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There’s a heaviness that’s been sitting with me lately. The kind that doesn’t ask permission, it just arrives and settles in. It came with the news of hearing that a dear friend’s 30-year-old son had passed away unexpectedly.

Kim’s son, Mitch, was to undergo a heart procedure in just a few short weeks. Apparently, his heart had other plans. And now Kim’s world has shifted in a way no mother would ever wish to experience.

I first met Kim when she walked into our floral shop back in 1998. I guess the word was out – two women with zero formal training had just opened a floral shop on Main Street.

Kim walked in, most likely laughing inside, and asked us if we needed a floral designer. No doubt we looked desperate, and she acted like she knew what she was doing. She whipped up a simple arrangement of red roses and deep purple iris. She was hired on the spot.

For the next 4 years, she taught me everything I didn’t know I needed to learn regarding floral design. It was also the beginning of a friendship.

The back room of our shop doubled as our design command center, but no question about it, the real magic happened in the cooler. Sure, it kept the flowers fresh, but it also chilled the homemade wine and a few favorite beers. By 4:30- 5pm on a Friday, it was cocktail hour at Petals N’ More.

Our husbands often wandered in, along with Doug and Jean from the parts store next door. And the laughter? It spilled out louder than any bouquet we ever arranged. That cooler didn’t just preserve our petals; it preserved our sanity.

These days, some 20 years later, I still see Kim at the vet clinic in Forest City. My little diva Gracie is now diabetic and requires regular glucose checks. Kim’s often behind the desk, and she’s gotten more than a few messages from me – my go-to for silly pet questions, saving me a call into the clinic.

Some friendships need constant tending, like houseplants that wilt without attention. And then there are the rare ones – the kind that pick up right where they left off, no matter how much time has passed. That’s the kind of friendship Kim and I have.

When my youngest, Mark, told me the news about Mitch, my heart sank. Maybe it hit me especially hard because Mark is the same age. They say no parent should ever have to bury a child, but isn’t that just a wish whispered into the wind? We’re not given a choice. We hold no veto button, no way to rewrite the ending.

Grief doesn’t ask permission. It just moves in and rewrites the rhythm of our days. It dares us to find joy in the rubble.

I’ve always known Kim to be strong, but never was that more evident than when she walked up to the podium at her son’s funeral and gave a heartfelt eulogy. While there may be many parents who’d wish to do the same – wanting to and actually doing it are two very different things.

Kim recently posted on Facebook how much she enjoyed hearing Mitch’s friends share stories of their shenanigans. The laughter felt good. One woman commented, “Laughter is the best medicine,” to which I replied, “It truly is.” That comment was the inspiration for this blog post.

Most of us can probably recall a time we were deeply seated in grief, and a humorous moment broke through the pain. I can recall just such a moment nearly 3 years ago.

I was sitting beside my ex-husband, Jay, along with our three children, as he lay in a hospital bed at St. Mary’s. His organs were failing, and my daughter-in-law and I were fixated on the strong pulse visible on the side of his neck. It was steady and strong. It didn’t appear as though death was coming anytime soon.

Why would he be in a hurry to leave? The people he loved most in life were all right there with him. Heaven could wait.

As the hours passed by, Mark, our youngest, picked up a piece of paper from the counter. It was filled with questions, left there intentionally for families like ours, spending final moments with their loved one. The questions were meant to spark memories, to offer a kind of diversion. Mark started reading them aloud, and the mood began to shift.

We all shared our version of a story and while I can’t recall the exact wording, one question had to do with character. Mark started laughing as he got the words out: “I can just hear Dad now – “They’ve given me enough morphine to kill a horse, but you can’t kill Koot.”

We had all heard Jay comment at one time or another, that he was the toughest son of a gun that ever lived. I can recall him saying several times to me, that because of his high pain threshold, he wished he could have been the one to go through childbirth. If only I could’ve handed him a contraction or two – just to test his theory.

We burst into laughter and those brief moments felt euphoric. We were tired of tears, and we knew there’d be more of those to come. That moment of laughter was a gift.

Consulting Dr. Google, I wanted to see what physiological effects laughter has on us. Turns out, it’s basically a miracle drug. Laughter releases endorphins (natural painkillers). It boosts serotonin and dopamine, making us feel happy and motivated. It floods us with oxytocin, the bonding hormone that makes us feel connected. It improves cognitive function and helps us cope with hard stuff.

And let’s just say it – it feels really, really good.

 At the end of Mitch’s funeral, they played a song/video with lyrics that struck a chord with me. “We’re both headed for the same place anyway. I just beat you there.” Beautiful and comforting. I’m going to remember those words when I have my moments. (The song is entitled “Beat You There,” by Will Dempsey.)

The song ended with a line about raising a glass of beer, and I couldn’t help but smile because that’s how I choose to end every blog post, as I will now.

Grab a beer or your favorite cocktail and wipe away your tears. It’s time for a toast:

“To the pulse that beats steady in our hearts long after theirs have stopped. To the laughter that heals, connects, and reminds us – we’re still here.

Laughing through tears and clinging to memories are important. Following a death, they’re what will carry us through in the days ahead. And in those tender moments before goodbye; a shared smile or a whispered joke can help to loosen our grip.

Heaven can wait -just a few more laughs.

Cheers!”

Holy forewarning: This post got a little long. A little deep. A little bit hellish. It’s totally worth it!

My mother, Marlene, was raised in Carroll, IA in a devout Catholic household – the kind of home where Sunday mass wasn’t a suggestion, but a non-negotiable appointment. Rain, flu or teenage rebellion – you went. She attended St. Angelas Academy, an all-girl’s school, staffed exclusively by women of the religious order. In other words, nuns.

One ritual that stuck with Mom, because she told it on more than one occasion, was her spiritual dress rehearsal before going to confession.

Picture a classroom of girls standing beside their desks, hands folded, while Sister Spiritual Auditor guided them through the Ten Commandments. I take that back – they breezed through #7 and #10. Heaven forbid the word “adultery” even escape their lips, nor did they think these prepubescent girls could possibly be lusting after Mr. Henderson, who lived down the street.

Mom said this examination of conscience genuinely terrified her. The class was instructed to stand. While everyone was standing, the nun would have them imagine standing on the edge of a cliff with the raging fires of hell, below. Eyes closed. No desk to grip. Just you, your sins, and the fear of eternal combustion.

