Most of us want to make a positive difference in the world. We hear about people running races to find a cure for a childhood disease or wearing pink to raise awareness about the devastating effects of breast cancer.

There’s clothing drives, food drives and fund raising efforts being held all over the world to combat hunger and homelessness. Here in our community, organizations raise thousands of dollars to help those in need.

Those efforts are worthwhile and definitely needed.

There is a way, however, we could make the world a little better place, and it only takes two minutes of your time.

It might not seem like you could accomplish a lot in that short amount of time, but consider taking two minutes in the morning and two in the afternoon to genuinely ask another person how things are going.

Most of the time, we give a superficial answer to a superficial question.

“How was your weekend?”

“Fine. How about yours?”

“Fine.”

“Do anything fun?”

“Nah, just worked around the house.”

“Me too. See ya.”

That’s usually how our encounters go – just enough to acknowledge the person, ask the polite question and move on.

Ask any more, and we appear nosy or pushy. Don’t ask that second question and it looks like we don’t care or only asked to have something to say while we’re waiting for the elevator door to open or for that person to get out of the way of the coffee maker.

Truth be told, we often don’t know anything more about that person other than they work where we work.

But if we allowed ourselves to ask a genuine follow-up question, we just might find out something interesting about the people we come into contact with each and every day.

The willingness to personally connect has been waning for the past few years.

The days of dropping in to visit relatives or friends for a cup of coffee and a chat are long gone. We’re either too busy or we don’t want to barge in on people without being invited.

We text friends and family members instead of visiting or calling on the phone. The times we do talk are because we can’t text.

There’s a self-imposed barrier between us and other people, and we make little effort to break down the wall.

Whenever opportunities for conversations come our way, we deflect and run.

I often get exasperated when my phone rings or someone stops by my room to chat. Later I find they had something on their mind they wanted to talk about with another person, but I felt I had to file papers or clear off my desk instead.

So today, even though it was two hours past quitting time and I was working late to get caught up, a colleague stopped by and we chatted for about 20 minutes.

Mostly small talk, but at the end of our conversation, Rachel’s the one who said if we’d just take two minutes to talk to other people, we could perhaps make the world a better place.

She’s right.

Take the two minutes. Forget the filing. Forget catching that elevator. Spend one or two minutes talking with someone you encounter every day but never seem to have the time to stop and listen to them talk, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about what’s important.

Their body language and face will tell you if they’re willing to talk, so pay attention. Sooner or later, they’ll remember you were someone who seemed to genuinely care about what they had to say.

Be that person.

Two minutes.

That’s all it’ll take to make someone’s world a little brighter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

I don’t know.

Three small yet powerful words that can answer most of life’s questions.

What are you going to do with the rest of your life?

What are your plans after high school?

When are you going to settle down and get married?

We’ve always been told “I don’t know” is not an answer. “Yes,” “No,” and “Maybe” are responses, but sitting on the fence with a perplexed look on our faces isn’t really an answer.

Perhaps we’re selling those three words short.

“I don’t know” means quite a bit. It can mean we’re not sure and we don’t want to commit.

Sure the job we have stinks, but when people ask us when we’re going to move on or find something else to do, it’s tough to say we’re stuck at a job we hate.

It’s harder to say we’re staying at a dead-end job because we have to pay the utilities and mortgage on a house we’re already regretting buying and having to put a new battery in the junker mini-van.

Walking away from overwhelming responsibilities to do something different isn’t at option at this point in our lives.

We tell ourselves we don’t know all the time. A glance in the mirror causes us to do a double take – was that really me with that huge derriere, gray hair and double chin?

What was I thinking when I put on those too-tight pants this morning? Maybe I was thinking they’d look okay with a long top but the shirt didn’t cover as much as I thought it would.

Or maybe I wasn’t thinking. Those clothes were the first things I grabbed after a tossing-and-turning night. I really didn’t know what I was putting on except I could reach them in the closet and they were clean.

