He leans back in his creaky brown chair, pops open the top on a Diet Coke and looks around his cluttered office.

Bob Haenel, managing editor for the Fort Bend Herald, knows there’s at least a hundred unanswered emails in his box, a dozen voice messages blinking on the phone and an overflowing in-box on the corner of his desk.

Instead, he finds himself watching the activity in the newsroom right outside his door. Reporters are sitting at their desks, tapping out stories on their computers, interviewing softball coaches or hunched over a computer keyboard, looking for that just-right lead for a weekend feature story.

In his 35 years as a writer, reporter and editor, Haenel, 50, has seen and heard it all. He started out in 1979 as a sports editor for the Herald-Coaster, subsequently moved to the news side and was named news director in 1981.

A year later, he moved to The Katy Times but came back to The Mirror, a Fort Bend County newspaper, in 1983 as their editor and publisher. Four years later, he was named the managing editor of The Herald-Coaster and is currently the paper’s executive managing editor.

Unlike the bigwigs at major publications, Haenel prefers to actively know the community and the people who live and work there. He’s on a first-name basis with the president of the chamber of commerce as well as the white-gloved ladies in the garden clubs.

In seconds, he can trace the lineage of the “Old 300” families back to the Stephen F. Austin days, and he knows to count the vowels in the Czech names for the Around the Bends before publishing the paper.

“Birthday call,” yells out the receptionist at the front desk. Haenel picks up the phone receiver and writes down the information, knowing for some people, seeing their child’s name in the “Happy Birthday” column will be the highlight of their day.

He also knows getting everyone’s name spelled correctly in an obituary is right up there with not misspelling the local superintendent’s name on the front page. An obituary, Haenel tells his staffers, might be the only time a person is mentioned in the local paper, and the writers better get it right.

One of his young reporters tentatively knocks on his door, and Haenel waves him in, despite the incessantly blinking light on his telephone. An elderly woman claims drug trafficking on her street is rampant, but the police can’t seem to catch the dealers.

This woman wants the newspaper to write about the crimes, but the reporter isn’t sure if the story is worth following.

Haenel leans forward, put his elbows on his knees, and looks at this fresh-out-of-college writer.

“If we’re not there for people, who will be?” he says, the challenge evident in his voice. “Our job is to look out for the little guy and to give him a voice. Don’t forget that’s the reason you’re here. Call her back and stay over there all day if you have to, but make sure we report what’s going on in our own back yard.”

Journalism schools teach young writers the rules about style, formatting and inverted pyramids, but they can’t teach what Haenel instinctively possesses — an unerringly correct moral compass and a passion to uncover misdeeds and point out inequities in society.

As the reporter leaves his office, Haenel notices a sea of blue hats standing at his door. He’d forgotten it was time for the weekly Cub Scout tour through the office.

Haenel loves accompanying these youngsters as they visit the press room, their eyes wide at the giant machines that churn out newspapers around the clock. Haenel’s fingers are often stained with blank ink, and the cuffs on his well-worn beige sweater are permanently gray, the result of brushing against fresh newsprint for the past three decades.

Walking into the newsroom, Haenel stops and offers encouragement to a struggling reporter, reminds another writer to find out if there’s adequate drinking water for people living in the colonias and sits to chat with the sports editor about whether or not this year’s Little Leaguers can swing their way to Williamsport.

Back in his office, Haenel pops open his fourth Diet Coke of the day and settles down in front of his computer. He’s spent many Friday nights in that cramped office on Fourth Street, battling ornery computers, reluctant witnesses to wrong-doings and, once, writing by candle-light on battery-operated laptops when an electrical storm blew out the power.

Although the pace in a newsroom is frenetic, Haenel is the calm in the storm. His reporters take their cue from the boss, and because he encourages, consoles and occasionally scolds, his staff gives 100 percent. His belief in their ability allows them to grow as reporters and writers.

