When trying to decide what movie to see, my husband and I compromise. I like Matt Damon, he likes intelligent movies, so we’ve watched the Jason Bourne movies over and over. Watching “Hidden Figures,” we both won. He loves math. I love movies where women are able to realize their full potential.

For those who haven’t seen the movie, Taraji Henson plays the main character, Katherine G. Johnson. In real life, Johnson was a mathematical prodigy who found her way to NASA as a human computer – a person who double checked the numbers NASA engineers generated.

Octavia Spencer plays Dorothy Vaughan, a woman who has a natural ability with machines and taught herself computer programming. Janelle Monae plays Mary Jackson, a young woman who’s bound and determined to attend engineering school.

Although this story is about black women in the 1960s, there are parallels for all women. When I was in high school in the early 1970s, girls were steered toward careers in nursing, going to secretarial school or learning how to sew and cook.

The boys were advised to go into engineering or the petrochemical industry, especially because we lived in the shadows of so many refineries and chemical plants.

There were some who broke out of the mold and made their way to bigger cities and bigger dreams. But so many of us didn’t realize how big a world it was out there. Some, like the women in “Hidden Figures,” not only saw that dream but broke down every barrier to achieve them.

I was lucky in that my dad believed women could accomplish anything they wanted. Unfortunately, I didn’t see those possibilities until I saw the glass ceiling for myself.

When I was 18, I was working as a summer Kelly Girl in the purchasing department of a paper mill. One of the older ladies in the office knew everything about the company, and was the “go-to” person.

When a promotion came up that she was perfect for, Anne was turned down because she was a woman. More than that, she had to suffer the humiliation of training a fresh-out-of-college boy who didn’t know a paper mill from a pepper mill to do the job she’d been doing for years.

I thought about Anne when I was watching “Hidden Figures,” knowing the struggle women have cuts across culture and color lines. But as we see women making strides in the world, it’s easy to overlook that the struggle is still ongoing.

The “Chicago Tribune” reported on a study of 3,000 respondents stating that women are often the ones in the office who are looked at to plan birthday parties. When a co-worker announces she’s going to have a baby, it’s usually a woman who organizes the baby shower.

Not that men aren’t just as capable of these tasks, but we still live in a world where there’s “women’s work” and “men’s work.” These divisions of labor based on one’s gender is particularly customary in developing countries, but the United States still has a long way to go.

As always, education is the answer. Parents, teach your daughters that they can achieve anything their hearts and minds can imagine. Tell them to break down the doors that stand in the way of their becoming all they can be. And teach your sons to not be the ones holding the door shut.

Grandparents, tell and retell the stories of bigotry and prejudice from your childhood days and remind your grandchildren that the only way to stop inequality is through education and acceptance. And that starts with them.

Hopes are that the movie “Hidden Figures” can open up conversations between generations about appreciating how far women have come, who we have to thank for going through the doors first and how far we still have to go.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

           

In the world of politics, one should never be surprised at how far politicians and their handlers will go to spin a story. But the latest words out of Donald Trump’s counselor Kellyanne Conway hit a new “are-you-kidding-me” note.

Conway said White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer used “alternative facts” when he claimed the crowds at newly-elected President Donald Trump’s swearing-in ceremony the largest ever.

Conway backed up Spicer’s claim and said the Trump camp was using “alternative facts” instead of facts the press was reporting.

Thank you, Kellyanne Conway. I now have a way to explain most of the mishaps and misunderstandings in my life. I can simply use alternative facts.

Let’s go back to when I was 14 years old and trying to learn how to drive in reverse. I was practicing in the driveway when I misjudged the distance between the back bumper and the house.

My dad was furious, but if I’d had Kellyanne around, I could’ve simply told my father he was looking at the fact that the sheetrock was cracked. I could’ve said the alternative facts were that the jagged line in the sheetrock from the ceiling to the floor was simply settling of the joint compound. We should, in fact, sue the builder for using faulty materials.

Kellyanne could probably help me with the degrees I’ve earned. When I was 18, I completed an associate’s degree in office administration. Thirty years later, I went back to college and earned a bachelor’s degree in interdisciplinary studies.

With Kellyanne’s help, I could say I’ve been to college on two separate occasions and earned two degrees. People could assume I’m talking about a master’s and maybe even a doctorate. After all, the truth is I did earn two degrees. Kellyanne doesn’t have to say which degrees I earned.