Little kids respond with “I don’t know” except when asked who broke the cookie jar. On that question, they blurt out “not me” and eventually rat out their little brother or sister. But when pressed, ole “I don’t know” is the culprit.

When they’re growing up, the questions never stop – why do I have to take a bath, why do I have to eat vegetables, why do I have to go to bed?

Most of us take our time and answer the questions as best we can, but inevitably, questions come up where we have no suitable response – death, moving, a shortage of money. There’s no explanation a child can understand except I don’t know.

When the questions involve the tooth fairy or Santa Claus, we hem and haw and throw out a fairy tale we heard when we were kids. If the children don’t buy those answers, we almost belly up to the bar – I don’t know if there’s really a Santa, but if you don’t believe, you don’t get anything.

That response usually stops the questions.

“What’s your curfew?” was our question to said teen when they came rolling in an hour late.

“I don’t know,” was the answer. “Did I even have a curfew?”

Of course they had a curfew. Of course you wanted to know who they were with and where they went.

When your child asks why you have to be so strict, you can spend hours defending your reasoning.

Or you can answer fairly quickly and with frank honesty – “I don’t know.”

Parents are always supposed to know, but let’s face it, most of the time, we’re winging it, secretly praying we’re making the correct decisions and saying the right words.

But we don’t really know if what we’re doing is the best answer or the best solution.

So why not be honest.

I don’t know is a perfectly acceptable answer.

I just know it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

The mid-term elections are over.

Most of the candidate’s yard signs are in storage, and we’re no longer getting political calls and text messages on our phones.

I’m still wondering how these political pollsters have my personal cell phone number since I’m not a volunteer nor have I ever posted my number on any political site.

My dad would have the answer:  communists.

He was convinced the communists were around every corner and the culprit behind every political fiasco.

It didn’t help that we had random air raid drills at our elementary school where we were supposed to crouch underneath our desks when the atomic bomb was dropped on us by the Russians.

Now it seems ridiculous to think that hiding underneath a school desk would shield us from radiation, but the fear of the communists was so high, we did anything to escape their evil clutches.

To add to the paranoia, there were posters all over the school walls to be on the lookout for the, yes, evil communists.

We no longer have to worry about the communists, or any other shady shenanigans, slipping by unnoticed. These days, people, robots or trolls leave comments on every online news story, blog and video.

Frankly, they’re fun reading for a variety of reasons.

First, the comments reinforce my belief that there are really stupid people out there. I used to wonder how these ignoramuses maneuvered through big words like “economy” and “deficit,” but then I realized that they weren’t reading the story.

They were simply restating the rhetoric they’d seen somewhere else, copied the words and pasted them in the comments section. That’s the reason why so many comments spout the same political garbage post after post.

Some of them reflect the writer’s intellectual level, especially their writing skills. The ability to spell and capitalize words has atrophied in direct relation to the growth of the Internet.

Not only do hot-headed posters misuse “you’re” and “your” – excuse me while I put on my Grammar Police hat, but “you’re” is an abbreviation of “you are,” such as “you are screaming in print when you type in all caps.” “Your” should be used when stating “your opinions are pointless.”

Some of the comments make good sense, especially when calling out ridiculous “breaking news stories” that are often no better than “The National Enquirer” headlines or stories out of a dime novel from the 1950s.

Witty, snarky commenters have a field day with ridiculous stories, and that’s when I applaud the freedom of the press on the Internet. These writers make me laugh out loud, especially those who have an acerbic wit and the English skills to match their right-on-target comments.

There are often intelligent and lucid points of view from both sides of the political table. Even when I don’t agree with what the writer states, if their comment makes me stop and think, that’s a great brain exercise.

This newspaper encourages and runs signed letters to the editor. I especially applaud these people because they can’t hide behind some cute or clever online persona. They allow their opinion to be printed in the newspaper with their named signed at the bottom in the town where they live for everyone to see.

I read each and every letter because they make me think and applaud the writer, even if I disagree with their position.