Haenel, however, is unaware how much influence he has over so many people. Instead, he looks around his office again, the back credenza stacked high with old photographs and decades-old phone books, and leans back in the chair.

One of these days, he thinks, I’ll get around to clearing off that desk, write a novel and open that hot dog stand. Until then, there are stories to edit, monthly publications to review and emails to answer.

“Birthday call,” comes Annie’s voice again.

Haenel takes another sip of his Diet Coke and picks up the call. Clutter can keep, he figures. People, well, that’s a different matter.

“Hi there,” he says, cradling the receiver comfortably under his cheek. “Now how can I help you?”

 

This feature was originally written when Bob Haenel retired as the managing editor of The Fort Bend Herald. 

My husband was at a meeting last night, so I volunteered to take the dog on her nightly walkabout. I was talking to my mom on the phone when I grabbed the leash and a flashlight.

The walk was quick since it was so cold. When I headed up the driveway, I started rummaging around in my pocket for my house keys.

The only thing I found was a crumpled gum wrapper.

Then I felt around my neck for the lanyard that has a house key on it.

Nothing.

Because I wasn’t paying attention, I’d forgotten to put the key in my pocket or around my neck.

I remembered we had a key hidden outside, so I used the flashlight to look for the container. It wasn’t in the two spots I remembered, so I texted my husband. He reminded me we’d moved the hidden key last year, and he stayed on the line while I searched.

Piles of mulch had covered the places where he told me to look, and I came up empty handed. Luckily, his meeting was minutes from the house, so he said he’d come home and let me in.

As the dog and I waited in the driveway, I mentally slapped myself on the forehead. Forgetting the key – what a stupid thing to do. Then I started listing all the stupid things I’ve done, going back to high school.

I was painting a blue stripe in my bedroom, holding a can of blue enamel paint in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.

I was standing on an old wooden folding chair and when I moved to reach a corner, the chair collapsed and I spilled the entire can of blue paint all over the carpet.

A few weeks ago, I turned the water on to fill up the kitchen sink. While the water was running, I decided to put some clothes away.

While in our room, I made the bed, totally forgetting the running water. I got back to the kitchen just as the water was reaching the top of the sink.

I did the same thing with the bathtub last year.

Stupid mistakes.

Then again, aren’t all mistakes stupid? That’s why they’re called mistakes, because it’s when something goes wrong that was unexpected.

Still, I beat myself up when I do something dumb, vowing I’ll never make that mistake again. I’ve been successful a few times.

Before keyless entries into vehicles, I used to keep a spare key in a magnetic box under the back bumper of my car. I had another key in my jewelry box and, for good measure, I gave another key to my neighbor.

I never wanted to find myself stranded in a parking lot again with two screaming toddlers and a basket full of groceries while waiting for someone to let me into my mini-van.

There’s a small pink note taped to the dashboard of my car with one word on it – wallet. That’s because I’ve forgotten my wallet more than once and had to come back home for it, leaving my groceries at the checkout.

I’ve gone the whole day with my shirt on backwards and, more than once, have worn my shirt inside out.

I’ve worn a black shoe and a brown shoe because I got dressed in the dark. If they were the same style, I could dismiss the stupid mistake. However, they were totally different styles and I didn’t notice what I’d done until I got to work.

First thing tomorrow, I’m headed to the hardware store to have another spare house key made. Experience tells me this won’t be the last time I’ll lock myself out of the house.

We stupid people know our limitations.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Hopefully all the holiday gifts have been opened and the leftovers are gone. It’s time to start a new year, and we’re keeping our fingers crossed for a safer and calmer 2022.

This past year started off rocky – protesters stormed the U.S. Capitol in what had to be the most surreal event we’ve ever witnessed.

The coronavirus was raging, there were fist fights in the grocery store over those who refused to wear a mask and those who demanded everyone wear one.

The name “Karen” moved from evoking memories of the popular singer Karen Carpenter to a vile woman who screams at other people to get her way.

