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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.

There was a girl in grade school who stood out and not in the way you’d want to be remembered. Long, straggly, greasy hair that never saw a good trim – or even shampoo for that matter.

All of us girls used to roll our skirts at the waist to make them look shorter (the height of Catholic school rebellion). Mary tried too, bless her heart, but her roll was always uneven. One side up, one side down, like her skirt was constantly in a state of confusion. Some of the boys couldn’t resist yanking the high side down as they passed by her. Real cute, guys. Real cute.

And then there were the nuns – our teachers. Every so often they’d play the game of desk shuffle. Their goal? Break up the chatterboxes. Our goal? Pray we landed next to a friend and not someone who smelled like a science experiment gone wrong.

The kids who got shoved to the back of the room were awarded prime real estate and strutted like they’d just won the lottery. The poor souls moved to the front? Penance. Whatever they’d done in a prior life, they were going to have full nun-eye contact on them now. Fun and games were over.

Sadly, Mary had a body odor that made sitting next to her… let’s just say “memorable.” Boys behind her would slowly inch their desks back until the few inch gap became more like a moat. The nuns, of course, eventually noticed and shoved them right back up, snug as a sandwich. They weren’t happy until the front of the desk behind, clanked against the back of the chair attached to the desk in front of them.

Then came the day of desk shuffle when it was my turn to sit directly behind Mary. My mature, compassionate friends whispered, “Ewww, you have to sit behind Mary.” And like the mature, compassionate soul I wasn’t, I whispered back, “Ugh, I know.”

God, I hope she didn’t hear me.

Looking back, maybe the teacher thought I was a good fit. They thought I wouldn’t make a stink (no pun intended). I failed. Peer pressure won out.

I swear a part of the whole desk shuffle game was just so the teacher could watch our reaction. It was their own private reality show. I imagined them sitting at their desk with a stopwatch in hand. “Okay, let’s see how long it takes before these Chatty Cathys realize they’re in the wrong seat.”

Brainiac Jerry, a destined future GPS software engineer, figured it out before he even sat down. He must have sniffed it in the air. “This isn’t mine.” Stopwatch click: 2 seconds.

Nancy, on the other hand, was thrilled to discover a stash of gum inside her desk. Never mind that she hadn’t put it there – it was like Christmas morning. She just sat there – happily, inconspicuously, chewing away – completely oblivious that she was in someone else’s seat. Stopwatch click: Infinity.

Then there were the kids who strolled up and down the aisle, looking for the desk that had the identifying doodle of the heart with an arrow through it, enveloping their initials and the person they were destined to be together forever with.

And of course, the perfectly content ones – they would’ve stayed there forever, blissfully unaware, as if the nuns had gifted them a new identity. “Oh, this is my desk now? Great. I’ll just start fresh.”

The whole desk shuffle was less about breaking up chatterboxes and more about watching us squirm. They definitely got more entertainment out of it than we did.

After all, it certainly wasn’t going to eliminate note passing. As if distance could remedy that. Please. All it meant was more taps on shoulders, more sneaky hand-offs down the row, and more grubby little fingers on that precious triangular folded piece of paper.

And then – oh, the grand reveal! The receiver would cradle the note low in their lap, as if it was contraband. Slowly , carefully, they’d begin to unfold it, making sure not to rustle a single corner too loudly, which was an impossible task, given those nuns had hearing like owls in a monastery. The receiver’s eyes would dart around the room, scanning for danger like they were about to uncover the Holy Grail.

What did it say? Only something gloriously dumb. The kind of thing only a 5^th grader would think was worth risking a trip to the principal’s office for:

“Do you like me? Circle yes or no,”

All that pageantry and effort for a message that could’ve been shouted across the room in two seconds flat.

Gym class had to be the worst for Mary. The dreaded moment of picking teams still makes me cringe. It was cruel then, and I hate it just as much today. Because we all know, picking teams means someone always has to be picked last. And that somebody was almost always Mary.

Watching her stand there, waiting, knowing what was coming, was painful. It’s not a good feeling being the last one chosen, and it’s a tradition that should’ve been retired decades ago. Seriously, stop doing that.

Picking teams was like watching a slow-motion train wreck. The gym teacher would nominate the captains, and for about 30 seconds, you’d swear that title gave some of them the illusion of Olympic greatness.

The captains then began taking turns calling out names. And then there was Mary. Always last. Always silent. Often, not even called by her name. Just left to shuffle over to the team that didn’t want her. Public humiliation at its finest.

Fast forward 55 years. Out of nowhere, Mary popped into my head. I typed her name into Facebook. I clicked on the first one that popped up. Because she didn’t have a profile picture (go figure), I scrolled through hundreds of her pictures.