The image stuck with her – not as holy inspiration, but as vertigo-induced nightmare fuel. Try standing without holding onto anything with your eyes closed for 5-10 minutes and see if you don’t start to sway.

That was Marlene’s chapter. She grew up fearing God. I wonder why.

Fast forward, to the next generation – mine. It was our turn for our own holy rollercoaster ride with the Sacrament of Penance. Even though the examination of consciousness and the fiery vision wasn’t a part of my confessional routine, the whole concept surrounding confession scared the bejabbers out of me.

I always wondered how other denominations earned their ticket to heaven. They had no spiritual car wash. They didn’t have to walk into a little dimly lit room, kneel, speak through a meshed window, and tell a priest how bad their week was. And we didn’t just have to confess, we reported. We had to list our sins, tally how many times we committed each one, and specify to whom. Really? Does it matter? Is God waiting for my spreadsheet?

Thinking about going to confession again, I can feel the anxiety billowing up as I write this. I’m right there in the pew again.

We’d walk into the church single file, a whole class of freshly scrubbed sinners. The goal was to end up as far down the pew as possible, furthest from the confessional door. The logic? More time to sweat it out and rehearse my lines. Of course, it would have made more sense to just rip off the spiritual Band-aid and get it over with, but we were kids. Logic wasn’t part of our vocabulary.

I was literally sick to my stomach as I stared at the 2 lights above the confessional door. One red and one green. The red light aglow was my temporary salvation. It meant that the room was occupied. Apparently, the weight of a body on the kneeler would trigger the red light to come on, glowing like a “do not disturb” sign from heaven. When the light turned green, it meant the person was done. Time to rotate in. I sat in that pew praying for that red light to remain on…for an eternity and then some.

Green light… damn. It was my turn. It just never felt right that something that caused this much fear was a prerequisite to enter the Pearly Gates.

The first thing we were taught to say inside the confessional was, “Bless me father for I have sinned. My last confession was…” followed by the length of time since we last spilled our spiritual guts.

This was already a problem for me. I’d say, “3 months ago,” like clockwork. So technically, my first sin was lying. In the confessional. During confession. I’d tell myself it was merely a warm-up sin, just preparing myself.

After I had whispered off my list of offenses, the last words to come out of my mouth were, “For these and all my sins, I am sorry.” I could finally breathe again. The priest would take it from there. He would absolve me of my sins, give me a penance, which usually consisted of saying a few Hail Marys, an Our Father, and always, an Act of Contrition. He would then give a little farewell speech that consisted of “Try to do better next time. Now go, and sin no more.” It sounded like an order.

I walked out of church thinking: if I get hit by a Mack truck walking through the parking lot, I’m heaven-bound, baby! But one slip-up? Back to the box I go. A spiritual rinse and repeat.

In the Catholic church there isn’t just sin. There are different classifications of sin. Venial – the baby sins, such things as lying about who stole their fathers pack of cigarettes out of the carton, and the mortal sins – the headline makers…the absolute worst thing you could ever do.

There was just something about hearing the priest say missing mass on Sundays was considered a mortal sin, that had me shaking my head and saying to myself, “Well, that’s one way to boost attendance.” Apparently, failing to haul our sorry behinds out of bed Sunday morning was just as bad as robbing a nun’s purse, setting fire to the hymnal, and giving St. Peter the finger on our way out.

As an adult, I couldn’t help but question some of the teachings we were told not to question. Topics such as purgatory, the empty space your soul would go if you weren’t bad enough to go south, but not good enough to go north. I guess you just hovered about until God felt you’d done enough time.

Limbo? That one messed me up – the idea that babies went there if they died before being baptized? I don’t care how holy your catechism is, there’s no universe where an all-loving God sends an infant to spiritual purgatory because Mom and Dad missed the deadline. Who’s making this stuff up?

And let’s talk free-will. It’s supposedly God’s greatest gift to mankind, your own blank canvas to paint your messy, glorious life. But the rules feel rigged. Use your free will, but choose wrong? Boom! To hell you go. No eraser. It’s like giving a toddler a crayon and punishing them for coloring outside the lines. That’s not love. That’s certainly not free-will. And, in my opinion, it makes a mockery out of God.

Although I haven’t been a practicing Catholic in over twenty years, I maintain a respect for the church. My history runs deep. After all, I was an organist, taught CCD for many years while my kids attended, and was a communion distributor. I wasn’t just in the pew; I was part of the pageantry.

Then came the divorce. Already guilt-laden, I decided to return to Mass, dragging my middle-school aged son with me.

When communion time rolled around, I hesitated. It dawned on me I couldn’t receive. My marriage hadn’t been annulled. I was, by Church standards, unworthy. I whispered to Mark, “You go up when it’s time.” His eyes widened. Great, now I’d added spiritual abandonment to my parenting resume.

Part of me wanted to go up. God knew my heart, right? I told myself He wouldn’t hold it against me. Still, there was this irrational fear that the priest, who didn’t even know me, would somehow snatch the host back before I had a chance to put it in my mouth.

In the car the inevitable question came: “Why didn’t you go up to Communion, Mom?” How do you explain to your child that because you got divorced, your church decided you weren’t welcome at the Table?” All I could picture was his little brain doing the math: “Wow, Mom must’ve done something really, really bad.

I was speechless and I was angry. I couldn’t help but feel when I needed my church the most, it wasn’t there for me. Unless I checked all their boxes and declared my 27-year marriage null and void, communion wasn’t an option. My marriage, though imperfect, was very real and I wasn’t about to say otherwise just to play by their rulebook. That’s not healing, it’s humiliation in a shiny goblet.

So, I made peace with it. Communion wouldn’t be a part of my spiritual journey, And I’m okay with that. Because the God I believe in, doesn’t stamp forms or tally pew attendance.

My God doesn’t sit behind stained glass waiting for us to arrive. He moves in the gentle breeze that sneaks through our window, in the belly laughs shared over completely forgetting why we walked into a room in the first place, and in the quiet ache of love that refuses to quit.

PHEW…that calls for a toast. You stuck with me until the end. Raise your glass high: “May the only confessions we whisper be to girlfriends over margaritas, with no tallies, no mesh screen and no guilt rendered.

