Early one weekend morning, I was in a downtown area, looking for a place to park so I could explore a city green space. The parking garages were closed, and the only choice was to parallel park on the street.

I know this to be true because I circled the block four times, hoping to weasel out of parallel parking. I do not possess that skill, nor do I have a smart car that’ll park for me.

With no other choice, I took a deep breath and attempted the maneuver, cutting the wheel and backing in.

Not good enough, so I tried again and again.

By this time, especially with all that turning and twisting, the car had to be practically touching the curb.

I got out, looked, and my car was about two feet away from the curb. I decided that was close enough. I turned the engine off and enjoyed the green space.

Sometimes, close enough is good enough.

Sewing is that way for me. I decided to make some pillow shams, a project I haven’t tackled since my boys were in diapers.

After the third YouTube video of demonstrating how to find the exact middle of the material, I threw the tape measure against the wall,

There was no way I was going to get those seams exactly 18 and an eighth inches apart.

Instead, I eyeballed it.

There wasn’t an equal hem on both sides of the sham, but the seams were hidden. They were good enough and close enough and, from the front, the shams looked nice and neat.

In this case, a guess was good enough.

For years, I’ve made pancakes so now I eyeball the dry mix and the milk, and most of the time, I get pretty close the first time.

But I don’t have to be exact. If the batter’s too runny, I add more dry mix. If it’s too thick, I add more milk.

Close enough, in this case, is definitely good enough.

I decided long ago that when it comes to recipes, close enough is good enough.

My sister gave me a recipe for a spicy chicken casserole.

The long list of ingredients included boiling a chicken, straining the broth, chopping up chiles and melting cheese.

No way, I told myself.

I bought a rotisserie chicken and a box of spicy Velveeta cheese. Did that casserole have deboned chicken and hand-grated cheese?

Nope.

Did anyone complain?

Nope.

Close enough, once again, was good enough.

I eyeball hanging pictures on the wall. I’ve tried hanging them side by side, but I’ve never gotten it right, even when I use a ruler and a level. So, I made a choice to change my decorating style to staggered and “eclectic.”

In other words – all over the place.

I’ve racked my brain, trying to think of areas in my everyday life where I have to be precise. Not cooking, definitely not cleaning or the laundry.

The dog doesn’t require me to do things precisely – she just wants to be fed and let out to chase squirrels in the back yard.

I will concede, however, that there’s a place, reason and time to be precise.

Removing an appendix or performing LASIK eye surgery both require precise measurements.

Architects, accountants and airplane pilots must be precise in their fields. We count on pharmacists getting the dosage in our medications correct down to the last gram.

But I’m not a doctor, dentist, ophthalmologist or airline pilot. I’m just a regular person trying to bumble my way through life.

So if I hang a picture a little crooked, have a half-inch hem on one side of a pillow sham and an inch hem on the other, that’s close enough.

And good enough for me.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Houston traffic is notorious for being bumper-to-bumper frustrating.

My temper gets the best of me sometimes, especially when someone zooms across four lanes of traffic in front of me to make the exit.

I’ve seen people reading a book while driving, blaring music so loud my eardrums hurt and forgetting their vehicle was equipped with turn signals.

But I saw something this week I never expected to see.

Road rage on steroids.

I was making a U-turn underneath the interstate. Waiting to merge, I noticed two cars in the intersection to my right had been in a fender bender. One of them had run the light, and the car headed south had been T-boned.

Cars were zipping around the wreck, so there wasn’t an opening for me and the dozen or so cars behind me to merge.

But then, in less than a minute, the unbelievable happened.

The car that had T-boned the side of the other car backed up. I thought it was to start clearing the intersection. But then the driver put his or her car into drive and bashed the side of the other car again.

Things like that happen in the movies, not in real life, I thought. The person behind me honked, and I moved as there was an opening. I thought about going back but there was no way to get to that intersection with traffic from all directions.

I drove away with my mouth open. I’d seen road rage on videos but never in real life, never to that level of anger and frustration.

This person’s car was banged up, but to intentionally bash it in again, and endanger the safety of the person in the other car as well as him or herself, was unimaginable.

There’s really no excuse for acting like an out-of-control lunatic when things go wrong. But there are quite a few reasons why people’s tolerance is at the empty mark.