And then I found her. OMG, those squinty eyes – just like I’d remembered. I use to think she squinted to block out the cruelty of the world around her.

It listed her hometown… my hometown. No doubt it was her.

I continued to stare as memories resurfaced. None of them good.

What caused me to pause was that it didn’t look like a whole lot had changed for Mary. Sure, she’d aged like all of us, but what struck me most was how few photos she had of herself – and she had many photos. Only a couple with whom I presumed to be her husband and children.

The few pictures of herself and her family showed a very modest background, which I believed to be her home. Apparently, she never left that style of living. Poverty had followed her through life. But then I thought: she had a husband. So, she was chosen first – maybe for the first time in her life. And the fact she had children, meant she knew what it was like to be loved unconditionally. Regardless of her sad state of her physical surroundings, there was evidence she’d found some happiness.

The rest of her photos? Hundreds – and I mean hundreds, with an emphasis on the plural, were motivational quotes. I fear we may have played a role in turning her into a therapy frequent flier. When someone told her to tell herself a positive affirmation every day, she must have figured that if saying a few inspirational quotes could help fix whatever was wrong, just imagine what a thousand could do.

I stared at her photo and figured this was my opportunity. I whispered an apology from my heart to hers. For every gym class. For every crooked skirt. For every ewww she had to endure. Saying this out loud, I actually had tears, as I realized how much she must have dreaded coming to school. It must have been torture walking into that building. Every. Single. Day.

Someone once told me bullying makes you tough. I thought that was the dumbest, most ignorant comment ever. But maybe – just maybe – those little scars teach us compassion. They remind us what it feels like to be the outsider, so we don’t inflict it on others.

So here’s to you, Mary.

I’m sorry we heckled you when we should’ve been your friends. Nobody called it bullying then, but it was. I’m ashamed.

I’m sorry you were always chosen last and I’m glad to see that someone now chose you first.

I’m sorry I caved to peer pressure and whispered, “Eww,” when I should have whispered, “Hang in there.”

Mary, if you ever want revenge, I’ll volunteer to be picked last for dodgeball. I’ll even wear a crooked skirt in your honor and I’ll stand there like a human target. And when that ball comes flying at me, I promise I won’t dodge. I’ll take the hit, full face, like it’s justice finally served.

Here’s to resilience, compassion, and the reminder that sometimes the people we overlook end up teaching us the biggest lessons.

Cheers, Mary – YOU WIN!

I’ve heard it said more than a few times, that when a person reaches a ripe ole age, it’s time to let go. But who determines that age, and where is the button that says exit now?

My first husband used to needle a good friend of ours with this topic. We’d get into the age conversation time and time again and Jay would say, “Why are people so afraid to die? Good Lord, people can’t stick around forever. When you reach a certain age, it’s time to go.” Then our friend would shoot back, “And just what is that magical age, Jay?” He never hesitated. “Eighty-two.” He only chose that number because her mother was approaching it, and he knew that would get her goat. It worked.

Although my current husband is an OB/GYN by day, he does some ER locum work on the side. He’ll come home after a shift and tell me stories – like the 90-plus year-olds who come in and when asked what brings them in, they respond, “Oh, I don’t know, Doc, I just don’t feel like I use to.”

I can only imagine the ER staff smiling sweetly, thinking to themselves, “I’m sure you don’t. You’re 98.” Your body’s probably whispering, “We’re done here.”

More often than not, that person wants everything done. Run the tests. Give me the meds. Why? My theory: because the soul is ageless.

Can we not all agree that while our bodies slowly deteriorate, our souls feel no different than when we were twenty? That’s why letting go is so hard – its survival instinct wrapped in spirit.

I’m sitting here in a chair that feels good on my back, biscotti in one hand and a cup of caramel coffee in the other – it’s my 3pm treat. Every muscle from my lower back down, hurts. Building a Pickleball Palace has been no easy feat. And because we needed a kitchen in it – well, that had my name written all over it. Decorating!

I found kitchen cupboards on Marketplace, hitched up the trailer, drove to get them, took off the doors, pulled out the drawers, and did the whole paint-and-pray routine. There must be at least a dozen steps to painting cupboards. The carpenter who removed them from the kitchen in Garner, kindly offered to help reinstall them.

I thought I scored a deal – $600 for the whole kitchen, including countertops and sink/faucet. Little did I know I’d be paying twice that amount to have them hung. Still, a good deal, but my body is not convinced.

I’ve been up and down ladders, bending, squatting and stretching in ways this body hasn’t attempted for decades. And now it’s screaming havoc.