If I ever do find myself in purgatory, may it at least have charcuteries decent Wi-Fi, zero nuns with cliffside metaphors and a few of my favorite humans there to keep me company as we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Cheers!

I spent the weekend at the cabin playing dual roles: grandma and babysitter to Reagan and Grayson.

While I was glued to my laptop, Reagan, an ever-curious teenager, asked why I was devoting so much time to my computer. I laughed. “Because I started a blog,” I told her. “And you, my dear, should be reading it.”

“What’s a blog?” she asked.

“It’s sort of like a digital diary,” I explained. I write about life, family, my quirks, my hangups, and why I talk to squirrels. You might find out something about your mom you didn’t know. Heaven forbid, you might even crack a smile.”

That’s when she hit me with the universal teen eye roll. Translation: Grandma, you could have stopped with the explanation a few paragraphs ago.

Moments later, with a sweet smirk and all the charm she could muster, Reagan asked, “Why don’t you write about me, your favorite granddaughter?”

Oh boy!

I paused, aware that five other pairs of precious eyeballs were out there, including two who could read, and every one of them holds a special place in my heart. So how do I write about Reagan and make her feel like the sparkly center of Grandma’s universe without accidentally lighting a fire in the family group chat?

Here’s the thing: Reagan was our first grandchild. Her appearance crowned me with a new title: GRANDMA.

We have a special bond. I’m her soft landing. Her emotional exits from the cabin, sobbing in her car seat, arms outstretched like I was the last helicopter out of Saigon, wrecked me in the most beautiful way.

Honestly, if she could have clawed her way through the car window onto my hip, she would have. My daughter once said to me, “Mom, if you ever feel unloved, just remember that little girl ADORES her grandmother.” I do. Often.

These days Reagan’s world is all about Cheer and I can vividly recall how it all began. I was asked to take her to her first tryout because her parents had other commitments. The coaches were tossing out words like cartwheel, aerial roundoff, and back handspring like they were calling out bingo numbers.

Meanwhile, I was clutching my nerves, watching Reagan do her very own thing. And by that, I really do mean her very own thing. It was as if she had rehearsed what she was going to do ahead of time play by play: 1. lean back, looking upward while arms in the air. 2. Arch back, as if really going to accomplish something. 3. Quickly drop to the floor, catching self with arms. It was a movement that repeated itself over and over like a glitch in a dance routine.

I have to admit, I felt a tiny pang of embarrassment for her. But she wasn’t embarrassed at all. Nope, she was vibing. She had found her rhythm and I needed to chill.

Let’s just say Reagan wasn’t flipping like Gabby Butler, the standout in the world of competitive cheerleading, but she had spirit. And as it turns out, spirit matters. The coaches saw what she needed and placed her on a team where she belonged. She was elated. She was part of a team.

Fast forward a few years, twirls and flips later, some wildly expensive Cheer uniforms, glitter bows and team trips, this same girl who once did the “catch-myself” move on repeat, qualified with her Cheer squad for the All-Star World Champion in Orlando this past April.

She’s getting so tall now, nearly eye to eye with me, rocking her turquoise sunglasses and six-pack abs that I didn’t know girls could even get. She’s now the one giving pep talks and fixing bows on the littles, who look up to her like she’s queen of the mat.

Recently, the three generations – me, Jill, and Reagan, took a trip to Utah to visit my son, (Jill’s younger brother) Mark. Reagan was your classic teenager: phone in hand, politely bored, and surprisingly tolerant of our scenic narration cruising through the Salt Lake City Flats.

Her one and only goal while in Utah? Finding a SWIG. This naïve grandma asked her what kind of swag she was looking for. She laughed. I was educated. Apparently, caffeinated beverages mixed with candy syrups and coconut cream are all the rage.

Reagan is a natural hugger. Walks towards me with arms open, like she’s been waiting her whole life for that moment. And in a world full of eye rolls and TikTok reels I may never understand, that hug energy is sacred.

So, is she my favorite granddaughter? Only when my other two granddaughters aren’t within earshot. And even if they were, they’re too young to understand. I’ll say this: she’s my original. The prototype. My proof that being a grandma was going to be something special.

I almost did a cartwheel in celebration of your birthday, Regs, but then I reconsidered. I’m kind of partial to where my body parts are now, and I saw no spotters standing by ready to scrape me off the floor.

So here’s where I land, Regs. I dedicated an entire blog just for you in honor of your special day. Happy 14^th birthday. I love you to the moon and back.

Caution: What you are about to read could forever change your hygiene standards, destroy your loyalty to toilet paper, and spark an urgent craving for a plumbing upgrade.

Most Americans I know, are downright obsessed with sanitization. We wash our fruit like it’s radioactive, scrub our hands like we’re prepping for surgery, and heaven forbid you’re caught without a bottle of hand sanitizer tucked into your purse. Public restrooms? Hazmat zones. Handrails and doorknobs? Biohazards. Chlorox wipes? Absolute besties.

So, here’s the big question: why is wiping our booty with dry toilet paper still socially acceptable?

Years ago, I came home to find the toilet seat had been replaced. But this wasn’t just any new seat – it came with a 12-inch command center loaded with more buttons than our TV remote. Naturally, I turned to my husband to ask what this high-tech wonder was. He chuckled and said, “It’s a bidet,” with a look so proud you’d thought he engineered it himself.

I had a pretty good idea what a bidet was, but I was only half right. What followed was an eye-opening education, complete with enthusiastic encouragement to personally take the plunge.

Nope, I just couldn’t get myself to try it. That bidet sat untouched by me for months, partly because I don’t like being told what to do, and partly because, well…it scared me. But after hearing my husband emerge from the bathroom day after day, grinning like he’d just won the lottery, and proudly declaring, “I have the cleanest ass in Mason City,” did I decide it was time to give it a try.

The time had come. I had to put my fears aside and embrace the unknown. Unfortunately, my first bidet encounter proved one thing: I hadn’t exactly aced orientation. Somewhere between all the buttons and blinking lights, I completely missed the part about multiple water streams. As luck would have it, I hit the wrong one and suddenly, a jet of ice-cold water shot straight toward the front of my anatomy with such force, it felt less like a gentle rinse and more like someone launched a frozen catheter directly into my urethra. Let me tell you: there was absolutely nothing pleasant about that.