Now to that speeding ticket I got in Woodworth, La. The speed limit on one stretch of Highway 165 drops from 65 to 45 almost instantly. Changing speed limits happen in every state, but this happens in what seems like 10 feet of uninterrupted highway.

If Kellyanne would’ve been around, not only would I have gotten out of that ticket, but Kellyanne could’ve probably gotten the police department to send a letter to my insurance agent demanding the company lower my rates because I pointed out such an egregious way to extort money from unsuspecting drivers.

Where Kellyanne could really help me, though, is with the numbers in my life, since that’s what Spicer is accused of exaggerating. I literally own 15 pairs of shoes, some of which are over 10 years old. I’ve never paid full price for a pair of shoes in my life, but Kellyanne could help me appear chic and modern.

If I use Kellyanne logic, I really own 150 pairs of footwear. And while we’re at it, Kellyanne, drop my shoe size from an 8 to a 6. Oh what the heck – make it a size 5. Narrow if you please.

And if we’re lowering numbers, let’s talk about body measurements. I don’t weigh what the scale states – that number is incorrect. It’s actually lower. A whole lot lower, right Kellyanne?

Now on to height. The ruler states 5 feet 2 inches. I’d love to be at least 5 feet 10 inches tall, and that’s only stretching eight inches. What’s even better is that in Kellyanne’s world, that would make my weight absolutely perfect for my height.

And my age? If I use Kellyanne logic, I could subtract 20 years from my age and be within the limits of telling the truth.

Because we wouldn’t be saying untruths or lies. We’d be using alternative facts.

Ain’t the political life grand.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

“Are you hungry?”

These three words are the ones my mother speaks more than any others. To her, happy people are people who are eating. My dad used to call her the “food pusher,” and I believe he’s right.

Mom gets her food obsession honestly because her mother was a food pusher, and I was on the receiving end of those pushes my whole childhood.

We didn’t walk in the door without my grandmother giving us something to eat. But that piece of cake or fried chicken came with a side helping of interrogation.

On a summer visit to my grandparents’ house, I learned just how sneaky she could be. One morning, my grandmother put a plate heaping with creamy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, a stack of toast and gobs of jelly down in front of me. She pulled up a chair and pointed to the overflowing plate.

“Your mother, does she cook like this?” she sweetly asked.

In truth, nobody cooked like that but I was stuck – if I said she didn’t, she’d mutter under her breath that my mother was starving us. If I said Mom did cook like that, the answer would be that the food couldn’t possibly be as good as hers.

I threw my mother under the bus, shamelessly catering to my grandmother’s ego, and then let my unsuspecting brother suffer the same fate.

He didn’t know that a big breakfast had a side helping of spill the beans. He innocently asked for bacon and eggs like I had. She outdid herself on his plate, adding sausage to the lineup. When he saw all that food, he told her he couldn’t possibly eat it all.

“What?” she asked. “Don’t you love me?”

When he said he did, she sat right next to him, making sure he ate every single bite, all the while grilling him about the meals our mom cooked for us.

Luckily our mom doesn’t interrogate us, but she’s got the “what-do-you-want-to-eat” routine down pat. When she asks if we’re hungry, the answer can never be “no” because she acts as if she never heard us.

The best example is when my brother – yes the same younger brother who got ambushed by our grandmother – stopped in at Mom’s around dinnertime one evening.

“Are you hungry,” Mom asked, just as she did whenever anybody walked in the door.

“No I just ate,” said my brother.

“I could make you a sandwich,” my Mom said, reaching for a loaf of bread.

“No, I just ate,” he replied. Mom thought about that for a bit and then offered to make him some pancakes.

“Mom, I just ate,” said my brother, a little exasperated.

Still, Mom did not give up.

“What about some left-over ham? I have some in the refrigerator,” she said.

“Mom, I just ate,” my brother practically yelled. To her credit, Mom backed off a little. Later, my brother said his goodbyes and headed outside.

Right before he got into his vehicle, my mom appeared at the back door, holding up a paper sack.

“Pears,” she yells. “We have pears.”

That “we have pears” appeal has become the tag line in every Hebert food story, and all of us keep a can of pears in the pantry, just so we know the correct answer in case someone says they’re not hungry.

Because refusing food is never the right answer. The correct answers are: “I’m starving,” “I’d love a full-course meal” and “Eggs Benedict, please.”