Covid tops the list.

At the beginning of the pandemic, our loved ones were isolated from us while they were sick. We weren’t allowed to see them in their final days, weren’t allowed to say goodbye.

For two years, we lost the opportunity to take vacations, visit relatives, or go to the movies. Now a variant of the virus is making the rounds, and we’re cancelling activities again.

There’s the heat.

Southerners know July and August are two of the most miserable months of the year. In a state where it’s hot a good bit of the time, having a string of 100-plus degree days ignites tempers as well as brush fires. And we haven’t even gotten our first electric bill.

These days, it’s become acceptable to be a rude, obnoxious human being. Acting as a decent human being is no longer the first choice.

We need to start seeing people wearing an apron, a name tag or a uniform as a person.

A teenager saving money for a car or tuition.

A single mom working a thank-less job to provide for her children.

A father taking the job nobody else wanted because he wants to provide for his family.

A teacher struggling with demanding parents and a system that demands more than anyone should have to give.

A driver who made a mistake in judgment. Not someone who purposely left home, hoping he or she could wreck her car and yours.

The time is now to give people a break.

Revenge therapy doesn’t work. You don’t have the right to lose your temper and cause someone else to fear for their safety.

If another driver is traveling slower than the traffic around them, that’s their choice, not a personal slam to you.

If the clerk in the store isn’t perky and friendly, perhaps it’s because they’re the only one who showed up for work that day and customers have been rude and obnoxious for the past four hours.

Put yourself in someone else’s shoes and rein in that temper.

Show compassion and civility.

Let’s make the world a better place.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Grandchild number six is coming our way in August, and it’s been a while since we’ve helped outfit an infant.

Things have changed.

Our mother’s right arm flung across our chests if the car came to a sudden stop was considered safe enough when we were kids. Required car seats came along and changed the world.

When my now 42-year-old son was born, the infant car seat weighed about five pounds. They cost less than $20 and did the job.

By the time the third child came along, the price had tripled and the car seat/baby carrier weighed about 20 pounds. By the time he could walk, I had biceps like Thor’s.

Today’s car seats are called a system. There’s a base that stays in the car. You press one button on the top and the seat detaches and hooks right into the stroller, also part of the system.

There’s a cost for that technology — $700.

I kid you not.

Diaper bags still serve the same purpose – lugging around three or four Pampers, teething rings, an extra onesie, wipes and a bowl of dry cereal.

My purse was the best diaper bag around. I fished stale Cheerios and Froot Loops out of the bottom of that purse for years.

Today’s diaper bags start out at $75 because they’re considered designer bags. Call them what you may, but they still only have room for diapers, a change of clothes and a bowl of organic cereal.

No baby home is complete without toys. Our sons had quite a bit of fun banging Tupperware measuring cups and wooden spoons on an old pot or the floor. The price tag for today’s sensory toys starts at $19.95 and they don’t even talk to you.

When it comes to outfitting the baby’s room, the costs are high. Years ago, crib sheets came in three colors – white, yellow and light green. I remember paying $5 for one and thinking that baby would be sleeping like a king.

Today’s shoppers must go through sticker shock because crib sheets come in sets – gotta have the matching pillow – and can sell for up to $179 for one sheet and one accompanying item.

Baby bottles were made out of plastic – clear or white. You could find them at any late-night Piggly-Wiggly. The price was right – 99 cents for three.

You can still find the cheap plastic ones, but you’d be labeled a slacker if you showed up at Chuck-E-Cheese with those.

Today’s baby bottles come in colorful sets, complete with a choice of glass or plastic. They claim to help with colic, burping and gas, problems all of my babies had.

The only sure-fire cure came from my grandmother – a little baking soda in a teaspoon, add water, and give to the baby until he belched. Worked every time.

Let’s not forget the strides we’ve made in diapers.

When my eldest was born, I wanted to be a natural woman and save the planet. I bought a package of 12 cotton cloth diapers, baby diaper pins and plastic pants.

Those cloth diapers became dust cloths after the first time I cleaned a dirty one in the toilet. After that, I’d have given up my high heels before I’d give up disposable diapers.

Go ahead and buy those fancy nets and plastic fences to try and prevent a child from getting their head stuck in between the spindles on the staircase.

