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Twenty-five years ago this morning, I boarded my regular 8:15 a.m. United flight from LaGuardia to Denver. I made that trip all the time. Don and I were living in Connecticut. I was working for Einstein Bros. Bagels and traveled frequently to our corporate office in Colorado. Don worked in advertising in New York City. We didn't have Elli yet. What we didn't know, was that eight weeks later, on November 5, she would be born in China and would eventually become our daughter. My boarding pass is taped in my purple diary. It became part of our adoption story. That morning, though, it was just another Tuesday. Until it wasn't. Somewhere in the air, our plane changed course. We were told we were being diverted to Chicago, but no one would tell us why. At first, I was annoyed. I had a meeting in Denver. I couldn't get my cell phone to work. I was going to be late. It's strange to think about that now. Eventually, another passenger got through to someone on his ph...

There are some foods you forget five minutes after you eat them. And then apparently there is potato salad you remember for 30 years. We were invited to a Labor Day weekend BBQ today, and when I asked my friend what I could bring, she said, “A side dish.” Easy enough. They’re making burgers and steaks. Someone is bringing mac and cheese. There will be roasted squash, corn salad, dips, chips—all the things you want at an end-of-summer BBQ. And for some reason, my brain immediately went: Potato salad. But not just any potato salad. Thirty-ish years ago, when we lived in Texas, we used to go to a BBQ restaurant called Red Hot & Blue. It wasn’t fancy. It was the kind of place we’d pop into for lunch—casual, a little quirky, with funny pig artwork and sayings all over the walls. And boy, was it good. They had the BEST pulled pork sandwiches. Real Texas BBQ. The kind I still haven’t been able to find here in California. But the thing I remember just as clearly? The potato salad. I can st...

For years, I stood on a regular bathroom scale every single day. I watched the number go up or down, and called that "health tracking." It wasn't. After nearly a decade in the fitness industry, having free access to an InBody and several years coaching people toward better health, I finally bought a GE Smart Body Fat Scale to have at home. Apparently I've been measuring the least interesting thing on my body. Fair warning... This thing sends a tiny electrical current through your body every morning. Weird? Absolutely. Alarming? Not at all.  Keep reading... THE FIRST WEIGH-IN The first time I stepped on it, I expected... Weight. Instead, it handed me what felt like my annual performance review. Weight. Body fat. Muscle mass. Body water. Bone mass. Visceral fat. BMI. BMR. Metabolic age. At one point I expected it to ask if I'd flossed recently. 😂 THE OLD SCALE.... A regular scale measures gravity's opinion of your body. That's it. It can't tell whether ...

My life flashed before my eyes today. Again. It's the second time in a month. There's a busy intersection in Woodside that we cross every day to walk the dogs. A few weeks ago, the walk signal came on. We stepped toward the crosswalk when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a driver in the car to my left glance left, tap the brakes, and gun it right (without even looking to the right.) He missed us by inches. I may have yelled something less than inspirational. Since then, even when the walk signal says "Go," I wait a beat. Today, that one little habit may have saved us - again! The walk signal came on. I paused. A split second later, a car came flying through the red light. If we'd started walking when we were supposed to, we would have been standing in the middle of the intersection.  A few months ago I watched the cutest little chipmunk get hit by a car on this same street. The driver never stopped. I was convinced he was dead. He didn't move. Not an inch. ...

Last weekend we bought a bag of pears at the Pear Fair. As we were loading them into the car, Don looked at the bag and said, "There's no way we're going to eat all of these before they go bad." I looked at the same bag and thought... "We'll make a dessert and share it with our neighbors at Wine Down on Friday." Same pears. Completely different perspectives. Don saw fruit that might end up in the compost. I saw Friday night's dessert. It made me realize that's how I've always moved through life. When I discover a buttery Chardonnay, I immediately think of my mom because I know she'd love it. If I find a great restaurant, I text a friend. If I visit a museum, a winery, or a little festival that's worth the drive, I usually end up sharing it—not because I want people to know where I've been, but because I'm already thinking about who else might enjoy it. I've realized I don't just collect experiences. I collect things wo...

Years ago, someone told me that if you wear pink on Monday, you'll have a better day and a better start to the week. Is it true? I have absolutely no idea. I've never looked for a scientific study. I don't know if psychologists have measured the mood-boosting effects of a pink sweater or whether wearing a rosy blouse increases productivity by 17%. But I kind of hope no one ever disproves it. Because every Sunday night, when I'm deciding what to wear, I still think about it. And more often than not, I reach for something pink. Maybe it's because pink feels optimistic. It's hard to be in a bad mood wearing a color that reminds you of spring flowers, sunsets, cotton candy, and birthday frosting. Or maybe it's because the ritual itself matters. We all have little things we do that probably don't change the outcome—but they change us . A favorite coffee mug. A lucky pen. The same playlist before a big meeting. Walking the dog before opening the laptop. Sittin...