I remember my first taste of red wine—well, what I thought was red wine. My first communion. I didn’t exactly savor the dry, cardboard wafer, but oh, that mysterious sip of “wine.” I wanted to circle back for seconds, giving the minister a “don’t be shy” nudge on the pour. My parents wondered why I suddenly had a near-perfect Sunday school attendance record. (I had my grape reasons.)

Fast forward to my twenties, when I was living my best life on a budget. I graduated from Boone’s Farm to Black Box Wine, thinking I had ascended the wine ladder, lightyears cooler than my Franzia friends. Box wine and Lean Cuisines were practically their own food group. My apartment in Appleton, Wisconsin, became the hotspot for gatherings featuring not charcuterie, but whatever could fit on a paper plate with a side of questionable decisions.

Then I met a sommelier. RIP, Black Box Wines. Suddenly, I was hosting wine tastings with my friends—none of us old enough to be a “properly aged cabernet,” but very committed to purple-stained teeth and dreams of Tuscany. I subscribed to Food & Wine, plastered Italy and Napa Valley across my vision boards, and began my true love affair with red wine.

As my taste (and paycheck) matured, I honed in on wines that feel like a treat without needing a second mortgage. One favorite that’s never failed me? Belle Glos Dairyman. From California’s Russian River Valley, this Caymus-owned beauty is named after Lorna Belle Glos Wagner (James Wagner’s grandmother, because every good wine deserves a good matriarch).

You can often snag it for under $40 on sale. It’s velvety and bold—perfect with grilled meats, decadent cheeses, or just because Tuesday deserves a toast.

True confession: I’m a sucker for anything sparkly. Not tacky-bedazzled sparkly, but the classy kind — the kind that drips from a crystal chandelier or dangles elegantly from an earlobe. I firmly believe every day deserves a little sparkle, a dash of pizzazz. (My closet? Equal parts tennis shoes with glitter, rhinestones for flair, and a few “real ones” for street cred.)

Which brings me to one of my favorite sparkly escapes in North America: The Chandelier Bar at The Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas. I was there the year they opened in 2010 — full disclosure, I stumbled across it during a work conference, and it’s been love at first sip ever since.

While I’m a wino at heart, sometimes I like to mix it up with a proper martini, Bond-style. Shaken, not stirred, with Belvedere vodka — my ride-or-die since 1998 — and a crisp lemon twist. Unless, of course, I’m at a steakhouse where the bartender swears he started his shift hand-stuffing Spanish queen olives with Maytag blue cheese. (Pro tip: always ask when they were stuffed. Freshly stuffed olives? Life-changing.)

And the people-watching? Pure entertainment. There’s something about sipping a martini while cocooned inside a glimmering chandelier that makes Vegas feel like your stage. Whether it’s a girls’ trip, a post-conference cocktail, or a solo glam moment, this bar is a must for anyone who appreciates a mix of luxury and sparkle.

As one of the many James Bonds said, “To your health.” And to a little sparkle, always.

Let’s get one thing straight—I’m not the type to walk up to a bar and declare, “Beer me!”
More specifically, not, “Coors Light, good sir.”

I had my beer moment, thank you very much. Back in the late ’90s, when it was peak cool to order a New Glarus Spotted Cow (Sconnie pride!) or say “I’ll have a Fat Tire,” which in hindsight was foreshadowing the belly bloat that came with it. The real crown jewel of beer chic? “A Blue Moon with a slice of orange, please.” Belgian white in one hand, Steve Madden platforms on my feet, baby doll dress fluttering—I thought I was it.

But alas, my beer days were fleeting. All that wheat, the puffiness, the salt cravings, the unflattering waistband expansion… I retired from the beer aisle before Y2K could judge me. And then, like a gift from the fashion gods, Sex and the City ushered in the age of the Cosmopolitan. Thank you, Carrie Bradshaw. You were my skinny, vodka-soaked savior.

That said, when one finds herself in Germany—more specifically, Munich—you simply must surrender to the beer gods. Resistance is futile.

