One of my best qualities is my refusal to give up.

It’s also one of my worst.

This decision to seldom cry “uncle” is fueled by knowledge I’m surrounded by things that refuse to give up.

The microwave is first on my list. When I put leftovers in that metal box, the microwave will beep for hours until I take that day-old meatloaf out.

How do I know? I heated up a cup of water to see how long until the microwave would give up. After an hour, I gave up, not the microwave.

We had a refrigerator that would beep if we left the door open too long. I hated that feature because I come from a long line of fridge gazers.

As kids, we’d open the door and look around to find something to snack on.

That gazing aggravated my father. He’d see feet underneath an open refrigerator door and someone’s right arm draped over the top of the door. Then he’d hit the roof.

“Visualize what’s in there, open the door, grab it and then shut the door,” he’d yell at least twice a day. Our answer was, for kids, pretty accurate.

“If I knew what was in there, I wouldn’t have to stand here looking around,” we’d reply in our defense.

There’s a few other things that refuse to give up.  Gum in the carpet is stubborn. Removal requires patience, ice and a lot of elbow grease. Carpet fibers hang on to gum like its gold.

I tried using peanut butter to remove the gum, just like I did when my youngest son got gum stuck in his hair.

Let’s just say that attempt was a total mess, especially as our dog was practically shoving me out of the way to get at the peanut butter.

Smoke detectors, when the battery needs changing, fall in the category of things that refuse to give up. So do screaming 2-year-old toddlers and any talking toy they own.

If you’ve ever been awakened in the middle of the night by a creepy clown voice asking if you want to have fun, you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

The batteries in our flashlights last about an hour. The batteries in our granddaughter’s annoying cash register toy have been going strong for five years.

Being placed on hold is usually a quick hang up for me. But if I don’t have anything else to do, I’ll stay on hold to see how long companies will keep an actual customer on hold. So far, the record is 42 minutes and I still didn’t get a satisfactory answer.

There are times I do throw in the towel. I give up quickly in the grocery store line or in traffic. If another line looks like it’s moving faster, I’ll switch in a second.

I also give up before trying in the following circumstances:  running, jumping, hiking, long-distance spitting – my sons believed this was an actual contest – calculus, putting air in my bike tires and anything electrical. These are all better left to professionals.

However, I surprised myself when I didn’t give up in an area I usually don’t even attempt to conquer – math.

I was helping my grandson with his homework. He was struggling with one of the math pages and asked me to check his work. I had my eldest granddaughter look up the definition for “lowest common denominator.”

All his answers were wrong. We went over the correct definition a few times, and he said he’d erase and start over.

“Don’t give up,” I heard myself telling him. Once he understood the concept that 3/6 is actually 1/3, he finished the paper in no time. (** This is incorrect. I’ll be danged if I can find the right answer!)

For once, I was glad I didn’t give up on math. Now if I can get the dog to quit licking that spot in the carpet, all will be right with the world.

 

     This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“The toilet sounds funny,” I told my husband.

I didn’t say the toiler was overflowing or not filling with water. My specific description was “it sounds funny.”

For someone like me who’s mechanically challenged, sounds are the first indicator that something’s wrong. There was a problem with the valves in my last vehicle. The only way I could describe what was happening with the car was simple.

“The car sounds funny.”

It’s taken 30 years, but my engineer spouse has come to accept “funny” as meaning out of whack, needs looking at, starting to break.

There’s plenty of ways my hearing has helped me diagnose a problem. One of the latest has been my knees. They pop and creak more than they used to, so I know there’s an issue with them.

Come to find out – fluid on the knee.

One day, I heard a beeping sound. It wasn’t loud, but it was rhythmic. Every minute, I’d hear it, but the sound was faint. I couldn’t tell where that beeping was coming from, but the result was clear – something’s not right around here.

I went to the back bedroom, starting my sleuthing mission at the farthest end of the house. But after standing there for two minutes, I didn’t hear anything. I moved on to each room, the sound getting a little louder as I kept moving.

