I’m willing to bet I can talk about the “political climate” and still give readers what they came here for…a smile, a chuckle, a tiny lift in your day. Let’s see if I can pull it off.

When I woke up this morning, one of the first reels I stumbled across on Facebook was a skit from Saturday Night Live. Tommy Brennan, a former Minnesotan, showed a real clip of an ICE agent slipping on the ice. There’s already humor baked right into that: ICE falling on ice. I laughed out loud. I like starting my day that way.

Here’s the clip if you haven’t seen it. Notice the woman in the background jumping up and down as if she’d just won a 7-day cruise to the Bahamas.

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/19FYQR46Xq/?mibextid=wwXIfr

But then my mind did what my mind does – it wandered. And once it started down this path, I was birthing today’s blog.

I started wondering whether ICE supporters would find it funny. Would they allow themselves to laugh? Or would they only find it funny if it were someone from “the other side that slipped? Maybe Nancy Pelosi? (Sorry, her name was the first that came to mind – I’ve heard it a time or two.)

Have we reached a point where our politics and our values dictate whether we’re allowed to laugh at a simple, harmless moment of human slapstick? Because if we can’t even agree that a clean, harmless fall on the ice is universal comedy gold anymore, we’re doomed.

It appears we’ve come to a point where everyone can watch the same video – from multiple angles, in broad daylight, with no edits – and still walk away with completely different interpretations. That boggles the mind. We’re seeing it with our own eyes, but somehow, our eyes don’t agree. It’s like reality itself has become negotiable.

And that’s what got me wondering: what can we agree on anymore? Can we at least agree that a person slipping on ice – popping back up and running off like nothing happened – is funny?

Not cruel. Not political. Just funny.

If we’ve reached the point where even that has to be filtered through a partisan lens before we’re allowed to laugh… then we’re not just on thin ice. We’re skating toward something much colder.

This isn’t about politics. Politics divides, and I want no part of that. Nothing would make me happier than seeing people with totally different opinions share a moment of agreement – even if it’s just that laughing feels better than arguing.

Nowhere in this piece will I voice my opinion on the current state of affairs, nor will I denigrate anyone who sees things differently than I do. It just feels so much better to agree with someone than it does to oppose them. And laughter – well, laughter is one of the few bipartisan tools we’ve got left. We should be using it a lot more often.

I’ve often thought Congress should start each session with an NFL “Bad Lip Reading” moment. You know – the ones where a 300-pound lineman suddenly sounds like he’s asking for a juice box. Both sides would laugh, and for one glorious moment, they’d be on the same team.

What I find fascinating is human behavior and the struggle among people trying to prove “I’m right and you’re wrong.” Everybody is defending their side as if they’re auditioning for the Olympics of “being right.” And for what? Does anyone honestly think they’re going to change the opposition’s mind at this point?

Whichever side you’re on, you’ve practically signed a blood oath to stay there forever. Because admitting, “I was wrong,” or “I didn’t know the full story,” would apparently be the emotional equivalent of skydiving without a parachute.

I scroll Facebook as many of you do. And the same people are always there… algorithms be damned. I get it – I read them. I linger. These same people go back and forth throughout the day. And for what? I feel the friction just reading them, how much friction must the people writing them feel?

Maybe they thrive on the chaos? Maybe it’s what gets them going in the morning – apparently their coffee isn’t doing it for them.

Often, I want to jump in, wanting to shout my opinion, wanting to name-call right along with them. And that scares me, because that’s not who I am. What purpose would it serve other than to get me all riled up inside? That doesn’t feel good.

Millions of people – call it mass consciousness – wake up every day ready to prove they were right all along. Ready to fight. Ready to shame. Ready to win. That energy is crippling, and we’re all breathing in the same heavy air.

Just once I would love to get on FB and see someone say to their friend with the opposing viewpoint, something simple and human:

You may be right about that.

I hadn’t considered it.

When I put myself in your shoes, I can see how you might feel that way.

I appreciate the time you spent fact-finding.

That’s a fair point.

I can see the logic in what you’re saying, I might not agree with all of it, but I get where you’re coming from or “You’ve given me something to think about.

Every moment is a choice.

Some people feel if they stay silent, they’re somehow “allowing” something. I beg to differ. I’ve always believed you get further in life by killing people with kindness. Even saying to someone on the opposite side, “You’re very strong in your conviction and I admire that,” would be a start. It’s like saying you’re willing to meet on middle ground.

But I’m willing to bet even if someone did offer such a comment, it would be followed by, “But you’ll never get me to change my mind.”  And just like that, the compliment collapses. The compliment meant to bridge, gets yanked away by the need to declare, “I’m right,” which is really just another way of saying, “and you’re wrong.”

WOW… maybe then we could have a real conversation. Look what breaking the “ICE” could accomplish.

When I see the same friends throwing out the same argument, I keep wondering: why don’t they just give up? Why don’t they tell themselves, “We’re not going to change their mind, so I’m not even going to comment anymore. I’m wasting my breath.”

Imagine that. Suddenly the other person has nobody to argue with. Would they be disappointed? Or would they finally be able to breathe again – to get through a day without that knot of animosity twisting inside them – and maybe accomplish something positive?

It’s like offering someone a warm handshake and then slapping their hand away mid-grip.

I’m exhausted by the words: the left, the right, the narrative, the rhetoric, fake news, propaganda… these words have been thrown around so much, they’ve lost all meaning.

But you know what words still mean something?

Empathy

Compassion

Humanity

Kindness

Humility

And the Golden Rule – do unto others as you would have them do unto you. WOW – that baby got thrown out with the bathwater.

I keep asking myself: what is the purpose of all this? Where is it going to lead? And why did I choose to be a part of this moment in history? (Because I believe we did choose it.)

Maybe those questions don’t matter. Maybe they do. But I know this: I still want my blog to be a place where people can breathe. Where they can laugh. Where they can feel human again. And maybe – just maybe – where we can all agree that sometimes a person slipping on ice is just funny.

If this blog accomplishes even a tidbit of unity between sides, I’ll call it a success.

Truth is, I didn’t want that ICE agent to be hurt – even though I know half the internet was secretly rooting for a bruise or two. At the end of the day, he’s still a human being, and I have no idea what his life has held. We all come with a story.

Life’s irony is funny enough without actual injuries. After all, he popped right up. No harm done – except for maybe his pride. Just a little slapstick comedy to remind us we’re all human.

Raise your hand in a toast:

Here’s to the energy we send out, to the ripple each thought creates, and to the quiet revolution that begins when even one person chooses kindness over conflict.

Cheers to lifting the whole world an inch at a time – and may we all find the kind of unity that comes from admitting that ICE slipping on ice is, frankly, comedy gold – no matter which side you’re on.

Cheers!

 …and Why Walmart Better Lawyer Up

Consider this a follow-up to last Wednesday’s GLP-1 post – not a “bonus post,” because let’s be honest, half of you couldn’t give a rat’s behind about my personal dieting adventures. But for the other half – the ones who enjoy the rhythm of my rambling, the ones who read my posts like they’re settling in for story time – pull up a chair. I’m taking you through my first five weeks of Tirzepatide.

But first, we’re starting with a lawsuit – mine.