My dad loved reading the opinion page in the newspaper, and I know he’d love reading all the online news and political comments. He’d tell anyone who’d listen where these far-fetched beliefs come from – yes, the communists.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I texted my sister last week, asking her for her home mailing address. I wanted to send her a card, but I didn’t have my address book at the office.

She texted me back her address along with an extra comment – “Get with current technology and put my address in your phone.”

“Who deals with an address book anymore,” she said with a laugh when I called to thank her for the address.

I figured everyone had a tattered A-Z address book with the home addresses of all their friends and relatives penciled in the pages.

They don’t. At least not any more. People keep up with email or Facebook addresses because few people mail letters or cards to other people.

Perhaps keeping home addresses is out of touch with today’s way of communicating – emails, evites and texting – but there’s something special about getting a card in the mail – the U.S. mail – that’s been addressed by hand and has a hand-written note on the inside.

In a metal box in my closet are letters my father, mother and grandfather wrote to me, and those letters are priceless. They’re a tangible reminder of my loved ones’ personalities, their being that shines through the shaky and slanted penmanship on the paper.

I looked online for other obsolete items in the home. Topping the list was encyclopedias. I’ll go along with that idea, but I have fond memories of sitting down with the Childcraft “How and Why” books for hours, reading about animals, different countries and the mysteries of the ocean.

Today, I can find all that information in seconds on Google, but I’m glad I have memories of getting the actual book off the shelf, year after year, and reading the books together with my younger siblings.

Phones have long been on the extinct list, and I wouldn’t trade my cell phone for all the wall or rotary phones in the world.

But there were long hours of sitting with a pink Princess rotary phone in my lap, wrapping the cord around my wrist and fingers, while talking to my high school best friend Trudi about who was the cutest Beatle – John or Paul.

Much has been written about the uselessness of a paper map, and I’m the first one to let an electronic voice in my car tell me exactly where to turn, where the traffic jams are and when it’s time to slow down because there’s a radar gun ahead.

But I’m glad my dad taught me how to follow a route on a paper map and that our sons know how to read a map as well. Those of us who know how to fold up a paper map get extra bragging rights.

The article also noted that photo albums are obsolete now that we have digital displays that flash images like a miniature television screen.

On this entry, I’ll disagree.

I love looking through old photo albums, especially with the older members of my family. Those black-and-white photos with the black triangular paste-in corners open up the memory floodgates.

Their rich stories about the old days connect me to the past much more than walking past a flashing digital display on a bookshelf. I now find myself flipping through photo albums with my grandchildren, passing the tradition on to another generation.

I wouldn’t trade my much-erased and dog-eared address book, oversized photo albums or the faded family pictures on the wall for all the high-tech, speedy electronics in the world.

So pass me that princess rotary phone because I still remember my best friend’s phone number.

Trudi, we still need to talk about George and Ringo.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Twenty-one.

That’s the age many teenagers dream about because they’re officially considered an adult.

Twenty-one is a top casino game where players try to beat the dealer.

This week marks the 21^st year I’ve been writing this column.

I took over the Thursday slot from Devoni Wardlow, a friend and fellow writer, when she moved away from the county.

I submitted three tentative editorial columns to then managing editor Bob Haenel, and he gave me the green light.

Grateful and terrified were the two feelings that accompanied me on that first week back in 1997 when I introduced myself to readers of The Herald-Coaster.

I thought I’d run out of topics after three months. Twelve weeks turned into six months which turned into a year, 10 years and then two decades.

For many years, my sons provided most of the ammunition for these columns. They’d pull some stunt, look at me with a sigh and say “This is going in the column, isn’t it.”

Absolutely.

Who could pass up writing about seeing their child sneak a Halloween pumpkin down the stairs in April, their first days of school or the stockpile of smelly socks I found in the back of their closets?

There were columns about the toys they had to have growing up – the White Power Ranger sword where I literally sprinted out of West Oaks Mall, ran the red light to get to the Toys R Us across Highway 6 and nabbed the last Power Ranger sword in stock.