No matter if we just came from a restaurant, my mom loves nothing better than feeding her family whatever they want, from scrambled eggs to pork chops.

All served with a side dish of “spill the beans.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            We’re ready to close out 2016, and many Southerners can’t wait to wave bye-bye to 2016. There were historic floods that damaged thousands of homes in Texas and Louisiana. Many people still haven’t returned to their houses, and there’s no way to ever replace what we lost back in May.

            There were weddings and funerals, break-ups and engagements and a relentless stream of doom and gloom from around the world. We have a new president, love him or hate him, and there’s no telling what will roll out of the White House in 2017.

            Before we sweep the past under the rug, let’s look back at some of the memorable moments from our past.

Let’s start with the baby boomers. We grew up in a time where having school-wide drills to prepare for a nuclear attack were part of the day, just like fire drills.

            I remember the nuns teaching us to scramble underneath our desks and cover our heads if we heard the sirens go off. Fat good that would’ve done us in case the Russians – a constant worry – started launching warheads.

            But we had more important things to think about – how incredible our Huarache sandals felt and if Ken was ever going to marry Barbie. We loved our Etch-a-Sketch until we got bored with two knobs and straight lines and decided to bust the case open to see what was inside.

            We’re still drawing except now we use an electronic tablet, wondering, just as we did when we were kids, how the magic happens.

            There was Silly Putty we used to copy the Sunday comic just so we could stretch Lil Abner’s face to see how he’d look. Now we just take a picture with our cell phone, use a free app to manipulate the picture and then send it around the world.  We had metal roller skates with a key we always misplaced, and our bicycles all had banana seats and cool streamers on the high handle bars. Today our bicycles are in our bedrooms, don’t go anywhere yet make a great place to hang our dirty clothes.

            We hit our adult years disco dancing to “Saturday Night Fever,” and trying to sing like Olivia Newton John. We’re not dancing as much as we’re zoomba-ing or power walking in the mall because falling on concrete could mean a broken hip.

            But we still try and sing like Olivia.

            We left behind “Mystery Date” and found out real-life dating was just as surprising and confusing. “Night Gallery” introduced a new generation to the genius of Rod Serling, and most of us refused to admit we were secretly in love with Mr. Spock on “Star Trek.”

            The generations that know the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the assassination of President John F. Kennedy were its defining moments understand that defining moments are made when good people rise up and do the right thing.

            We must have hope for 2017 for to lose hope means our children and grandchildren are robbed of the potential for greatness in a country that’s built on hopes, dreams, blood, sweat and a never-quit mentality. Let’s take those traits into this new year and, for good measure, take along a bit of tradition from the past.

            I believe reruns of “Night Gallery” and “Star Trek” are available for free on YouTube and I’ve seen an Etch-a-Sketch on the toy shelves. The soundtrack to “Saturday Night Fever” is a great accompaniment to power walking or a little bit of dancing in the living room.

            Now where’d I put those go-go-boots?

            Happy New Year!

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

             

           

            A friend posted a picture of a vintage aluminum Christmas tree on his Facebook page. The photo of that metal tree made me remember the only year we got mad at my mom.

            Growing up, we always had a real Christmas tree because that was the only option. But the year aluminum trees debuted, my mom decided to “go modern” and update Christmas.

            One Sunday before Christmas, my dad took us to church and mom stayed home. When we got back, she surprised us with an aluminum Christmas tree, complete with blue ornaments, just like she’d seen in a magazine.  

She had a big smile on her face, and I know she was shocked with the response she got from her seven children – instant rejection.

            We hated that tree, and it was the last time Mom changed a holiday tradition without checking with the troops first.

            As I look at the gifts wrapped and snuggled under our real Christmas tree, I traced back the traditions my family has for the holidays.

            I remember running into my grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve, the smells of chicken and rice and Lebanese food filling the air. Their front living room was the center of the universe, especially for the grandchildren.

            Our relatives spoiled us, and there were gifts for everybody under that tree, so much that they spilled out of the room.

            Mass always came first on Christmas Day, and I know we fidgeted more than usual, believing Father Joe had a devious plan to keep children in the pews for as long as possible instead of home playing with our new toys.

            With a sneaky pinch to our sides, our parents reminded us Jesus was the reason for the season. We’d agree, but we really wanted to believe that Jesus would’ve preferred being home, in his pajamas, playing with a new G.I. Joe.

