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The plastic bags of clean, used clothing were piling up at the doorway leading to the church’s office.  I always noticed the baby clothes first; the little footed pajamas and tiny knit hats, neatly folded into matching sets.  Every time I passed by, it made me think I should finally drag my daughter, Chloe’s old baby clothes out from under my bed.   Surely, now that she was nearly 8 years old, it was time to let go.

But I couldn’t.  Not yet.   

Nor can I quite put my finger on what I was waiting for.  Another baby?  No. Chloe’s biological father, Will died from cancer two months after Chloe was born. I will never know how many chil

My brother, Stan and I are as different as peas and kumquats and have been since the day we were born. He is reserved; I am loud. He became an academic scientist, the kind who forgets to change his clothes while contentedly watching cells divide in a Petri dish for days and days; I loved the designer clothes that became a must-have for my career in broadcast news.  He lives on the east coast; I live on the west coast, 2857 miles away from him. 

When we were growing up, I thought my mom loved Stan more than me. She worked as a biochemist at Los Angeles’ Children’s Hospital and my brother was an ace chemistry major. I was more like my philosopher father. I loved books. I loved to write. I was emotional and broke every Asian math-whiz stereotype as I agonized my way through algebra and geometry. I still remember peeking in to our kitchen well past my bedtime to find Sta

This is a column I’ve wanted to write for some time to clear the air.

Recently I wrote about my friends Ron and Dianne moving away, about our friendship, about how they stood by my little family through good times and bad. I count them among a very special group of friends who rose up to support my first husband, Will during his dying days suffering from cancer and gave me the courage and emotional sustenance to raise our baby daughter alone, without him.

I can honestly say there is no way I can repay people like Ron, Diann

I have a confession to make:  I am flirting with my mother’s doctor.  I know it sounds terrible, but I am, in fact, hitting on my mom’s oncologist. Yes, there is some seduction involved but it has absolutely nothing to do with sex.

I just want Dr. T. to focus on my mom.

My mom is 82 years old. I realize that’s around the age that President George H. Bush decided to parachute, escorted of course, out of an airplane, reliving his youth during the Vietnam War.  Generally speaking, it’s an age when most of our culture starts to write you off with platitudes meant to comfort: 

You might say I’ve been working on my own version of “Project Runway.”

It, however, has nothing to do with fashion.

My project?  I have to get my 82-year-old mother who has cancer on a flight to Dallas.  There is no avoiding this trip. My mother’s nephew died after a long illness. She would never forgive herself if she did not attend his funeral.  I am the only one who can get her to Dallas.  

My friend, Jacelyn is sitting at my kitchen table looking wistfully at her boyfriend who is staring at a presentation he is putting together for his new web start up. 

“I wish Roger knew me when I was totally hot,” she whispered to me with a smile. 

Just for the record, Jacelyn is totally hot, even at 52 years old. Her long chestnut brown hair and athlete’s body make her look 20 years younger. I know Jacelyn is not talking about her looks or her age.  She is adding up the years in a different way. 

In less than a week, I have learned more about the power of the human heart than I ever imagined. 

My friend and former news producer, Jenny Wilburn, sent out an email blast to let her friends know she was joining a non-profit called Alex’s Lemonade Stand. It struck me as quite leap for Jenny to go from hardcore news junkie to squeezing citrus, but Jenny always knew a good story when she saw one.

Turns out, “Alex�

The news broke in an email:  “We did it. We sold the house. Escrow closes June 1^st.” 

My neighbors never put up a “For Sale” sign.  Ron and Dianne said they didn’t want to make a fuss.  But when they leave, my heart and so many memories will follow. 

No one knows who among our friends will endure with us through the years, standing alongside us in both good times and bad.  In our case, with Ron and Dianne, there were plenty of good times.  Ron, handsome and thoughtful, is positively stoic compared to his wife, Dianne.  She is a wild card. You never knew when you came through their door exactly what you’d find. Just ask her grown children who returned home once to a roaring party where they ended up pressed up against the living room bar to make space for their mom who was le

I’ve always had a fascination with Marie Osmond. Yes, I realize she’s not as cool as Lady Gaga or as sleek and hip as Beyonce’, but Marie gets it.

Real life.  
 
She’s a

Every day, after spending most of my time doing laundry, answering emails, making phone calls, carpooling, dog walking and homework battles, I have one special moment that is filled with anticipation.  And at this time, I want only want one thing: I want to hold the man I love; I want to feel appreciated, validated and yeeeees. Sexy.   

But, let me tell you, in this house, I have to fight for it.

Each night, when my husband, Mike comes in the front door, I run down the stairs, my “competition” hot on my heels. 

“Oh no you don’t!” I shout, determined not to be outdone again.  But, four legs prove to be more effective than two.  Sparkle, our terrie