The next time you’re running behind and feeling rushed, I want you to try something pretty radical: Slow down.

I’ve done an exercise at several workshops over the years where you have to write down what you would do if someone suddenly gave you one million dollars and you could only spend it on yourself. Oddly, a pair of new running shoes was the item that stuck out for me the first time I wrote this list. It was noticeable because I instantly realized how silly it was to think I needed to have one million dollars in order to buy new running shoes. In fact, the exercise was to give everyone this same epiphany: That we usually don’t have to wait to get what we want. Later that week, I did buy myself a new pair.

I made a new friend today under pretty unusual circumstances. It was the last thing in the world that I ever expected.

I just received a wonderful -- and quite complimentary -- e-mail from Judith Fox, author of the new book I Still Do: Loving and Living with Alzheimer's, about an article that we ran with her in Bottom Line/Health. Being human, I must admit that it felt quite good to get that e-mail, so after responding to Judith, I immediately forwarded it to the newsletter's editor, Rebecca Shannonhouse, with the message to print it out and put it in her "Attagirl!" folder. Until today, Rebecca didn't have such a folder. I'm so sorry I never suggested it to her earlier, because I think everyone should have one. (Or "Attaboy," of course, for men.) I learned about this from a former boss. It's simply a folder where you collect nice things about yourself.

"Falling back" with the clocks, as we did this past weekend, always reminds me of a college friend who would not reset her watch until she came to a point later in the day when she really needed that extra hour. While the rest of us viewed it as simply an extra hour of sleep (and an excuse to stay up extra late), Susan saved that fall-back hour, protected it, relished it, and always put it to good and special use, be it to give herself a break from homework, an extra hour of cramming before a test, or the time to do final edits on a paper before handing it in.

Our oldest daughter became engaged a few nights ago, and besides all the excitement, now we all have party planning on the brain.

Who can resist giving a pregnant woman advice? No woman I know who has gone through it herself. I certainly can't. In fact, I was sharing my advice just yesterday with a friend's daughter-in-law, who told me she thought I should write a pregnancy book. Well, I don't have that many pointers, but those that I do share are apparently uncommon. These tips were tremendously helpful to me and have become helpful to countless others.

Today, I am still numb. Last week, I was touched by one of those tragedies that you read about in the news and see on TV, and always happens far away. But this time it happened near me. A disgruntled employee caught stealing from his employer set off on a shooting rampage that killed eight other employees, including my neighbor. I didn't know him well, but I knew him well enough. Well enough to know that he was a good man, loved by his family, respected in the community, accomplished in his career. My husband taught two of his children... my daughter went to school with one of them. It was difficult -- impossible -- to explain the events to our children that night. Today we and too many others are living in disbelief. I can't imagine what his widow and children are going through.

I know a number of married men who go on solo vacations. I call these "mancations" because they are typically activities that no women I know ever go on.

We had overnight houseguests this past weekend -- relatively new friends so I don't know too much about the couple's childhoods. I don't recall how it came up, but I learned that the wife was a champion Spit player amongst her friends growing up. (For those of you who don't know, Spit is a fast-moving card game that is kind of like two-handed solitaire.) I, too was a Spit champion in my youth, ultimately taking to play my friends, and later my children, left handed because playing righty caused me to win too quickly.