I find myself chuckling at the irony. We’re building an indoor pickleball arena and I won’t even be able to play.

While wallpapering over plywood – because that’s what you do to cover ugly plywood, I remembered a moment many moons ago. My mom had asked me to come into town and help her with something. I probably rolled my eyes at least once, but I showed up. She needed someone to climb a ladder and paint the top foot near the ceiling.

I remember her sighing, “Oh honey, you have no idea what it’s like when you can no longer do the things you use to do so easily.

I smirked, shrugged, said, “You’re welcome,” and thought, That’ll never happen to me!

Never say never.

It’s happening. Loud and clear. And I swear my mother is laughing on the other side.

I remember vividly – if Mom was sitting during a conversation, she’d have both hands on her knees, rubbing them like she was trying to summon a genie – one for each knee. Not long ago, I smugly said, “I’m so glad I don’t have my mother’s knees.”

That came back to bite me.

My knees now sound like popcorn and feel like they’ve been personally insulted by every rung on the ladder.

But do I stop for a day and give it a rest? Heck no. I’ve got a court to finish before Thanksgiving – because that’s where we’re hosting it this year.

Painting and wallpapering give you a lot of thinking time. I remembered when I called my mother-in-law the “Sigh Queen” because she was always sighing. I wondered what she was reacting to. It wasn’t like she was powerlifting in the pantry.

Now? I get it. These days half my exhales come with a sound. I’ve found myself sighing in solidarity and sending her quiet apologies in the great beyond.

Turns out, sighs aren’t complaints – they’re just little release valves for living.

Back to the soul… I think we all agree: our minds, our personalities, what I call our soul – are ageless. But bodies? They wear down. They tire out.

My current mother-in-law is now 101 years old. She lost most of her sight to macular degeneration and is only now showing signs of dementia. On one visit she said, “Let’s go into the living room to talk. The men can talk out here.” I led the way, and not long after, what she said left me in awe. She said in her soft voice, “I’m ready to go.”

I didn’t reply with the usual, “What? No, no, no! We’d miss you. We love you. You don’t want to go.”

I knew what she meant.

I just nodded.

She said, “Life is meant to be joyful and there’s no joy in it for me anymore.” I simply replied, “I understand. I get it.”

If there was an eject button, she’d of surely found it.

It does leave us wondering why some people live to be 100 and wish they could push the button while others die young wishing they had more time.

Life isn’t fair and I don’t believe it was ever meant to be.

Our bodies ache. Our knees sound like popcorn. But every breath, every step, every conversation is another day we were meant to be here – maybe not for ourselves, but for someone else.

My ex said there should be a button to exit life. I say maybe there is, but it’s not what he thinks. It’s not a switch. It’s humor. It’s grace. It’s how we stay in the room even when it’s hard.

It’s buying secondhand cupboards with glee and limping onto the pickleball court like a queen. I don’t need to eject – I just need to rescript. And every ache, every absurd moment, every Marketplace miracle is part of the new storyline.

Life is meant to be joyous. It’s up to us to find the joy.

So grab your favorite cocktail, it’s time for a toast:

To the souls that never age.

To the knees that sound like a symphony of their own.

To the mothers who laugh from the other side.

To the Pickleball Palace that may never see me play, but damn, it’s going to look good!

May we keep our humor, our grace, and our biscotti stash full.

May we ache with purpose, sigh with wisdom, and show up for joy – even if we limp.

Cheers.

Seven years ago, something happened that still makes me wonder: what really did happen?

It was one of those “what the hell was that?” kind of a moment – mystical, terrifying yet somehow…awesome. Definitely a profound woo-woo. The kind of experience that rearranges your understanding of time.

It was Thanksgiving morning, and the house was humming. Crockpots were doing their slow dance as I had prepared a lot of the food the day before, and the brined turkey was in the shed smoking away. Family would be arriving soon – about 25 of them – and I was headed to the shower to get presentable.

I stepped out, slipped on a robe, and began the sacred ritual of makeup and hair. While I was doing my thing, something stopped me cold.

But first, a little backstory.

My daughter, Jill, and her husband, Lloyd, had just completed their second round of IVF. A home pregnancy test followed up with a quantitative HCG level confirmed it. While they hadn’t yet had their first ultrasound, they were floating on air. The appointment was scheduled for the following week. Hope was high.

Back to the bathroom.

As I stood in front of the mirror, I heard a voice. Loud and clear. Not a vague whisper. Not a “who’s talking?” moment. I distinctly heard Jill’s voice – clearly terrified – say, “Mom I’m bleeding.”

