Let little girls be little girls

            For kids, nothing beats the laid-back rhythms of summer. Sleeping late, riding bikes and afternoons with nothing to do except raid the freezer for Popsicles.

But come the first of August, the reality of getting back into school habits hits. Along with that realization and acceptance comes the task of getting ready for research papers and spelling tests. First there’s buying supplies.  

            Luckily schools publish a supply list, so it’s almost hassle-free to walk down the aisle and toss folders, spirals and crayons in the cart.  

Another big part of getting ready for school is shopping for new clothes. Quite a few schools require students to wear uniforms, and that rule makes those early-morning decisions a lot easier.

I was lucky. When my boys were in school, fashion choices were easy – blue-jean shorts, a shirt that had a super hero on the front and sneakers that allowed them to be the fastest in Dodge Ball.

            Not so for those with girls.

            I’m finding this out the hard way as I’m helping my daughter-in-law shop for clothes for her daughter who’s entering first grade this year. In my mind, an elementary-aged girl in Texas wears sneakers, capri pants or shorts and a T-shirt with unicorns on the front.

            When I went shopping this week, I was shocked. Instead of age-appropriate clothes for elementary-school girls, all I found were skin-tight leggings and short shorts.

The shirts ended where the navel begins; and instead of puppy dog artwork on the front of the T-shirts, the designs were “I love to shop” or had pictures of Miley Cyrus sticking her vulgar tongue out.

            Disgusting and disappointing.

            So I kept looking for clothing that would allow my granddaughter to participate in recess sports yet still have a demure look. I found one – just one – skirt with shorts sewn in. On the other hand, there was a whole display of short-shorts that were no more than six inches in length from the waist to the hemline. 

            These are 6-8 year-old girls who should be able to remain little girls for a few more years, not grow up before their time. It seems clothing manufacturers want to create Lolitas instead of reinforcing the knowledge that girls don’t have to be half naked to be relaxed and ready for school.

            Out of curiosity, I started browsing through the teen-age girl section, and they have the same vulgar clothing choices the 6-year-olds faced except the ones for the teenagers were a lot more, how can I say this nicely, skanky.

            They’re cut low in the front, have rips and tears where there shouldn’t be rips and tears or the material is so thin, you can see right through it. The argument is girls can wear camisoles underneath the see-through shirts, but what’s wrong with making shirts that don’t make a girl look half dressed?

            I’ve heard all the arguments that this is how girls like to dress, I’m being too old fashioned or I don’t understand what the fashion industry’s all about. My definition of fashionable is wearing clothes that fit and make you feel good about yourself, not clothes that would embarrass your grandmother if she saw you wearing them.

            There’s still a few stores, both in town and online, that stock appropriate clothing for young girls, and that’s where I’ll spend my money. Because I know, somewhere in the retail world, there’s a nice supply of little girl T-shirts with puppy dogs on the front.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Traveling the old-fashioned way

            On my 15th birthday, I was the first one in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for my driver's test. There was no greater gift my parents could've given me than permission to get my license.

            After all these years, I still love getting behind the wheel of my car, cranking up the engine and heading out. My car is the means to freedom – to explore new places, visit friends or check out a new cafe.

            When I'm driving by myself, I can crank up a Josh Groban CD and sing along at the top of my lungs. I can listen to books on CD and play my favorite passages over and over again.

            Most of my trips are short ones, but on long trips, I love to stop at welcome centers because states usually put their best foot forward there.

            Florida's welcome site offers free orange juice, and Mississipp's center is a relaxing place to spend a few minutes.

            The Texas welcome center near the Sabine River is an opportunity to have your picture taken in front of the giant star and then stroll on the outdoor boardwalk where the noise and heat of the interstate disappears while you see a slice of Texas up close.

            When I saw a sign for a new welcome center in the heart of Louisiana's Atchafalaya Basin, I decided to exit the bumper-to-bumper traffic and see what they had to offer.

            I'm so glad I did because the center was a step into a true slice of the Pelican state, from the old bricks on the floor to the smell of freshly brewing Community coffee. Welcome center volunteers are usually friendly, but these folks chatted with everybody who came through the door.

            An animatronic display features a talking raccoon, turtle and alligator, and some kids and I enjoyed watching a fun explanation about Louisiana. Outside, bronze statues of pelicans and turtles are a perfect place for youngsters to climb and sit.

            Before I left, I picked up a map of Louisiana, even though others around me were checking their smart phones and tablets for the best way to maneuver down a crowded interstate.

            Those travelers can stay glued to their smart phones. For me, nothing beats unfolding a paper highway map and seeing the whole state at once and deciding to follow the small black lines instead of the heavy red interstate lines.