Senseless shootings. Domestic violence. Conspiracy theories. The news went from bad to worse.

But by the time summer rolled around, coronavirus cases were on the decline and people started to return to a somewhat normal way of life.

Trick or treaters lined the streets, people gathered for Thanksgiving meals and Christmas shopping was at an all-time high.

We were hungry for more than turkey and dressing. We were hungry for human contact, especially the smiles and hugs we’d taken for granted.

Not anymore.

We know to treasure every family get together, every opportunity to hug someone else and every chance to experience life with other people.

We also know there’s no real “normal” anymore. So, let’s make some different goals for 2022.

Choose the one or two you like and pass on the others. If we’ve learned anything from the past two years, it’s that we need to enjoy life as it comes along. To wait is to potentially miss out.

• Have a piece of pie. In fact, indulge in a fine piece of chocolate, a cupcake or something not on the diet at least once a month.
• Plant something. Even if you’re in an apartment or a rental, pick up a pot and a small green plant and watch it grow on the patio or in the kitchen window.
• Get out of a rut. That could be a music rut – there are thousands of artists online you can listen to for free. You might think you don’t enjoy country or alternative music but give an artist a try. Try a new hair style. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.
• Take a different way home from work or school. I took a side road home a few weeks ago and was able to see a spectacular sunset without cars or buildings in the way. I wouldn’t have seen that on the congested road I normally use.
• Donate something. Clean out part of your closet, empty out a crafts cabinet or go through your books. There are dozens of places happy to accept what you no longer need. Common Threads, Helping Hands and Katy Christian Ministries come to mind.
• Support local businesses and restaurants. You know what you’re getting every time you order from a chain, but nothing beats the scrumptious surprises from a mom-and-pop diner.
• Stop judging those who wear a mask or those who don’t. Be tolerant of those who are hesitant to get back into the general population.
• Give thanks. Despite all the turmoil in the world, the sadness so many of us have in our lives and the tough road so many of us walk, there’s always something to be thankful for, even if it’s simply rolling out of bed in the morning. Happy New Year!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

For over 10 years, Herald readers have tested their skills on what former managing editor Bob Haenel and columnist Denise Adams consider the best movie ever made, “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

The movie is about George Bailey, a man who doesn’t realize the positive impact he’s had on the town and people of Bedford Falls.

George wanted to go to college, build skyscrapers and travel the world. Instead, circumstances caused him to stay in a “crummy little town,” believing he was denied the opportunity to achieve his dreams.

Bob said George was a plain guy, one we can relate to, especially the feeling like we’ve been cheated out of our dreams. When we’re young, we have grandiose thoughts of what we’ll achieve. Life often has different plans, and it’s often difficult to see the silver lining in the cloudy sky.

The good guy wins, Bob pointed out, even though we all wish Potter would’ve been arrested for stealing the money. In the end, George learned a lot about what really counts in life, the most important lesson from Clarence: “no man is a failure who has friends.”

“This still rings true,” Bob said. “What’s important are relationships.”

Nobody understands that creed more than Bob. He told reporters we were here for the “little guy.” He’d take a happy birthday call as easily as one from the mayor. Like Peter Bailey, Bob believes everyone counts and small favors add up to a pretty wonderful life.

So here is Bob’s annual “It’s a Wonderful Life” Christmas quiz. We’ve divided the quiz into two parts – a relatively easy one and a harder one for the die-hard fans of IAWL.

The answers to both are at the bottom of this column. Merry Christmas and remember, an ordinary life can be extraordinary.

It’s up to us to pay attention.

 

Quiz Part I:

 

1. How does George know he’s alive again?
2. What animal has the same IQ as Clarence?
3. How much money did Uncle Billy lose?
4. When George sees what life was like without him, what was his mother doing?
5. What does Uncle Billy use to remember things?
6. What magazine does George show Mary at Mr. Gower’s ice cream parlor?
7. What did Mr. Gower’s son, Robert, die of?
8. What dance contest were George and Mary entered in at the gym?
9. What drawing does Mary have on an easel when George comes over?
10. What three items do Mary and George give to the Martini’s for their new home?
11. Who directed the movie?
12. George couldn’t hear out of one ear. Which one?