Over the years, I’ve tried to capture motherhood in a humorous light. It’s either laugh or cry when one realizes the reason the washing machine is groaning and whining is because the college kid put in 25 pounds of stinky jeans and towels in the same load.

I’ve stayed away from politics as I don’t feel I’m qualified to pontificate on the pros and cons of who and what’s on the ballot.

I’m like most people – I vote for the candidate I hope and pray will do a good job and vote yea or nay on issues I think are in the best interest of the community.

Writing for this newspaper has allowed me to meet so many wonderful people from all walks of life and from all economic levels. They are often unrecognizable to the general public, but their contributions are the framework of what good citizenship is all about.

Some of the columns that are nearest to my heart are the ones I’ve written about people who dedicated their lives to improving this community – the late Arthur and Lydia Mahlmann, Hilmar Moore, Frank Briscoe and Kathleen Lindsey, to name a few.

And there are those I’ve written about who are still active well into their later years – Virginia Scarborough and Lucille Jackson are at the top of the list, and there’s hundreds more I’d love to write about.

I’ve worked with some of the best writers, reporters, photographers, carriers and newspaper support staffers around, and they’ve contributed more to my life than they’ll ever know.

Although there’s always a knot in my stomach every Thursday morning when the presses are running, working for this newspaper has provided me with a constant sense of gratitude.

I’m humbled and grateful to the Hartmans for allowing me to keep writing for them, to Bob Haenel for believing in me and giving me and other female opinion writers a chance, and to Scott Willey for allowing me to continue occupying this space on Thursdays.

Mostly, I’m grateful to those of you who take time to read this column. You’re the reason I sit in front of the computer, peck away, eat cookies, hit the delete button at least a hundred times and finally hit the send button.

Thank you for sticking with me for 21 years. Who knows what adventures are ahead?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The grandchildren were able to make a day visit this past weekend, and we decided to find a pumpkin patch for a head start on Halloween. That holiday is a special one as it’s their dad’s birthday.

When Chris was born, I remember thinking he’d enjoy having his birthday on a day when he could dress up and get free candy.

But he didn’t really get to celebrate his big day because his friends had no interest in attending a birthday party when they could be walking around at night in a ninja costume getting free Hershey bars and candy corn.

So we planned ahead and had his party a week early. That strategy stuck with us, and when the grandchildren were able to visit, we went pumpkin hunting early.

At the pumpkin patch, there were dozens of pumpkins in every shape, color and size. As the grandchildren roamed the spacious lot, they examined and judged almost every single pumpkin.

Few made the cut. Too bumpy. Too tall. Too short. Too round. Not round enough. Too big. Too small. I told them the only requirement was that they had to be able to carry their choice to the car.

Immediately 10 were eliminated from the running.

With their best of the best safely in their arms, we made our way home where supplies were waiting.

We’ve elevated our game from when a knife and a long spoon were the only tools needed. For our sons, the decorations were whatever they drew with a crayon and their dad handled the carving duties.

As grandparents, the sky’s the limit. I had stick-on jewels in every color, pipe cleaners, orange pom-poms, googly eyes, sheets of Halloween stickers, markers, Sharpies and bottles of paint.

The older two decided they wanted theirs carved while the younger two wanted theirs whole. Later I found out it was so they could cuddle the small pumpkins while their older brother and sister wanted to put a candle inside to make theirs scarier.

While we were decorating, I started thinking about Halloweens when their dad was young.

I’ll admit it — I wasn’t the best costumer. When my boys played baseball, I convinced them to be baseball players. During the soccer years, they were, yes, soccer players.

There was a year the boys went as salesmen, complete with a shirt and tie – not my best year – and the year they were pre-teens and went as road kill, an idea I borrowed from a friend.

There was the year I spent two weeks making a Flash costume and a clown costume, and they played in those for the next two to three years. Ninjas and mummies were always easy, and I’d offer extra candy if they’d choose those ideas.