I froze. Jill wasn’t in the room. She was downstairs getting ready. But I turned around anyway, just to be sure.

What the hell was that?

I tried to shake it off. Put a big red X over the thought. Push it out of my mind. But you don’t just forget something like that. It clings.

I finished getting ready, dressed, and headed downstairs. Guests were arriving. Tables were tucked into every room. My husband, Tan, whose turkey carving skills deserve their own fan club, was slicing up the bird, and I was sneaking bites of the juicy smoked bits that practically begged to be sampled.

Then I heard it again.

“Mom, I’m bleeding.”

This time, it wasn’t in my head.

I turned to see Jill standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. The exact words I had heard less than an hour ago. The exact tone. It was like hitting replay.

Panic took over. Tan, an OB/GYN, took her into the hospital for an ultrasound. The rest of us tried to carry on with Thanksgiving dinner as best we could, but the silence was thick.

Reagan, their oldest, just 7 at the time, noticed her parents had disappeared and softly asked, “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

My daughter-in-law, thinking fast, said, “Oh, I think they just went out to get some Dt. Coke.” (Because nothing says Thanksgiving like a sudden, five-mile soda emergency run.)

And somehow, that was enough. Reagan accepted it. Never mind that the table was groaning with food and no one had ever left mid-meal for soda before.

We tried to enjoy the meal, but our minds were elsewhere. Why was it taking so long?

Finally, the door opened. Jill rushed past us to the basement. No eye contact. No words. Just a blur of heartbreak.

Tan just shook his head.

Later, when I found a moment alone with him, I clung to hope. “Maybe it’s too early,” I said. “They don’t even like to do IVF ultrasounds until the seventh week. She’s just 6 weeks today. There had to be a reason they don’t like to do them until 7 weeks.”

He looked at me, “You didn’t see what I saw. There was a lot of blood. I could make out a fetal pole, but no heartbeat. I’m sorry, I don’t see a viable pregnancy.”

I went downstairs and did what any mother would do. I cried with her. I tried to comfort her, but there were no words for that kind of pain. She just wanted to go home. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t mingle. So, they packed up and off they went.

The bleeding didn’t last long, and Jill and Lloyd clung to hope. So did I. Tan, ever the realist didn’t. “Lisa, if any patient came to me with that amount of bleeding, I’d give the pregnancy zero chance.”

But until that ultrasound said otherwise, this girl, this mother, this grandmother was holding on.

The morning of the appointment finally arrived. I knew what time it was scheduled for and watched the clock like it owed me answers. Two hours passed, diminishing any hope I was holding onto. Then my phone buzzed.

A message.

Not a call.

Not a good sign.

If Jill had good news, she’d want to say it. But a message? That had to mean their worst fears were confirmed.

I opened it.

It wasn’t a message.

It was a photo.

And when they say a pictures worth a thousand words, they’re wrong. That photo didn’t need words.

It was Jill and Lloyd holding up their ultrasound.

There was a heartbeat.

There was a baby.

Seven and a half months later, Grayson Charles joined our family.

Back to the voice. What exactly happened that day?

The only explanation I have is this: on the other side, where time isn’t linear, where past, present and future happens at the same time, I somehow stepped into that dimension. For a few seconds, I was part of it. I heard what was coming before it arrived.

The story couldn’t have had a better ending. But at the time, it was heartbreaking. And I kept thinking: how can something so earth-shattering also be so awesome? There are no words for that.

I’d of preferred a happier premonition. But I heard what I heard. And for whatever reason, that Thanksgiving will never be forgotten.

Funny thing, as I began to recall this story, I realized Thanksgiving is just around the corner.

I’m hoping to stay firmly in this realm this time.

Unless, of course, it’s wildly good news.

And now, a toast: To the mysteries we don’t understand,

To the voices that find us when we least expect,

To the mothers who hold hope like breath-

Even when science says otherwise.

To the miracle that arrived despite the odds.

And to Thanksgiving, the holiday that gave us turkey, Diet Coke cover stories and a glimpse of something divine.

Cheers to the woo-woo.

Cheers to the heartbeat.

And cheers to the divine whisper in all of us, reminding us we are not humans having a spiritual experience, but souls having a human one.

Cheers.

Now, before anyone accuses me of being fixated on aging, I’d just like to say, “I’m not doing it on purpose.” Yes, I know this was also the subject just a few weeks ago. It’s just that life keeps sending me unsolicited reminders. I’m not obsessed – I’m under siege.

Hair – women’s eternal frenemy.

Hair isn’t just dead protein. It’s a living part of our identity, our mood, and how it’s cooperating or misbehaving can make or break our day. It’s strange and quite sad, to realize how much influence those fragile strands have over how we feel. That last glance in the mirror sets the stage for how we carry ourselves throughout our day.