 

Answers to Quiz I:

1. He finds Zuzu’s petals in his pocket and it’s snowing again.
2. A rabbit
3. $8,000
4. Running “Ma Bailey’s Boarding House”
5. He’d tie a string to his finger.
6. National Geographic
7. Influenza
8. The Charleston
9. “George lassos the moon”
10. Bread – so you’ll never know hunger, salt so your life will have flavor, and wine for joy and prosperity forever
11. Frank Capra
12. Left ear

 

Quiz – Part II

 

1. What was George’s draft classification and why?
2. What was Janie playing on the piano to get ready for the Christmas party?
3. What was the name of the Bedford Falls newspaper?
4. George puts the petals to Zuzu’s flower in his pocket. What kind of flower was it?
5. What was Clarence’s full name and rank?
6. What did Clarence order at Martini’s bar?
7. Uncle Billy had lots of pets. Name two.
8. What does Violet order in Mr. Gower’s soda shop?
9. What do the boys form to save Harry from drowning?
10. What kind of factory does Ruth’s father own?
11. What does George tell Uncle Billy the three most exciting sounds in the world are?
12. Three events stopped George from leaving Bedford Falls? Name one.

 

Bonus:  What are the names of the two people who work for the Bailey Savings & Loan?

 

 

 

 

 

 

ANSWERS BELOW:

Answers to Quiz II:

1. 4F because he couldn’t hear out of one ear
2. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”
3. The Bedford Falls Sentinel
4. A rose
5. Clarence Oddbody AS2 (Angel Second Class)
6. Mulled wine
7. Owl, hamster, dog, parakeet, squirrel, crow
8. Shoelaces – 2 cents’ worth
9. A chain gang
10. A glass factory
11. Anchor chains, plane motors and train whistles
12. His father died, Harry takes a job in Buffalo, the stock market crashes

 

Bonus answer:  Cousins Eustace and Tilly. The address is 320 Sycamore

 

You can find us on Facebook or send an email to dhadams1955@yahoo.com

For those who celebrate Christmas, opening presents is at the top of the list of fun holiday activities. I’ve always been a nosy person, and not knowing what was underneath the tree was agonizing for me.

I was a pro at snooping. I’d shake the boxes and feel all over the fronts and sides, trying to figure out what was inside.

I would gently peel the tape off, carefully pull off the paper, look at what was inside and then rewrap the gift.

There weren’t any surprises for me, but my curiosity was stronger than my willingness to be shocked.

My dad knew I was a world-class snoop. One year, he came in with a wrapped box for my Mom and put it under the tree.

“What’s in there?” I asked, always the nosy kid.

“A coffee maker,” he replied. “If your mom asks what’s in there, go ahead and tell her.”

I was thrilled he’d told me but a little sad as I couldn’t snoop and find out for myself. Mom came in later that day, saw the box and smiled.

“I wonder what’s in here,” she said as she touched the big box.

“It’s a coffee maker,” I blurted out.

Her face fell. I’d taken away the surprise, and I felt a little guilty.

“Dad said if you asked, I could tell,” I said, trying to explain.

When Mom opened the box on Christmas, a stereo was inside. My face fell.

“You said it was a coffee maker,” I said to my dad. He laughed.

“I knew you couldn’t resist telling her, so I didn’t tell you the truth,” he replied, and I knew he was right.

My husband and I still laugh over our eldest boy’s Christmas list when he was in the first grade. There were three items on the 7-year-old’s list:  a checking account, a money tree and a pony.

Let’s just say Santa didn’t deliver on any of those items.

Even though I’m good at figuring out what’s in the boxes, I’m not the best at gift-giving. I agonize over what to give everyone, usually striking out.

