I’m a weather junkie.

A Weather-Channel, radar-following, hurricane-tracker addict. The weather men and women on television are as familiar to me as my neighbors. I check the weather every morning and especially before heading out.

I particularly dislike driving in bad weather. When the rain starts pelting my car, I’ll usually find a safe place and pull over until the storm passes.

Sometimes, though, it’s hard to get away from the storm.

My mom and I were traveling along Highway 190 in Louisiana. It’s the old east-west route through the state, one I’ve traveled many times as Interstate 10 has become an orange-cone parking lot.

As we got closer to the Atchafalaya Basin, I noticed the tall trees on the side of the road were swaying, gently at first and then more violently.

The shorter trees were visibly shaking, and branches were pumping up and down like puppets on a string.

Dust-devils were kicking up and spinning on side roads, and I could feel the wind pushing my vehicle. That feeling made me sit up straighter in my seat and start silently praying Hail Marys.

My mom asked why I was being so quiet.

“Don’t you see how those trees are practically bent over,” I asked her.

“It all looks fine to me,” she said looking out the window. “Everything will be fine. God’s in control.”

I pulled over into a gas station’s parking lot to check the weather radar.

There was an ominous line of dark red and yellow a few miles north of us, and it extended all the way to Baton Rouge. Soon, the storm would catch up to us or us to it.

Ahead was a tall bridge, and I did not want to be at the top of that structure when a strong gust came through.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” my mom said. “You’re usually the one in charge, the one who’s unafraid. I’ve never known you to be a chicken.”

She was right.

I was scared.

Scared of going over the bridge. Scared of being tossed around like a rag doll. Scared of having my mom injured.

Mixed in with the fear was the shame of being a coward.

The only thing to do was to keep going and hope we could get home before rain and lightning joined the wind.

I got back on the highway, marveling at my mother’s calm demeanor, her faith in me and the Lord.

We made it over the bridge, the wind not as bad as I’d feared, but I held my breath the entire time.

“Look ahead,” my mom said. “There’s clear skies up ahead. God is showing us the way. Just head toward that light. You can do it.”

Those words had the desired effect. I had a mission now, a goal to achieve, so I kept driving.

My hands were still gripping the steering wheel, my stomach was churning, and I kept going, not because I was brave, but because there was no other choice.

Perhaps when the storms come, it’s okay to admit we’re chicken. It’s okay to feel like a failure and okay to feel like we can’t take another step forward.

But when you do, when you move forward, even though every fiber of your being wants to crawl back to safety, you’re on the way to becoming a little bit braver.

My mom taught me a good lesson. Sometimes you just have to look for the clear patch ahead, ignore the chaos all around and just keep going whether it’s clear sailing or stormy skies.

Just keep going.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first segment I heard on the radio this morning was a follow-up on the Beirut explosion. The damage caused to this beautiful city on the sea was intense, and the number of dead and injured was staggering.

That story was followed by a news report on the looting in Chicago, and listening to the gunshots and sirens made me even sadder for the world.

Then there was a story about Covid-19 and schools reopening and how sick teachers would be, the daily danger level, how kids needed to be back at school, that parents needed to be back at work and thousands of jobs were being lost and… I turned off the news.

Columnists have the flexibility of giving readers their interpretation of what’s happening in the world.

Was the bombing in Lebanon a case of careless storage or the work of a terrorist? I could spin that column either way and scare the fire out of everyone no matter what road I took.

I could write about the reckless looting in Chicago’s high-end shopping district and throw blame to both sides.

When it comes to reopening the schools, there’s enough arguments, pop facts and opinions to keep the internet spinning for months.

Many columnists, this one included, give out advice. If only people would learn to get along, we write, the world would be a better place.

Nothing anyone has ever written, not the Emancipation Proclamation or speeches from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., has changed intolerant minds.

So what to write about. What could possibly keep your interest and not make you unwrap another chocolate bar or bite your fingernails any shorter.

Happy things comes to mind.

But, columnist, aren’t you being a Pollyanna? Aren’t you turning a blind eye to what’s going on in the world and isn’t it your job to write about current events.

Maybe.

But when the current events are as depressing as spilling a bottle of Big Red on your new white shirt, then it’s time to think about something cheerful.

So let’s go down that lane.