A non-negotiable stop: Hofbräuhaus am Platzl, the iconic three-story beer hall founded in 1589 as a royal brewery. It’s enormous, loud, and wildly fun. Between the oompah brass band and locals in lederhosen, it’s Bavarian energy turned up to eleven. Order a Brezn (a pretzel roughly the size of your face, or a wearable bracelet if you're bold), a sausage or three, and of course, a frothy stein of something local.

Waddle, I mean wander, down to Marienplatz in time for the Glockenspiel show (daily at noon and 5pm—it’s delightfully quirky and yes, the figurines spin). And since you’ve already carb-loaded, it’s only fair to climb to the top of St. Peter’s Church for panoramic views that stretch all the way to the Alps on a clear day. Worth every stair.

We also wandered through the English Garden, which is bigger than Central Park and home to actual river surfers riding man-made waves (because Munich said, “Let’s surf a creek!”). Stroll beneath the chestnut trees until you hit the Chinese Tower beer garden, where—you guessed it—more beer awaits.

Even this former beer girl had to admit: when in Munich, raise your stein and prost like a local. Just maybe pack your stretchy pants.

If you’re anything like me, the moment the thermometer hits 70, I commit. Not to fitness. Not to clean eating. I commit, wholeheartedly and with zero regret, to rosé.

It’s not a phase—it’s a seasonal lifestyle. From that first warm breeze until the threat of frostbite returns, I’m a rosé girl. And while I aspire to drink like a French heiress, my budget reminds me I’m more Target-chic than Château life. So each summer, I set off on a noble quest: to find the elusive unicorn of pink wine—delicious, drinkable, and affordable enough to enjoy on a Tuesday.

There was the Whispering Angel summer, where I floated on pink wings until they clipped my wallet. Then came the Hampton Water era—Jon Bon Jovi’s wine baby—when I was a few sips away from changing my zip code to “Hamptons Adjacent.” And don’t get me started on Minerva, the rosé from Brad and Angelina’s Château Miraval. Honestly? That’s the best thing they ever produced (apologies to Shiloh). But this year? I found her. My glass-half-full, affordable, dependable daily pour: Villa Wolf Rosé. She’s pale salmon pink—because yes, color matters—and made from Pinot Noir, one of my forever favorite grapes. The taste? Light, crisp, a bit of raspberry, a splash of strawberry, and a finish with just enough zip to keep things interesting. Not quite Kool-Aid. Not quite Provence royalty. But perfectly chillable and extremely sip-worthy.

Best of all? I found her for $12 at Total Wine. A pink steal.

She pairs beautifully with everything—from summer salads to leftover pizza—but more importantly, she pairs with nothing at all. Just a porch, a patio, a patch of grass, or a “this meeting could’ve been an email” kind of day.

So here’s to finding your summer rosé soulmate. Mine wears a wolf on the label and doesn’t judge me when I drink her on a Tuesday at 4:59 p.m.

I’m a sucker for a good “must-see” list whenever I travel. It doesn’t matter if it’s Hemingway’s go-to dive in Key West—Sloppy Joe’s (which, let’s be honest, is also one of my favorite meals)—or Yves Saint Laurent’s former home in Marrakesh (the blue there? Transcendent). If it’s iconic, I’m in.

So when we made our way to Vietnam with a pit stop in Hanoi, I had to try the city’s infamous Pho Cocktail—a national point of pride. I adore a bowl of pho, but wasn’t quite sure how that would translate into a cocktail. Turns out: surprisingly well… and a little weird. It starts out promising—gin, Cointreau, fresh lime juice. Then things take a sharp turn with the addition of pho spices. Star anise and coriander in a cocktail? Bold. Confusing. Kind of addictive. After drinking what I can only assume was my body weight in Pho Cocktails (for research, of course), I decided it was time to change it up.

Enter: Vietnamese white wine at Cloud Sky Bar. Light-bodied, fruity, and just acidic enough to pair perfectly with my actual bowl of pho. The view didn’t hurt either.

If you find yourself in Hanoi, I highly recommend grabbing a Pho Cocktail at Cloud Sky Bar, soaking up the skyline, and then slipping downstairs for dinner—ideally with a bottle (or two) of crisp white from Ladora Winery in Da Lat. It’s Vietnam in a glass, with a side of curiosity and charm.