When it’s long, we want it short. When it’s short, we want it long. When it’s straight we want it curly. When we’ve been blessed with natural curl, we straighten it. When it turns gray, we color it. When we decide to embrace the gray, it lasts about 3 months before we’re sprinting back to our favorite hairdresser.

My hair has done all the above. But now I’ve got a new one to add to the list: breakage. For the past year, I’ve noticed these rebellious short hairs around my face. Given the many years I’ve worn my hair long, there’s no logical reason for this fringe unless aging comes with its own built-in wind chimes. And when the wind whips those hairs onto my face like a low-budget shampoo commercial gone wrong, it drives me crazy.

Naturally, I had to find a diagnosis for the hair thinning and breakage I’ve been experiencing, along with all the other symptoms I was having. It just felt irresponsible not to. Brittle hair, thinning eyebrows, dry skin, achy joints, sugar cravings, weight gain, droopy eyelids and the worst of all – the overwhelming sleepiness. I’ve been falling asleep the moment I close my eyes. I’ve never been that person. Tossing and turning has always been my nightly cardio. Naps? Not me. But lately, driving anywhere over 30 minutes feels like a hostage situation with my eyelids. I’m one yawn away from being a hazard on the road.

My husband, tired of hearing me diagnose myself, and because I was due for my yearly anyway, ordered bloodwork to be done at my earliest convenience. The next morning seemed convenient.

I drove off early as I was fasting, and my morning coffee was calling my name. A few days later I received the report in the mail. Before I even opened the envelope, I was preparing for my new life as a daily pill popper. I was convinced my Free T-4 and TSH levels would be elevated, confirming what I’d suspected all along: hypothyroidism. Finally, a diagnosis to match my spreadsheet of symptoms.

The verdict was in. My thyroid panel couldn’t have been more normal. Right smack dab in the middle of the range.

So now what do I blame for all those symptoms? Every single one of those symptoms, even droopy eyelids could’ve been pinned on a lazy thyroid refusing to do the job it was created for. I honestly didn’t want the diagnosis, but I did want the explanation. It would have been treatable. It would have given me a prescription and a purpose. Instead, I got a clean bill of health as far as the bloodwork anyway, and a pile of mystery symptoms that are apparently due to that 3-letter word… AGE.

I’m a person who likes to make things up to help me cope and sleep better at night – although lately, that hasn’t been a problem. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do with this subject.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to spin this into something funny. Hair loss, mystery symptoms, and the betrayal of my own follicles don’t exactly scream comedy. But then, like a beacon of emotional retail therapy, I happened upon eBay. I promise, this will all tie in – stick with me.

I was hunting for a painted porcelain dresser tray – something pretty, something delicate and preferably in shades of blues. I found one that included a tray and 2 trinket boxes. One had a hole in the lid. I’d seen them before but never questioned the purpose of the hole. And because my mom is no longer around to educate me about those random things, I turned to the next best thing – Google.

Turns out it’s called a “hair receiver.” In the 1800’s, Victorian women would clean the hair out of their brushes, roll it into a ball, and tuck it into this dainty little pot. They were resourceful. They repurposed it. They’d then stuff the hair into small bags called “ratts,” and use them to poof up areas in their hairstyles that needed some extra poofing. I suppose that’s why we call backcombing “ratting?” I’m starting to connect dots I didn’t know existed.

Some hair was used to make jewelry. Oh darn, so sorry to see that ritual go. I had to find some examples to curb my curiosity. Below are two examples of jewelry from the Victorian era. Wearing a brooch made from the hair of the newly deceased, especially that of a dear relative, was a symbol of love and remembrance.

The brooch on the left above is a mere $395 on eBay. While I understand that in the Victorian era, wearing a brooch made from a decease relatives hair was ceremonious, who in their right mind today, would pay nearly $400 for a brooch that screams, “I contain the emotional residue of someone named Mildred who died of typhoid in 1873?” That’s not jewelry, it’s haunted artifact. Does it come with sage and a séance starter kit?

Some of the human hair collected went into making pin cushions. Apparently human hair was softer than feathers and the natural oils helped the pins glide in easier. Honestly, I’m impressed. These women were DIY queens before it was cool.

With shorter hairstyles coming into fashion in the 20^th century, hair receivers fell out of fashion. But I love the concept of making something out of nothing.

As I sit on the edge of my bathtub, glancing down at all the dark long hairs on my floor, giving me the inspiration for this blog, I realize I can’t blame my husband. I own most of them, or at least I did.