Puppies. With their little wagging tails and big eyes, puppies are absolutely darling. So, for that matter, are kittens. They like to go to sleep on your chest and make the sweetest sounds.

Until they relieve themselves on you. Or chew up your shoes or the legs on a kitchen chair. Or destroy your slippers.

Not so cute now, are they.

Sunsets are happy. The oranges, reds and yellows blend to close out that days’ woes in warm shades.

Unless you’re in Texas where the temperature is still in the upper 90’s as the sun sets, the oppressive humidity reminds you of a sauna bath and the mosquitoes are feasting on your upper arms.

Music usually makes us happy unless, of course, we listen to a song that reminds us of the guy who dumped us or takes us back to our high school days when we’re listening to a golden oldies station. Then we remember, sigh, we’re a golden oldie.

As if we needed any reminders.

So the question remains – what to write about.

The only thing I can come up with is hope.

I hope people continue to clean up the world and their hearts. I hope there’s a vaccine for this coronavirus, and I hope the world can return to a sense of normalcy coupled with an appreciation for the things we’ve taken for granted.

I hope we can learn to get along and I hope my great-grandchildren are able to live in a world without war, diseases, famine or prejudice.

This columnist refuses to give into despair for she knows there’s always two sides to every situation and every story.

We can continue to play with puppies and kittens if we remember that cuteness often comes with a few scratches.

And a sunset can either signal the end of the day or that a new dawn’s right around the corner. Life is, after all, a series of choices, and we can choose to find the happiness in life or drown in the despair.

I trust you choose wisely.

A columnist can, after all, hope.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

In an effort to start getting rid of the extra Covid pounds – oh let’s be honest, the fall, winter and spring pounds – I laced up my sneakers and went out for a walk.

Barely a block in, my legs and knees started aching, and I limped back home.

“Old age,” I told myself.

“Years of not taking care of yourself,” the snide little voice in my head shouted back.

Both voices were correct, so I promised to walk more to get into better shape.

Each morning, I’d come limping back. I noticed, though, that my legs and knees didn’t hurt when I walked around barefoot.

My tennis shoes could be the culprit although I hated to blame something I’ve come to treasure – shoes.

For years, I thought buying shoes was practical. Find your size, try them on and buy the shoes if they fit.

I totally missed the boat.

Shoes aren’t just for protection. They’re optimistic, fun and shoes mark special times in our lives, from our first lace-up shoes to our favorite bedazzled flip flops.

They come in all shapes and sizes. There’s flats, high heels, sneakers, sandals and pumps.

You can try all of them on for free. In the shoe store, I used to slip on high heels and imagine myself on the red carpet at the Oscars.

Slip on sneakers and you can pretend you’ll be running a marathon. Reality sinks back in once you realize those high heels are almost $100 and a decent pair of running shoes is twice that price.

Most of us can remember our favorite pair of shoes as a kid. In “The Sandlot,” PF Flyers saved the day. I remember having a pair as a kid and believing I could run faster and jump higher because of those shoes.

I watched Cinderella try on that magic slipper and snag a prince and crying when Dorothy closed her eyes, clicked those ruby red heels together and said “there’s no place like home.”

Tap shoes are some of the best shoes a little girl can have. I spent many happy hours tap dancing around the house, down the driveway and on the sidewalk in front of our house. Best of all, tap shoes make noise and annoy parents and siblings.

But I grew up and, somewhere along the way, came to believe shoes needed to be practical, comfortable and quiet.

A few years ago, I stopped in the shoe store after a long, tough day and ran into a friend. She had the same tired look on her face I did and she told me shoe shopping is therapeutic.

As I looked at all the shoes, I remembered how much fun I had with my sisters and sisters-in-law shoe shopping. An hour later, I found myself a lot happier when I left, fancy shoes in a box. These days, I seldom pass up an opportunity to browse around a shoe store, even though the fanciest place I go is the grocery store.

I thought about my love affair with shoes while out on that painful walk. I started wondering when I’d bought the sneakers I was wearing. I know I had them in the last house we lived in, and that was eight years ago.

Maybe my limping wasn’t because of old age. Maybe the problem was my walking shoes.

That afternoon, I bought a good pair of sneakers – on sale – and tried them out. Not only did I make it down the block the next morning, I made it all the way around the block that evening without any pain.

