Hey, I’m running a hotel here. By choice. I think.

Busted: I "style" the Wee Lass's closet.

Busted: I actually “style” the Wee Lass’s closet.

If you put a gun to my head (please don’t) and forced me to choose between living in a hotel, Eloise-ish, and living in my lovely FLA home surrounded by all my lovely, cherished stuff (armoires plural full of beauty products, ten zillion art books, a towering stack of fashion mags…not to mention my husband, daughter and precious meow-meows), there is zero question which one I would choose.

The hotel, baby.

In a heartbeat.

Right this second, I’m forgetting which of the god-like fashion stylists – Carine Roitfeld or Camilla Nickerson – said her numéro un goal for her home was that it look like a hotel.

Wait, I just looked it up in an older blog post about a field trip to the Caudalie Spa at the Plaza. It’s Carine. You’re welcome.

Now that that crisis has been dealt with, let’s move on to Casa Moi, and the struggles contained within.

Actually, it’s really just one struggle. And her name is Wee Lass.

Faithful readers know how hard it has been for me to corral my toy-hoarder daughter and all her many, many teensy-weensies.

Her current teensy-weensy obsession is Shopkins. We’re overrun with Shopkins.

I’m sorry, but I think it’s weird that she’s still so into toys at age 8.5.

Am I glad it’s toys she’s into and not something more nefarious, like boys? Of course. Bien sur. I’m not an idiot.

It’s just that she’s a complete and total slob. A cheerful, loving, diligent-homework-doing complete and total slob, mind you. But a complete and total slob all the same.

But here’s the happy part of this tirade: If you march into her room, Hefty bag in hand, and say: “It’s time to clean up and give away some of your stuff!,” she’ll do it. She’s shockingly unsentimental about 95 percent of the stuff in her life, including art work she slaved over.

That’s why our egg-timer organizing sessions have been such a great success in the past. Bearing her short attention span in mind, we set a minutes goal and purge, purge, purge. (I apply this method to my own organizing, too. Because as much of an Organizing Nerd as I am – I literally have like 20 books on the topic – even I start to get a little cross-eyed after a while…)

Anyway, earlier this week, after the school run, I came back home determined to restore order to my little piggy wiggy’s base camp.

And as I was cleaning, and chucking, and shelving, and chucking, I had an epiphany:

I’m doing this for me.

No one wants order around Casa Moi more than I do, so I’m the one who needs to do it.

Don’t get me wrong, Hubby helps out a lot around here. Not only does he do plenty of chores, he also doesn’t contribute to the mess in any way, shape or form. He’s a neat-nik. And he isn’t a hoarder, like me with my armoires plural full of beauty products, ten zillion art books and towering stack of fashion mags.

Or the Wee Lass, with all her Shopkins and American Girl Dolls…













So what’s my stunning conclusion about all of this?

Wait for it, I actually have one:

I need to realize that the “hotel thing” is for Me, not Them.

That takes the martyrdom out of the equation. Being a martyr is super uncool.



Beauty Armoire Monday: Keeping it all together (i.e., tighter + a little zhushier) with Roloxin Lift

This packettes are wicked-pretty, oui?

These packettes are wicked-pretty, oui? Loving the tonal blues.

You’ve heard of hope in a jar?

Consider this hope in a packette.

(Actually Team Roloxin Lift refers to its single-dose facial treatments as “sachets.”)

Wherever you land, word-wise – packettes, sachets – know this: There’s a hefty dose o’ product contained within, so much so that I used the excess to drift south, toward my neck.

Because while I’m not yet in Nora Ephron territory, I’m definitely headed that way…

But I’m getting ahead of myself with all this turkey wattle talk; first I need to tell you A) What Roloxin Lift is and B) What I’d hoped to accomplish by using it and C) Whether I achieved said goal.

I just spent 3.5 hours (yes, you read that right, 3.5 hours of my life that I’ll never get back), cleaning and organizing the Wee Lass’s room to perfection. So I’m feeling very systematic today, very Casey Clipboard.