When I told Tan I’d finally tried it, he was more excited than a kid in a candy store. Until I told him my experience wasn’t exactly euphoric. Cue the laughter. Cue the second training session.

This time I had my listening ears on. I learned about temperature control, directional spray, and the magic button. Turns out, there’s an actual button that sweeps the water stream back and forth, covering both ends in one graceful rinse. Now that’s what I call innovation.

We’re now proud owners of multiple bidets: two in the house, one at the cabin, and one in the mancave. I swear some of our friends hold out on their BM’s until they’re at our place, just to experience the rinse.

I used to think bidets were reserved for the wealthy. Turns out, that’s a total myth. In fact, many poorer countries consider bidets a standard household fixture. They’ve been around for centuries. On a trip to Malaysia, I noticed a hose with a sprayer attachment hanging from the toilet. I found myself glancing around the bathroom, trying to figure out what needed watering. Turns out, they were one step ahead of us in the hygiene game.

Fun fact: “Bidet” is French for “pony” because you straddle it like you’re riding one. Originally it was used for feminine hygiene and even as contraception (though proven ineffective). Bidets later became symbols of cleanliness and comfort.

When guests use our bathroom, we give them a second or two, knowing they will reappear asking if it flushes like a normal toilet. The buttons confuse them. Yes, it flushes like a normal toilet, but why settle for standard when you’ve got the magic trick waiting? Skipping the bidet would be like leaving a concert before the encore – it’s where the real show begins

I’ve got to share an eye-opening experience I had with the upstairs bidet. One day I thought it wasn’t working, so I stood up mid-sit to inspect the little nozzle between my legs (head out of the gutter – the bidet nozzle). What I didn’t realize was that the hose kinks under your weight – you have to shift slightly to release the pressure. But I hadn’t learned that yet. So, there I was, leaning in, investigating, when whoosh – wrong move. I caught a face full of cold water, straight from the nozzle. Honestly, I just sat there laughing, stunned, with water dripping from my glasses. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect…or less perfect, depending on one’s intentions.

The bidet is most definitely a conversation piece. Several of our friends have confided that they’re now proud owners of one and say now that they’ve used one, they’d never go back to dry toilet paper.

So, grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass high – this may not be Shakespearean worthy – just my version of splashy bathroom poetry:

To buttons we press with

Fingers unsure,

To streams that clean and leave

Us pure.

To seats that warm and hoses

That dance,

To guests who take a

Cautious stance.

So, raise your glass with

Cheeky delight,

May your rinse be gentle, your aim be

Just right.

And if you’re at the Tan house, please do

Take note –

That red towel on the little chair?

Not for your face or your throat.

BOTTOMS UP! CHEERS!

I was watching a reel about a 5-year-old boy, fighting back tears while his father showered him with words of affirmation. His father was expressing to his son just how much the little boy was loved and cherished. The little boy’s face was a blend of emotions – shifting between a proud smile to fighting back tears. His parents shared that their son was clearly an empath, even at his young age, deeply sensitive and attuned to the emotions around him. The story concluded with a poignant message from the journalist, emphasizing how essential it is to hear the words “I love you” from a loved one, regardless of age or life stage.

The story took me back to my own childhood and the realization that I never once heard those three words. Not from my father anyway. Now, before you get all crazy on me, wipe that look of pity off your face, because I say that without any resentment or bitterness whatsoever; it was simply the way he was. My dad just couldn’t bring himself to say those words – not to me, not to my brothers, and, as I later discovered, not even to Mom. It was there in his heart, but he just couldn’t put it into syllables.

To be honest, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between my father and his kids. So, when we did get it, it was memorable. Did we feel unloved? Absolutely not. Maybe Mom filled in the gaps, or maybe we just understood that Dad was simply…being Dad. In his defense, he married at 40 and came from parents who treated affection like a rare treasure – something to keep hidden rather than put on display.

He was considered an older parent by the time kids came along. I remember Mom saying that Dad often joked, “Now I get why they say to have your kids when you’re young.” When Dad came home from work, he didn’t bolt outside to toss a baseball with his sons. He was tired. He wanted to relax, enjoy his one Pabst Blue Ribbon, have dinner, and settle into his favorite chair.

Later in the evening, we’d hear the comforting sound of the popcorn popper on the stove, always accompanied by a tall glass of lemonade.  That nightly ritual was an unspoken “I love you” from Mom to Dad.

It was most likely during a kitchen conversation with Mom regarding Dad’s inability to say those 3 cherished words, that I made a silent vow to myself. On my wedding day, I would find the courage to tell Dad I loved him. Maybe I hoped to hear those words echoed back, or maybe I just didn’t want to carry the regret of him leaving this earth without ever hearing them from me.

I was nineteen. Practically a toddler wearing mascara. My wedding day bloomed into one of the happiest days of my life…until it didn’t. Standing at the church doors, arm in arm with Dad, I felt ready. I was in glowing bride mode, until I looked up and saw all our family and friends gathered for our big event. In an instant, I became an emotional mess. 

This was my moment. I turned to Dad, ready to say the “I love you” I vowed I would say on my wedding day. But there he was – with a proud smile that had the emotional weight of an “I love you,” without him actually saying it. Before I could open my mouth, Dad leaned in and whispered, “You sure look perty.” That compliment broke me. My eyes welled up. My nose started to run, and there I was, clutching my father’s arm with one hand and gripping my bouquet with the other. I felt completely helpless, sniffing away, pretending I had it all together. Even if I had a tissue at my disposal, having a veil covering my face (a sure sign of the times), would have made nose blowing an impossible task.

It was now or never – the opportunity I had waited years for. The vow I made to myself echoing in my head. But instead of telling my father “I love you,” I said what any mature, loving daughter would say after hearing her father say he thought she looked “perty” – two vile, little words came spilling out of my mouth… SHUT UP! 

Truly, I blew my oath that day, not to my husband, but to myself. The words I had promised to say, never left my lips. Dad had derailed me with his quiet, heartfelt compliment. And I reciprocated with all the poise of a hormonal raccoon.