Those new sneakers might not be made out of glass and they’re not ruby red, but they sure worked their magic on me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Customer service is invaluable for businesses to stay alive. Surviving often comes down to outstanding customer service.

I had an unpleasant experience in a weeks’ time with a local business and a national chain. The chain rectified the situation with good customer service. The local one lost this customer who’d been going to their business since they opened.

Let’s start with the big box.

After weeks of research, I finally found a laptop to suit my new needs. I went to an electronics box store to try out the keyboards.

Since I used their store to test drive the laptop, I felt the only fair transaction was to spend my money with the store providing the service.

When the laptop arrived, the power cord wasn’t in the box. I called their customer service line.

After listening to their pre-recorded music and pressing “one” numerous times, I eventually got through to a real person, wishing they’d follow the procedure at this newspaper and have a real person answer and route calls.

Then the power went out and I lost the connection. A few minutes later, I called again, pressed all those buttons and a real person came on the line.

After pretending to listen to what I needed, he said he’d connect me with someone who could help me. Instead, he disconnected me.

I screamed at the phone and called back, pressing all the buttons again and listening to all the same pre-recorded messages and cursing the person who invented electronic routing.

A new representative said the problem wasn’t theirs. It was the manufacturer’s problem. I explained I didn’t order the laptop from the manufacturer – I ordered it from them.

At that point, he said I had two options – get a $25 gift card – the power cord is $30 in the store — or return the laptop.

“I want a third option,” I said. “I want you to FedEx the power cord to my house like you did the laptop.”

“That’s not an option,” was the reply.

“Then I want to speak to a supervisor,” I said.

“They’ll tell you the same thing,” was the reply. And he refused to connect me to a supervisor.

At that point, I was done. My husband said he’d take the laptop in the next day and either get a power cord or return the laptop.

In person, the store associates were polite, apologetic and ordered another laptop. It arrived two days later, power cord included.

Online customer service = F. In-person customer service = A.

My second frustration came from a local car wash. For Christmas, my son gave me a gift certificate for four deluxe car-wash packages. I went a couple of times to get my car serviced, but each time, the manager told me he didn’t have the staff on site and to come back.

I went last week and a new manager said he’d bought the business and wouldn’t honor the gift certificates.

I protested.

He agreed to one service, and I told him I didn’t think that was fair to get only one wash when four had been purchased.

My son earned the money for that gift by welding in 100-degree weather, often hanging from a scaffold 10 stories up. That money didn’t come easy to him and I wasn’t about to let his gift go, especially as there wasn’t an expiration date on the certificate.

I tried to bargain for at least two – the new owner wouldn’t budge. He made me give him the gift certificate – I took a picture of it – and I got one cleaning package.

I posted the situation on social media, and someone posted that their neighbor owned a new car wash in Fulshear on FM 1463. He wanted to give me four packages for free to make up for my bad experience.

From that post, at least five people said they’d now frequent the new car wash.

I was quite surprised, but realized this business owner lives in our community and owns a local business. I won’t make this new owner take on an extra burden, but he’ll get my business from now on.

There’s a simple solution to cleaning up the former business’s horrible track record and making a good name for yourself.

Do the right thing and the bucks will roll your way. Fry people, and bad karma rolls your way as well.

In these tough economic days, customer service is the one area that doesn’t cost a dime yet can mean thousands of dollars in good will and repeat business.

I know where I’m spending my money. Be careful where you spend yours.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“I realized something the other day,” my husband said. “I’ve been married to you for over half my life.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was happy or depressed.

So I came up with the only answer I could think of off the top of my head.

“You lucky man,” I said with enthusiasm. “Think of all the things you’ve learned from me. You should be thanking the angels that you’ve known me for over 35 years.

We both laughed, although I laughed harder than he did.

It’s true he’s learned a lot in the three decades we’ve been married.

He’s learned that mathematically challenged people can be an asset.

The fact that I can’t remember the date of our anniversary means I never expect a gift.

He’s also learned not to argue with irrational people.

That would be me.

He realized my irrationality early on. When we got married, he had a well-behaved and quiet cat, the first cat I’d ever been around.

When I found out I was pregnant, I remembered hearing my elderly aunts repeating an old wives’ tale – cats will get into a crib and suffocate the baby.

At the time, there was nothing separating the bedrooms from the living room. I panicked and said I wanted a door blocking the hall from the rest of the house.