Remember years ago when someone sued McDonald’s because they spilled hot coffee on themselves? They won. Not McDonalds – the plaintiff. McDonald’s had to slap a warning label on their cups that basically said: “Caution: Contents Hot.”

Well, following that legal precedent, I’m suing Walmart.

That’s right. If you can sue over the temperature of coffee, then I can sue over cream cheese lathered cinnamon rolls that are addictive and make me fat.

For years Walmart stopped carrying them. They only carried those sad, waxy, white-frosted cinnamon rolls – the ones that taste like disappointment and broken promises. Then one day, a miracle descended upon the bakery aisle: the return of the 4-pack saggy-in-the-middle cinnamon rolls with the GOOD cream cheese frosting – and lots of it.

You know the ones I’m talking about.

The ones that sag just enough in the middle of the container, whispering, “We were pulled from the oven at the exact right moment.” And because of the drooping in the middle, the cream cheese slides off the rolls and forms a pool of ecstasy in the middle.

I’d hunt for the package with the biggest pool of frosting. And once they found their way to my cart? Game over. By the end of the day – using the tiniest fork I own, as if that somehow made it better – I’d have eaten two, minimum.

Next trip to Walmart, I’d tell myself, don’t even look. Because looking means grabbing. Grabbing means buying, Buying means eating. And eating means… well, here we are, drafting lawsuits.

I can see it now…

Week 1 – Day 1: injection day. The vial came in the mail and I did as instructed and put it in the refrigerator. A part of me wanted to take it immediately, but I needed to sleep on it – anticipate it, and…turn it into a ceremony. That’s right – before the moment came it was time to inject, I had to make friends with it. Why? Because that’s what Lisa does.

The very next morning  I held the vial in my hands and gave it a pep talk.

Okay, maybe it was more like a prayer.

“You and I are going to be great friends. You’re not going to give me anything I can’t handle. You’re going to behave yourself. This is my body, and since I’m letting you invade every molecule in it, you better treat it with respect.”

No holy water was involved, but it crossed my mind.

I wiped the vial with an alcohol wipe, drew up the med, checked the measurements three times for accuracy, wiped my abdomen with an alcohol wipe, and said to myself, “You’ve given Gracie insulin twice a day for the past 16 months. You can surely do this.”

And, I did.

Smooth. Easy. Not even the slightest discomfort.

In my imagination – because I can’t help myself – the medicine went in as a sparkling, pink, swirling liquid announcing, “Look out everyone, we’re coming in! We’ve got some cleaning up to do!”

Within hours, I felt it. Some people say it takes a day or longer. Not me. I’m sensitive to meds – I could probably feel a Flintstones vitamin.

When I say I felt it – I felt a change. Suddenly, the food noise? Gone. I wasn’t thinking about a snack during my favorite show. I wasn’t planning my next meal while eating the current one. I wasn’t wandering the kitchen like a bored racoon.

When I did think of food, it was because I needed to eat, not because I wanted to. And since losing muscle is a risk with weight loss, I focused on protein-rich foods.

Every now and then a tiny wave of nausea would tap me on the shoulder. It only lasted but a few seconds, never enough to have me running to the bathroom. It was more like my new little friends whispering, “We’re on the job.”

No major side effects, other than slight constipation around week three. A stool softener usually fixed it. And because the med slows gastric emptying, lying down after eating would trigger a much needed glorious burp upon sitting up.

This reminded me of the time one of my sons (no idea which one) heard me burp and looked horrified.

“Mom… moms don’t burp.”

Laughing, I said, “Well, this one does.”

Last Saturday was injection number five. My body is adjusting, which is normal around the four-week mark, and while its customary to have to double the dose around the 4-week mark, I’m not in any hurry – losing weight slowly is my goal. I’ll know it’s time to increase when I start salivating thinking about warm, almost gooey cinnamon rolls.

So far, I’ve lost 14 pounds. My first weigh-in at the clinic, I was fully clothed with boots, but even after adjusting for that, I’m very encouraged by the loss. My goal: 20-25 lbs. so I’m already over halfway there. It’s now coming off slower, like most dieting, but as long as it’s on a downward trend, I’m happy.

I’m eating healthier. I’m more conscious of what goes in my mouth. My sweet tooth has calmed down, although not totally on vacation. But a few spoonfuls of sugar-free Cool Whip, and I’m good.

I’ve discovered protein smoothies and found recipes that taste like dessert and have no sugar. Cottage cheese has become my best friend. Scrambled eggs with cottage cheese?

Don’t turn your nose up. It’s fantastic. The cottage cheese melts and I have one  5 out of 7 mornings a week.

My knees are thanking me. Giving up sugar alone helped with inflammation within days of stopping it. Add to that, the GLP-1 is an anti-inflammatory, and together I’m seeing significant improvement. But now? I am running and jumping while playing pickleball better than I have for a year or more. If I overdo it, I may pay for it for a day, but it doesn’t take long and the knees are feeling good again. And to think I was so close to having a Cortisone injection the day I was getting a second opinion at the Ortho appt.

I can go up and down stairs without pain.

I can sit on the floor and get up without groaning.

I even ran down the stairs the other day – and oh, did that feel good. I can only hope this lasts.

Heart palpitations and I go way back. I had all the cardiology tests when they started, and when the cardiologist wasn’t alarmed, I decided I wouldn’t be either.

I used to get them several times a week. Now? Rarely. And when I do get one, I smile. It reminds me I have a heart – and it’s carrying on.

If I had one wish, it would be that insurance would begin covering this medication so more people could access it. It could help so many in the long run. It’s very likely many people wouldn’t need to be on all the meds they’re currently taking for heart, cholesterol, high blood pressure, and the list goes on. But with the hefty price tag being what it is, the pharmaceutical companies are clearly making a killing.

I have no idea how I’ll feel next month, next week or even tomorrow. But what I know right now is:

I feel better.

I’m eating better.

I’m moving better.

I’m living better.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not craving Walmart’s to die-for cinnamon rolls. In fact, just yesterday while in Walmart, I merely glanced over at the rolls – smiled-and rolled on by.

Before we raise our favorite cocktail or smoothie in a toast – quick disclaimer before someone thinks I’m moonlighting as a pharmaceutical rep: I don’t endorse this medication, I don’t make a commission, and I’m not here to convince anyone it’s a magic wand. This is simply my personal journey – one I chose with my provider and husband’s blessing, and I encourage everyone to follow their own medical guidance, not my cinnamon-roll-fueled storytelling.

One more thing before we clink glasses:

It was recently brought to my attention – by my brother, who occasionally likes to weigh in (pun fully intended), that GLP-1s aren’t just changing individual bodies. They’re quietly reshaping society in ways most of us would never think about. Because why would we?

Take airlines: lighter passengers mean lighter planes, and that could save US airlines an estimated $580 million a year in fuel costs. Fewer pounds – fewer gallons of jet fuel.

Grocery habits are shifting – households with just one GLP-1 user see a 5-6% drop in grocery spending within six months. Ultra-processed foods like chips, sweets, and baked goods are down 10-11%, while fast-food spending has fallen about 8%. Meanwhile, protein is on the rise – yogurt, lean meats and fresh foods. Protein is the new potato chip.