Thus I’ll be continuing with the A / B / C theme here.

On y va. Allez-y. Let’s go!

A) Roloxin Lift is…

In short, it’s a temporary tightener that forms a lightweight silica film over the face (and neck, if so desired) that’s designed to last up 24 hours.

After applying it to clean, damp skin, you allow it to dry – for roughly 10 minutes – to a clay-like state, then rinse and apply moisturizer. Those last two bits are crucial; you’ll want to rinse very well (I found George Washington powdered-wig-style traces of it in my hairline hours later), and post-treatment serum or moisturizer shouldn’t be skipped. Trust me – your thirsty skin will demand moisture.

B) I tried it because…

Honestly, I wasn’t expecting Roloxin Lift to change my life. I just wanted a little more pizzazz for my weekly date night with Hubby. Lately I’ve been on a kick of using special treatments to prep for Saturday nights. (Recently, I’ve used Dr. Brandt Detoxygen Experience and GlamGlow Supermud Clearing Treatment, both of which I really like.) I highly recommend going the extra distance and using some kind of “booster” product prior to any kind of big night out. Not only do they often allow your makeup to go on more smoothly, they mentally set the stage – especially if you’ve been running around all day. So just lock the bathroom door, slather on something magical, slip into a bubble-filled tub and re-group.

C) And my verdict…

I liked it, and will definitely be using the other 4 “sachets” in the package I received from the Roloxin Lift PR team. The entire next day, my skin had a low-key but noticeable firmness that made me happy every time I glanced at my mug in the mirror. (I don’t do that very much, BTW. And I am sooooo not Selfie Girl…) On the Roloxin website, it suggests kicking off by using it once a day for 10 days straight, then shifting to a less-frequent maintenance plan.

It isn’t cheap, though; a 10-day supply is $110. But if you suffer from Fear of Needles, as I do, you can probably justify carving that money out of your beauty budget for a bit of faux-tox, like this. Just remember to rinse, rinse, rinse post-treatment. And moisturize, moisturize, moisturize.


I’m using my Angel Cards again. And my question is: Why did I ever stop using them in the first place?

I have two decks, because that's how I roll...

I have two Angel Card decks, because that’s how I roll…

FYI, I wasn’t always the Momover Lady of sterling character that I am today.

Par exemple, I once “borrowed” my pal Margeau’s Angel Cards for an entire frigging year.

This was a very long time ago, when I was having one of my many pre-Hubby, pre-Wee Lass, existential, “What does my future hold?” meltdowns.

Margeau, probably because she just wanted me to shut up already, whipped out her Angel Cards to do a little metaphysical hocus pocus.I pounced.

“Oooooh, what are those?” I asked. “Can I take them home with me tonight? I promise to bring ‘em back.”

And the rest was hocus pocus history.

Yes, I eventually mailed Margeau’s cards back to her – after I’d procured my own deck. And, if memory serves – I also sent along a heartfelt note of apology.

Why the handwritten mea culpa?

A) Because I believe – firmly – in good manners, especially if they’re coming on the heels of doing something dastardly.

B) Because it’s deeply uncool to mess with another individual’s Angel Card trajectory, to singlehandedly remove their way of sussing-out which of Life’s Many Challenges they should direct their energies toward. In this krazy kooky world, we need all the help we can get.

Recently, in unpacking one of the many boxes from our FLA move still stacked in our garage (I know, I know…trust me, I have a master-organizer game-plan at work…), I came across my dueling decks of Angel Cards.

I like them both, but if I had to pick a favorite child, it would be the OG, single-word style shown at the bottom of this pic.

I’m sure I’ll find it in yet another box stacked in the garage, but the tiny explanatory book that accompanied my OG, single-word style cards has gone missing.

So as fast as my tiny fingers could type, I ordered The Original Angel Cards Book.

When it arrived, I quickly flipped to the definition of the “Courage” card pictured above. Here’s what the book says:

“Face what is in front of you squarely and fearlessly. Discover the truth held in your heart and act on it.”