They’re going to try and stick their head through there anyway.

And they’ll try to flush candles down the toilet.

And they’ll write on the walls with a black marker you overlooked underneath the recliner.

No matter the price tag, some things never change.

Babies will cry when they’re hungry, overflow a diaper when you don’t have a spare and reject every pacifier you buy them.

We’re hoping grandchild number 6 settles for the three-for-a-dollar binkies.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Cars are simply machines that get us from one place to another. Fill them up with gas and replace the tires when the old ones wear out. I usually get attached to vehicles because they’re more than a machine to me.

Such is the case with a car we just traded in. We bought a Highlander back in 2015, and she safely transported me over 170,000 miles. Some of those miles included trips to the beaches in Gulf Shores, Ala. and touring wineries in the Hill Country.

Most of the miles were from every-day life – going to and from work, trips to the grocery store or taking grandchildren from our house to theirs. I felt safe in that big car, just as I did as a teenage driver.

My first car was an old Pontiac Executive. The car was like a boat – four of us could sit in the front seat with no problem. My dad gave it to his teenagers when he wanted a new Cadillac, and we were thrilled.

That car took a young teenager everywhere she wanted to go and it was a sad day when dad sold the car for another Caddy.

The first car I bought was a white hatchback Honda Civic — $1,995. That little car took my toddler son and me everywhere – to work, day care, the grocery store and a summer trip to Florida.

We traded that car for a mini-van when our second son was coming along. I loved the mini-vans we had. The boys were free to litter the floor with toys and dropped chicken nuggets. There were permanent indentations in the vinyl from where car seats had been belted in for years.

When the boys were teens, they purchased their own cars, and a mini-van was no longer needed. I bought a sedan and that car became my crying space.

My dad passed away, and I grieved for him in the car. The Mazda was a safe place to cry for him, an almost daily occurrence that first six months.

Someone rear-ended me one rainy evening, and the body shop told us the car was totaled. I remembered saying a prayer of thanks to the car for giving me a safe space when I needed it.

We replaced the crying car with a bigger sedan, and that car fit me quite well – not too big, not too small.

But when grandchild number four was due and number five joined the clan, we needed a vehicle with enough room for all the grandkids. The Highlander had room for all the grandchildren and two adults, just the right number of seats we needed.

That Highlander was my trusty companion – taking me back and forth everywhere I went with plenty of room for luggage, groceries, bikes, cameras and gifts.

She transported our grandchildren to museums, parks and the beach. She didn’t mind dirt, sand, spilled drinks or having Legos underneath the seats.

Our Highlander was reliable and was sometimes a place where I could sing as loud and off-key as I wanted or cry after visiting the cemetery.

But she was showing her age. There were creaks and rattles, parts were wearing out and traveling long distances were becoming chancy. After all, the old girl was seven years old and had many miles on her.

Still, when we traded her in, I felt guilty. Sure, the Highlander was only a car, an inanimate object, but with her, I’d felt safe to take a quiet ride or a noisy one.

I could complain in that car, whine about the unfairness of life or roll the windows down and enjoy a calming ride in the country. On particularly rough days, I could howl at the sky and the car never complained.

The car was a comfortable friend.

I believe this next vehicle will live up to the legacy of the one before her, but the bar is high.

I simply hope the next owner of our old car finds a friend in her, just like I did.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

A year ago, on my 66^th birthday, I flippantly said I had a goal. I was going to visit Route 66 the year I was 66 and take a selfie with a Route 66 sign.

A bit of history – Route 66 was the main road between California and Chicago and is nicknamed “The Mother Road.” During the Depression and the Dust Bowl, Route 66 was flooded with people heading west with dreams of a better life.

After the economy improved, people wanted to sightsee, and Route 66 was the best way to tour a good bit of the country. A 1946 song by Bobby Troup made the road even more popular because people wanted to “get their kicks on Route 66.”

When interstates became the fastest way to travel, the popularity of Route 66 faded. But people had fond memories of the old road.

Folks did their best to preserve some of the iconic Mother Road signs and gas stations, and tacky souvenir shops are now popular tourist attractions.

My off-hand comment became something friends and family would ask about. Every month, I’d remind myself to make good on that promise.

