, a credit card and a few dollar bills. She said she’s a minimalist and only carries what she needs.

I visualized all the “stuff” in my purse, and I could make a case that I, too, was a minimalist. Like her, I was carrying only the things I needed.

Well, perhaps I’m taking liberties with the word “minimalism” when describing my purse. There’s about 25 Bics in my purse, but that overkill comes from a hard-learned lesson.

On one of my first interviews for the newspaper, my pen ran out of ink. When I had to ask the person I was interviewing for a pen, I felt like an idiot. I vowed to never be without a working ballpoint again. Hence the reason for two dozen Bics in my purse.  

Hey, a reporter can’t be too careful or ill-prepared.

There’s the travel size packets of Kleenex. With allergies that stick around most of the year, having tissues I can grab in a hurry is a necessity.

Plus I’m clumsy. My Kleenex buddies have helped me mop up spilled drinks, melting ice cream and squished ketchup packets more times than I care to count.

Then there’s the added weight of all the coins jingling around in my purse. I’ve never gotten into the habit of putting coins in my wallet. I simply toss them into my purse after a transaction so there’s always a river of coins in the bottom. In a pinch, I can always rustle up $1.06 in dimes, nickels and pennies for something off the dollar menu at the drive through.

Which brings me to the camera bag. Sure I could use my cell phone to take pictures, but I love old-fashioned photography so I seldom venture out without my trusty Canon.

And no photojournalist’s going out without a notebook to write down people’s names, extra memory cards and at least five pens because, well, you know.

The tote bag is when I’m on a field trip. Inside are blank permission forms, filled-out permission forms, paper, notebooks, a map of the building and, of course, pens, pencils, highlighters and Kleenex. I don’t think of myself as having too much stuff. Instead, I consider myself the Boy Scout in the group – always prepared.   

Watching me shift the bags around on my shoulders, my friend said her desk was also spotless – not a paper or folder on the desktop at the end of the day. I didn’t say anything because my desk looks like a tornado touched down at the top, waltzed across the center and then did a swan dive off the “in” box.

There’s the stack of address labels and stamps because I lose them if they’re not sitting right in front of my face, extra memory cards, a box of Kleenex, two back scratchers, two address books and a typing stand with really important stuff.

All of which is required. None of which could be thrown away. So technically, I meet the standards of simple living.

Minimalism has its fine points but there’s one thing I’ll have that my travel-light friend will always have to borrow from me – a working Bic pen.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

It’s one of those nights. You’re feeling a little blue because you spilled soy sauce on your new shirt, you didn’t get a joke one of the young people in the office was laughing about or you find gray hair in your eyebrows.

Those are the times I’m grateful for comfort foods. Although your hips remember long after your lips have forgotten, if you don’t over-indulge, a little munchable comfort goes a long way. 

First on the list, peanut butter. Yes it’s fattening and high in calories, but peanut butter on a spoon sticks to the roof of my mouth and takes me back to my childhood days when a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich was the perfect companion when hunkering down on a nasty, wet day.

Next on the list is chocolate. Not any chocolate, mind you, but delicious yet affordable chocolate – Hershey’s Kisses. While feeling a little blue, unwrapping those kisses and letting them melt on my tongue is almost like getting a real kiss on my chubby cheek from my mom while she tells me everything will be okay.

Right up there with chocolate is almost anything crunchy.  I’m not talking about healthy crunchy foods like celery and carrots. I’m talking about Doritos, Cheetohs and Cheez Balls. Of those three, the Doritos are the top dog because you can take three bites out of each Dorito versus two bites out of a puffy Cheetoh.

And then there’s ice cream. For the usual quick pick-me-up, any cheap brand will do. But for those nights when the world’s crashing, only Blue Bell vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup, whipped cream and peanuts on top is a bona-fide mood elevator.

I’m almost convincing myself that comfort foods have a scientific basis.

In these days of healthy eating, I have to find a way to rationalize choosing peanut butter over tofu.  So to justify that bowl of Blue Bell, I have the comfort foods categorized.

At DEFCON 4, there’s the soft comfort foods – Twinkies and Little Debbie Cakes. Because these two snacks are gone in a couple of bites, I only use those when I’m a little down. They’re light-weights in the “feelin’ the blues” mood.

For times when I can see a blue horizon for the evening, DEFCON 3, I have to pull in a little heavier artillery – namely, Oreos and milk. Each dunk of the Oreo cookie in the ice-cold milk is dunking away a little bit more of the problem.

When we’re up to DEFCON 2 — flashing red lights signaling the blues are hanging around until the sun comes up again — I roll out the big dogs – pancakes. First, beating up the batter gets out a little bit of frustration. Then pouring those perfect circles on a hot grill makes me feel somehow in control of life.

When I’ve got a stack of light brown cakes ready, I smother them with slabs of butter accompanied by real maple syrup. Every bite takes me back to the days of making pancakes on leisurely Saturday mornings for my boys and laughing around the breakfast table.  

Life seemed easier back then, and if I survived stomach viruses that hit all three boys at the same time, back-to-back outbreaks of chicken pox and watching each one of my boys drive away from home to start their own lives, then I can survive whatever minor problem is coming my way.

And if the blues start washing over me, if I listen hard enough, I’ll hear the Blue Bell carton calling out salvation.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Over a lifetime of church services, I’ve noticed people seem to sit in the same place week after week. But there’s drawbacks.