I told my engineer husband what my elderly aunts, and well-meaning cat-hating friends, had said about cats getting in a baby’s crib.

“I’ve heard that could happen,” I added.

“You’re being irrational,” he finally said in frustration.

“That’s correct,” I said. “And the only way to deal with irrational people is to humor them.”

The door went up the next week.

Over the years, I know I’ve spouted off useful, empowering words of wisdom, lessons that put his life on a more productive road.

Gems of knowledge that opened his eyes to truths he never knew his wife possessed.

I just can’t think of any of those gems right now.

His gems are easily recalled. First, remain calm in emergencies. One year, he went hiking in Arkansas. A few days into his trip, he called.

“Hi honey, it’s me,” he said, his voice calm and cool. “I’ve been shot. Don’t panic because I’m okay.”

I practically dropped the phone, but he explained a hunter didn’t see him and hubby was hit with some buckshot.

A trip to the emergency room ensured he was in no danger, but I don’t know very many people who could calm their wife down from the emergency room as a doctor removed buckshot from their body.

He taught me how to methodically put things together. Before we were married, my do-it-yourself steps included dumping the box out on the carpet, starting right in and ignoring the directions.

Husband taught me to make sure I had the right tools, to count the parts before I got started and to gasp, read the directions first.

He never spends time straightening up a closet or drawer because he keeps things neatly organized. Unlike his spouse, he always knows where his car keys and wallet are and he never loses a sock in the dryer.

I, on the other hand, have probably spent years cleaning up closets and straightening up my desk. I frantically look for my car keys at least once a week, misplace my wallet almost every day and there’s a gallon Zip-loc bag in the laundry room filled with mis-matched socks.

Some of us are lucky enough to get through life with a full deck of unbent cards in the original box while others have a 48-card deck of mis-matched, dog-eared cards in a Zip-loc bag.

Somehow, we’ve made it work for 36 years.

Maybe it’s because my husband is one lucky guy.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Some people fall asleep the minute their heads hit the pillow.

I’m not one of them.

I usually toss and turn, replay events over and over in my mind or worry about everything and everyone.

Having a set routine the 30 minutes before bedtime often works to convince my brain it’s time to sleep, but sometimes reading doesn’t do the trick.

A friend suggested downloading white noise onto my phone and using the noise to help me relax.

There are dozens of calming noises on the internet, from the quiet sound of rain falling to cars and taxis on a busy city street for those who prefer a metropolitan mix.

She was right – the sound of the rain was quite relaxing until an Amber alert went off on my cell and rattled my brain back to full awake mode.

Lying there, I found myself remembering the original white-noise generator – the attic fan.

Growing up in Baker, La., there were seven kids in a three-bedroom house, and it was tough to find peace and quiet, especially at bedtime.

That’s when my parents turned on the attic fan.

For those who didn’t grow up with one, an attic fan pulls hot air from the attic and, at the same time, blows cooler air into the house.

I have no idea if the fan saved energy, but the attic fan had one main benefit – the loud, rhythmic pulsing sound the fan made at night was powerful but soothing.

On hot summer nights, we’d lie down in the short hall of the house, shoulder to shoulder, turn on the attic fan and take turns yelling up into the fan and laughing as we heard our voices echo and rumble around overhead.

The only arguments were if we got kicked or someone was taking up too much space. But pretty soon, the loud thumping sound quieted us down, and we were calm in a short amount of time.

On a recent sleepless night, I found myself thinking about that attic fan and the other ways we found to chill in the summer. The handiest way was the plastic sprinkler we got from the hardware store.

The sprinkler was inexpensive, handy and a lot of fun until the yard flooded and we made huge mud holes. We loved sliding through the mud, but our mom wasn’t thrilled about all those muddy clothes.

Our neighborhood had a community pool, and we spent almost every afternoon there as did every kid in Baker Estates, our middle-class neighborhood.

I remember the pool opened up at 11 a.m., and we’d head off on our bikes as soon as “The Young and the Restless” was over.

We stayed at the pool until we were starving, and I don’t remember worrying about the heat as long as we could swim.

Seven kids and the summer break meant extra snacks. Watermelon was our number one choice, but that was only if mom had gone to the grocery store.