Covid put a damper on most of the year, as did commitments that popped up. The promise to myself took a back seat to everything else.

I told myself standing on Route 66 and taking a selfie was a silly thing, a trip just to say I did it. Then I’d think about the travel expenses and time away from home, and the thought became a whisper.

A few weeks ago, my grandson drew a beautiful, geometric-inspired picture with an armadillo in the middle. He included a variety of icons, but there was one that jumped out – an interstate sign with the name “Route 66.” He’d remembered, and there was no way I’d disappoint that darling.

Logging onto Google Maps, the closest place to visit Route 66 was Oklahoma City, 450 miles from my front door.

A couple of weeks later, I packed up the car and headed north. My nephew, Jarrod, lives around Dallas so we made plans for lunch in downtown Denton. My next stop was the welcome station in Oklahoma where I took a picture on my phone and texted it to the grandkids.

Later in the day, I found a hotel and then headed off to the Round Barn, an iconic stop on Route 66. The barn was closed, but there was a Route 66 sign on the premises, and I took a selfie there, fulfilling a promise I’d made almost a year ago.

I don’t break promises to other people, but broken promises litter my path like pieces of confetti. I’ll lose weight, take that fitness class, clean out that cabinet, write more letters

But when my grandson believed I’d make the trip, there was no way I’d back out. I’ll admit, after I took that selfie with the Route 66 sign, I held my head a little higher.

Instead of coming straight home on the interstate, I headed east and visited a Route 66 museum in Chandler, Okla. A knowledgeable volunteer told me the history of the museum and pointed out some of the iconic sights people saw along Route 66 back when The Mother Road was popular.

The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is give my grandson the T-shirt I bought for him with Route 66 printed on the front. I want him to know his encouragement motivated me to keep my promise and get my kicks on Route 66.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My fear of heights is irrational.

But it’s real.

My phobia started on a trip to California. We were traveling along Pacific Highway, a breathtaking highway. The road hugs the coastline and can be breathtaking.

However, our friend, who was driving the car, was speeding. We’d come around a curve and it seemed there was six inches between our tires and the drop off into the ocean. It was so scary, I laid down on the floor in the back seat with my eyes closed.

The next time was when I was visiting my son in Taiwan. He planned a trip up a mountain to visit a spa and see the countryside from up high.

The road to the spa was curvy and winding and straight up. I spent our lunch break with a hot towel on my head. I slept on the way down, refusing to face that part of the trip.

A trip to Colorado a couple of years ago should’ve been gorgeous, especially a planned leg from Durango to Telluride. There’s twists and turns, steep climbs and stomach-dropping descents.

I thought I could make it, but half way there, my brother took pity on me and we turned around.

Last year, we decided to take a coming-out-of-Covid trip, and I chose Arizona. All the pictures show deserts so I figured we’d be horizontal the whole time.

I was wrong.

The view out of Phoenix was flat and calm, but didn’t last long. We were headed to a quaint town, Prescott, and we had to climb 5,367 feet to get there.

Google Maps doesn’t tell you that extremely important piece of information when you’re plotting a trip.

We couldn’t see around the curves, and when we did, it was a petrifying view of either plunging straight down or climbing up a steep road, engine straining, with the knowledge that what goes up must come down.

Perhaps watching videos of people driving on mountain roads would be reassuring, I thought. After all, they got home safe and sound.

My fears intensified after watching these drivers weave back and forth, avoiding the “falling rocks” and “dangerous gorge” signs along the way.

Maybe it was just me who was scared on that Phoenix to Prescott road. So I watched a video of a family driving the same trip.

When they arrived in Prescott, their little girl looked like she’d been on the losing end of an encounter with a vampire – her eyes gaunt, her face white, her mouth hanging open.

“She has a stomach ache,” her mother said to the camera.

“She had a terrifying experience,” I yelled at my computer screen.

The next trip I planned was to Boston because it’s 19 feet above sea level.

I checked.

On a recent phone call with my eldest son, we talked about my acrophobia.

“What are you scared of?” my son asked. “That you’re going to fall off the road?

“Yes,” I said. “There’s a reason roads are nicknamed ‘Highway of Death’ and ‘Death Road.’”

“You’re in a car that weighs 2,000 pounds. You’re not going to fall off a road going 30 miles an hour. When’s the last time you heard of an accident like that?”

