I’ve been putting my liver through a rigorous training program since my 21st birthday. I wasn’t a high school teetotaler — too much of a nerd for that — and I was even worse at drinking in college. I didn’t care for beer (Black Label? Can you blame me?), so we’d beer-bong the stuff just to kickstart a night of bad dance moves and worse decisions.

While my friends stocked up on Sun Country Wine Coolers, I’d proudly tote my “bottles of wine” — and I use the term wine loosely because those bottles were barely an upgrade from grape juice. Still, I preferred them over coolers.

My 20s? I was the ultimate weekend warrior. Monday through Friday, I was a cubicle queen; Friday night through Sunday morning, I was up until sunrise, thriving on a recovery time measured in hours, not days. Two nights in a row? Easy.

Then came my 30s — a time when my social life morphed into playdates and grape juice of the fermented kind. The Welch’s variety was replaced by Pinot Noir, and our kitchen tables became makeshift wine bars.

My 40s brought the art form of day drinking. It’s the perfect blend of fun and function — a sunny afternoon rosé with enough time to recover before bedtime. That is, until “I’ll only stay for one drink” turns into seven hours later, uncontrollable laughter, drunk dialing, and emergency pizza  that live in infamy for days.

Pro tip: Hydrate — obviously. But if you can down a little Perfect Amino electrolytes before the lights go out, you might just survive to toast another Happy Hour.

I’m a self-identified Christmas Crazy. Not the type who starts shopping in July (that level of commitment deserves its own Hallmark movie), but the kind of crazy who owns twenty of those body-sized Costco black-and-yellow bins—yes, those bins—stuffed with holiday decor. I. LOVE. CHRISTMAS.

The rules in our house? Decorations up by Thanksgiving, Christmas music only until December 26th, and don’t even try to count carbs during the season—there will be cookies, and they will be nonstop.

Despite my festive obsession, I hadn’t made the ultimate pilgrimage: New York City at Christmastime. Last December, that wish finally came true. Pro tip: Plan early. Book in July unless you want to take out a second mortgage to stay near Midtown, where all the magic happens. We found a charming little hotel in Murray Hill, just a short stroll from Grand Central.

Our first stop? The Radio City Christmas Spectacular. Even my husband was wowed—those Rockettes are next-level. Of course, you can’t skip Rockefeller Center. Sure, it’s wall-to-wall people, but the tree is so impressive it’s worth the crowd shuffle.

Walking Fifth Avenue is like stepping into a snow globe of high fashion and twinkling lights. The window displays are incredible, but Bergdorf Goodman is the crown jewel. I still mourn the days of Henri Bendel and Barneys, but Bergdorf’s is the last independently owned luxury icon—and inside feels like pure Christmas magic.

Want a true Eloise moment? The Plaza requires reservations just to peek inside the lobby, so plan ahead. For a kitschy Christmas finale, brave the line at Rolf’s German Restaurant. The decorations? Over-the-top fabulous. The drinks? Overpriced—but worth every penny for the Instagram moment.

Living in Minneapolis comes with its quirks — we gave the world Prince, we host the mother of all malls, and we have a direct line to paradise. During high season (otherwise known as sub-zero hell), EIGHT daily flights shoot straight from MSP to Cancun.

That 5 a.m. flight? It’s my winter escape ritual. I shuffle out in Tory Burch flip-flops, sheer linen pants, and a six-dollar Target tank, tiptoeing across the snow-crushed driveway like I’m crossing a frozen battlefield. Practical? Not even a little. But when you’re beach-bound in under five hours, who needs socks?

The vibe on board is pure Minnesota solidarity. We’re all on the same mission: Vitamin D, SPF roulette (always start with 50), and Bloody Marys by 9 a.m. My new best friend in seat 2B is already tipsy and spilling her favorite swimsuit coverup secrets before we hit cruising altitude.

Here’s my other winter survival hack: choose your hotel like you choose your soulmate. I’m unapologetically a Marriott Mistress. My corporate travel loyalty points are basically love letters, and I’ve been known to pick a Fairfield Inn over a Waldorf Astoria because, well, free nights are relationship goals.

So when it’s Mexico time, the JW Marriott Cancun is my forever go-to. It’s polished without being pretentious, with an elevator that whisks you straight from your room to the sand — no awkward swimsuit catwalk through the lobby. The beach, perched just above the public stretch, delivers endless turquoise views, soothing waves, and margaritas that appear as if summoned by some sun-soaked wizard.

From frostbite to flip-flops, Minnesota may keep me grounded, but Marriott always gets me to the beach.

You know that moment when your therapist says, “Close your eyes. Picture your happy place. Breathe”? I’m willing to bet most people envision a beach. Quiet. Remote. Maybe a hammock with a gentle breeze. I found that place. Actually, we found it—my husband and I—tucked away in Costa Rica.

Our first trip was inspired by a Conde Nast article featuring a tiny casita on a six-mile stretch of beach where the population was roughly 450… and zero of them were ever on the sand. On one side? Mangroves. On the other? The Pacific Ocean. No air conditioning, no room service—just howler monkeys acting as the loudest, most judgmental alarm clocks at sunrise.

Showers? Outdoors, naturally, and shared with the occasional blue land crab. When the rain poured too hard, scorpions sometimes decided to move in. (Free roommates—what a deal!) But somehow, we loved it.