I remember visiting Mom and Dad at my old family home where the popcorn never missed a night. I’d sit at the organ and start playing Fascination, Dad’s favorite tune. It became our quiet little game: I’d play and wait to see how long it took him to notice. It never took long. From the other room I’d hear his signature cue: “Ah, there it is.” Occasionally, he’d get up from his chair, walk into the living room, and stand beside me while I played. No words exchanged, just shared breath and melody. That was our version of “I love you,” woven into the notes.

During my school years, I played both basketball and softball and my dad was always present at my games. Even in HS, seeing mom and dad’s face in the crowd was comforting and an inspiration to play my best.

Saturday evenings, Dad and I enjoyed watching the horror flicks after the 10pm news. We’d have popcorn, as dad never went a night without it. Dad always had claims on the rocker, while I laid on the hide-a-bed. Yep – the same one my brothers rolled me up in.

As I write this, something nudged me to glance at the calendar. July 8^th. I kid you not. It’s my dad’s birthday. Coincidence? Not a chance. He would’ve been 106 today. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone for 35 years now. I have classmates who still have at least one parent alive, and sometimes I do feel a flicker of envy – like I’ve been robbed of years that could’ve been.

My brothers and I have been orphans for 25 years now, but here’s the strange gift wrapped in our grief: we never had to make the heartbreaking decision to place a parent in a nursing home or witness the fog of dementia steal their recognition of us. We didn’t have to watch their bodies suffer slowly. And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Dad and I never exchanged the words “I love you.” And oddly enough, I have no regrets. His love didn’t need to be spelled out. It lived in presence, popcorn, and late-night monster movies. It showed up at my basketball games and softball fields, and in the friendly chaos of Twixt tournaments with my brothers.

I learned to love my coffee with creamer and sugar most likely because I’d take a sip from his cup every morning. When Father’s Day rolled around, we’d laugh because before we asked what he could use, we knew the answer. A new belt. Had to be brown. And maybe some new white T-shirts. V-neck, not crew.

When my time on this earth comes to a close and I take that quiet step into the next chapter, I know Dad will be there, one of the first to greet me. He’ll be waiting with that same steady warmth, maybe a pipe tucked in the corner of his mouth. No baby this time. When I run to embrace him, he’ll call me his “Lisa Bisa,” and we’ll share an Eskimo kiss.

And if there’s a welcome pizza party in the works? Let’s just pray they don’t send dad out to fetch it. Because he’ll come flying in with that box wedged under his arm, vertically of course, toppings cascading like melted confetti. Right beside him, there’ll be Mom, arms folded, rolling her eyes as she lets out that timeless sigh: “Oh, Dick!”

Let’s end with a toast. Grab your favorite cocktail. Tonight, I’ll be sipping a Seagram’s 7, one of dad’s favorites. Raise your glass high: Here’s to love felt, even when it’s not spoken. And here’s hoping that on the other side, he’s been instructed on the proper way to transport a pizza box.

Happy birthday, Dad. Tonight, I toast to all the quiet ways you made loud memories for me. I LOVE YOU! Cheers.”

Living in Iowa means keeping an eye on the sky, especially during tornado season. Each year, when the sirens wail and I’m ushered toward the basement, the safest spot should a twister pass through, I go through the same internal debate. The experts insist my chances of survival are best in the lower level of a house, but the thought of being trapped under layers of rubble, unable to move for hours or even days, feels worse than the alternative. A tornado whisking me away like an arrow shot into the sky? Well, I’ve always wanted to fly.

And then there’s my claustrophobia – defined as a deep-seated, irrational fear of confined spaces. Irrational to whom exactly? Because when I see rescue teams pulling someone alive from earthquake debris days later, I find myself gasping for air on their behalf. My personal version of hell involves barely breathing, unable to shift an inch, entombed in concrete and dust.

Even watching movies where someone is buried alive, stuck in a tiny space or deep underwater, sends me into deep, exaggerated breaths. My ever-hopeful husband wishes I’d join him in scuba diving. Sweet, naive man. The thought of being completely submerged in water, relying solely on a mouthpiece to breathe? No, thanks. I’ll admire the underwater world through GoPro footage from the safety of dry land.

Where did this claustrophobia begin? Let’s blame it on my brothers.

I vividly recall their creativity, which often involved me as the centerpiece of disaster: Once, they convinced me, against all logic, to lie sideways on a pullout mattress. Then they folded me up inside, shoved it back into the sofa, replaced the cushions, and sat on top, giggling as I lay crushed and immobilized, barely able to draw in a breath.

I heard one of them ask, “Heh, Mom, where’s Lisa?” – followed by my mother’s distant warning: “She better not be in that sofa!” Well, duh! Of course I was in that sofa! I must have been around five or six years old at the time. They were bored. I was convenient.

My brothers often turned me into their human guinea pig for any wild experiment they had concocted. Back in my childhood days, roller skates were adjustable to expand with your growing feet. They decided to dismantle the skates into 4 separate wheels, nail them to the corners of a plywood board, place a chair on top, set me on the chair – hands behind my back. What could possibly go wrong? Fortunately, they didn’t come up with the idea of blindfolding me too, although that may have proven better for me in the long run.

Our basement floor was bare cement, perfect for rolling an amateurish, contraption that screamed both creativity and potential disaster. But instead of gliding smoothly across the floor when they gave it a push, the wobbly chair started to go, taking me down with it.  I’ll never forget the terror of falling, unable to break my fall with my hands that were tied, and seeing the cement come rushing towards my head. 

The next thing I remember is waking up, running to the bathroom and throwing up.  Obvious to me now, I’m pretty sure I had a concussion.  My parents had clearly heard the commotion by this time and when I came out of the bathroom, they were standing at the bottom of the staircase.  I remember standing at the top, looking down at them, my dad with his arms outstretched.  I ran down those stairs and hugged him around his waist. Odd, considering that Mom is usually the go-to for trauma comfort.

Looking back, my brothers made sure my childhood was anything but dull. Although most of my basement memories involved terror, Sammy, our beloved cat giving birth in the laundry room was a softer moment, as was discovering a hidden stash of porn magazines in the crawlspace. That was a little less tender, more educational. Thanks again, bros.