Retailers: A little panicked. Rapid body-size changes are flipping inventory planning on its head. Demand for S and XS sizes is up, while XL and XXL sales are down, creating an estimated $5 billion inventory risk by 2027. Returns are climbing too, as shoppers struggle to keep up with bodies that seem to shrink between checkout and delivery. On the bright side – new bodies mean new wardrobes.

Here’s one I found quite interesting – workplaces are paying attention. About 63% of employees with weight-related conditions say they’d consider switching jobs for GLP-1 coverage. That’s not a perk; that’s a recruitment strategy.

Long term, there’s also potential for reduced healthcare spending tied to chronic conditions like type 2 diabetes, kidney disease, and heart failure. Less disease – fewer bills, more PTO actually used for fun.

And finally, gyms are having their comeback tour. Participation rates among GLP-1 users have jumped from 35% to 71%, driving a urge in demand for athleisure and running shoes. When your joints feel better and your energy’s up, you might actually use that gym membership instead of just donating monthly.

So yes, these medications may start as a personal health decision, but their ripple effects are everywhere. From airlines to grocery aisles to your closet. Proof that sometimes, losing weight really does lighten the load for everyone.

And now, let’s raise our glasses in a toast:

Here’s to new medicines that behave themselves.

To cinnamon rolls that refuse to.

To knees that suddenly remember how stairs work.

And to burps that remind us we’re still gloriously alive.

May our appetites be quiet, our lawsuits successful, and our cottage cheese forever pretending to be cream cheese.

Cheers to progress – and to pants that fit again.

Lately there’s been a whole lot of buzz around GLP-1s. And there’s a reason everyone’s talking about it – the results are hard to ignore.

Unless you’re living under a rock, you’ve heard the names bounced around – Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro, Semaglutide, Tirzepatide, among others. If you’re anything like me, you’ve wondered what all the hype is about.

Let’s get real – there’s never been a magic weight-loss pill, and if there’s one now, it must come with a whole slew of nasty side effects. We all know the “traditional” way to lose weight: suffer. Give up everything you love, force yourself to exercise even when you’d rather do literally anything else, eat tiny portions, and pretend broccoli is delicious.

Ever curious about this so-called “magic” weight-loss drug, I started doing some research. I’m not a pill-popper by any stretch, and I’ve always been sensitive to anything I put in my body, so I approached it cautiously.

The more I read, the more intrigued I became. Weight loss almost seemed like a side effect of the GLP-1s. The real story was all the other positive changes people were experiencing. The evidence was so compelling that it almost felt like someone would want to take it for the health benefits alone… and then, on top of that, it helps you lose weight and reduce visceral fat. That’s the fat around your organs, and by reducing that, it helps clean up your arteries, thus helping to reduce your cholesterol.

At this point I was thinking “Sign me up – yesterday!”

Here’s a list of the well-known benefits of GLP-1s: (taken from the book “Weightless”, by author Dr. Salas-Whalen, an Endocrinologist who has spent decades studying and working with obesity.

Metabolic & Blood Sugar

• Improve blood sugar regulation
• Reduce insulin resistance
• Steadier energy throughout the day

Inflammation & Internal Health

• Reduce inflammation
• Improved joint pain
• Decreased liver fat (helpful for fatty liver disease)
• Reduce oxidative stress

Appetite, Cravings & Food Noise

• Steady, sustainable weight loss
• Reduced visceral fat (the dangerous fat around organs)
• Improved waist circumference
• Better long-term weight maintenance when paired with healthy habits

Cardiovascular Improvements

• Lower blood pressure
• Improved cholesterol patterns
• Reduced strain on the heart
• Reduction of palpitations

Mobility & Daily Function

• Improved stamina
• Less joint pain
• Easier movement
• Reduced shortness of breath with activity

Sleep & Breathing

• Improved sleep quality
• Reduced sleep apnea severity for some people

Hormonal & Reproductive

• Improved PCOS symptoms (for those who have it)
• More regular cycles
• Improved fertility markers

Everyday Life Benefits

• More energy
• Easier time climbing stairs
• Improved overall quality of life

Did you read all that? Who wouldn’t want that?

Just a few days ago, some of my Pickleball friends and I were sitting around after a few games, enjoying that sacred post-pickleball chitchat- the sweaty, happy kind where we somehow solve the world’s problems and review the latest trends all in one breath. Often, it’s this chitchat that sparks future blog material.

The subject of dieting came up. I’ve been at it for the past four weeks and have lost a substantial amount of weight in that short time. One friend noticed and complimented me, which, naturally, felt wonderful. I told her straight up, “I’m doing Tirzepatide, a GLP-1 injection. I’m taking the compounded version, and in the four weeks I’ve been on it, I’m loving it. It’s doing exactly what I was hoping for – and more.”

Well, once the word “GLP-1” hit the air, the commentary began.

You’d think I’d told them I was taking vows and disappearing into a convent.

One gal said, “Oh, my friend did that – now she’s too skinny.  Looks like a skeleton.”

Another chimed in, “I’m tempted to try it but I know someone that said they were sicker than a dog. Nausea, diarrhea… days in bed. I don’t want that.”

And then someone added, “I know a pharmacist and she says, “DON’T DO IT.”

I’m chuckling to myself. Not because these women are ignorant – far from it – but because I’ve become fascinated by human behavior. Maybe it’s this ingenious blog I’ve started, but I’m more aware than ever of how people react, what they latch onto, and why.

The comment that has my head spinning is, “Those people who take a GLP-1 are cheating. Just exactly who and what are they cheating? The broccoli industry? Having less of an appetite doesn’t mean you stop eating – it means you finally have the bandwidth to choose better. When I do feel like eating, I actually want to put something good in my mouth. A GLP-1 isn’t a cheat code – it’s a nudge toward sanity. It’s the quiet coach in your gut saying, “Heh, maybe skip the third muffin, chubby cheeks.”

Just kidding – my quiet coach only whispers compliments. He says things like, “You’re glowing today – maybe toss a blueberry into that yogurt and call it a win.”

The truth is, I have more energy. And that makes me more likely to move my body, stretch, walk, even exercise on purpose. If that’s cheating, then I say: deal me in.

Like everything in life, there are risks vs. benefits. You research, you make an informed decision, and you take precautions to give yourself the best possible outcome.

But whether we’re talking about GLP-1’s or someone trying to assemble IKEA furniture without crying – what people tend to repeat are the negative stories. The dramatic ones. The ones that stick.

They hear bout “Ozempic face” or “Wegovy face” (depending on which cousin of the drug they’re blaming that day). They hear about constipation, nausea, and diarrhea. The GLP-1 Facebook groups are full of horror stories. Sure, there are tons of success stories – but overwhelmingly, the posts are “Help, I haven’t pooped for 8 days – what do I do?” That one leaves my head shaking. Why would you wait that long?

That’s what these forums are for: advice – guidance, to ask questions. But because their questions concern the difficulties they are having, that voice is loud, it’s what people remember.

Why does the pharmacist say, “don’t do it”? I’m guessing because she’s the one guiding people to the aisle with the laxatives and electrolyte packets. If your whole day is helping people manage side effects, of course your perspective shifts. People don’t visit pharmacies because they’re asymptomatic. They’re there because they need relief of some kind.