When I was in the kitchen, I heard the beeping loud and clear. I checked the microwave – all clear. The oven – all clear there. Then I heard that beep loud and clear – the dishwasher.

It seems I’d opened the door before the cycle was finished, and the dishwasher was letting me know I’d upset the cycle.

Once again, my ears diagnosed a problem.

My ears aren’t always accurate.

I have a hard time hearing my cell phone ring, and I’ve tried a variety of different tunes. They sounded fun, but there was a huge problem with those sounds. I’d hear the unfamiliar ring tone and think somebody else’s cell phone was ringing.

So I leave mine on the “circles” ringtone at full volume because that’s what came with the first cell phone I bought. Like a dog that hears the dinner bell, when I hear that tone, I know it’s my phone.

There are times when I have selective hearing.

Growing up in a house with seven children, I could tune out anything. Television blaring along with arguments were the typical soundtracks in our home. I could concentrate on my homework or a phone conversation with no problem.

To this day, when I’m home alone, I turn on the television or the radio just to have background noise. A totally quiet house or environment is unsettling.

As a mother of young children, when there was silence in the house, that meant trouble. On the flip side, I could hear the baby whimper in the middle of the night but never heard them sneaking in and out when they were teenagers.

In my defense, I naively trusted them. It’s only been in the last few years they admitted to a few middle-of-the-night adventures.

I also have selective interpretation with the little voice in my head.

“Don’t eat that piece of cake” translates to “That little ole slice won’t hurt you.”

“You need to fill up the gas tank” translates to “It’s too cold outside. Wait until the next time you’re in town to get gas.”

“You haven’t vacuumed in three weeks” translates to “My allergies are so much happier when I don’t stir up the dust.”

My husband only asked one question when I told him about the toilet – “Is it something I need to look at right now or can it wait?”

I considered the sound, how long it lasted and the tone. Then I gave him my expert opinion.

“It can wait.”

We professional listeners know the difference.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I went to a restaurant with my grandson, and there was a small round piece of fruit in the salad. Using my fork, I picked it up, held it out and asked him if he wanted it.

“Don’t you like kiwi?” he asked.

“So that’s what you call that,” I told him, turning the green piece of fruit around.

I’ve never eaten a kiwi. I’ve seen it plenty of times, but I never wanted to admit I didn’t know what it looked like or that I’ve never eaten one.

It’s not the only fruit I’ve shied away from.

I’ve never eaten papaya until my son’s girlfriend cut one up in the kitchen the other day. I never would’ve guessed such a pretty color fruit was encased in an ugly outer shell and filled with about a thousand black seeds.

The truth is, I’ve never been an adventurous eater. People are surprised by that admission because my dad was a Cajun.

People from Louisiana are known to eat almost anything – alligator, turtle, and, the most disgusting, fried frog’s leg.

“It’s delicious,” people will say, holding up something that looks like fried chicken.

“Then you can have it,” I’ll say as I recoil in horror, the same as I do when someone waves a raw oyster in front of my face. I’m sure they’re delicious, just as I’m sure a glob of snot is delicious.

There’s a few other things on my list.

I’ve never eaten a beet, turnip or parsnip. I’ve heard they’re all delicious, but I’ll stick with potatoes, green peas and corn.

The only reason I’ve tasted snail is because a chef at a Cajun restaurant shoved one in my mouth when I was opening it to say “No thanks.”

They can call those slimy things escargot all day long, but a snail is a snail is a snail.

I also don’t like buttermilk. That one, I tasted and thought I was going to spew it all over the kitchen table. The only reason I didn’t was because I caught the look on my mother’s face, the look moms give that says “don’t you dare.”

I think I’m justified in this regard. I read a recipe that said if you don’t have buttermilk, add vinegar to regular milk and watch it curdle.

And you want me to drink that?

No thanks.