So here’s my plan: I stopped typing long enough to open my eBay window and bought the trinkets. I’m going to gather my fallen strands day after day, week after week, and pretend my goal is to fill that trinket box. Reverse psychology, baby! Maybe the hair will stop falling out just to spite me.

What will I do with the hair? No plans to poof up any new future hairdos and I’m not going to stuff any pin cushions with it. Although the idea of cramming it into a voodoo doll and poking it with pins is deeply enticing.

Instead, I’m going to use the hair for something far more emotionally advanced: guilt-tripping my follicles into behaving. I’ll collect it strand by strand, place it lovingly in the pretty blue trinket box and whisper, “Look what you’ve done!”

Now raise your favorite cocktail and let’s toast: “To the strands we’ve lost, the ones we’ve colored, curled, cursed and collected.

To the Victorian women who turned breakage into bouffants and bald spots into brooches.

To the modern-day mystics who sit on the edges of bathtubs, attempting to find the humor in the horror of it all.

May our hair be strong, our thyroids be boring, and our eBay finds be oddly therapeutic.

And if all else fails – may we at least have a pretty, little trinket box to stuff our feelings into it.

To my fellow fringe warriors – “CHEERS!”

Really? An entire unopened jug of milk just went down the drain because it was a day past the expiration date. One. Day. It had never been opened! Did anyone think to give it the sniff test? Or did the sacred stamp on the plastic jug whisper, “I am now poison,” and we all bowed to its authority?

The younger generation is tossing perfectly good food like its radioactive waste, all because of a barely legible date printed in microscopic ink. Sometimes it says, “Best By,” other times “Sell By,” and occasionally “Use By,” which sounds like a threat. As if, when the clock strikes midnight, your can of soup turns into a bubbling cauldron of botulism. And whoa be unto thee if the stamped date is smeared.

Come on – these dates are less about safety and more about liability. Manufacturers don’t want to be sued if your yogurt gets a little tangy. I googled it (because of course I did): “Can you drink expired milk?” The answer? YES, you can. A few days past the date is fine, as long as it doesn’t smell like a gym sock or look like cottage cheese in disguise.

We fear the fridge. Millions of pounds of food are wasted every year, not because its spoiled, but because it’s past its “peak performance”. These dates are about quality, not safety. And guess what? They’re not even federally regulated. That’s right – your can of beans isn’t governed by the USDA, it’s governed by vibes.

So, if we can’t trust the label, what can we trust? Our God-given senses. All of them! Is the color off? Does it smell like regret? Is the texture slimy when it should be firm? And the most obvious one – how does it taste?

I remember being up at the cabin, rummaging through the cupboards for something I knew was there last time I had checked. Not anymore. Gone. Then another thing. Gone. The kids had “done us a favor” and cleaned out anything older than their last Amazon delivery.

When the kids visit, I see them scanning expiration dates like detectives at a crime scene. Before they even find the offending item’s expiration date, I’m already yelling, “It’s fine!” They laugh and keep hunting. They threw out ice cream once because it had a soft layer of frost. Really? That’s what spoons are for – scrape it off and move on.

When I saw them throwing out beer, that was the final straw. I didn’t know beer even had an expiration date. First of all, beer doesn’t usually last long enough around here to grow old. If it’s nearing its expiration date, it was flirting with it when it was purchased.

Let’s not forget; beer has alcohol in it. Alcohol! The original disinfectant. It’s not exactly a petri dish for bacteria. If anything tries to multiply in there, it’s getting drunk and giving up.

And then I’m told, that once beer leaves the fridge and has been out for days/weeks, it’s doomed. Fallacy. It doesn’t collapse from temperature trauma. You can chill it again. It’s resilient. I’ve done it! And no doubt you probably drank some and enjoyed it.

Cheese with a little green stuff? That’s what knives are for. Consider that small piece of mold a complimentary dose of penicillin, courtesy Grandma’s fridge.

I know my kids will read this and politely decline the cheese next time. That’s fine. More for me. We’ve lived long enough to know the sniff test works. We’re still alive. We trust our senses, or maybe we just don’t want to throw money down the drain. Literally.

Our generation survived powdered milk, mystery meat, and cheese that came in a can. We didn’t need a date stamp to tell us when food was bad – we had noses, taste buds, and common sense. May we teach the next generation that not everything with a little frost or funk is a death sentence. Sometimes, it’s just dinner.

Grab your favorite cocktail – (just make sure it hasn’t expired). If it tastes like cleaning solution, maybe it’s trying to tell you something like, “I belong under the sink.”