It’s the same reason people say, “Don’t fly Delta” or “Avoid American Airlines” after a single headline crash. We don’t talk about the thousands of flights that land safely every day. We talk about the one that didn’t. That’s the one they remember.

It reminds me of the clinic where my husband works and I use to work. Every year they send out a massive Press Ganey patient satisfaction survey. The kind that costs a small fortune for the hospital. And who fills it out? Not the people who were satisfied. Not the ones who were grateful. Not the ones who sent thank-you cards. No, the survey hears from the people who had a bone to pick. The ones who felt slighted. The ones who wanted a second opinion. That’s human nature.

And don’t get me started on the scoring system. Remember when “3” meant average and perfectly acceptable? Now if you can’t give straight “5’s,” they’d prefer you not fill it out at all, and they even tell you that. How does that help anyone improve? “Look – we have 11,472 5-star ratings! Clearly we’re perfect! Carry on, everyone!”

Circling back to GLP-1’s: when I was wrestling with whether to go on one for weight loss, I layed in bed thinking it through. It made me nervous. I don’t like taking meds. My husband, being a physician, told me “Do it if you want to.” I wasn’t ready yet, but his opinion mattered. He reads a lot. He must have felt it safe.

Meanwhile, I was exhausted from yoyo dieting, avoiding sugar, then falling face-first back into it because I’m a self-proclaimed sugar addict. There were days when my diet had to be 75% sugar, and I wondered why my blood sugar would plummet midday, leaving me shaky, weak, and ready to pass out. Sure, I was getting up very early with miss Gracie, but this was a different kind of tired. Plus, I had a family member taking it with great success.

As I lay there in bed that night thinking about the benefits of taking the med, I started thinking about the detrimental effects of carrying extra weight – besides the fact my clothes were snug, and I hated seeing myself in a picture. I considered what extra weight was doing to my joints – specifically it had to impact my knees. It’s more stress on the heart. And as I have a history of breast cancer, I knew that a higher BMI correlates with higher estrogen levels in women, because fat tissue produces estrogen. I had an estrogen type cancer – that alone should be reason to lose weight. That was the moment my decision was made.

The few potential side effects of the medication felt far less daunting than the long-term risks of staying where I was. I didn’t have a lot to lose – 20 pounds at the most, and so it was time to nip it in the bud. On top of that, there were so many powerful benefits the drug was delivering.

Let’s raise our protein drinks in a toast:

To the Facebook groups that talk about constipation more than a room full of gastroenterologists.

To doing what’s right for your own body even if someone else’s cousin’s neighbor’s dog walker had a terrible time on it.

To the only cheating scandal in history where the cheater eats less, and to the GLP-1’s helping us walk past a bakery without needing emotional support.

To the people who warn us about “Ozempic face,” forgetting we’ve all had “Holiday Cookie Face” for the past 20 years.

To the folks who think GLP-1’s are dangerous but will happily eat gas-station sushi.

Cheers to us – doing our best, laughing at the rest, and finally achieving the goal we set out to achieve – feeling good in our own skin.

I suddenly got the itch for a new car – pretty much out of the blue. I mean, after all, we just completed an indoor pickleball court… what’s next in line?

That little spark of desire got me thinking about these strange quirks we humans have. We want something so badly – we dream about it, obsess over it, pray for it, Google it until our phones start flooding our social media with nonstop ads.

We even make up reasons why we deserve it… I’ve never had one and always wanted one. It’s an investment. It’s on sale. I deserve one after the week I’ve had. It’s cheaper than therapy. I’ll use it every day. It completes me.

And then the moment we finally get it; the shine wears off faster than a new car smell. Suddenly, we’re on to the next thing. The next goal. The next “wouldn’t it be nice if…”

It’s embarrassing to admit, but I’m no different.

Not long after we were married, we went to a friend’s cabin that had a small man-made lake nearby. While we were swimming, I started reminiscing about the summers I spent at my aunt’s cabin – basically from diapers to adulthood. Those were magical memories. When my husband said, “If you want a cabin, start looking.” That was my green light.

It didn’t take long before I was online searching for cabins within two hours of home. As luck would have it – we found the perfect cabin. Our perfect retreat. Sixteen years later, it’s still one of the best decisions we ever made. It’s where memories are made with kids and grandkids.

Then came the desire for a bigger family room. Our house has lots of rooms, but they’re all small. I knew my husband wanted a 3-stall garage, so I came up with the idea to convert the current garage into the family room and add on a 3-stall garage. Win/win!

We got it. We loved it. And we also vowed we’d never remodel, build, or do anything construction-related ever again. The stress was… let’s say…  not the best marriage medicine. Of course, the project didn’t stop there. It grew like a toddler on steroids.

Pretty soon the whole house had new siding. Then, a new roof. It was as if the house heard us say “Never again” and chimed in, “You two say that a lot.”

Last summer, on a Sunday afternoon, we were playing pickleball in the man-cave side of the shed – tape on the floor, cracks in the cement, uneven heights – a broken ankle just waiting to happen. We were having a blast with our friends when my husband, after a few glasses of Merlot said, “We should build a pickleball court.”

Nine months later – which we now laugh at as 9 months is nothing – we have a full-blown indoor pickleball court with a kitchen, ping-pong table, basketball hoop, and a beer cooler. Basically, a grown-up playground.

Our family and friends reminded us we said we would never build again after the family-room-garage experience. Well… never say never.

We’ve only had the pickleball court complete for 2 months now, when I get the itch for a new car. I knew it was nonsense, but I started making all the justifications. I like to trade cars about the 5-year mark. My current one was 7. I’d never loved it anyway – I bought it online. Thought the interior was gray. When I picked it up, it was brown. Major disappointment. Relying on a computer monitor for a major purchase? Dumb. How about I read the description?

So I went online “just to look,” which is the biggest lie we tell ourselves. It’s like pickleball players saying “Just one more game.” Not happening.

Now, every ad on FB is a shiny new car.

I mentioned a new car to my husband, who usually supports my whims. Not this time. He flatly said, “No.” That stung, because in the past, he would’ve said, “Honey, whatever makes you happy.” Now, that’s the way to a woman’s heart.

It took me a day or two to get over it, but once I did, I realized something surprising: I was actually glad he said it. I had another debt I needed to take care of first. And it made me stop and ask myself:

Why do we always want something else?

I asked AI that question, and the answer was annoyingly insightful: it’s built into us. Our brains are wired to chase the next thing. We adapt quickly, the high fades, and off we go again.

And it’s not just stuff. When someone we love is dying, we make deals with God like we’re negotiating a lower Dish Network contract.

“Dear God, if you spare my loved one, I’ll never swear again. I’ll go to church every Sunday. I’ll devote my life to you.”

We mean it. We really do. But when the crisis passes, life slides back to normal. Not because we’re bad people – because we’re human. Desperate promises come from desperate hearts.

My husband once told me a story about a friend who was asked, “Are you happily married?”

The man replied, “I’m content.”

“But are you happy?”

“I’m content.”