The shirts I buy are either too small or too big, not the right style or not what our boys want. My inability to choose well caused my middle son to take action. He emails me a detailed list of what he wants for Christmas.

One year, his list was divided into two categories:  What to buy and what not to buy. I still remember what was underneath the “do-not-buy” banner:  pajama pants, sweat pants with elastic cuffs and dress clothes – “you have bad taste.”

Underneath the “what-to-buy” headline were the direct links to the items he wanted, including the correct size and color. In all honesty, that’s the best list I ever get because I know he’ll like everything.

On the other hand, the gifts he gives us are spot on. He gave me a small space heater one year, and I use it daily when winter arrives. One year, he gave me a Kindle reader, and I use that on every trip we go on.

Same goes for the Blue-Tooth speaker he gave me. It stayed in the box for almost a year because I didn’t know what it was. Our youngest son saw the box and couldn’t believe I wasn’t using the speaker.

Now, I use it all the time, and thank Stephen for being such a good gift giver.

Our oldest has forgiven me for not planting a money tree in the back yard, and his gifts are always what I need and love – a leg massager I use every other day tops the list.

I’ll be making the last of the Christmas run this week, and I’m going to try and find the perfect gift that’s not what they expect to receive.

A snoop can always hope.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

Technology is fantastic. In a matter of seconds, we can find out how to unclog a sink, build a house and power wash an elephant.

One of the best technology advances is Google Maps. With a few clicks, we can find our way to the most out-of-the-way places without getting lost or frustrated.

There are times, however, I miss getting verbal directions from a person, especially Southerners.

Former Fort Bend Herald editor Bob Haenel always gave me accurate, country-slanted, directions.

When I first started the job, I had an interview in Needville. I’d never been there, so I asked Bob how to get to this particular address.

He told me to head south on Highway 36 until I saw the Needville city limits sign.

“Then turn left at the light,” he said.

“Which light?” I asked.

“The light,” he replied.

He was right.

Here’s another Haenel direction. I asked him for how to get to a place out in the country, and he thought for a second.

He grabbed a piece of paper and started sketching out a map. As he drew, he told me stories about the houses and people I’d pass on the way.

Google Maps will send me past stores that sponsor the site, but nothing can compete with directions that are complete with family and town histories.

My husband and I speak two different languages when it comes to directions. He uses words like “north and south, eastern corner and parallel.” I use phrases like “across from the grocery store, next to that car dealership and the place with the ugly paint job.”

Right after my dad passed away, I was driving to College Station with my youngest son. I was lost in sadness and suddenly realized I didn’t know where I was. My husband was out in the woods, but I called him anyway.

“I’m lost and I need you to tell me where I am,” I said. Even now, I’m embarrassed that I expected him to know where I was a hundred miles away from him.

He must’ve sensed how upset I was because he calmly asked me to describe what I was seeing and the turns I’d made.

“Just keep driving because I think you’re on the right road,” he said. “I won’t hang up until you see a sign.”

In a couple of miles, I saw the sign for College Station and breathed a sigh of relief. There’s no way Google Maps is that understanding.

Years ago, my son bought me one of the first GPS devices manufactured, a TomTom GPS. That little invention was great until I’d decide to take a different route.

“Recalculating route,” Tom would state in that robot voice.

I’d keep driving, unable to turn it off, and Tom would repeat “recalculating.” After the third time of recalculating, I swear I heard him sigh.

Ole Tom went a little too far one time, and I threw him in the trunk so I wouldn’t have to hear him yelling “recalculating.”

Luckily, the new GPS apps reroute without giving you the obnoxious reminder that you turned the wrong way. They seem to understand you’ve changed your mind and are polite enough not to point out you’re not following the correct directions.

I’m still a bit skeptical about the GPS. Last month, I was going to a retiree dinner in north Houston, and Google Maps sent me an hour out of the way. I didn’t feel stupid as two other people said Google had done the same thing to them.