Occasionally we’d use the ice-cream maker, but none of us wanted to sit there for an hour and turn the crank. The worst part of home-made ice cream was after all that work, you only got about two cups of ice cream.

The one staple we always had plenty of was Kool-Aid.

My mom bought some plastic Popsicle containers from a Tupperware party one year. We’d carefully fill those up with Kool-Aid at night and the next day slurp those frozen treats up in the heat of the day.

But of all the ways we found to stay cool in the summer, nothing beat that attic fan.

Maybe I’ll give that white noise app another try and see if I can download the sound of an attic fan.

The noises from my childhood might be the perfect ticket to a good nights’ sleep.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s difficult to find things to be happy about right now.

The coronavirus is spreading like wildfire, the Texas Education Agency said kids will be going back to school in the fall even though there’s no vaccine or end to the pandemic – what about teachers, youngsters and staff who are in the danger range – and racism is alive and angry in our midst.

If I choose not to read or listen to the news, I’m a frustrated coward, ignoring the hateful bigotry in our country or the latest ridiculous plan legislators have to open the schools.

If I’m not cleaning my house, I feel lazy.

If I’m not exercising, I feel like a failure for the extra weight I’ve packed on while quarantining.

If I eat cookies, I feel bad about those who don’t have enough to eat.

And that doesn’t even begin to touch global warming, pollution or littering.

I walked around my house, telling myself I should clean something or gather up outgrown clothes to donate when things open up.

I straightened some pictures on the wall, and then I noticed them – the rocks.

There’s a dozen or so small rocks in a plastic basket on a table in the hall. It’s a collection of rocks I’ve gathered for years. I pass the box all the time, but today, I stopped and sorted through the stones.

I’ll admit to being a rock hound. With two geologist brothers, the interest comes naturally.

If there’s a rock pile on the side of the road and there’s time, I’ll pull over and rummage around because even the plainest rocks have their own quirks and beauty.

In some, it’s a ribbon of pink or red that runs through the center, or a well-worn spot that allows you to use the rock as a worry stone. I have a couple of heart-shaped rocks as well as one that looks like a car.

At the bottom of the box was a piece of quartz, a gift from a friend.

Sections of the quartz are clear, some are milky, and the pyramids fit together beautifully. I held the rock up to the light and was delighted to see something so simple reflect such beautiful light.

Digging through the box a bit more, I found one of my favorite rocks, one I’d forgotten I had – a geode.

The prettiest one I have looks like hardened mud on the outside, but there’s deep white and purple amethyst quartz crystals on the inside. They look like tiny diamonds inside that tough outer shell.

Another geode is polished, and the glassy browns, beiges and scarlets blend together seamlessly.

One afternoon when our grandchildren came to visit, they discovered the box. They thought the driftwood and some polished stones I picked up at a rock store were cool, but they fell in love with the geodes.

The thrill of finding a treasure inside a plain rock is one I wanted to share with them, so I bought a couple of geode kits.

They had a blast putting on the goggles, finding old socks to put the geodes in and choosing the biggest hammer in the workshop.

It took a while to figure out how to hold the sock without smashing their fingers and numerous blows with the hammer to get the geodes to open up.

But break apart they did, and the youngsters absolutely loved seeing the beauty that was hidden inside a plain rock.

There’s a lesson there, of course, that we shouldn’t judge anything or anyone by its outside appearance. Just because something is plain and ordinary on the outside, or even ugly, doesn’t mean you can’t discover true beauty inside.

The next time you’re on a lonely road, look for the rocks. Stop and rummage through the pile. As in life, you’ll find some plain stones, but remember while you’re looking, you’ve got hope. And in today’s world of doom and gloom, sparking a bit of hope is what we need.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Parents have a lot of responsibility – the safety of their children, preparing nutritious meals and making sure the Tooth Fairy shows up and pays up.

With three boys, we had our fair share of Tooth Fairy duties. I was on the ball with the oldest son. I couldn’t wait for him to go to sleep so I could slip a dollar underneath his pillow and quietly and gently take his little tooth.

I was the first one up because I couldn’t wait to see his face coming into the kitchen with the money the Tooth Fairy had left him.

With the second child, I was still diligent – making sure I snuck upstairs after he’d gone to sleep, sidestepping his clothes and empty cereal bowls, and then sliding the money quietly underneath his pillow.