Here’s to trusting our senses, ignoring the panic printed in tiny ink, and living boldly with a fridge full of questionable cheese and perfectly good beer. May your pantry be brave, your milk be sniffed, and your ice cream forever scraped. Cheers!

Opening Disclaimer

A segment of what follows, is a true story from our early years of deer season. It includes one ill-advised moment involving a dining room window, a blaze orange vest, and a rifle. We know better now. It’s never happened since – and never will again. This tale is told with reverence, humor, and hindsight. Please don’t try this at home.

I overheard the men talking about licenses. Not fishing. Not marriage. Deer. Which means one thing: hunting season is upon us.

That’s a big deal in this household, especially to my husband, Tan, and his band of Asian cronies who treat deer meat like a delicacy.

Now, I’m on the fence about venison. I don’t love it, but I don’t loathe it. I do, however, bow down to the one dish – Sorn’s ginger deer. It could convert even the most skeptical carnivore. Ginger deer is the showstopper – thinly sliced, kissed with ginger, bathed in a sauce and served over rice.

Everyone claims they have the secret to removing the gamey taste from deer meat. I chuckle every time I hear someone swear by cream of mushroom or cream of chicken soup – bless their Midwestern hearts.

We actually do have the solution. It’s an Ancient Chinese Secret. And by “secret”, I mean: have our Asian friends cook it. That’s the real magic. They know exactly how to coax flavor out of wild game and turn it into something you’ll moan over with every bite. Many a time we don’t tell people what they’re eating because they’ll shy away from it. Let them taste it and they’re sold.

When we bought our 17 acres, Tan saw hunting ground. I saw a peaceful retreat. And then there was the shed – big, sturdy, full of potential. Tan was sold. I figured it was for storing tools, his boy toys and maybe a mower. Turns out, it was destined for meat processing.

Each fall, the guys head out to the deer stand at dawn or dusk. Tan’s friends tease him that if they don’t see any deer, it’s because the cigar smoke chased them away. I think his buddies are doing the actual hunting. Tan’s out there supervising, watching the news on his I-pad, puffing away.

And then it happens.

I walk down to the shed, expecting tools or silence. Instead, I’m greeted by a deer hanging in front of me. Bucket below. Drippings dripping.

I don’t like it. I never will. But I get the logic – there is an overabundance of them. Too many deer end up hit by cars, wasted. No one gets to thank them. No one gets fed. At least this way, the life is honored.

Processing time is ritual. Tan supervises. His friends do the work. Why? Because they’re good at it. And I have to admit, I admire how nothing goes to waste. Every part of the animal finds its way into a dish, a broth, a marinade. It’s not just practical, it’s reverent.

One evening in the shed, I had a quiet moment with our friend, Phaly Hoang. I confessed that when I see a deer hanging, I gently place my hand on it and whisper, “I’m sorry. Thank you for offering your life.” Phaly nodded and shared that he does the same. Before the shot, he also says a prayer to the gun gods. After the kill, he thanks the spirit of the deer. It’s respect, A way to honor the life taken. Total appreciation.

I found that sentiment endearing – sacred. It softened me. Because when reverence meets ritual, even the hunt becomes holy.

During the processing, the pan over the fire gets lit fast. The meat is as fresh as it’ll ever be. The guys cook something up immediately, laughing, tasting, savoring. And while I may never love the sight of a deer in the shed, I do love the way these men honor what they take, and how they feed us – with joy, tradition, and just the right amount of ginger.

I’ll never forget our first deer season as a married couple. I was working at the clinic back then. One chilly, late afternoon, I came home, walked through the door, and felt an unexpected gust of cold air rush toward me. Odd, I thought. The furnace was working. Or so I assumed.

As I made my way toward the dining room, I was greeted by a scene that had me speechless.

There was Tan and a good buddy of ours, standing in front of a wide-open window. Curtain removed. Gun pointed. And the kicker? Both men were wearing blaze orange hunting vests. A rather weak attempt at lawfulness -blaze orange vests worn proudly during an illegal indoor hunt.

Tan saw me and immediately gave the universal “shhh” signal with his finger to his lips. And then- BOOM. The gun went off.

Let me tell you – a gunshot inside a house is not subtle. It’s loud. It’s jarring. It’s did we just lose a wall? loud.

I didn’t want to look outside. I really didn’t. But curiosity got the better of me. I peeked. One eye closed. I saw the doe running in circles and then drop. Why do I let my curiosity get the best of me? Yep. One less deer roaming the Tan acreage.

Thankfully, dining room window hunting is no longer a thing around here. (Note to sheriff: we’re kidding. Mostly. I mean, what idiot in their right mind would hunt out of a dining room window – in an orange jacket – with a rifle – and a straight face?)