One year, the youngest boy wanted a Wolverine costume he’d seen while trick-or-treating.

I didn’t order the costume, thinking he’d forget.

He didn’t.

For a solid week after Halloween, he said Santa was going to bring him that Wolverine costume. When the costume finally came back in stock in early December, I had to pay extra for expedited shipping, but the costume was waiting for him on Christmas morning.

Happy hunting out there all you vampires, princesses and puppy dogs. Here’s hoping your plastic pumpkin is overflowing with Reese’s peanut butter cups, Kit Kats and lollipops.

And, for us, the best treat of all, happy birthday Chris.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

My son was sitting on the floor sorting out his mail when he happened to glance underneath my desk.

“Where did you get this fabulous speaker,” he said, holding up a box with the JBL logo on the side.

Embarrassed, I admitted it was a Christmas gift from his brother almost a year ago, but I’d never opened the box. I appreciated the gift, but there was another reason the gift stayed in the unopened box for nine months.

“I’m not sure what’s in that box,” I admitted.

“Are you kidding,” he said, shock in his voice. “It’s only one of the best Blue-tooth speakers on the market.”

When I opened the present, I remember thinking it was a thoughtful gift, but I didn’t quite understand how a Bluetooth speaker worked.

Besides, I didn’t think I needed anything fancier than the inexpensive MP3 player I bought off Amazon. I figured out how to put songs on it and, last week, downloaded an audiobook so I could listen to novels while out walking.

I was perfectly fine with the two little speakers hooked to my computer, my Black Friday earphones and a small radio in the kitchen. What did I need with a Bluetooth speaker?

But then Chris pushed a button on the back, and the speaker came to life. With a huge grin on his face, he paired his phone with the speaker and it was like Toby Keith was giving a concert in the room.

Chris explained how easily I could play music from my phone.

I had to belly up to the bar again.

“I don’t have any music on my phone,” I said. “I just use the phone for texting and making phone calls.”

He looked at me like I confessed to churning butter instead of buying Land O Lakes at the grocery store.

“You can play songs from YouTube,” he said and asked me what songs I liked.

“Black Velvet,” I said without hesitating.

The old song by Alannah Miles is one of my favorites. I’m not an Elvis fan, but that sultry song is one of the best around.

In seconds, I was singing along in that “slow, southern style,” and I was amazed once again at the sound and depth of the music coming out of that little speaker.

After he left, I took the directions out and felt stupid seeing how easy it was to use the speaker. All I had to do was pair it with my phone – yes, I can actually do that – and then I could listen to all my favorites as loud as I wanted.

When the house was empty, I paired my phone with the speaker and jumped onto YouTube. I found Wilson Phillips’ song “Hold On,” another favorite, and then went right through the playlist for Martina McBride and James Taylor.

“Sweet Baby James” always makes me cry, and being surrounded by Taylor’s voice while I chopped tomatoes and cucumbers made kitchen duty fly by.

Needing something to kick away the sniffles, I danced my way through all of Credence’s songs – “Favorite Son” and “Bad Moon Rising” which led me to Tina Turner’s version of “Proud Mary.” There’s no way to not sway and sing through those songs.

When I was washing the dishes, I called up Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason” and thought about how music has kept me company on long car drives, lonely nights and on glorious days when I felt I had nothing to lose.

I should’ve opened that box months ago.

Thanks, Stephen, for giving me a great gift that brought the sounds of joy back into my every-day life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Over the summer, we were fortunate to spend time with our grandchildren. One of their favorite outings was a rock climbing gym in Katy.

This past weekend, our son, Chris, decided he wanted to take a look because his children talked non-stop about their climbing adventures.

When he was young, Chris fearlessly climbed everything, and I remember taking him to a rock climbing gym when he was in Cub Scouts where he fearlessly scaled every wall he was old enough to tackle.

That fearlessness was evident in his children as they climbed to the top of all the walls in an area set up for younger children and teens.