            While on those narrow black lines, I've driven past acres of tall sugar cane stalks and delicate Spanish moss swaying from ancient live oak trees.

            Those maps have guided me to local coffee shops and bakeries as well as the opportunity to see the real people and sights of a city instead of a quick burger and soda a quarter mile from the interstate.

            While following the thin black lines, I've driven over creaky wooden bridges that suggest you just might not make it to the other side and past local farmers selling watermelons and corn on the side of the road. Travelers never see this side of life if they don't get off the thick lines of the map.

            Even though my smart phone can give me verbal directions, nothing's better than turning off that phone and enjoying a slice of cherry pie while looking out over a slow-moving Main Street.

            As I folded the map back up – a feat in itself – I knew that any time I wanted a bit of adventure, all I had to do was get out that paper map and get behind the wheel of my car.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I'm tired of the bullies

            For some people, the perfect way to relax is hiking. For others, serenity involves a long warm bath. For me, it's time spent on the beach.

            There's the rhythmic sound of the surf, gulls laughing overhead and the fresh smell of salt water. Five minutes sitting on the sand and I'm instantly calm.

            Until Mother Nature's lullaby is shattered by insensitive people who think everybody within 50 feet of their boom box wants to hear their music.

            That's what happened to me during a recent trip to the Gulf.

            I love to set up my umbrella and chair early in the morning when the beach is quiet and watch the waves as they perform an ageless tidal waltz.

             I'm not alone – there's runners and fast walkers, couples casually looking for seashells and people who stroll along the shore, laughing when the water circles their ankles.

            There's groups who play music softly so everybody can enjoy the beach. And then there's the group that plays music as loud as they can, gets drunk and ruins any chance for a relaxing family day.

            Unfortunately for me, that last group decided to show up, boom box and beer cans in full force during our vacation. The first day, they carried on until after sun went down. I fumed but said nothing.

            The next morning, I bought ear plugs, knowing deep down I was being a coward by not confronting them.

            Sure enough, they came down to the beach right before lunch and started the whole process up again – I could hear the popping of the beer cans right before they cranked up the boom box.

            That was the final straw. I walked over to their party and asked them to please turn the music down so those of us who seek the quiet could enjoy that as well.

            They were stunned, but as I walked back to my umbrella, they turned the music up even louder and started yelling profanities.

            That night, I wrote them a letter and, the next morning, tucked it inside their umbrella. I have no idea if they read the letter or if what I wrote made any difference because we left to come home.

            But their reaction wasn't the point.

            I'm tired of bullies.

            I'm tired of people cutting me off in traffic with only inches to spare between their bumper and mine.

            I'm tired of people who run right up in front of me while I'm in the grocery line when a checker opens up because they think their time is more important than everybody else's.

            I'm tired of obnoxious people who get their way at the expense of others, like me, who are afraid of the consequences.

            When I walked over to ask them to turn down their music, not turn it off, my stomach was churning. While they continued to yell at me and make obscene gestures, I was a little afraid.

            But when I saw there were teens and children with them, I felt sorry for the youngsters because of the example they were being shown and was glad I mustered up the guts to go over there.

            If they'd turned the music down, they could've taught their children to consider others' needs and not just their own. Conversely, we teach them to be selfish, rude and obnoxious through crude behavior.

            I ended the letter thanking them for giving me a column idea – to remind myself and others that living a life of consideration and respect, fueled with a bit of courage, is the right road to take.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. Thank you, Brett Downer, for the great headlines week after week.

"Grace" is not my middle name

            I was simply reaching over to put two pieces of fried okra in my take-out box. That maneuver should’ve taken about 10 seconds. Instead, my hand accidentally bumped into the straw sticking out of my completely full glass of soda and the soda spilled all over the table, my lap, down my right leg and all over the floor.

            For most people, spilling something in a crowded restaurant would be embarrassing. I got over that hurdle a long time ago because when the good Lord was handing out gracefulness, I was tripping over my own two feet to get in line.

            My clumsiness is well documented, starting back in high school. I was in the pep squad, and because I had a car, I always volunteered to pick up supplies. When the squad decided to have a barbecue, I headed into town to pick up two glass gallons of barbecue sauce.

            I remember coming over some elevated railroad tracks when the car in front of me stopped suddenly at the traffic light.

I had to slam my brakes on to avoid hitting the car, but because I’d put the two one-gallon containers of barbecue sauce on the seat instead of on the floor, they toppled over, crashed into each other and barbecue sauce came sloshing under my seat, instantly swallowing my shoes and the carpet in a tidal wave of thick red sauce.