At the time, I thought, No, no, no. You should be thrilled! You should worship the ground your spouse walks on! You should be unable to breathe without them!

I don’t feel that way anymore.

Contentment sounds like a warm blanket. A peaceful place. Honestly, it’s a place we should strive for. A place without friction, fighting, or constant striving. A place where “It’s going to be OK” isn’t a consolation prize, but a blessing.

What’s wrong with being OK?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Maybe the real secret isn’t chasing the next thing. Maybe it’s learning to sit in the soft, steady glow of “OK.” Maybe contentment isn’t settling – it’s arriving. Appreciating what we already have is where the real magic lives.

While typing this, it occurred to me that when we were younger, we never would have accepted advice to “just be content.” Get real! We were wired for the chase – busy striving, climbing, achieving. But with age comes wisdom, and the word contentment starts to make sense. It doesn’t mean sacrificing. It’s not giving up.  It’s learning that calm isn’t boring – it’s a luxury we were too young to appreciate.

So let’s raise a glass:

Here’s to wanting things – because it means we’re alive.

And here’s to appreciating what we already have – because that’s where the real joy hides.

Here’s to contentment – not the boring kind, but the warm, steady, “it’s going to be OK” kind.

May we always have enough to dream about, and enough gratitude to love the life we’re already living.

Cheers to being OK – and realizing that OK is actually pretty wonderful.

The holidays are behind us, 2026 is here, and we’re all walking into the new year with our usual bundle of hopes, desires, and half-baked resolutions. But as I’ve been thinking about what I want this year to look like, something dawned on me.

So much of our happiness comes down to one thing – our perception.

How we see a situation shapes how we react to it, how we navigate it, and ultimately how it turns out. And nothing reminded me of this more than my holiday habit of scrolling social media far more than my own common sense would recommend. Like so many others this holiday season, I too had a miserable cold and cough – and somehow decided I deserved more social media time than usual.

One post stopped me in my tracks. Someone had just posted that they were now 40 and was complaining it was all downhill from here. My friend commented to the post – and I loved her comment because she flipped the whole narrative.

My friend replied, “Downhill is what we’re all hoping for! We’ve spent decades climbing the mountain – working, raising families, losing sleep, fighting uphill battles. Reaching the top is victory. Downhill means we made it! Smooth sailing ahead.”

She was absolutely right in her analogy. It reminded me of a roller-coaster ride. The slow, steady climb… that tick-tick-tick-tick of the car on the tracks… the anxiety, the anticipation, the wondering if you’re ready for whatever comes next.

Then suddenly – you’re at the top. There’s a moment of relief mixed with excitement, because you know what’s coming.

The downhill.

The part everyone actually loves.

It goes fast – just like life does, but that’s the moment to stop and feel the wind in your hair, granted you still have some. You feel the exhilaration in your chest, and the gratitude for the ride as it eventually pulls back into the station.

Most people don’t even think about “downhill” until they’re closer to retirement age, so it’s sad to imagine a 40-year-old already believing the best is behind them. That’s perception at work. But even at retirement age, when we say it’s downhill from here, we mean it in the good way – the part where life isn’t over at all. This is where things get good – less climbing, more coasting, and a whole lot more time to enjoy the scenery. We can now savor what we once rushed past.

In my last blog, I talked about how powerful the brain is – how placebos can change our physical experience. But perception itself is a kind of placebo. It can change our mental experience – how we see things. You can choose to make it a positive one or a negative one.

In the same scrolling session, I came across another post that made me laugh out loud. It was concerning a baby in a highchair who had just discovered the joy of dropping things on the floor. You know the look – wide-eyed wonder.

We’ve all been there as parents: picking up the spoon, the cup, the toy, the cracker… only to have it dropped again with great enthusiasm – from the child that is. The parent – not so much.

But think about it from the child’s perspective:

I let go…and it moved! All by itself! It went from HERE to THERE!”

Of course they want to keep doing it. It’s magic to them. They’ve never seen it before. They’re discovering gravity for the first time.

Imagine if you opened your hand and something flew upward instead of falling. You’d be grabbing everything in sight to see if it would also take flight. You’d be texting all your friends.

Maybe a bad analogy, but you get the picture – the awe of discovery!

When we wake in the morning, we can growl and grumble about our joints as we walk down the stairs, holding the banister because that knee is creaking or the back is tight… or heaven forbid, another workday is calling our name.

OR we can open our eyes, stretch, and think, “Thank you, God – I’m still breathing. I have a job. I have a car that gets me to that job. And, I remembered to put a new toilette paper roll on the holder before I went to bed.

Same body. Same routine – just a fresher perspective. Better day.

Haven’t you ever noticed that when you are down in the dumps, mad at the world and feeling “woe is me,” everything is exacerbated to the extreme. Every pain is compounded. Every worry is magnified. But, when you take a minute to dissect those worries and woes, realizing they are minor in the scheme of things, and the world won’t end because of them, you change your perception to a positive one and everything suddenly seems lighter.

I remember the morning I was getting ready for a dental appointment. I don’t like going to the dentist. In fact, the older I get, the more anxiety I feel. I was grumbling about going when my husband in a perturbed sort of way said, “Why do you talk like that?”

I said, “Who likes going to the dentist?”

And he replied, “Why don’t you look at it as: I’m grateful I get to go to the dentist. Someone is taking care of my teeth. I have insurance. I can prevent bigger problems. A lot of people wish they had that.”

Well… that shut me up. And, it changed my whole drive there. I think of that short conversation every trip over to the dentist and while sitting in the chair, as I watch the drill coming towards me.

Here’s my challenge for 2026 – for you and for me:

Be aware of your perception. Flip it. Find the opposite way of looking at what you’re grumbling about.

No, it won’t fix everything. But it will fix something. And those small shifts add up.

Yesterday I did six loads of laundry because we had three extra bedrooms full of kids – home for the holidays. Was I thrilled to see the huge pile on the laundry room floor? I was not. I asked the kids to strip their beds and not only did the sheets come off, but so did the blankets and comforters. Oh, was there a pile!

But having this “perception concept” on my mind because I had already begun drafting this recent blog, I took my own advice, I approached it differently. I flipped it.

We were fortunate our kids came home.

We were fortunate we had the space for them.

We were fortunate we have a working washer and dryer.

Same laundry. Different perception. And that’s the magic.

A toast to the new year: Here’s to 2026 – to seeing the magic in the ordinary, to remembering that downhill is not defeat but relief.

To laundry – it means our people came home.

And to dentists who keep our teeth in our heads whether we like them or not.

Here’s to flipping our complaints upside down, to finding gratitude in the places we least expect it, and to waking up each morning with the kind of wonder usually reserved for toddlers dropping spoons off highchairs.

May we notice the small things, celebrate the big things, and shift our perception just enough to make this year lighter, brighter, and a whole lot more magical.

Cheers to seeing life differently – because sometimes that’s all it takes.

Writing a blog about alternative medicine while being married to a medical doctor? Oh, honey. That’s not a blog — that’s a contact sport. I live in a Western‑medicine household, but deep down I’ve always been pulled toward naturopathic methods, including energy healing. So yes, the debates in this house could qualify as cardio. And I have a lot to say on the subject.