The front row seldom sees what happens in the back and the people in the vestibule seldom see what happens in the front. I’ve sat in both places and neither one fits me.

Growing up, we were always late for Sunday Mass. My family of nine would squeeze into the last two rows where my dad usually nodded off and my mom spent her time breaking up elbow arguments.

Until my father found religion. Then we had to sit on the front row every single Sunday.

We were always late, and it was embarrassing to walk to the front row. I vowed to never make my children sit in the front, and we never did.

When they were young, we sat in the cry room. It’s loud in there and one always leaves thinking “At least my kid’s not as bad as that other one.”

Or maybe the other moms thought that about my sons.

But then my boys grew up and we settled into sitting in the middle of the church – not too close to the front and not too close to the back.

After the boys went off to college, I continued to sit in the same middle pew. But over the past three years, I’ve struggled with organized religion, not my faith, after being bitterly disappointed by the petty lay people who were supposed to be leading by example.

I left the church for a while, but I’ve been trying to return lately. At the small parish closest to our new house, I approached a woman who was in charge of the religious education department and said I’d taught teen classes at my former parish for over 25 years. She smiled weakly, said that was nice, and walked away.

Despite the slap in the face, I still go to Sunday services but I stay in the back, feeling like I don’t belong. But a few events have me wondering if the Lord needs people in the back.

One week, a mom was struggling with her older boy. It was obvious he had emotional problems, and she was trying to juggle an infant, two young children and control him.

I impulsively asked if I could hold the baby while she worked with her son, and she gratefully handed the little angel to me. She decided to leave, and I told her I’d carry the baby to the car. As we walked, she thanked me, but I told her thanks were not needed.

From what I remembered from all those sermons sitting in the middle of the church, I thought that was what people are supposed to do, not ignore those in need.

Another week, a  young dad walked in the door with his three children, his 4-year-old sobbing on his shoulder. He abruptly left, two other children in tow, and I figured it wasn’t going to be pretty out there.

I impulsively followed them and asked if I could help. Exasperated, he explained that his daughter said her pants were too hard and she didn’t want to wear them.

My granddaughter feels the same way about some of her pants, I told the little girl. In fact, I told her, I felt the same way about my hard pants. She smiled, her siblings smiled and then Dad smiled.

I’m no saint. Far from it. But I’m thinking my place isn’t on the front row, in a classroom or in the middle of the church. Perhaps my place is in the back with the crying babies, frustrated parents and those, like me, praying we’ll find a home.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The Internet is a wonderful invention. Information that once required a visit to the library is now available in seconds. Although I’ve retrieved useful information from the Internet on everything from the weather to how to remove wallpaper, I also enjoy wasting time online, particularly on Facebook.

I can rationalize my decision. First, Facebook is a great way to keep in touch with family. I check Facebook on my lunch break to see if there’s any new pictures or videos of my grandchildren and I’ll check in at night to see if anyone in my family’s posted pictures. We live far from each other, and Facebook keeps me up to date on what’s happening in my siblings’ families.

Just like when the old codgers sat on the front porch and talked about the weather, Facebookers do the same, except in cyberspace. come up with all kinds of weird names for freezing weather – Icepocalypse and Snowmageddon are my favorites.

On Facebook, you can learn about the 50 foods you must never eat after a certain age and get warnings to not undergo Botox treatments or you’ll end up looking like an Egyptian mummy.

There are also miracle foods and secrets to keep us looking young that, up until Facebook miraculously came along, have strangely never been revealed.

Speaking of foods, Facebook is full of recipes from how to stuff artichokes to how to grill zucchini. Over 48,000 people like the healthy recipe page while over 202,000 people like the chocolate recipes. That many people can’t be wrong.

Then there’s the practical side of Facebook. Every insurance company in America has a Facebook page. Better yet, Facebook can save me to 70 percent on furniture and hook me up with major discounts on clothes that look like they fit a Barbie doll.

Think the end of the world’s coming? Facebook has you covered. You can discover how to grow 100 pounds of potatoes in a four-foot garden and join the other crazies because on Facebook, conspiracy theories spread like butter on a hot bun.

Luckily, there’s always a rational Facebooker who posts a link to Snopes.com and straightens out all who believe roach eggs are mixed in with glue on the backs of envelopes.

There’s Throwback Thursdays, a place for you to post every embarrassing picture of yourself from the 1970s wearing tube socks and short shorts with white piping around the edges.

Some of my Facebook favorites are the selfies. There are very few people on Facebook who haven’t held their phones up over their head, smiled and snapped a selfie and then posted it to Facebook. When your mother posts a selfie, you know it’s time to find something else to do with your phone.

And then there’s the complainers. They post about everything rotten in life, but I wonder if they realize they’re part of the problem by consistently griping about every single thing that happens.

I decided not to add to the wasteland. I don’t post what I had for dinner, send out chain emails or send you a link to watch my Facebook movie.

I don’t play Candy Crush, I could care less about the secret Ellen’s been hiding and I’m not interested in taking a Carnival Cruise. I just want to see pictures of my grandchildren and drool over the chocolate pie recipes.

And if there is a magic pill that will make the pounds drop off and the wrinkles go away, there’s only one possible place to find it – Facebook land.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.