This time, dad was along, and the older children wanted to climb the bigger walls.

The only way to do that was to have an adult take a belay class to learn how to hold the ropes and assist climbers up and down the walls.

Chris readily volunteered and, after an hour, he was certified. The older two children headed off to find a wall while the younger ones played in a room right next to the grown-up climbing area.

The only open beginner spot was at the end of the wall, but we figured the site would be a good starting point. Our eldest granddaughter went first, and I swallowed hard seeing how high the wall was.

She carefully started up the wall and, about three fourths of the way up, looked down and froze. The distance between her and the ground was at least 30 feet, and it was the highest she’d ever been.

Her dad quickly realized the predicament she was in, and he coaxed her to come down. At first, she didn’t want to, but she eventually made her way back down to the ground.

By the time she was in arms’ reach, Chris pulled her to him and reassured her she’d done a great job.

But she’d been spooked by the height, rightly so, and said she wasn’t going back up.

Most of us have been scared by something in our lives – a horse bucked while we were riding, an unexpected fender bender makes us nervous every time we get behind the wheel or we find ourselves avoiding situations out of our comfort zone.

We knew the only way Kylie could conquer her fear was to go back up, but that’s a tall order for a 10-year-old.

As she sat next to us, shaking, her dad told her she didn’t have to go back up unless she wanted to. Silently, she kept looking at the wall, apprehension evident in her eyes.

After a few minutes, she stood up and said she wanted to try again. But she asked if her dad could move the rope over to a section that wasn’t on the end. She said not being able to put her foot on a foothold was what spooked her.

He hooked her up to the ropes and told her to go for it. We watched her take a deep breath and begin climbing.

Both of us had tears in our eyes as that brave young girl went all the way to the top of the wall. She came down with a huge smile on her face, and her dad spun her around and around, telling her how proud he was of her for going back up that wall.

Conquering our fears isn’t easy to do, but when we do, we’re left with a feeling of accomplishment no one can take away from us.

Buoyed with confidence, we can take chances and go beyond what’s comfortable because we did something we were scared to do.

And we survived.

Step by step, Kylie beat back her fear and emerged triumphant.

I hope she knows how proud we all are of her. But more importantly, I hope she understands how proud she should be of herself.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

I caught the tail end of a movie from the late 1980’s, “Baby Boom,” starring Diane Keaton. She’s a ruthless businesswoman in New York City on her way up the corporate ladder.

Life changes dramatically when Keaton inherits a toddler from a distant cousin and has to adjust her life to raise Elizabeth.

Keaton moves to a farmhouse in Vermont she’s dreamed about for years. She thinks the old place will be perfect and jumps right in. Turns out the house has all kinds of problems, and it costs her a fortune to fix it up.

I can relate to that character as I’ve jumped into so many situations, regretting almost as many as I celebrated.

The first car I ever bought was a small Honda. They were new to the automobile line back in the early 1980s, but I didn’t need a big car. That white hatchback was the right size for my son and me, and so was the price.

I bought it from a showroom that didn’t haggle with the price. Those first Hondas were priced like television sets – the low price was the final price.

We kept that car until baby number two was coming, and then traded it to a friend for a minivan.

The last we heard, the hatchback went on to rack up over 200,000 miles on the odometer.

Never regretted buying that car for a minute.

I did regret buying an exercise bicycle.

Getting in shape in one’s living room has been around for a long time, but VHS tapes made it possible for anyone to pop an aerobics tape into the VCR and exercise alone.

The tapes were good, but I thought I needed to ramp up the routine. I bought an exercise bicycle from a friend. His wife seldom used it and I got the bike for a good price.

I rode it a few times and got bored quickly with only seeing my bedroom walls.

After a few months, I regretfully realized the exercise bike was the best coat rack I’d ever bought.

So, I bought a used bicycle, thinking I could tool around the neighborhood with my young son on the back of the bike and my elder boy riding his Hot Wheels car alongside us.