            I blotted up sauce for weeks and repeatedly shampooed the carpet, but the smell never went away. My best friend said every time she got in that Pontiac she craved a barbecue sandwich.

            Cars and I share a long history of my clumsiness. As a new driver, I wasn’t good at calculating distances and I backed into our house.

It was an accident, but that incident causes me embarrassment every time one of my nieces or nephews are upset about getting into a fender bender. One of my siblings blurts out “Well at least you didn’t run into the house like Aunt Denise.”

            Every shirt I own has a grease spot on the front that no amount of Spray and Wash can remove. My son, Stephen, says he doesn’t understand why I buy white shirts because they’re a walking billboard for my clumsiness.

            He’s right. The last time we were at a Mexican restaurant, I looked down and there were three huge splotches of red salsa on the front of my brand-new white shirt. They coordinated quite well with the big smear of green guacamole.

            My big toe is still smarting when I banged it against the steps yesterday, and there’s a bruise on the outside of my arm from when I fell into the wall after banging my toe. I’m an expert at hiding broken glasses, bowls and plates in the middle of the garbage bag so my family won’t discover the latest Mom casualty.

            I’ve dropped my cell phone on the concrete, in the pool, in the toilet, from the top of my car – don’t even ask how I managed that one – and the only thing that saves my phone from utter destruction is the heavy-duty Otter box cover I told the cell phone salesman was not optional.

            There is an upside to being this awkward. I don’t spend a lot of money on clothes because I’ll ruin them. Our dishwasher gets a break because I use paper plates whenever possible. And I only buy barbecue sauce in plastic containers.

            Anything else is asking for trouble.

            This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Love those backyard critters -- NOT

            One of the best ways to relax is sitting outside early in the morning, a cup of hot, fresh coffee nearby while I listen to the critters in our back yard getting ready for their day.

            Squirrels scampering, doves cooing and butterflies flitting around the flowers are soul refreshers. But don't be fooled by those cute critters. Mother Nature sometimes wears a cute mask to hide the mischief.  

            Take squirrels. They look adorable when they waggle their fluffy tails, and their branch acrobatics are on par with any circus entertainer. They're cute until they invade the bird feeder.

            I watched one industrious squirrel jump out of the tree, grab onto our bird feeder and straddle the metal feeder upside down while he scarfed down all the bird seed.

            And then there's the armadillos. They look like miniature tanks as they waddle around the yard at night, and their poor eyesight makes people feel sorry for them.

            Until you discover an armadillo has been digging huge holes in your yard, holes you discover when you accidentally step in one and twist your ankle.

            Still feeling sorry for them? I think not.

            Let's not forget insects. Watching the bees and wasps flit from flower to flower is a good reminder of the cycle of life.

            Until they build a nest in one of your light fixtures, shorting it out and then kamikaze you when you try and spray the nest.

            Snakes are also a fixture in back-yard flower beds. I see no redeeming quality about a snake. Forget lecturing me that they eat mice and rats. The only good snake is either dead or in a box, headed to the back of the subdivision.

            Raised on Bugs Bunny cartoons, I always had a soft spot for Pepe Le Pew, the French skunk who loved female cats and was always trying to woo them.

            But when a skunk sprayed our dog and it took weeks and gallons of tomato juice to get the stink off that dog, skunks were demoted to the rank of pest.

            Bats are incredible creatures for the yard. They eat mosquitoes by the pound and people build houses to attract them to their back yard.

            Bats terrify me. I see one and I'm convinced they're looking to build a nest in my hair. So whenever anything resembling a bat comes close, I head for the house, hands over my hair, screaming my head off.

            Ants also serve a purpose in the back yard. Ants have wonderful attributes -- they work hard, they never sleep and they require very little food.

            Unless they're fire ants. There is no good reason, and I mean no good reason, why fire ants are on the planet. They cannot be killed or destroyed.

            You might think you're getting rid of them with the latest and greatest ant killer, but those indestructible creatures maliciously burrow deeper underground and lie in wait. After the first rain, fire ant mounds pop up every two feet in your yard.

            And those vicious devils sting without mercy.

            There's other creatures in the back yard that conjure up visions of sweetness. Frogs are cute. Until you accidentally step on one in your bare feet. Birds are great until you find your lawn furniture covered in bird droppings.

            Which leaves our dog. She's a relentless squirrel stalker, sounds the alarm when she sees a snake and chases wasps all day long.

            That's the kind of back-yard guest I'll take every day of the week. Now if only she could come up with a way to kill those fire ants...

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.