I remember going in that crawlspace, which had sand as its base thus serving as the perfect litter box for Sammy. And dummy me for telling Mom, because she wasn’t about to crawl through the narrow opening to scoop out the poop.

That same laundry room where the kittens were born also housed an upright freezer that my brothers discovered held Santa’s Christmas presents. Another myth ruined by my ever-curious siblings.

And let’s not forget the night my dad, deep into a poker game with his friends, bellowed for me to “find the rabbit that just scurried across the floor.” Turns out, the baby rabbits I had rescued and bottle-fed had gone missing. Not anymore! I’m convinced the cage door was left open on purpose.

Despite the basement being the backdrop for many childhood traumas, there were a few silver linings. Saturday nights after the 10pm news, Dad and I watched classic horror films – Frankenstein, Dracula and the Mummy. I had the couch, Dad had his rocker, and naturally, we had popcorn. Sitting on top of the console TV was a fish aquarium, home to some Fancy Guppies. I found the soft lighting in the aquarium coupled with the low hum of the air filter soothing. And, I loved discovering new babies, until I learned that guppy parenting is less “nurturing” and more of an “all-you-can-eat buffet.” Traumatized again!

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass in a toast: “To the basements that shelter us, the tornadoes that test us, and the brothers who guarantee our lifelong commitment to therapy. May we never again be rolled up, tossed, or tricked into a confined space without an escape plan. And, if a tornado ever whisks us away, may we land somewhere warm, scenic, and with a fully stocked bar. May all of your storms be light. Cheers!”

We’ve all done it – walked into a room with grand purpose, only to realize we’ve entirely forgotten why we went in there. It’s that awkward moment when you stand frozen, staring into the abyss, hoping your brain will miraculously reboot. And if you’re not fortunate enough to be alone, you do your best to play it cool. A few evenings ago, while lying in bed with my husband, I found myself in one of those classic moments and let me tell you, it was a memorable one.

Hubby was reading his iPad, and I was scrolling through my phone, our standard nighttime routine. Out of the blue, I told him something that had happened earlier that day, something I needed to share with him that I thought was of importance. Or so I thought. There was utter silence. I waited. He said, “I’m sorry, hon. I heard what you said, but I was so close to finishing the article.”

In that moment, I spiraled into full-on panic mode. Not because he was rude for not answering me right away – no, that I could handle and was also a common occurrence. One I was very used to. The real crisis was that, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall what I’d just shared with him – literally ten seconds earlier. It was as if my thought train had chugged out of the station, hit full speed, and promptly derailed somewhere in the wilderness, never to be seen again.

“OMG, what was it I just said to you?” my voice sounding alarmed.

He smirked and said, “Wow, you’re losing it, hon.”

I was in no mood for joking around. My voice grew more concerned and louder. “Seriously, this is scary! I have no recollection of what I just said to you. Quit playing games when you can see I’m obviously upset.”

He shrugged again and said, “Guess you’ll just have to keep thinking.”

The fear of not remembering, coupled with the frustration I was now feeling at him for blowing me off, forced a few nasty expletives, “Damn it, why are you acting like this? This isn’t funny.” However, it was about to be.

That’s when he started laughing hysterically. I stared at him incredulously. “How can you be so cruel when I’m clearly struggling?” I asked.

Though his laughter, he somehow managed to get out the words: “Because I can’t remember either!”

And just like that, we both dissolved into laughter – though I’m not sure if it was the kind of laughter that brings relief or the kind that signals we’re officially spiraling into mutual memory loss territory. While his inability to remember was technically reassuring, it did nothing to ease the gnawing realization that my brain synapses might be clocking out early these days.

Whenever these moments strike, and too often around my kids, naturally it’s their job to tease me about finding me a home. I attempt to reassure them (and myself) that it has nothing to do with age. It’s just that my mind is overflowing with so many brilliant ideas, that whenever I try sharing them, my brain starts buffering like a vintage computer stuck on dial-up.

In my quest to find a logical explanation for my brain farts, I consulted with Dr. Google, my go-to-physician. I discovered there’s a real scientific term for the phenomenon and it has nothing to do with age. It’s called the “Doorway Effect.” According to Dr. Radvansky, a professor at Notre Dame, passing through a doorway essentially sends a signal to your brain instructing it to file away the memory episode of activity you were working on in room A (the room you just left) in order to start a new memory episode for room B (the room you just walked into). Dr. Radvansky continues, “Entering or exiting through a doorway serves as an “event boundary” in the mind, which separates episodes of activity and files them away. Recalling the decision or activity that was made in a different room is difficult because it has been compartmentalized. 

Are some of you shaking your head? Because I am! I’m picturing myself when I use to work at the OB/GYN office, and if every time I walked into a new patient room, I forgot what I came in the room for, because after all, I just passed through brain-draining technology, it would have been an absolute train wreck. With memory-sucking doorways, an OB/GYN office could become a comedy sketch show. Picture this: in a desperate attempt to outwit the doorways, the staff develops quirky rituals to hold onto their thoughts.  Doctors walk backwards into rooms, chanting their tasks like a mantra: “paaaap tesssst….Paaaap tesssst…” And it’s not just OB/GYN offices obviously. I’m pretty sure other buildings have doorways too.  Like ALL OF THEM!

I can envision it now – my kids flipping through brochures for assisted living facilities, calling out, “Mom, this one has bingo on Thursdays! And oh, this one has a koi pond and memory games! You’ll love it there!” Meanwhile, I’ll play their little game by deliberately calling my boys by each other’s names. Who am I kidding? That last one’s already my specialty.

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand high in a toast: “To the doorways and Dr. Radvansky, for giving us something truly scientific to blame our memory lapses on – that it’s not our age, but the architecture to blame! May the good doctor never forget to reverse his order, as a minor directional mistake and your flu shot might come with stirrups and a pap smear chaser. While we may forget why we walked into a room, may we never forget to refill our glass while we’re there. Cheers!”

If you’ve read my first blog, I may have said something about my posts being like a conversation among friends after a margarita or two. Well, after all, I am going on my seventh blog, so let’s have one on the rocks and get straight to it.

There are some FB posts that just leave me pondering human behavior. If you can relate to any of these, drop me a line – misery loves company. If you think I’m totally insensitive, we can discuss that too. Preferably with chips and queso.