Food plays a dominant role in our holidays – there’s ham for Easter, gumbo for Christmas Eve and black-eyed peas for New Year’s Day.

            We also made sugar cookies for Christmas, and all the cousins would gather around my parents’ kitchen counter for decorating. Out would come the vanilla frosting, food coloring and bottles filled with red and green sugar, colored dots and chocolate sprinkles.

            We’d decorate all afternoon, laughing and sharing stories about life and sampling the cookies while we decorated. In the end, very few made it intact from the cooling racks to the serving trays.

            The most memorable gifts weren’t the expensive ones. There was a year my dad got a Pocket Fisherman, and all the Christmas morning festivities came to an abrupt halt when he realized what he’d gotten. For 20 minutes, he stood at one end of the living room, practicing casting over mounds of wrapping paper and our heads.

            Then there was the year my grown brothers got dart guns, and we had to wait until they finished chasing each other all over the house, pretending they were security guards on Star Trek, to continue Christmas.

            I’m hoping to create some lasting memories for my grandchildren that will link them to their heritage. When they get here on Christmas Eve, the smells of gumbo and freshly baked sugar cookies will await them, and there’s already a hefty pile of wrapped gifts under our real tree.

            But the real gifts, the ones that last, are the memories we’ll make this year, memories to add to the ones we’ve lived over the years.

            No matter where you celebrate, I wish you and your family happy holidays and hope you create happy memories this year with the people you love.

            Merry Christmas!

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I walked around the Christmas tree lot, hoping to find the perfect tree. I stopped in front of one but decided it was too short. The adjacent one was too tall and looked like it had been cut back in July. On the next row, the trees were too expensive. After an hour, I finally decided I wouldn’t find the perfect tree, so we chose one with a bald spot, knowing we’d put that side against the wall.

When we got home, I realized the tree had the right amount of open space for some of the bigger ornaments. The grandchildren were excited to help us decorate, and as I unpacked the ornaments, I couldn’t help but tell the story behind each one. There was the year the boys and I made salt dough ornaments, and there was Santa painted brown and red accompanied by a purple reindeer and a blue Christmas tree. In the same box were the ornaments my sons made in school, including the required macaroni star and Popsicle stick manger.

The last thing to put on the tree was the angel topper, one we’ve had since our sons were young. In a house filled with boys, I wanted something feminine and pretty on top of the tree. I couldn’t find one that looked frilly enough, so I decided to make our angel myself. I spent two weeks looking for just the right ceramic head and then sewing and gluing lace, satin and tulle together for a frilly gown.

Now looking at the angel with a critical eye, I noticed the arms are too long and the tulle could’ve been a lot thicker to make the dress really stand out. But that angel’s been our tree topper for over two decades, and, flaws and all, she’s on top of the tree.

The grandchildren and I stepped back after the last of the ornaments were hung on the branches, and I took a critical look at the tree. There were small white lights on the top third of the tree and multi-colored lights on the bottom two thirds of the tree. The light hanger – me – got distracted when the dog started running around the open boxes and tripping over light strands all over the floor.  Most of the ornaments were hung on the bottom branches because that’s as high as a 2-year old, 4-year-old, 5-year-old and 9-year-old can reach. The angel was a wee bit crooked and the silver icicles were hung in bunches.

With my hands on my hips, I told the young ‘uns they’d done a great job.

Not perfect, I thought, but absolutely beautiful.

I’m always waiting for something to be perfect – the perfect time to start that exercise program, or the perfect time to start eating healthy. I regularly second guess myself as I struggle with trying to write the perfect column or create the perfect wreath arrangement. And then it rains and I rationalize that the time wasn’t perfect to start that walking program. There’s that fabulous dessert the waiter waved in front of my face, and I tell myself it’s not the perfect time to start that diet.

There’s no such thing as a perfect column, and every arrangement I’ve ever made could always use an expert’s touch to make it look gorgeous.

The only thing that’s perfect in my life is the fact that it’s not perfect.

It’s the flaws that make life interesting – the crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of laughing, the writing on the bedroom wall is my grandson creating a masterpiece, and the hole in the side of our Christmas tree is the perfect spot to hang the Louisiana ornament my mother gave us years ago that always reminds me of home.