“Today. Some people had a Jeep roll down the mountain right in front of them,” I said triumphantly.

He had no answer for that. I didn’t tell him they were on a rocky mountain road in a vehicle built for mountain travel. I wouldn’t get off the interstate for all the chocolate in the world.

Before we take another trip, I’m going to see if I can find a hypnotists who can ease my fear of heights.

If they can convince someone to squawk like a chicken, they just might be able to help me relax the next time I plan a trip more than 20 feet above sea level.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’d been seeing the invitation in my email for a few weeks. A good friend was retiring from teaching and coaching after over 30 years in the trenches.

Scott was an outstanding educator and coach, and was one of the first friends I made when I became a teacher.

He and his wife, Lisa, have a fun food blog, Eats with the Moody’s.

A few years ago, I interviewed them about their travels around the state. Their fun and down-home reviews featured out-of-the-way places where good food was plentiful and the prices low.

Like so many of the people I interviewed, we became friends. Our friendship has survived Scott transferring to a different school, moves and my retirement from teaching.

Scott was a principal his last couple of years in education, and he included me on his pep-talk emails every day. That’s the way Scott is – always encouraging, always smiling.

His retirement party wouldn’t be a formal, fancy affair – it was barbecue and beer in West Columbia, a little over an hour from my house.

I wanted to go, but I dreaded getting out. Although Texas has opened up after the pandemic, Covid reluctance was still dominating my life. I skipped a lot of functions over the past two years, blaming the virus.

The truth is – I’m out of practice going to parties. I’d think about having to get dressed up – not something I look forward to, thanks to the extra pounds Covid hibernation has caused – and choose to stay home.

I had a lot of excuses, and I was on the fence up until the day of the party.

Scott deserved to have friends show up. He spread such joy and laughter to so many of us over the years, and the reasons I wouldn’t go sounded lame, even to me.

All of us have missed so much over the past couple of years. There’s been so many friendships I’ve let wither, so many I’ve neglected. At first, that neglect was because of Covid but then the isolation became a way of life.

Saturday morning, I thought about staying home, watching a movie, and then going to bed early.

Safe.

Quiet.

But that’s not what living’s all about. So I picked up my car keys and purse and made the long drive down to the outdoor barbecue venue.

Scott and Lisa chose the perfect place for his party – casual and relaxed with a live musician on the stage singing country and western songs.

I parked next to Terry High alums Alan and Judy, and we hugged and traded stories about our grandchildren on our walk from the lot.

I saw so many familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen in years. Scott was talking with Vera, my first principal and one of my best friends. She literally saved me my first year, and her advice guided me so many times.

Johni and Steve were there, also from Terry High. Johni was one of the most respected English teachers on campus, and she was just as nice and friendly as the last day I saw her.

We’d all aged a bit, but the bonds between us were still there. I watched as Scott and Lisa made sure everyone had brisket, and the love between them was heartwarming.

I looked around at the people there, all gathered because of the love they had for Scott. People were talking in groups and pairs while others were jamming to the music.

They were enjoying being with other people, and I know I wasn’t the only one soaking up physically being around friends.

I’m finished turning down invitations and opportunities to celebrate life. Our time here is too short and too fleeting.

I think I’ll go back and read “Eats with the Moodys” and find some great barbecue joints for my husband and me to experience. Scott and Lisa reminded all of us that it’s time to get livin’ again.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Top Morning Headlines

Tuesday, May 24, 2022

The war in Ukraine continues

The coronavirus is still around

Johnny Depp trial

Uvalde massacre at 1:27 p.m.

 

Top Morning Headlines

Wednesday, May 25, 2022

One day after Uvalde massacre

Deadly shooting in Uvalde

Calls for gun control

Johnny Depp trial

 

Top Headlines

Monday, June 6, 2022

A week after Uvalde massacre

Weekend of violence across America

The war in Ukraine continues

Johnny Depp joins TikTok

 

Two weeks after one of the most horrific crimes in our country was committed, the shooting of innocent children and teachers at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, the story has dropped from the main headlines even though funerals are still ongoing for the 21 victims.

How quickly we forget.

The blame game, though, is in full swing.

Blame guns.