I wasn’t quite as on the ball with the third child – if he wanted to wear his water boots to the grocery store, so be it.

If he wanted a hot dog for breakfast, at least he was eating something. I let my guard down, and that included Tooth Fairy duties.

The first time I earned a D-minus in Tooth Fairy apprenticeship was when he lost his third or fourth tooth.

I had good intentions of putting money under his pillow, but I fell asleep before he did. The next morning, I heard my son upstairs yelling about not finding any money under his pillow and I panicked.

I grabbed the two dollar bills off the counter – where I’d put them so I wouldn’t forget – and ran up the stairs.

He was on his hands and knees on the floor, looking for the money.

“Did you check underneath your pillow?” I asked?

He assured me he had. With the money hidden in my hand, I reached underneath his pillow, pulled out the cash and held it up.

“Hey, you must’ve missed something,” I said.

He yelped for joy and thanked me.

I felt like a heel.

Did this Tooth Fairy apprentice vow she’d never disappoint her child again?

Yes.

Did she forget the next time?

Of course.

A few weeks later, I remember waking up to the sounds of my youngest stomping around in his room yelling “where’s the money?”

My stomach flipped over, and I knew I’d forgotten again.

Thinking fast, I grabbed a five-dollar bill out of my wallet. This was twice the going rate because I figured I had a guilt fee to pay. I held the money out as I walked into his room.

“Hey, look what I found in the hall,” I said.

He was standing on his bed –the sheets and bedspread on the floor – and I could see he was close to tears.

“The Tooth Fairy must’ve dropped this on her way to your room last night,” I said as I gave him the money.

The look of relief on his face was immediate, and I felt awful.

The Tooth Fairy’s apprentice remembered every single time after that, and the youngest kid got a huge raise each and every time. Guilt will do that to an apprentice.

This past weekend, our grandchildren spent the night, the first time in months.

While we were eating dinner, our 7-year-old grandson held out a small tooth in his hand and said it had been loose. He hoped the Tooth Fairy could find him at our house, and we reassured him she could.

The apprentice was being offered redemption, and this time, she’d better get it right.

Not trusting myself to get upstairs before he woke up – James is always the first one up – I called all of the grandkids into the kitchen for a snack. While they were enjoying their ice cream, I snuck upstairs and put the money underneath James’s pillow.

Everyone headed to bed, and as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I heard James come thundering down the stairs, three dollar bills held up over his head.

“The Tooth Fairy already came,” he said.

“You must’ve been first on the delivery route tonight,” I said.

I think the Tooth Fairy’s apprentice has finally learned the ropes.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One of my family’s favorite movies is “Fiddler on the Roof.” The 1971 musical features a half dozen memorable songs, from “If I Were a Rich Man” to “Tradition.”

As I’ve been following a friend’s unlucky dating adventures, one song that’s stuck in my head is “Matchmaker.”

Three daughters start off wishing the town matchmaker, Yenta, will find them the perfect man. As the song goes on, they realize the perfect match could be a nightmare.

Today’s singles don’t rely on Yenta to find them a mate. They rely on social media to find the ideal companion, and I’m not sure if that’s a better avenue than the old-fashioned matchmakers in every family.

Many Sunday afternoons were spent in my grandparents’ kitchen after Sunday dinner discussing the possible matches they could find for the unmarried people in the family.

“What about Mary’s son?”

“He’d be a great catch. He is 50, though.”

“Even better. He’s got a lot of money in the bank.”

I’ll admit to playing matchmaker for my sons. I thought I was dropping casual hints.

“Hey, I saw – insert name of eligible girl here – in Mass last Sunday. She’s single, you know,” I’d say. All they’d do was roll their eyes.

As the years went by with no mention of a girlfriend, I’d do my best to drop a hint about the eligible girls who were slowly but surely disappearing from my Aggie boy’s dating pool.

Usually I’d open this newspaper and see an engagement announcement for one of the girls he’d gone to high school with. I’d call him and, without even saying hello, start in with my best matchmaker voice.

“Your future wife is about to get married to someone else,” I’d say. There would be a long sigh on the other end of the phone.

“This makes about five girls who are now married to someone else and probably someone else will be spoiling my future grandchildren,” I’d say.

The Aggie boy would usually hang up at that point.

Once I asked him why he trusted an online dating app to fix him up with a girl when his mother could do the same and for free.