Sometimes, we find perfect in an imperfect world.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            This is the time of the year when thoughts turn to Christmas. We’re surrounded by decorations everywhere we turn. Hershey’s Kisses are red and green, the frozen cookie dough features Christmas trees designs in the center and egg nog’s taken the place of skim milk in the dairy case.

            I sing along with Christmas carols on the radio, wondering if this generation has any clue why they’re listening to somebody who starred as “Big Daddy” in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” sing “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” 

            I wonder what Southern children picture in their minds when they hear holiday songs about sleigh bells dashing through the snow. Most have never seen snow, they haven’t a clue what a sleigh is and the only bells they hear are at school when the school day ends.

            Adults are also at a loss when it comes to envisioning what Christmas songs promise. Most of us have never roasted chestnuts over an open fire, we’re not entirely sure what figgy pudding is and we gave up trying to figure out what “The Twelve Days of Christmas” is all about.

            The roads are clogged with angry drivers on their way to the malls where they’ll start checking off items on their Christmas lists. Most of those weary shoppers are already wondering how they’re going to pay off that credit card bill when it comes rolling in on the 15^th of January.

            That reality check starts to weigh heavily when we’re waiting in a long line, our coupons flashing on our cell phones, and we think we must be crazy to be out with all these crazy people shopping for a gift our crazy loved one will probably take back anyway.

            It’s easy to get lost in the commercialism of the holidays, especially with Black Friday sales, Moonlight Madness and everything seemingly 20 percent off. And, if we’re not careful, the Grinch can take over, and our holiday spirit can dash right out the window along with those 12 reindeer.

            But a good friend, Julia Worley, told me something that convinced me it’s not too late to keep belief in our hearts.

            She was at Rosenberg’s Christmas celebration and a young child came up to her after sitting on Santa’s lap. The child looked at her, eyes big and wide, and said “Santa’s real.”

            Julia said that one remark made her realize that little child is right.

I see Santa when volunteers stand up for children as court-appointed advocates. I see Santa’s face whenever I look at people assisting the elderly or comforting a forlorn teenager. I know I saw Santa this summer in the hearts of people who helped flood victims in Louisiana and Texas.

            Santa was riding along with the Cajun Navy in and around Baton Rouge and Lafayette. Here in Fort Bend County, he was in his jon boat, rescuing people, dogs and cats and then going back to help people see the damage the waters had caused.

The spirit of “good will toward men” was evident in the people who opened their closets and wallets and donated thousands of dollars, clothes, shoes and toys to the flood relief centers.

            The jolly elf was living in the hearts of the volunteers who staffed relief centers, making sure displaced people received food, vouchers and clothing to replace what they’d lost in an unprecedented flood.

            Many of those people are still trying to recover, and Santa’s elves are hard at work, hammering, putting up sheet rock and laying tile in rebuilt kitchens and bathrooms.

            Yes, dear child, Santa is real.

            If you know where to look, you’ll see him every day.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            As I washed out an empty Cool Whip container so I could keep the left-over Thanksgiving gravy, a conversation I had with my dad ran through my head:

            “You’re cheap,” he said, watching me tear an old towel into cloths I could use for cleaning purposes.

            “I’m not cheap,” I countered. “I’m frugal.”

            “Cheap.”

            “Frugal.”

            I have to admit that I often wonder where’s the line between cheap and frugal and if I’ve crossed it. First, I seldom pay full price for anything. There’s always a sale, especially at the stores I frequent.

            Is there anybody who pays full price at Hobby Lobby for anything? Between everything being on sale at some time in a two-week period and the 40-percent-off coupon you can get on your phone or in the newspaper, I’d be crazy to pay full price.

            Even though there’s only two of us in the house, I still clip coupons. Most of the time, I forget them in the car, but I can’t bring myself to recycle the Sunday paper without looking through the coupon inserts.

            There’s nothing wrong with bargain shopping. My sons could recognize the word “sale” long before they could read, and they understood early what the word “clearance” meant at Target.

            There’s also the matter of clothes. I refuse to pay more than $20 for any item of clothing, except shoes because a gal has to have her heels. Besides, I’ll either dribble coffee or spaghetti sauce down the front of my white shirt so why would I buy expensive ones.

            I can count the number of times I’ve gotten a manicure on one self-manicured hand and I use a home perm kit to give my hair that extra bounce instead of paying $75 in a hair salon.

            We’ve never had a housekeeper or a lawn service, we eat leftovers until they’re all gone and chicken is a staple in our house, not steak.