Now, we’ve upgraded to actual deer stands and outdoor strategy. The curtain stays up. The window stays closed.

So, put own your rifles. It’s happy hour! Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand in a toast:

To the blaze-orange jackets worn indoors.

To the dining room window that once doubled as a deer blind.

To the ginger deer that shuts down all skepticism.

To the prayers whispered to gun gods and the gratitude spoken to spirits.

To the men who cook with reverence and the women who walk in on wild scenes.

To the fire under the pot, the laughter in the shed, and the stories that get better every year.

And to our good friends – Phaly, Sorn, Larry and Pat, who will soon be gracing our shed. And to all the deer hunters soon taking up their ammo, their arrows, and their annual rituals. Here’s to a safe, respectful harvest for all. I look forward to the laughter, the stories and the good times ahead.

Cheers!

Fall has arrived and with it comes the great migration of critters preparing for winter.

Squirrels are darting across highways with puffed-out cheeks, clutching their nuts. I’m playing Dodge Squirrel, trying to guess: will they commit to crossing or pull a mid-road U-turn like they suddenly remembered they left the oven on?

Sometimes they just freeze mid-road, mid-mission. They lock eyes with me, tiny paws suspended, as if we’re both in a live action version of “Who’s Gonna Flinch First?” I’m gripping the wheel, whispering to myself, please choose life. And they just stand there, contemplating their fate. One twitch, one turn, and it’s either squirrel glory or squirrel doom.

Squirrels aren’t the only ones tempting fate. Yesterday, I spotted one of those tiny brown fuzzy, caterpillars inching across the road with admirable slow-motion determination. They don’t scurry. They don’t panic. They just sweetly, stubbornly, intentionally crawl toward their destination. One tire tread away from tragedy. And me? I’m swerving to avoid their demise. There’s something about their innocence, their quiet resolve, that makes it impossible to be the one who ends it.

It might have been the hare who said, “slow and steady wins the race,” but I believe that applies to fuzzy brown caterpillars and turtles just as much. Maybe more.

Lawn mowing this time of year is no picnic either. Cue the grasshopper palooza and the baby frogs, who, let’s be honest, aren’t likely to see adulthood. I hate it. I know I’m deciding it’s their last day on earth. It doesn’t feel good.

I’ve actually stopped the mower and summoned Saint Francis – my Catholicism kicking in. Or is it Saint Anthony? I always mix them up. Tony’s my go-to when I can’t find my keys. But when it comes to critter casualties, I offer up a prayer to Saint Francis:

“OK St. Francis, I hope I’m speaking to the right saint here, but regardless, here’s the deal. The lawn has to be mowed. There’s no humanly possible way I can avoid the thousands of tiny lives just going about their business. So just so you know in advance – I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional. Please let them die instantly, no suffering, and usher them straight to the light. Amen and let the mowing commence.”

Now, snakes. Oh, snakes. My personal evil. I don’t aim for them, but I do scream like I’ve seen a ghost when one pops up mid-mow. Unlike a certain friend of ours who mows with vengeance, because if he sees a snake, you can bet he’s aiming straight for it. Me? I’d prefer not to leave a hundred sunbaked snake particles on the lawn for Gracie to roll in.  Eau de serpent is not a fragrance I endorse.

And snakes, if you’re listening: keep your head down! The mower would’ve straddled you. But no, you had to pop up like a jack-in-the-box of doom.

I’m sure we’ve all encountered the dilemma while driving, if what lies up ahead on the road is a snake or a serpentine car part. It’s not moving, but one look in the rear-view mirror after driving over it settles the debate. If it was a snake, it’s now doing postmortem gymnastics. And once you’ve seen that, you can’t unsee it.

It’s all roadkill in my book. Raccoons, possums, deer, fuzzy caterpillars, frogs, turtles. Most folks don’t flinch at a dead racoon splattered on the highway, but show them a Bambi and suddenly it’s a tragedy. I guess cuteness wins. Or maybe size really does matter.

Some days, I can’t even swat a fly. I must be on some vibrational high those days. Even the tiny gnat in the sink, who I could have easily wash down the drain, gets a pass. Other days? You’re dead! Probably just a bad hair day.

So grab your favorite cocktail and let’s raise a glass: “To the road-crossers, the lawn-hoppers, the slow crawlers, and the surprise snakes. May we honor them equally, regardless of size or fluff factor. May our tires miss them, our mowers straddle them, and our hearts remember that every creature – cute or creepy, is just trying to make it through the season. Cheers to the fall migration, and to all the tiny lives we didn’t mean to flatten.”