Blame the NRA.

Blame poor mental health accessibility.

Blame the police.

The reaction has been the same since the Columbine massacre in 1999.

But there’s seldom concrete action to get at the root of the problem of school shootings.

I remember the first time I had to participate in a school-shooter drill. We told the students where to hide and to remain silent and hidden until the danger was over.

The thought that kept going through my mind, as I’m sure it did for other teachers, was how did we get to this point?

The danger signs were there for all of these violent shooters. They posted troubling and violent messages on social media. Their teachers and acquaintances pointed out their abnormal behavior, but were told not to judge other people.

These young people slid through the system with nobody willing to appear judgmental by pointing out disturbing and serious mental issues.

We all agree our schools are vulnerable. Some of the remedies I’ve read go from the ridiculous to the draconian.

Having only one entrance and exit to a school is ridiculous. Some of our high schools have 2,000 students and over 150 teachers. Getting them in and out one by one through a metal detector would take hours. I shudder thinking what would happen in case of a fire.

There are steps we can take toward making our schools safe, and to say safeguarding schools is expensive is an argument I don’t buy. We spend millions of dollars testing children to see how they’re performing academically.

Instead, we should spend money on having mental health specialists on every campus. We need to actually pay attention when a teacher or student reports a student is displaying the characteristics all these shooters share – posting violent thoughts on social media or in journals. Saying or writing they want to hurt others. Buying assault rifles.

Install two-step access doors at all secondary entrances and exits. Make it difficult for someone to enter a school unless they have a key or a key card. Those two minutes when a shooter has to break through a door could be the difference between life and death.

Numerous security cameras should be installed and monitored on every campus, especially at all entrances. Spend money on security personnel to monitor those cameras.

We do that at home for under $200 and monitor our homes no matter where we are. Our schools should have better security measures than we have at home. We do more to safeguard our vehicles and homes than we do the place where our children are now the most vulnerable.

We live in communities that are gated, and home owners and visitors pass through a monitored gate to get in. Most homes have a chain-link or wooden fence around their yards. But our school grounds are wide open.

Social media sites allow people to post pictures of strangers on the street, anyone who rings their doorbell or the license plates of a suspicious vehicle. Neighbors are alerted when there’s something off.

If only our schools were that safe.

The steps we need to take to safeguard our children aren’t easy and will cost money and tough choices.

Don’t forget what’s really important. Don’t let what happened in Uvalde slip away, unnoticed and overshadowed. We need change now.

If now isn’t the time, then what in the world will it take to make it be the right time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Knowing I’d be making a road trip to Baton Rouge, La. and back, I stocked up on audiobooks from the Fort Bend County Library.

One was by a favorite comedian – Jim Gaffigan. The title – “Food:  A Love Story.”

Gaffigan covered his obsession with food with his usual dry humor, but there was one particular category he didn’t quite cover: Mood Foods. These are foods that go with a particular frame of mind you’re experiencing.

Everyone has a go-to food for whatever cloud or sunbeam is hanging over his or her head, but here’s my suggestions. Feel free to add your personal choices to my list.

Sad Foods:  When you’re devastated, most of us don’t want food. But for the times when you’re feeling down or melancholy, ice cream is my go-to cure.

Not the off-brand chocolate brand but high-fat, high-calorie Blue Bell Dutch chocolate ice cream.

If all you have is vanilla ice cream, add a river of chocolate syrup, a mountain of whipped cream and top it off with a cherry. Lactose intolerant? Bake a pan of chocolate brownies and eat them right out of the pan while they’re still warm.

Comfort Foods:  These are foods from your childhood, the ones your mom, dad or grandparents made sure you had when you were feeling homesick.

These include fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, beef stew and tortilla soup. All should be homemade for the ultimate cure.

Sick Foods:  Most of us don’t want to eat when we’re really sick. But for days when you’re feeling a little bit icky, Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich is a must have.

Happy Foods:  This would be foods you want when life is treating you like the queen of England.

Happy foods are, lucky for you, almost all foods. Well except vegetables, anything low calorie or anything low fat. Greek yogurt is not your go-to treat when you get a raise or promotion.

Guilt Foods:  These are the ones you eat when you’ve done something wrong and nobody yet knows you’ve blundered.