            I found a great, easy recipe for pizza, so we’ve stopped ordering take-out. We go to the movies before 6 p.m. so we can get the matinee price and I always ask for the senior discount, even though I’m not quite ready for Social Security. One never knows where that age limit starts and I want to take advantage of it if I can.

            We had a minivan years ago with 140,000 miles on it and we decided it was time to buy a new car. I had a trip to Baton Rouge planned, and I wanted to put the mileage on the old van instead of a new vehicle. Despite my husband’s warnings, I drove the van to Louisiana.

            On the way back, my son and I had to stop every 50 miles because the engine was overheating. My son loved it because we waited for the engine to cool down at truck stops, and I think he ordered a chicken-fried steak at every single one.

            I finally pulled over in Beaumont and my husband came and got us. All because I didn’t want to put 600 miles on a new vehicle.

            So when my dad accused me of being cheap, I had to admit he wasn’t far off from the truth. But this was a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I once caught my dad cutting out cardboard inserts for his shoes because he didn’t want to buy a new pair.

            “Dad, that’s the definition of cheap,” I remember telling him.

            “No, that’s being smart because I like these shoes,” he countered.

            “Cheap,” I said.

            “Frugal,” he said.

            Either way, both of us were happy we had a few extra coins jingling in our pocket at the end of the week. So perhaps there is something to this cheap, I mean frugal, way of living.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

           

            “Come on, you stupid thing, work!”

            “Why do you have to be so difficult!”

            This was the one-sided conversation I was having with my cell phone when it refused to send a text message.

            After holding the phone closer to my mouth and yelling louder, I realized just how ridiculous I sounded. I was having a conversation with something that could never talk back.

            I do that quite a bit.

            Talking has always been one of my strongest qualities, if I can define talking a good bit of the time as a quality. My mom said I started young. I begged for a Chatty Kathy doll when I was a little girl and it was my favorite doll.

             My relatives also knew how much I loved to talk. One afternoon when my great-grandfather came to visit, he watched me for a while, stood up, put his hat on, and walked out mumbling something about someone being a talking machine.

            That machine’s been running for quite a while, grand-dad.

            So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I can talk to anything if there’s not a person around.

First, there’s our dog.

            I realized how much I talk to her when I read an article about how dog owners tell their dogs good-bye when they’re leaving and when they’ll be back. The article pointed out that dogs can’t tell time, so it’s pointless to tell the dog your travel plans.

            Doesn’t matter. Whenever I leave Channell in the morning, I scratch her behind her ears as I tell her what I’ll be doing all day, what errands I have to run and when I’ll be back.

            She never answers, but I think she understands me.

            I also talk to other drivers when I’m in my car. They can’t hear what I’m saying, but that doesn’t stop me from pointing out everything they’re doing wrong.

            Like to the person in front of me at the ATM machine.

            “You should’ve had that card out of your wallet before you got up to the machine,” I’ll mutter. And then when they drop their card and have to put their car in park, retrieve their card and start all over, I’m questioning their IQ level.

            I also freely dispense driving tips to other drivers, even though the windows in my car are rolled up.

            My favorite lines to yell out at the top of my lungs are:  “Are you kidding me!” and, as they go roaring around me:  “Somebody better be bleeding in that car.”

            My sons shake their heads and remind me that what I’m saying is pointless. The other person cannot hear me.

            Doesn’t matter. I still talk to trucks, SUVs and 18-wheelers.

            That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

            I talk to my pants. “You buttoned last week – what’s wrong with you today?!”

            I talk to the lock on the front door. It tends to stick, so I pretty much yell at that lock with an added kick at the bottom of the door to make sure that lock knows I mean business.

            I talk back to the radio announcer in the morning.

            “Is that all you can talk about is bad news?” I’ll grumble as Steve Inskeep reports on wars, famine, politics and the persecuted.

            With the television remote control, I mostly call out “Where are you?” It never answers, but I have hope because now the remote has voice command. Maybe one of these days I’ll yell “Where are you?” and I’ll hear a mechanical voice answer “Under the couch cushion.”

            But of all the things I talk to that can’t talk back, my dog is the best. She listens without interrupting, she wags her tail when I sound excited, she doesn’t repeat any gossip I tell her and she models great behavior when trapped with a Chatty Kathy – just keep your mouth shut.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.