Mornings were spent watching hermit crabs hustle like Wall Street brokers, Costa Rican coffee in hand. Hours slipped by, barefoot and makeup-free, because the few restaurants in Playa Zancudo sit directly on the sand. Shoes? Optional. Stress? Nonexistent.

When we weren’t scanning the six-mile beach for shells (or actual humans), we took mangrove and rainforest tours, or simply perfected the art of sipping Ron Centenario Rum at every possible meal.

This isn’t for the “I need a cabana boy and a cabernet” crowd. But if complete peace, natural beauty, and a touch of wild adventure are your vibe, Playa Zancudo might just be your happy place too.

Where do you go to get your husband to dress up like a tropical bird and samba his heart out for an hour? Naturally, you head to Rio de Janeiro—where feathers, rhythm, and questionable decisions under the influence of caipirinhas are not only accepted but encouraged.

It was my first trip to South America, and let me tell you—it will not be my last. The beaches, the people, the music, the everything. I finally understood the lyrics to “The Girl from Ipanema.” Every other woman strutting down the beach looked like Gisele’s long-lost cousin—tall, tan, and wearing about two inches of fabric, if that. Modesty in Rio is basically optional; a string bikini is considered business casual.

Copacabana and Ipanema beaches were a kaleidoscope of chaos in the best way: umbrellas splashing color, samba beats floating through the air, vendors juggling trays of grilled cheese-on-a-stick, and the sun doing its very best to melt us all. It was glorious. Naturally, we checked off some tourist icons. Christ the Redeemer? Even bigger than you’d think, arms outstretched like he’s about to give the whole city a hug. And the panoramic views? Worth every sweaty, winding stair.

Between caipirinha breaks (seriously, how is sugarcane liquor that good?), we hiked up Sugarloaf Mountain, gorged ourselves at an authentic Brazilian steakhouse (it’s a carnivore’s dream and a vegan’s fever dream), and attempted samba in the Lapa neighborhood. Let’s just say... we won’t be joining Dancing with the Stars anytime soon, but we nailed the “enthusiasm” score.

One of the coolest surprises? The Museum of Tomorrow. Futuristic architecture meets existential questions about climate, tech, and humanity—with air conditioning. A win-win.

We ran out of time before catching a match at Maracanã Stadium, which means one thing: we have to go back. Next time, I’ll pack lighter—emotionally and literally. In Rio, all you need is sunscreen, sunglasses, and your most daring swimsuit. And maybe a few feathers. Just in case.

Last fall we wandered over to Austria in search of schnitzel, alpine air, and a few Sound of Music vibes. While Salzburg didn't make the cut this trip, we did spend a few magical nights in Innsbruck—snugly tucked up against the jaw-dropping Tyrolean Alps.

One of the highlights? Taking the Nordkettenbahn, a futuristic cable car that whisks you from charming cobblestone streets to Hafelekar Peak, a breezy 7,400 feet up. The ride alone is worth it, but the panoramic views at the top are next-level. Think mountain drama meets crisp mountain air meets “am I in a screensaver?” vibes. Naturally, we toasted the moment with Stiegl Goldbräu at the Seegrube restaurant—because beer just hits different above the clouds.

Back down on earth (and back in socks), we headed to Ambras Castle, which proudly claims the title of first museum in the world. Yep—in the world. Just hop in a time machine and rewind 450 years. Not to be outshone by the priceless armor and portraits inside, the castle grounds boast some of the most magical trees I’ve ever laid eyes—or arms—on. Here’s a quirky little tradition of mine: I hug trees. Not every tree, but when one really speaks to me—majestic, grounded, storm-weathered and wise—I give it a good squeeze. It started years ago as a joke, and somewhere along the line, turned into something unexpectedly grounding. (Pun intended.) The one at Ambras Castle? A worthy hugger. Strong, knotted, ancient. I like to think it didn’t mind.

Later, we strolled through Innsbruck’s historic Old Town, where pastel-painted buildings pop against the Alpine backdrop like a Wes Anderson movie come to life. We paused at the Golden Roof—a 52-foot-wide balcony covered in gilded tiles, built by Emperor Maximilian for his wedding in (not a typo) 1500. He really said: go big, or go back to Bavaria.

Innsbruck is one of those places that wraps its arms around you with a quiet, colorful charm. Mountain air, medieval history, and spontaneous tree hugging? Just my kind of adventure

You know that elusive bucket list we all swear we’re working on? Mine mostly still lives on my vision board… except for one sparkling exception. I finally got to live out my dream of sleeping in a bungalow over the ocean. Yes, friends, I hauled myself across 27 hours of flights (plural, and yes, I wore compression socks) to land in paradise: the Maldives.

We stayed on Vommuli Island, a tiny atoll whose only resident is the St. Regis. No cars, just beach cruisers and your own two feet. My personal record for biking the entire island? Six minutes flat. Competition may not be relaxing for everyone, but beating my husband on a bike with one gear? That’s my kind of self-care. A week here is ideal: long enough to fully exhale, short enough to still fit into your swimsuit. My top recommendations? Spend a day at the Iridium Spa, and don’t miss sunset at the Whale Bar, where they saber champagne. Yes, that’s now on my résumé under “special skills.” And oh—our room came with a butler. A real, actual butler. He was lovely, though I was too Midwestern to fully lean in. I wanted to ask for four ice cubes engraved with my initials for my nightcap, but instead I just said thank you too many times and made my own tea. Baby steps.

All in all, a dream trip I can’t recommend enough. Maldives: 10/10. Will diva harder next time.