Okay, so in my case – and yours would obvi be radically different – I immediately thought of the bravery I need to summon to get better at my driving. Faithful readers know all about my struggles on that front. Although I’m growing more confident every day, I still haven’t driven on the highway.

Have you met Florida, perchance? There might be a few highways down here.

As for the top card above, from my other Angel Card deck…

Trust the great force of Life.

…I’m left to translate – and personalize – that one for myself.

And here’s what I think:

No matter how you slice it – and how peaceful + gorge it is in my newly adopted Snell Isle ‘hood - uprooting myself from my precious New York City is a lot to wrap my feeble Barbie brain around. Especially given that we’re now all settled in here, and the maje chaos of the move itself is behind us.

Now comes the trickier part. Which is…figuring out:

What this “moment” means for me, and how to squeeze every last bit of awesomeness out of it.

I think I can do that. Project!


Beauty Armoire Monday: Lucky moi. I have my very own, schmancy hotel-style “bath concierge”

These bathing beauties are in heavy rotation right now.

These bathing beauties are in heavy rotation right now.

It’s the third week in October, but it’s still pushing 90 degrees every day around these parts.

Which I’m not whinging about, btw; the weather is a maje reason we moved to FLA.

It’s just that Hubby and the Wee Lass and I are a little off our seasonal-shifts game right now. All the usual markers – the crisper temperatures, the desire to encase your appendages in actual sleeves and pant legs, the craving for pumpkin pie – don’t apply quite yet.

On our Saturday weekly food-shopping run, Hubby asked if I wanted to toss any canned soups in our cart. “No, I think I’ll attempt to make my own, from scratch, for the first time in my life,” I replied, proudly, because I now have soooo much more confidence in my cooking. “Besides, I’m not really feeling the soup the thing yet.”

But just a few nights earlier, when Hubby was off teaching one of his finance courses, and the Wee Lass and I were left to our own devices, she said. “Mommy, why don’t I fix you a bath? We haven’t done that in a really long time.”

How could I resist such an offer? Not only is she world’s cutest Bath Butler, but taking a hot bath when it’s steamy outside can, counter-intuitively, be really nice.

Besides, I’ve been working out a lot – running, tennis, Tracy Anderson Metamorphosis (the glute-centric version, because Anderson’s ace team sized me up with a fat ass) – and I knew Epsom salts are aces for achy body parts.

But let’s dive right into the Wee Lass’s special brew. Willy nilly, without measuring, this is…:


1. Dr. Teal’s Epsom Salt Soaking Solution in Eucalyptus Spearmint You can’t beat Dr. Teal’s for the price. It’s such high-quality yumminess at a fraction of the cost for comparable department store and spa fare. Once I work my way through my existing stash of bath brews, I’ll zero-in on Dr. Teal’s and forsake all other salts. (Maybe….well, at least I’ll make them my main salt go-to…)

2. Erbaviva Breathe Bath Salts These are also laced with eucalyptus, along with cedar, tea tree and spruce. Aaah…

3, Dr. Andrew Weil for Origins The Way of the Bath Matcha Tea Body Soak Oops. I don’t think these exist anymore. RIP, amazing green-tea-ice-cream hued bath salts. You will be missed.

4. Kneipp Deep Sleep Herbal Bath Valerian & Hops Whoa. I’ve never taken heroin, but I’m guessing this is the bath oil equivalent. A giant bottle of knock-out drops. Highly recommended if you’re wired like a nuclear power plant.

5. Jo Malone Vetyver Bath Oil As with the Dr. Weil salts, I think I’m working my way through discontinued stock with this Vetyver number. But no worries; Jo Malone makes about 95 other bath oils, each more intoxicating than the last. The link here will get you there. Peace out, mama.



DRIVEN: I need to set clear goals for myself, or this driving-well dream will NOT be happening

The chicest, and I've yet to drive it...