Young son screamed like a banshee the entire time, and sitting on a bicycle for more than 20 minutes was not comfortable or fun.

Sold both bikes and never regretted seeing them leave the house.

A co-worker recommended some stock when I was in my early 20s. I wanted to be like a Wall Street tycoon and make a fortune dealing in stocks.

So I bought a few shares of a stock he recommended at $20 apiece, dreaming of the piles of money I’d make.

There wasn’t any wheeling.

Wasn’t any dealing.

Just a steady decline in price, but I held onto the stock, believing that one day, the price would skyrocket.

Thirty years later, one share of that stock was worth one cent.

That was a deal I regretted for three decades.

Still, some things are worth it. I might regret the extra inches on my hips, but I don’t regret the Pralines and Cream Blue Bell ice cream on nights when I was feeling a little blue.

Nor do I regret the decadent Baklava Cheesecake covered in caramel syrup my sisters and I practically licked off the plate on a recent get together.

Choices are made and we live with the satisfaction of having made a great decision or the regret at having been a dope.

So walk past the exercise bike and pass the Blue Bell.

Life’s too short to live it with regrets.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I grew up thinking Elizabeth Taylor was my cousin.

“Poor Liz,” my mom would say with a sigh. “She’s back in the hospital. Her back’s acting up again. And she’s divorced another husband.”

Elizabeth Taylor was my mother’s favorite actress. From the time mom was a teenager, she’d hurry to the drugstore after school to pick up the latest fan magazine and read every word about the movie stars.

She wanted to know all the details about her favorite stars – Jimmy Stewart, Susan Hayward, Spencer Tracy and, most importantly, the queen herself, Elizabeth Taylor.

Mom talked about Liz so much and with such familiarity, I thought she was related to our family, and we should light a candle at church to atone for Liz’s wayward lifestyle.

These days, we don’t have to wait for the latest magazine to show up in the grocery store check-out line to find out about the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

All we have to do is click around on the internet, and we can find out every secret about every star in every country.

Besides the fact that most of that information’s untrue – just as it was in the 1950s – the juiciest tidbits on the Internet come with the headache of clickbait.

According to the Urban Dictionary, the bait is a link that makes readers want to click on it.

“You won’t believe what this guy does after he works out…”

“Big companies hate her…”

“Four thousand ways to reuse a plastic bag…”

Just like the fan magazines, we want to know the answers to these questions. Could a shark really eat a Navy helicopter? What truths did Pam and Jim from “The Office” teach us about love? And how could we pass up an article telling us all the ugly truths about “Gilligan’s Island?”

That’s the trick – they know people want to look behind the curtain and find out the real reason Ethel was always a few pounds heavier than Lucy.

Clickbait does everything it can to reel readers in, and some of the articles are practically impossible to resist, especially if it’s midnight, you’ve got insomnia and the fridge is empty.

I’ll admit it – I click on those ads, even though I know I shouldn’t. The last one I clicked on was the before and after photos of a North Carolina town that showed the impact of Hurricane Florence’s flooding.

I had to click through four articles and four photos to get to the flood pictures. They looked familiar to those of us who experienced Harvey – flooded streets, houses with water up to the roofline and elderly people in boats carrying their cat or dog.

There wasn’t any news, however, about the condition of the people in those towns, their homes, the repair effort nor up-to-date information on water and rain levels.

There were a lot of ads about making scrumptious mac and cheese dishes and 13 legit ways to scramble eggs.

And here I thought there was one way to scramble an egg – melt butter in a frying pan, crack an egg in a bowl, stir it with a fork, pour it in the hot pan and stir until the eggs are the consistency you like.

So I didn’t click on that ad because I don’t care if there are 12 other ways to scramble an egg. One is just fine with me.

Sorry, Madison Avenue – or wherever your clickbait offices are now located – this consumer has learned her lesson and won’t be clicking on anything that looks suspicious.

Unless the article’s about Elizabeth Taylor.

That I gotta check out.

Liz is, after all, family.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.