Here’s something most people don’t know about me: I used to practice energy healing.

It felt natural, like muscle memory from another lifetime. When the opportunity to study it appeared, I dove in headfirst. Shockingly, my husband didn’t object. He grew up in Malaysia, where every street corner has a healer, psychic, or guru. His take? Finding someone who truly has the gift is the hard part.

He also said, “The mind is powerful. Maybe energy healing is just a placebo. But if someone feels better, does it matter what did the heavy lifting?”

Honestly? I think it’s both. The mind is powerful. Energy is powerful. And together, they’re a force. People doubt it because they can’t see it. Most can’t feel it. But when someone can feel it? That’s when it’s fun.

When I started practicing on real people (not just classmates), I was terrified. What if nothing happened? What if I looked ridiculous?

Then I hosted a couple of open houses. My living room filled with people — curious, hopeful, hurting. I remembered my teacher’s words:

“You are not the healer. You are merely the conduit.” I had to get out of my own way.

Think of it like charging your phone: the client is the phone, the source is the outlet, and I’m just the cord. Call the outlet whatever you want — God, Jesus, Buddha, ancient healers — the energy flows regardless.

And when someone who limped into my house walked up my stairs pain‑free after a 30‑minute session, it didn’t make me question reality so much as stand in awe of what the eyes can’t see. When someone tells you they felt tingling, warmth, or a little pop deep inside — maybe it’s not “all in the mind” at all. Maybe it’s the body responding to something ancient, something gentle and familiar to the soul, something we don’t yet have the tools to measure.

Physics shows that energy can be guided and influenced by forces, fields, and intention. A healer isn’t creating energy or doing anything supernatural; they’re helping the body shift its own patterns — the warmth, the tingling, the softening. It’s more like redirecting a current than inventing one.

Recently, I revisited my old Shiva Murti Facebook page and watched videos and post‑session interviews. I found myself shaking my head thinking, Why did I ever stop? Click on the link for a post healing testimonial.

https://www.facebook.com/reel/276398420161353

Western medicine demands proof — studies, data, clinical trials. What the eyes can see and the numbers confirm. Eastern medicine, by contrast, leans into faith. It trusts what the body whispers, what intuition knows before the lab does. Why are we all doubting Thomases, needing a spreadsheet to believe in healing?

Eastern medicine invites us into something softer: the hush of breath in a quiet room, the warmth of hands over aching joints, the way a plant’s medicine seems to know where it’s needed — like it’s been whispering directions all along.

I wholeheartedly believe nature is God handing us medicine in leaf form. After all, many modern drugs are derived from plants.

And the fascinating part? Many plants even look like the body part they help:

• Beets — deep red, earthy — support the heart.
• Walnuts — little brains — nourish the brain.
• Kidney beans — shaped like kidneys — support kidney function.
• Carrots — sliced into rounds — resemble eyes and are rich in beta‑carotene.

It’s as if nature left us visual clues saying, “This one’s for you. Connect the dots.”

I also believe our bodies are their own pharmacies — when we treat them right. Which is hard. Between chemicals in food and the fact that processed junk tastes amazing, it’s a miracle any of us are still upright.

I gardened for years when the kids were small. The memory of a toddler in a diaper crouched in the dirt, eating a strawberry or green bean straight from the garden? Worth every mosquito bite.

But now? The weeds win. The heat and humidity win. The mosquitos win. Herbicide tempts me, and that defeats the whole purpose. For people like me — God gave us farmers markets.

Western medicine is essential — but it often feels like symptom‑slapping instead of root‑digging. Natural approaches make sense to me: non‑invasive, no recovery time, no copay, and they feel like a warm energetic hug instead of a Band‑Aid.

Many countries focus on prevention. Their cancer rates are low. We tend to focus on… well, fixing what our processed diets break. Sure, genes matter. Luck matters. But lifestyle? It’s loud.

And don’t get me started on cancer treatments. Poison it, cut it out, burn it away — it sounds medieval. But immunotherapy — strengthening the body so it can fight — now that makes sense to me.

Also, I was recently informed that Iowa leads the nation in cancer rates. Lucky us. Farming chemicals, anyone?

Enter – my knees. Over the past year, my knees have been staging a full‑blown rebellion, interfering with my pickleball game and my patience. I found a chiropractic clinic offering natural modalities, including PRP (Platelet‑Rich Plasma) injections. Athletes swear by it. I signed up — hefty price tag and all.

Cue my husband, eyebrows raised. “Not enough research. Cartilage can’t regrow. If it worked, everyone would be doing it.” And the price tag? Let’s just say he mildly objected to it. He asked me to get a second opinion. Then weigh my options.

Ding. Ding. End of round one.

The second opinion matched the first: moderate osteoarthritis, some tibial bone‑on‑bone. Treatment plan: Aleve, stretching, cortisone injections when needed, and eventually total knee replacement. Yippee.

Driving home, here’s what my gut told me:

• Lose weight to ease the pressure — obvious.
• Cut back on sugar — my kryptonite.
• Take Aleve when necessary — but not twice a day. I’m not trading knee pain for stomach ulcers. Which is why I’m reaching for turmeric again; its curcumin content is widely studied for anti‑inflammatory properties.
• Stretch before pickleball — the thing we all know we should do and rarely do.
• Meditation / Energy healing.

Don’t think for a second I’m anti-medicine. Some pills are life-saving. Some surgeries are miracles.  We’ve all seen them work wonders, and I’m grateful they exist. What I’m suggesting – gently, hopefully – is that maybe we don’t always have to wait until it gets that far. Maybe there’s a way to listen earlier. To notice the whispers before they become screams. That’s where energy healing lives. In the quiet. In the before.

So grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass:

Here’s to honoring our bodies as the miracles they are.

To the quiet energy that heals, to knees that carry us, to hearts and minds that keep opening.

My hope is that Western medicine and Eastern wisdom stop glaring at each other and shake hands, meeting in the middle – each filling in the gaps the other can’t.

And here’s to all of us stepping forward a little lighter, a little softer, and a little more grateful in 2026 – needing fewer ice packs this year.

Merry Christmas to all – no matter what your belief may be.

Cheers!

Everybody needs downtime. My husband’s version? He comes home from work, heads straight to his man cave, lights a cigar, flips on the news, and decompresses. Most nights he doesn’t even peek his head into the house to let me know he’s home.

Meanwhile, I find myself getting bent out of shape because I think I should be his #1 priority. He should walk into the house, give me a hug and try to pretend he’s listening to the things that only matter to me. I’d been waiting all day to tell him the earth-shattering news that Judge Judy rolled her eyes in perfect synchronization with mine. A cosmic event worth reporting.

For years this has been our on-going tug-of-war. I’ve taken it personally for far too long. A few days ago, I decided it was time to let it go. I finally drilled it into my head: my husband has a stressful job, and he needs to deflate before he can give me his full attention. His retreat isn’t an insult to me – it’s his survival.

Days when he attempts to give me a few minutes before he heads for the shed, it’s obviously painful for him. I’d compare it to the way a kid gives up candy – reluctantly, mournfully, and with visible suffering. I really believe he thinks the shed might vanish if he doesn’t get there fast enough.