He did admit that the girls I chose were nice looking, smart and, let’s not forget, Catholic.

“And what’s wrong with that?” I demanded to know.

Another eye roll.

Other moms played matchmaker as well.

Years ago, I had dinner with a friend, and she looked upset. She said her daughter had just broken up with a boy she’d been dating for years. The light went on in my matchmaker brain.

“How old is your daughter?” I asked. She replied with the same age as my son. I whipped out my phone and went to the gallery.

“See this face,” I said, pointing at my Aggie boy. “He has a good job and he’s never been married.”

She took out her phone and showed me a picture of her daughter.

“She graduated from Baylor,” she said.

“Mine graduated from Texas A&M,” I replied.

We both breathed a sigh of relief we wouldn’t have to bridge the Longhorn rivalry.

“We’re Presbyterian,” she said cautiously.

“We’re Catholic. Close enough,” I said. We texted the pictures of our children to each other and I promptly texted her daughter’s picture to my son.

“Look this girl up on Facebook and do it quickly before another one of your wives marries someone else,” I texted.

That’s probably the pushiest I’ve ever been, but I now realize it was all for nothing. The Aggie boy found a wonderful woman all on his own, and they adore each other. How he managed to do that without his matchmaker mother remains a mystery.

I still have two unmarried sons and both have had less-than-pleasing results with dating apps. Maybe it’s time I remind them they have a reliable Yenta right underneath their noses.

“Oh boys, have I got a match for you…”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Finally the Internet got something right.

We’ve all skimmed through dozens of online “facts”– there are reptilian humanoids in high government positions running the world, Elvis and Tupac have been spotted in a washateria eating peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches and time travelers can be seen in old photos using cell phones.

There’s one I can say actually happened to me:  if you leave your clothes in a dark closet for three months, like say during a pandemic, they shrink.

At least three sizes.

The last time I put on a pair of dress slacks was Friday, March 8. In those 13 weeks, those jeans shrank. I can’t button or zip them. Same goes for the skirts in my closet. All my shirts refuse to button and even my shoes are pretty darned snug.

It has to be because they haven’t seen daylight.

The reason couldn’t be that I’ve been stress eating for the past three months. There’s no way that a steady diet of the comfort foods from my childhood — Cocoa Krispies, meat loaf and Kraft macaroni and cheese — caused me to put on a few pounds.

As an experiment, I tried on all the shorts in my closet, and the only ones that fit were the ones with an elastic waistband. I think elastic has some magical properties that lack of sunlight causes the material to relax and stretch more.

There are a few superheroes in my wardrobe. Socks are immune to any effects of daylight. They all fit the same way they did before they were stuck in my drawer for three months. Same goes for towels and washcloths.

My mascara and eye shadow are in the same spot they were three months ago. Ditto for my lipstick. I haven’t had to take the cover off my deodorant for at least three months. There are a lot more gray hairs in my brush, though, so that’s an oddity that needs investigating.

I think the batteries in our house have been affected, especially the batteries in the television remote control. We’ve had to change those a couple of times during the pandemic when we normally only change those once a year.

Although how sunlight got to the remote when it’s been either in my hand or on the couch underneath an empty bag of Doritos is a mystery.

The internet says a lack of sunshine can cause the human body to adjust in strange ways. Somehow the pandemic affected my grocery-store buying routine, and bags of Oreos and Doritos jumped into my basket when I was adjusting my face mask.

They brought along some friends. There’s two bags of Hershey’s Kisses and a huge box of instant mashed potatoes on the top shelf of the pantry that were mysteriously in my grocery bag when I got home.

Something strange is going on in our freezer because I always have ice cream for the grandchildren. They haven’t visited for weeks, yet a whole gallon of Blue Bell Cookies and Cream ice cream has vanished.

Even I have to admit I’m stretching this theory when claiming lack of sunlight affects ice cream in a dark freezer.

It couldn’t be that someone is like a fish out of water now that there’s no routine, and food seems to be the only constant.

It couldn’t be that the best companion when watching four back-to-back seasons of “30 Rock” is a jar of peanut butter.

It couldn’t be that someone gets bored at night and sneaks vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup for a pick-me-up snack.

Or a mid-morning snack.

Or a mid-afternoon snack.

I wonder if the reptilians are behind this…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.