I love a good steak, but there’s no way I’m eating cow tongue or any of the intestines, often called “tripe.” See my comment above about snails and escargot.

The same “no way ever” holds true for chicken gizzards and the kidneys from any barn yard animal.

I’ve also never eaten collard greens or kale and they’re not on my “Things to do in 2023” list. The same goes for Spam and Vienna sausages.

And even though I’m a Cajun, I’m not going to try sushi. I remember baiting the net to catch crabs and crawfish when I was a young girl.

Knowing sushi is raw fish makes me think we should be getting a prize at the end, like a crawfish boil.

The same goes for anchovies – tiny fish with the heads still attached – and bell peppers. I pick those off if I see them, but they always leave a nasty after taste.

Just so you don’t come away from this column thinking I’m a food snob, there are some candies I don’t like.

Easter Peeps in all colors and candy corn are at the top of the list. Right underneath those are black licorice, dark chocolate and circus peanuts.

All disgusting.

Some people might say I’m a picky or fussy eater. I’ll rename and classify my eating habits with another name that sounds more cultured, just as the snail and escargot people do – I’m choosy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

On the last day of the year, I make a list of resolutions. Some years, they’ve been lofty goals. Other years, my resolutions are simple, easy-to-accomplish promises.

This year, I didn’t do either one.

I considered plenty of promises – exercise, lose weight, be kind to others, vacuum more than once a month. Those resolutions have been on my list for years. Obviously, those won’t be accomplishments in 2023 either.

One year, I tried using positive affirmations instead of resolutions.

First on that list was “eat healthy.” According to some wellness plans, eating a balanced diet is considered healthy. I managed to balance the salad on my plate with a slab of meatloaf and a mountain of mashed potatoes.

I doubt that’s what those doctors had in mind.

There’s the self-serving resolutions we all make. Clean out closets, alphabetize our favorite recipes. These don’t work for me because those kinds of resolutions fall under one category – work.

Of all the fake promises I make to myself, camouflaging cleaning out the closet as a goal is like taking everything out of the closet in one room and storing that clutter in another closet. In other words – work.

Maybe the trick is to continue doing what I do but do them a little bit better. Cooking comes to mind.

Defrosting a six-month-old dinner and serving it canned corn isn’t exactly gourmet dining.

There’s exercising. Maybe instead of telling myself walking up one flight of stairs is a strenuous workout, I could actually put on some music and dance for 15 minutes. Then again, that sounds like fun, so maybe it wouldn’t necessarily count as a resolution.

I considered organizing my office, but I did that a few months ago. When I went to look for a leg massager my son gave me, I couldn’t find it. When that massager was sitting under my desk gathering dust, I knew exactly where it was.

Same goes for the extra tape I bought months ago. When the boxes were sitting on top of a stack of folders on the bottom shelf of my closet, I knew exactly where they were. I organized that closet – last year’s resolution – and now the boxes have disappeared.

I’d like to make a resolution to be less sensitive. If I text or call someone and don’t hear back from them in a couple of days, I figure they’re angry with me or “ghosting” me.

They’re probably busy, have other things to do than listen to my inane and pointless ramblings or they really are ghosting me because their New Year’s resolution is to get rid of people in their contact list who are a drain, not a positive.

Ouch, that one hurt.

There’s always an urge to get rid of all the junk food in the house, but my thrifty self just can’t see throwing out perfectly good Hostess Twinkies and Oreo cookies to stifle my snacking.

Truth is, I’ll just go out and buy more.

I thought about making a resolution to stop sifting through dumb YouTube videos. Those entertaining videos offer a benefit to me.

When I can’t sleep, watching 30 minutes of power washing videos makes me sleepy. Organizing videos tire me out, and the guy restoring paintings inch by inch is a sure-fire insomnia cure.

Now I have the answer. No resolutions this year except keep rationalizing away all the reasons why I don’t have resolutions.

That’s a goal I can accomplish.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.