There’s just something about the “Happy heavenly birthday” posts on FB, that have me shaking my head. First of all, you already said “heavenly birthday,” so their current celestial status is well established. Then to remove any shred of doubt, you tack on: “To my mother in heaven.” Got it. Noted. She’s not checking notifications up there.

Now, before you all pounce on me, I totally understand celebrating milestones online. I get the posts saying, “Happy birthday to my 1-year-old,” who obviously isn’t scrolling through FB like a tiny influencer – yet. It’s just a sweet way of sharing joy with friends and family. But publicly wishing someone who’s no longer checking notifications from this realm, a birthday shout out on social media? That one baffles me.

Let’s just admit it, 99.99% of the reason it’s posted is because deep down, people have a need to hear the responses. “I’m so sorry. She was one of a kind. I miss her too. Her meatloaf was second to none. The comments roll in, validating grief, offering comfort, and letting the author soak up a little extra emotional support. Sometimes people need that.

Do I remember my mother on her birthday or the anniversary of her death? You bet I do. Do I talk to her? Of course. But do I need a digital audience for it? Nope. Some things are sacred without the need for likes, comments, or heartfelt emoji reactions. I only hope those who post “Happy heavenly birthday” also whisper it when no one’s scrolling.

That said, if posting a birthday message to your loved one brings you comfort, I fully respect that. This is just one of those little quirks that gets under my skin for no real reason other than, well, it’s just me. My problem. My pet peeve.

While there are several more FB quirks I could lovingly dissect, I’ll save those gems for another day. For now, I’ll end with this one. It really doesn’t annoy me as much as it just makes me tilt my head and wonder if we’re all being honest with ourselves. Maybe a part of me even wants to call people out on it. Shame on me for thinking that.

Let’s talk about one of those classic phrases that we all use without thinking. We see it every day while scrolling social media: “My thoughts and prayers are with you.” It does have a lovely sentiment to it. It’s heartfelt, kind, and most of the time, it’s what pops out because we don’t know what else to say when we’ve read sad news.

This is what I’m always left wondering. Did the person commenting really pause for a second and send up a prayer? Or was it just an autopilot response – typed and sent, and then promptly forgotten? I mean, I get it, life moves fast and sometimes words are all we have. But for me, this phrase feels too easy, too routine, too cliché.

If I tell someone “I’m offering up a prayer for you,” (and I intentionally phrase it differently than the cliché version), you can bet that in that moment, I stopped what I was doing, closed my eyes, and sent up an actual request for peace, comfort or strength for that person. Maybe lingered a little longer because well, if I’m saying it, I want to mean it. And if I don’t do it now, I’ll forget.

I’m not here to police anyone’s well-meaning condolences. If “thoughts and prayers” brings comfort, then by all means, use it! But, if reading this makes even one person stop for an extra second before saying the phrase, if it leads them to actually offer up a prayer instead of just typing words, then mission accomplished. Keep saying it…just follow through with the action behind the words. And think of me…you’re welcome!

Time to grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass in a toast: “Here’s to the happy heavenly birthday posts fishing for sympathy in familiar Facebook waters. May your dearly departed raise a heavenly cocktail and toast you from the pearly bar, whispering, “I felt the love, sweetie, even without the comment thread.” And to those thoughts and prayers? Remember, they only count if you actually say one. Amen, and Cheers!”

Life loves a good plot twist. If you’d have told me years ago that I’d marry a man who’s my exact height, wears the same shoe size, has legs smoother than a baby’s behind, and let’s be real – rocks a smaller butt than I do, I would have asked you what you were smoking. And the biggest twist? He’s Asian! So, yeah, new motto: never say never!

Clearly, life doesn’t always go as we’d hoped, as I never thought divorce would be a part of my story either. But here I am. While the cultural differences in my second marriage often shook things up, several I’ve learned to accept, and a few I’ve even grown surprisingly fond of.

Being married to an Asian man has come with its share of culture shocks, quirks, and let’s call them “translation adventures.” A prime example? Texting. Over the years, I’ve learned that often what he reads and interprets is not at all what I intended. He’ll come home from work, holding up his phone as if it’s Exhibit A, asking, “What’s this mean? In my not surprisingly sarcastic way, I reply saying these words ever so slowwwwly… “Y o u   s p e a k   n o   E n g l i s h?” For some reason, he doesn’t see the humor in that. But I always do!

So, I’ve had to learn to craft my messages so they’re clear, direct and complete. Complete means it ends with an emoji. Emojis aren’t just optional – they’re essential. Maybe it’s because he’s a physician and spends his day interpreting pain scales – those silly little cartoon faces telling you how miserable someone feels. If I don’t at least respond with a thumbs-up, a heart, or something that says, “I’m here. I read it,” he doesn’t just think I’m busy, he thinks I’m being dismissive. Like I read his message, shrugged, and walked away. Of course I would never think of doing such a thing.

Being married to an Asian also has included some genuinely funny and heartwarming moments among the cultural confusion. Most of those adventures take place in the shed surrounded by his cronies.

Now, when I say shed, I mean the “man cave,” referring to the majestic retreat tucked inside a big ol’ metal outbuilding, not far from the house. It’s not fancy. It’s got a kitchen, some questionable furniture and absolutely no pressure for me to clean the house when company comes over. Every wife needs a man cave. It’s a survival strategy for marriage. A win/win for both parties.

When his Asian buddies gather there, it’s casual, loud, warm, has the lingering scent of a cigar, and always an abundance of the best food. Holy moly can these guys cook! Every visit is a culinary celebration, and they roll in with enough food and drinks to feed a small village.

Generally, it’s men’s night in the shed, but every now and then I like to make a guest appearance. I’ll wander down to say hi and share a beer with the crew. There’s never a lack of conversation. And by conversation, I mean 5 men all talking to me at the exact same time… about 5 different subjects.

I never know who to give my attention to, so I just smile and let my head bob in agreement – turning from side to side like I’m watching the world’s most confusing tennis match. I try to give one person my attention, but then I hear a “Lisa,” and I whip my head in that direction, only to realize the first guy is still going, completely unfazed. To the guy who now has my attention, he’s so far into his topic, I’m completely clueless. Apparently, in this circle of friends, eye contact is optional.