Every once in a while, I’ll get out a paper map so I can keep my map reading skills sharp. I figure it’s a lost art, much like churning butter.

There’s a feeling of power knowing where I’m going because I figured out how to get there.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Whenever the Hebert clan gets together, family “remember-when” stories always come up.

I’m guilty of telling stories I think are funny but are often embarrassing to my brothers and sisters.

On a recent Zoom call, one of my siblings joked I had “revisionist history” recall. I was telling a story that didn’t put him in the best light, even though he was only 7 years old when it happened.

I thought a lot about that comment and made myself a promise. From now on, my nieces and nephews, siblings and in-laws will hear stories that spotlight the goodness in our family.

I’ll tell them how their eldest uncle was one of the most respected members on his high school football team despite being one of the smaller players.

He worked his way through dental school with a young family, built a thriving practice and is in the top tier of his profession. He volunteers at his church and is a tireless helper in the community.

Another brother was one of the top geologists in his office before retiring. He taught himself how to play the guitar, and sings and writes beautiful music when he’s not sharing his faith on the radio waves.

Our middle sister had a reputation for taking care of bullies for all of us when we were kids. She still does that but through civic organizations and as the extremely capable person who handles benefits for her company.

For years, her and her husband’s comfortable home has been open to all who need shelter and a home-cooked meal. They are two of the most respected people in their town and in our family.

The little 7-year-old boy grew into a teenager who stepped in as a male role model when my oldest son was a toddler. Whenever I was scared to stay by myself, he came over, often sleeping on the couch, just to keep me company. He fixed my car and did my home repairs when I was a single mom, and he did all that without complaining.

He handles adversity with grace and is admired by his three beautiful daughters, sons-in-law and adorable grandchildren.

One of the stories I told about our youngest sister is when she was 4 years old and my mom wouldn’t make her compete in a beauty pageant because she was shy. My sister would’ve won that contest hands down.

What I need to tell is how she always helps kids be the best they can be, from her own to the hundreds of pre-schoolers she taught to the high-school teens she encourages to find their way in a grown-up world. She’s strong, active in the community and could still win a beauty contest.

Not only is our youngest brother an outstanding and gifted artist, he’s an incredible story-teller with an iron-clad memory about most things, but especially comics. His Nerdmudgeon podcast about the Marvel Cinematic Universe is entertaining and intelligent.

He is a gifted writer and can dance better than John Travolta. He’s compassionate with a quick, sharp, witty sense of humor.

My siblings listen without judging, love without limits and are respected in their families, their fields of work and their communities.

When I tell family stories from now on, I will concentrate on making sure our cousins, nieces and nephews hear the positive accounts. Those endearing tales far outnumber the embarrassing ones.

I’ve learned it’s much better to praise than humiliate. The heart and head thrive when nurtured with love.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Hello America! It’s me, Thanksgiving, a day to remember a time when the Pilgrims and Native Americans shared food.

We know that story has been embellished over the years but celebrating that special turkey dinner is now a 200-year tradition.

Sadly, I feel I’m in the shadow of my older, more popular sibling, Christmas.

The reasons are understandable. Last year, Covid robbed people of getting together at the biggest family celebration of the year, so people are anxious to put up Christmas trees and holiday lights.

Most of all, Christmas offers presents.

But I have a lot to offer you!

First, the food is outstanding on Thanksgiving. Turkeys are the main attraction, and they bring along their two favorite buddies – gravy and bread stuffing, or dressing as Southerners like to say.

In fact, people have taken this side dish to a culinary level unimaginable 200 years ago.

There’s oyster dressing, cornbread dressing, bread dressing, sausage dressing and even vegan dressing. People put everything in dressing from walnuts to pecans to cranberries. And dressing isn’t complete without its favorite companion, mashed potatoes.

Today’s the day when you can eat marshmallows as a main dish without any guilt. Any other day, you might feel a tad embarrassed to slather roasted marshmallows on a pan of sweet potatoes, but not today.