The last thing any of us want after a long day is to be ambushed with conversation. Nobody wants to be forced to speak or even listen for that matter when we’re still mentally unwinding. Sometimes even eye contact is too much. And truth be told, I’m no different.

My winding-down ritual is simple: I slip into comfy clothes, if I’m not already wearing them, grab a snack and settle onto the couch with my laptop where it was made for – my lap, of course. The unfortunate part of that ritual – the snacking. It’s like a package deal I can’t seem to break.

Do I watch anything meaningful? Heck no. I’m usually on my laptop or phone, half-watching whatever’s on. And when I can’t find anything good, I resort to the DVR – one of the greatest inventions of our time, right up there with GPS.

There she is – Judge Judy, my de-escalating hero.

Yes, I’m a Judge Judy fan and not afraid to admit it. I’ve even roped my 14-year-old granddaughter into watching it with me, and when she was here at Thanksgiving, we binged together.  There’s something about Judy’s unapologetic bluntness – the way she looks at a plaintiff and says, “You’re an absolute idiot. What’s the matter with you? There’s seriously something’s wrong with you,” that has me laughing out loud.

When I first started watching Judge Judy and she looked a litigant dead in the eye and said, “You’re an idiot,” I dropped my jaw. I felt secondhand embarrassment, imagining that poor defendant clutching their dignity like a purse. If they had any dignity to begin with, it’s gone now.

But then I read an article about how the show works – and suddenly I saw it differently. The litigants know exactly what they’re signing up for. They’ve watched Judy roast people for decades. They know she’s harsh, they know she’s going to belittle them, and they still show up – because even if she rules against them, the show pays the award.

That’s right: free flight, hotel, food expense, TV time, and a chance to be publicly called an idiot by a legend. That’s showbiz. Plus, even if you lose, you win.

While I was typing this, I saw a parallel. When insults leave the TV courtroom and enter the Oval Office, the stakes change. Mockery from a TV judge brings laughs; mockery from a president is no laughing matter. And unlike Judy’s litigants, nobody walks away from being name-called by the president with perks or compensation.

A president mocking people, groups, or reporters – is not entertainment, it’s erosion. A president isn’t a TV personality; he’s the steward of a nation. His words carry weight.

If a schoolteacher called a student “stupid” or an “idiot,” parents would be in an uproar. They’d demand that teacher be fired immediately. Yet somehow, we turn a blind eye and make excuses when our president does it – and he does it almost daily.

Anyway, that’s a parallel I couldn’t ignore. Continuing on.

Another reason I love Judge Judy? The show makes me feel fortunate. 99% of the people on her show come from hard lives, many of them uneducated, tangled up in problems that make mine look trivial. And yet she handles it all with humor, sass and a raised eyebrow that could command more authority than her gavel.

The other day I caught an episode where Judge Judy absolutely nailed the art of mockery. A plaintiff gave the most naïve answers and Judy pounced – rolling her eyes, shrugging her shoulders and repeating the line back with razor-sharp sarcasm. I couldn’t help but laugh and watched it a dozen times.

Every single replay cracks me up just as much as the first. Watch it for yourself. I’ve attached it here. If you don’t even crack a smile, there’s something wrong with you.

Before Judge Judy became my background noise, it was Grace and Frankie. I’m so clearly Frankie in that sitcom. The banter between Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda is sharp, hilarious, and right up my alley. They play well off each other. I’m sure I’ve watched each season half a dozen times.

It doesn’t matter if I’m paying attention – the TV just needs to be on in the background, keeping me company. Isn’t it funny how we turn the TV on like it’s a roommate? We can be folding laundry, scrubbing dishes or scrolling on our phones, and yet that TV chatter feels like a companion. Grace and Frankie have been my comfort soundtrack, my invisible houseguests, and my background noise.

This is my downtime. This is how I choose to de-escalate. Case closed.

So, raise your glass with me.

After years of trying to convince my husband to walk through the door, give me a hug, and shower me with undivided attention – and realizing that’s just not going to happen, I’m finally… letting it go.

Here’s to my unapologetic joy of watching a woman in a black robe with a lace collar tell the world exactly what she thinks. My decompression just happens to involve a sitcom soulmate and a sharp-tongued judge who can roll her eyes better than anyone alive.

To downtime, to laughter, and to my hero, Judge Judy. Courtroom adjourned!

We all have Christmas memories that stick with us for life. Some are sweet, some are chaotic, and some involve running naked out of the bathtub – but I’ll get to that.

Right now, The Christmas season is upon us, and I’m staring down the basement like it’s a dragon’s lair. Decorating is my thing. It’s what I love to do, but something about bringing out the same old things year after year doesn’t get me excited. Before I can even think about tubs of decorations, I feel I have to first get my house in order. That’s the roadblock.

I’m still recovering from Thanksgiving, which, in my husband’s opinion, is the best holiday of them all. I agree. It’s about family gathering together, drinks and laughter, and the blessed absence of gift buying pressure. If only there were more time between Thanksgiving and Christmas to recuperate.

This Thanksgiving, we entertained 30 people, went through 4 dishwasher pods a day, and ran out of kitchen garbage bags. My husband insists that should never happen. Let me explain.

When a woman plans for Thanksgiving or Christmas, or whatever special occasion the calendar calls for, she’s thinking about the main meal. She forgets there are other meals during the day. She forgets things like dishwasher pods and garbage bags, bread, milk – all vital but easily overlooked. And while people claim they just love turkey leftovers, it doesn’t take long before they’re begging for carry-out pizza.

So here I am, less than 4 weeks out from Christmas, doubtful I’ll even have a tree up. My youngest, Mark, offered to haul all the tubs of decorations upstairs while he was home at Thanksgiving. Sweet, right? Except no. I don’t want tubs sitting around like extra junk I have to clean up before I even start decorating. I told him I’d bring things up slowly, put them where they belong. Will I? Probably not.

Maybe this year I’ll keep it simple. One room. The family room. The mantle. Call it good and pat myself on the back. But then – oh geez – there are the stockings. The beautiful needlepoint stockings I’ve collected and over the years and added to as grandchildren arrived. They demand their place on the banister, which means garland, which means needles shedding everywhere, lights that only half work, extension cords that play hide-and-seek, and timers so the house doesn’t glow like Vegas all night long.

I sound like such a scrooge. I’m really not. I just need one spark to get me going. Maybe it’s as simple as Christmas music. Play my favorites and forget about extension cords and recall childhood memories.

Childhood magic? I had it in spades. Back when that jolly old overweight man dropped down chimneys and I still believed. I remember the gifts: the doll head you could style with makeup and hair, the thrill of waking up to a giant artist’s easel under the tree. I loved art supplies back then – anything with colorful pencils, markers, and that thick kind of art paper.

And then there was the bathtub incident. One Christmas Eve, I was told to take a bath. Looking back, they obviously needed me out of the way to sneak out a few presents from Saint Nick. Suddenly, I heard someone yell, “Santa was here!”.

I was so excited – forget the Pj’s or even a towel for that matter. I jumped out of the tub and ran downstairs completely naked.  Someone, most likely, mom, yelled, “Lisa, go get some clothes on!”

To think I was that excited. Wouldn’t we all give our right arm to feel that kind of childhood thrill again?