At some point I’ll catch my husband’s eye from across the table. He’s laughing, fully aware of the chaos unfolding, and thoroughly entertained by my helplessness. He knows I struggle enough just to pay attention to one person talking, let alone 5. Between the talking all at once, I have no clue what anybody’s talking about, but I leave oddly flattered that I was the VIP on everyone’s conversational guest list. Just don’t ask me what we discussed.

Cultural differences sneak in, but once I hear the why behind their reason for doing something a certain way, I generally find it incredibly endearing. Take round tables, for instance. My husband hates long rectangular tables, generally found in American restaurants. Why? Because they’re the enemy of equality. You can only talk to who’s next to you or directly across. But a round table? Now you’re talking equality. Everyone sees everyone. Everyone’s included. At a round table, everyone’s got a voice. And somehow, they all use it at once.

On occasion, when the adult kids and grandkids come home, we go out for Chinese at a favorite restaurant – the one with round tables, naturally. Now that we’re all situated around the table with everyone visible, everyone audible, everyone into 5 different stories, (just kidding), it’s time to order.

The American way? Easy. Pick your entrée, guard it with your fork, maybe offer a bite if someone begs. But in my husband’s world, we share. That means family-style ordering and that is where the Lazy Susan spins into action. The food goes on, we give her a whirl, and you take a small sampling out of each of the many entrees directly in front of you.

The idea of family style ordering is endearing. It’s about sharing and everyone getting to have a little bite of everything. Which is beautiful…unless you were really counting on having ALL that Mongolian beef to yourself. And as for leftovers? They aren’t merely a by-product of this great family-style smorgasbord, they’re intentional. Because what’s more satisfying than walking out with four drippy Styrofoam takeout boxes, and the sweet promise of tomorrow’s lunch, dinner and midnight snack?

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass in a toast: “To the overlapping conversations and head nods, to the smooth-legged man I married, who swears it’s because he’s further evolved from the apes, and to learning that beneath every cultural quirk is a value like sharing or equality that makes the whole beautiful mess make sense. CHEERS!”

Never in my life has a pedicure left me to confront what time and age are quietly doing to my body – until today.

Crystal, my pedicure gal, started out with the usual routine – a clip here, a file there, a good leg and foot scrub. And then, the best part – “The Heeler Peeler Pro”. I have no idea of its official name, but this large, metal flat object looks to me like a lemon rind zester. Except instead of zesting citrus, it shaves off layers from my calloused heels, a reminder why going barefoot may mean freedom, but the heels pay the price.

Even though the whole thing borders on the grotesque, I can’t help but get excited when she pulls it out of her drawer! Crystal works her magic, and after a few decisive strokes of the zester, she taps it on the towel to dispose of the evidence, which, quite frankly, leaves me equal parts horrified and deeply satisfied. Not an attractive sight for a person sitting beside me, so I was relieved that the chair beside me was vacant.

But something happened at today’s visit I wasn’t expecting, nor had I ever had happen before. In the blink of an eye, Crystal seized a shaver and gave my big toe knuckle a casual swipe like it was part of her morning routine. I sat frozen, wondering if now pedicures came with hair removal services below the ankle. Crystal went about her business like this was the most natural thing in the world. Not to me! I wondered if, on previous appointments, she had ignored my toe hair out of mercy or was building suspense for her grand toe-topiary reveal.

While I pondered these important mysteries of life, with my freshly polished toes drying under the UV lamp, something extraordinary happened.

On the salon’s TV, a special live coverage report aired. Pope Leo XIV, the newly elected pope, stepped onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica. Although I haven’t actively practiced Catholicism in nearly 2 decades, I was born and raised in the faith. And yet, watching him stand there, addressing the world, sent chills up and down my body – repeatedly.

I’m sure you’ve heard or read something that touched you to your core, only to feel those chills wash over you. Often, we hear people exclaim, “Oh wow, I just got goosebumps.” Next time you feel those chills, pause for a moment. Take it as a sign that what you witnessed carries more meaning than you may realize. Sometimes, it’s a message, a confirmation, or a quiet whisper from something beyond us, nudging us to pay attention.

By the time I walked out of the salon and got in my car, many thoughts were racing in my mind. There was no outrage over the pope’s election. No rioting. No bitter protests. No social media meltdowns claiming the papal election was stolen. Granted, this just happened. But when in the past was there an uproar over the selection of a new pope? There is only unity, reverence, and celebration.

What if leadership outside of the Vatican worked that way?

Imagine if, instead of divisive campaigns and social media wars, we let the Cardinals select our next president, the same way they pick a pope. At least they care about moral integrity. Instead of choosing candidates based on popularity or political maneuvering, they’d pick someone rooted in humility, service, and moral character – qualities we could use more of in our government.

And here’s another thing – when the pope speaks, the world listens, believing what it hears. Nobody scrambles for a fact-checking website. Nobody rolls their eyes, expecting spin, exaggeration, or flat-out deception. There’s no need to prepare for tomorrow’s correction of today’s awkward half-truths. And, mercifully, nobody is taking Fireball shots every time the words “nobody’s ever seen anything quite like it before,” are uttered while playing a drinking game to make what we hear more tolerable. We just trust what the pope says.

Perhaps it all comes down to faith. The world embraces the election of a pope because, at the end of the day, he’s a man of God. He is chosen through prayer, discernment, and tradition, not by campaigns designed to manipulate public perception. I believe that’s what’s missing in our leadership today – a true moral compass, a foundation in faith, and an unwavering commitment to serve something greater than oneself.

Yet, instead of embracing faith, our society keeps pushing it further away, removing God from classrooms, leadership, and public life as if morality can thrive without Him.

Of course, politics isn’t the papal conclave. We don’t get white smoke, and we certainly don’t get leaders selected based on who best serves the people. Instead, what we are getting feels more like black smoke – cloudy, murky, and suffocating. No clear signal, no unifying moment, just confusion, division, and leadership that leaves us choking instead of inspired.

Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass high in a toast: “To the little wins: freshly polished and an embarrassingly shaved toe. To the big wins we’re still waiting on – like leaders that give us goosebumps instead of migraines; leaders we can trust without needing to fact-check and a world where elections inspire cheers instead of social media wars. Congratulations and CHEERS to Pope Leo XIV!”