And desserts! Let’s examine those for a second. There’s pecan and apple pie and both bring along their favorite companion, a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

But the star of the dessert table is pumpkin pie. Nothing beats a slice of creamy, orange pumpkin pie with a big dollop of whipped cream on top.

I’ve seen pumpkin in coffee, candy and tea. There’s pumpkin vodka, ice cream, cookies, candles, room spray and car fresheners. You can thank me, Thanksgiving, for bringing pumpkin to your attention.

In all honesty, I’m not a fan of some of the side dishes. Green-bean casserole is one of them. At no other time of the year would you take two cans of green beans, drown them in cream-of-mushroom soup, dump an entire can of fried onion rings on top and serve that as a nutritious side dish.

Same goes with ambrosia. Mixing together coconut, pineapple, mandarin oranges, cherries and whipped cream and calling that a healthy side dish is stretching things a bit, don’t you think?

But they’re both yummy and a Thanksgiving tradition.

Thanksgiving isn’t complete without the smell of fresh, hot rolls. I know it’s tough to find time to mix yeast, flour and water to make home-made rolls the size of a softball, so it’s okay to open a box of pre-made rolls and stick them in the oven for 7 minutes. The smell’s still the same and you need something to sop up all that gravy.

And let’s not forget the decorations! Most of you can remember being in the school Thanksgiving play and either wearing a pilgrim hat or a headband with feathers. You can thank me for that memory.

If you have children, chances are good they drew at least one turkey using their hand as the template and you’re still displaying that on my day.

Just remember, without me, you wouldn’t have pumpkin pie, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and three, count ‘em three, NFL football games in one day.

But who am I kidding. Christmas is the big dog in this winter holiday fight. All I’m asking for is a smidge of respect, America.

So when you’re eating that turkey sandwich on Friday, turkey gumbo on Saturday, turkey quesadillas on Sunday and another turkey sandwich on Monday, you can thank me.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I particularly dislike – okay hate – call routing. That’s the official name for when someone calls a phone number and an automated system sends callers to the right extension.

In theory, it’s supposed to save time.

In theory, it’s supposed to be more efficient.

In reality, call routing is frustrating for the customer and a waste of positive customer relations for the company.

Recently, I needed to make a dental appointment. Our former dentist sold his practice, so I was looking around for someone new closer to home.

A friend recommended her dentist. I called the number and got this familiar message:  “Please listen carefully as many of our options have changed.”

I’ve never understood this warning.

Few people memorize call options. This office has already wasted time with options I never realized I had.

Usually one of the “press this number” options is where I want to go. In the dental office, making an appointment was one of the last choices after I heard about all the services this dental office provides.

Pressing the number for appointments gave me the lovely opportunity to choose again from a new set of choices. I kept pressing zero until the system decided I was probably an idiot and passed me on to a real person who scheduled my appointment.

I’ve gotten so frustrated with call routing that when I have the option to say something, I yell all kinds of names to get a real person – “manager, operator, human!”

If that doesn’t work, I press zero repeatedly, hoping the system will malfunction and connect me with a human.

Sometimes this works.

But the caller never wins because that human says they’ll connect me with someone who call help me. You guessed it – I’m back in the call routing line.

The call routing people are crafty. Not only are you stuck on hold, they make you listen to advertisements for their company.

“If you’re interested in our low-interest credit card, stay on the line…”

“If you’d like to speak to an associate about trade-ins, stay on the line…”

“If you’d like to speak to a real person, you’re out of luck. That’s not one of our options.”

Last week, I called a doctor’s office for my mom. These people took the prize for the most convoluted call routing I’ve ever experienced.

First I had to choose if I wanted to talk to a doctor, wanted information about their new procedure – that was a 30-second sales talk – or billing. If I was experiencing a medical emergency, I was supposed to call 911.

I wondered how many people call the doctor’s office while they’re having a heart attack and stay on the line, waiting for the right number to press.