Guilt foods are always eaten alone and, for the best effect, in the dark. These foods include Twinkies, Ding Dongs or M&M’s. The whole bag.

Bored Foods:  There’s nothing on television. You’ve watched enough TikTok videos to last you a week and it’s too hot to go outside. Your checking account is at an all-time low so you can’t go shopping. That’s when you turn to the foods on the “I’m-bored” list.

My top choice is peanut butter right out of the jar. Forget bread. Forget crackers. Get a spoon and dip away.

Bored foods also include Oreo cookies. Take your time – eat one whole. Take the next one apart and eat each side separately. Take the next one apart and lick the cream off and then eat the cookies.

Angry Foods:  When steam is practically coming out of your ears, you need to eat something crunchy and hard.

Tacos are a good bet as are potato chips, Doritos or Cheetos. Be forewarned – the bags are tough to open, so that could raise your anger level even before you start munching.

Celebration Foods:  You just got a promotion, a raise, the universal waters parted and you got a parking spot close to the entrance. A celebration is in order.

A banana split is the way to go. A tiny celebration can be observed with whipped cream sprayed straight to the mouth. Also under the banner of “I did great” is cheesecake, a steak dinner or a thick slice of watermelon.

Scared Foods:  These are foods you eat when you’re scared to make a move, staying home alone for the first time or there’s frightening weather.

Cut-up apples are my best choice because I have something to eat and the security of a knife by my side.

So there you have it – my list of foods to eat when the mood strikes. Happy, or sad, eating!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

We were standing in a circle on the soccer field, looking at each other. The team our youngest grandson belonged to had too many players.

The assigned coach proposed splitting the team. He asked if someone would be willing to take the older players and he’d take the younger ones.

Everyone had a reason to say no. Some were working a lot of overtime, some had no experience coaching or with soccer. Others were silent, knowing they didn’t want to take on another responsibility.

Finally one dad, Josh, said he’d do it. He cautioned everyone that he often worked out of town and would miss some games and practices, but he’d take on the job. Another dad said he’d help him and a couple of other dads said they could fill in if need be.

Josh’s wife took on the duties of team manager and everyone breathed a sigh of relief that the mantle of coaching energetic 7-year-olds had passed them by.

At the first practice, Coach Josh lined up all the players and enthusiastically told them they were going to have a great season. They needed to listen to him, obey the rules and have fun.

They knew they were supposed to kick the ball into the net, but that’s about it. They had no idea what the words dribble or defense meant.

But Coach Josh patiently took them through drills – kicking the ball up and down the field, lining up to take a shot into the net and, most importantly, picking a name for the team.

A week later, the Bulldogs were ready to play, and the most enthusiastic person on the field was Coach Josh. He high-fived players who dribbled the ball, he patted them on the back when he saw them trying and gently explained what the rules were when they broke them.

At half time, most players sit with their families for snacks. Coach Josh told these 7-year-olds to come sit in a circle on the field with him so they could talk strategy about the game.

They sat in a tight circle, drinking their Capri Suns, their faces glued to Coach Josh’s, as he talked soccer with them.

In life, we’re often called to step up and, many times, we can’t or we won’t. I will be forever grateful Josh stood up and accepted the responsibility for coaching the team, but especially our grandson.

He made it a point to instill confidence in our grandson. Josh would send us texts about drills to run with at home, and he always took time after the game to talk to each player about something they’d done right.

He missed talking to our grandson after one game, but he texted us with what he would’ve said.

I hope Coach Josh knows those kids will always remember him. He made a positive, life-long impact on a team of first graders. He taught them fairness and teamwork. He taught them how to dribble a soccer ball and how to cheer with abandon when someone makes a goal.

Coach Josh also influenced the other parents. He did have to miss a couple of games and practices because of his job, but other dads stepped right up.

They followed Coach Josh’s example, and encouraged the kids to score with a smile and accept a missed kick with a smile.

When you volunteer, the rewards far outweigh the time commitment. You make a positive impact on a child, and that’s a gift that lasts a lifetime, both for you and the child.

The time spent with young children is fleeting. Blink and they’re headed to middle school. Look away and they’re packing for college.

Thank you, Coach Josh, for helping our grandson find confidence and a smile. Thank you for stepping up.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.