One year I got a clock radio and a coat that looked like fur with a chain belt. That belt was plastic painted gold, but I thought it was simply glamorous.

Of course, decorating is only half the circus. Then comes shopping. Every year we go through the same debate: do we exchange names? Single or as a couple? Do we buy just for the grandkids? Do we play that game – you know, the one where you keep swapping gifts until you end up with the candle nobody wanted?

But maybe my mind is elsewhere this year. I’ve started something new, something that’s been simmering for a while and I’m excited about: a women’s club. I even gave it a funny name – Choir Practice. It sounds so innocent. You can tell your husband, “I’m going to choir practice,” and watch him either laugh or look confused because you can’t carry a tune. Then you can wink and say, “I’m going to harmonize with other women who need a few hours out of the house.”

Turns out I’m not alone. Over 70 women have already joined the Facebook group. Seventy! That tells me there are plenty of us who crave something to look forward to, a little “me time,” and a lot of laughter. It all kicks off January 1, which explains why my focus has been split between garland, stockings, and the logistics of harmonizing.

And yet, even though decorating feels like work, I know it’s worth it. Because sometimes it’s not about the garland or the lights – it’s about the traditions that sneak up on you. Like hearing one of my grown kids ask if I’ll be making corn chowder. That simple soup makes me warm and fuzzy inside because it’s become our tradition.

Or the year Joey walked in the front door, said he smelled the fireplace smoke from outside and said, “Ahh, now this is Christmas.” He probably doesn’t even remember saying it, but I’ll never forget the pleased look on his face – and mine.

And my grandkids? They live for the treasure hunt I do each year. Clues scattered around the house, each one leading to another gift, until they finally reach the big one at the end. It takes me forever to figure out how to set out those clues, but their excitement makes every minute worth it.

So, I’ll start slowly. I’ll get my house in order. I’ll tell myself I’m only doing one room, knowing full well it will probably spread to others. But at least I won’t be overwhelmed.

And let us always stop to reflect on the true meaning of Christmas. In fact, if I were to put up only one decoration, it wouldn’t be the tree. It would be the nativity scene passed down from my mother. Beautiful white porcelain figures – simple, sacred, and enough to make me pause and whisper, “Ahh,” while O Holy Night plays in the background.

Which… drums up another wonderful, warm teary-eyed memory – attending New Year’s Eve mass. I remember walking into the church with my family and spotting Mom already seated in a pew. I went to sit beside her. The music began. It was O Holy Night, our favorite. We looked at each other and smiled. Our hands, resting on the pew in front of us, reached out and we locked pinkies.

A quiet gesture. A shared song. A holy night for sure.

I think I just found my holiday spark.

And now, my toast: May the stockings hang straight, may the garland shed in moderation, may the lights actually work – the first time. And may we all find that one spark, whether it’s music, corn chowder, fireplace smoke, or a treasure hunt – that reminds us why we bother with all this holiday hoopla in the first place.

Cheers to the holiday chaos.

Cheers to Choir Practice.

Cheers to Christmas magic and fond memories.

And cheers to plastic gold-painted chain belts everywhere.

I want to call your attention to a little corner of my blog called “Ask Lisa”. I think of it as my own “Dear Abby” experiment – except so far, either no one has wandered past my weekly posts to see what else my website has to offer, or no one’s been brave enough to ask a question.

That means you could be the first. You get to set the tone for whatever future madness this turns into. I’ve copied the official description of “Ask Lisa” straight from the website, so you can either read it here or there. Honestly, I have no clue what I’ll come up with once the questions start rolling in. Maybe I’ll regret it, maybe I’ll laugh myself silly – probably both.

So, here’s your chance: click the link below the “Ask Lisa” description, fill out the form and toss me your burning question. Try to trip me up. I welcome it.

DESCRIPTION:

“ASK LISA” – Like Therapy, But Without the Copay or the Couch

Welcome to my unsolicited advice column! Think of this as Dear Abby, but with more sarcasm and absolutely zero credentials. You ask the questions, I provide the answers, and whether they’re wise or just mildly entertaining, it’s all part of the fun. My suggestion? Having a backup plan wouldn’t hurt. See? I’m already full of sound advice!

Here’s the deal:

• Submit your burning questions – whether of a playful nature, such as: when did napping go from being a punishment to the best part of adulthood; or at what age we finally admit, I’m too old for this. Or, if you’re tackling the bigger stuff – marriage, divorce, extended family, parenting, money problems, or even the mystery of why they named a cake, Better Than Sex Cake (and at what point in life does cake actually become the answer?).
• I’ll respond with my best attempt gained from experience, age, and wisdom, in hopes it may shed some light on the subject and leaving you feeling just a little better than before you asked.
• By submitting, you’re giving me full permission to publish your question along with my response – because sharing is caring.

• Legal Disclaimer (because my attorney said so)
• I am not a licensed professional in anything except questionable humor. But I’ve been told I’m the voice of reason, have good, common sense and I’m a pretty good at reading in-between the lines.
• My advice could be helpful, but let’s be honest, probably not. If it miraculously turns out amazing, I’ll do my best to be humble, while shamelessly patting myself on the back.
• I will never publish your actual name unless you’re OK with me doing so; however, I reserve the right to create a new one for you. Your identity remains private, so feel free to ask away. Sort of like a HIPPA violation for aspiring bloggers: Honest Insights & Possibly Pointless Advice.
• I’ll attempt to answer within 72 hours, after I’ve had time to figure out how. That way, you’ll never know if I truly needed time to craft a thoughtful response…if I simply didn’t want to answer…or I had no clue how to. The mystery is part of the fun!
• No whining allowed. I answer questions, not complaints.

 So go ahead, fill out the form below, and fire away! Just don’t expect life-changing wisdom. A little humor? More than likely. Some surprisingly solid advice? There’s a good chance you might get that too. And if I completely miss the mark, well…that’s where your backup plan comes in.

Here’s the link you’ll need to submit your question: Ask Lisa – Turning Off AutoCorrect

Now, before you wrinkle your nose at the title – trust me, I wouldn’t share a recipe that makes you gag before you even taste it. Sour Cream cookies are pure nostalgia for my brothers and me. Growing up, our mom baked them often, always aiming to pull them from the oven just before the bottoms browned, leaving them soft, tender and slightly gooey in the middle.

If you’re a sugar-cookie fan, think of these as a softer, cozier cousin. And dunked in coffee? Absolute perfection! The fact that I still have this recipe in my mom’s own handwriting – well, there’s nothing better than that. It feels like baking straight out of her kitchen.

The holidays had me missing a couple of weeks of posting, so while I work on something new for next Wednesday, I thought I’d share this family favorite with you. Try them, enjoy them, and do what my brother, Tom, does – add your own twists like: orange or lemon rind, peppermint or almond extract, etc.

Cinnamon/Sugar Pressing Instructions (in small print on recipe)

Use a small beverage glass with a smooth bottom. Lightly coat with Crisco or butter. Dip the bottom of the greased glass into a mixture of sugar and cinnamon. Then press it down onto each scoop of dough on the baking sheet – re-dipping the glass into the cinnamon/sugar mixture each time.