For heart patients, dial two. For test results, press three. For the cardiology lab, press four. Doctors should press six, and pharmacies seven. There wasn’t an option for appointments, so I listened again.

I tried to sneak through and pressed six. That took me back to the main menu.

I guess the call routing geniuses figured out a real doctor would have a secret number to call and not get stuck in the call routing line.

Hanging up, I called back and didn’t press any buttons, hoping the system would connect me with a real person.

That resulted in getting me disconnected.

By the time I got through the call routing routine and a no-nonsense switchboard operator came on the line, it was 4:01 p.m. She said the doctor’s office closed at 4 p.m. and to call back tomorrow. My frustration level was off the chart at that point.

Not all phone calls are best handled by a computer or machine. Sometimes, that gold ole human touch is what’s best for business.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

For the first time in years, I was taking an airplane trip by myself.

No friend to help me navigate crowded concourses.

No husband to blindly follow. I was flying the post-Covid-era skies all by myself.

The voice inside my head talked out of both sides of her mouth.

“Stop being a whiny-baby,” was one. This voice was the strong side, the one who believed I could not only navigate the airport but easily sail through the TSA screening line and baggage pick up.

This voice reassured me I could probably put the plane on auto pilot at 30,000 feet and make small talk with passengers as I passed out coffee and peanuts.

Then there was the other voice.

“You. Cannot. Do. This. Alone.”

This sneaky voice told me I’d forget something at the security check point.

The voice said I was going to miss my connection because I couldn’t maneuver the Atlanta airport all by myself.

This voice said I’d never remember my gate numbers, even though both the boarding passes and seat numbers were on my phone and written in the notebook I had in my purse.

Then the voice whispered “What if your phone dies? What if you lose your purse? What if you lose your wallet with all your identification and your credit card?” This voice had the “what ifs” down to a crippling science.

The whiny voice had an ally. My connecting flight in Atlanta to Greensboro, N.C. was a tight fit.

When I made the connection, I was a little concerned, but it was the last flight out of Atlanta to Greensboro.

I was determined to watch our grandchildren play in their soccer game that morning. So I rolled the dice, hoping the flight from Houston would arrive in Atlanta on time.

While waiting to board the plane to Atlanta, I was chatting with a pilot. I asked him about connections in Atlanta since that was his home base.

“I tell people if they don’t have an hour and a half in Atlanta, they’ll never make their connection,” he said.

I had 50 minutes.

The whiny voice practically smiled.

I thought about having to spend the night in Atlanta. The whiny voice told me there wouldn’t be a room available since the World Series games were in Atlanta that night. The voice told me I could try sleeping on the floor, but I’d probably get mugged.

I texted my youngest sister in North Carolina and told her I’d call if I missed my flight, which was probably a safe bet to make. She texted me back:  “If you run into a glitch, you are a smart, capable woman and you will figure it out!”

The relief I felt was instantaneous.

My strong voice took center stage. She reminded me of the many times I’d stepped up in tough situations and figured it out. The results weren’t always pretty, but I’d always come up with a solution.

I’ll always struggle with the two voices in my head. Sometimes that whiny voice will be louder, the one that’ll cause me to doubt my decisions and every choice I’ve made.

But then I’m going to remember – I made that connection in Atlanta. True, the flight attendant closed the main doors behind me when I got on the plane to Greensboro, sweating after riding the train from literally one end of the airport to the other and running for the gate, hauling my suitcase and a heavy backpack.

I didn’t lose my phone or my boarding passes. I’d made the trip home without any worries because I listened to my strong voice.

I’d still rather have my husband with me on my travels and I’ll probably be happier if my future flights are non-stop.

But just in case my phone dies, I lose my purse or there is a tight connecting flight, I’ll listen to my strong self.

She not only believes I could figure out a solution, but I could also step into the cockpit and land that plane with my eyes closed.

She just might be right.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.