The chicest, and I’ve yet to drive it…

Oh my.

I had lunch with a new buddy on Friday, someone who’s based here in my adopted FLA city but with whom I share this weird geographical history centered around NYC and Newport, RI.

We’ve kind of been chasing each other around the planet, it seems, without ever actually meeting. Until now, in the land of scorching hot sunshine and verrrrry fast cars.

So my pal – we’ll just call C for now – is a very busy person. A hob-knobber and globe-trotter, with a packed work and social schedge.

As such, this was only our second lunch, spaced about five weeks apart.

In other words, I hadn’t seen C in a while, which I’d chalked-up to her jammed calendar. While my days are currently centered around the school run, a bit of tennis and making dinner (miracle of all miracles, my cooking is improving by leaps and bounds), C has a lot more going on.

But as it turns out, there was another reason I hadn’t heard from her for a spell:

She was in a major car crash.

A young woman barreled through a red light and plowed right into C’s car, pushing it, forcefully, into a nearby abandoned building. C narrowly escaped hitting a couple who were seated on a bench in front of the abandoned building; luckily they saw C’s car flying at them and were able to jump out of the way.

Thank the frigging universe, C is okay. She has to go to physical therapy every day, and hasn’t really worked in a month, but she’s here.

She’s alive.

And because her car was totaled, she gets to shop for a shiny, sporty set of replacement wheels. So there’s that, I guess…

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know where I’m going with all this: Ever since my Friday lunch, my driving phobia has kicked back into high gear.

I’d already been giving myself a hard time about not really moving the needle on my driving, and now I’m spooked all over again.

Which is a set-back I can’t afford. Since we moved here in June, all I’ve done so far is scoot around town, probably in about a 20-mile radius of our pad.

Here’s all the stuff I haven’t done:

1. Driven on the highway.

2. Driven at night.

3. Driven the chic car in the pic above, which Hubby kind of got for me, because it’s compact and easier to park than our tank-like SUV.

I need to do all of those things, and I need to do them sooner rather later.

And I don’t need to use C’s car crash as an excuse to wimp out.






I totally want this 90s-ish, Dior watch-campaign hair

Pretty and sexy, aka pretty sexy.

Pretty and sexy, aka pretty sexy.

I read this amazing piece in Porter mag recently (please, how much are you j’adoring Porter? swoon times a million) that was all about the new trend of “Decade Dressing.”

The premise: You pick your favorite era, shop accordingly, and stick with it come hell or high water.

Is Ali Macgraw your hero, you bell-bottomed, 70s-loving minx? Or are you more of a (yikes!) Thierry Mugler, monster shoulder-pads, 80s kinda gal?

Like the author of the Porter piece, I will forever wave the 90s, Helmut Lang-era, minimalism flag.

Seriously, have you met me? I couldn’t be more stuck in the 90s than if I were snuggling up to Kurt Cobain in his coffin. Not only is the late, great Carolyn Bessette my style-crush North Star, I literally never get sick of Sex and the City re-runs.

Does the fact that I already own the entire boxed collection of SATC stop me from watching it on HBO?

Not in the slightest. In fact, just last night, while Hubby was out teaching his finance class, and the Wee Lass was holed-up in her room OD-ing on Shopkins videos on YouTube (don’t ask…), I binged on six back-to-back episodes.

They were from Season 6, the “Mikhail Baryshnikov as Aleksandr Petrovsky” arc, in which Carrie falls for the super-rich but self-involved (understatement of the century) Artsy Al and he sweeps her off to Paris.

And here’s the running loop in my Mommy Barbie brain as I plowed through those eps:

“Wait, her hair’s long again. Thank the frigging lord. I hated that chop she got at the end of Season 4. That was unfortunate. SJP really needs the length. And now she’s pushing 50 and her hair is crazy-long and curly again. Yay! Hmmm…maybe I can try that. But how can I get the beachy curls and by-pass the frizz?”

Look, I’ve never for one split second pretended that I’m a Deep Thinker. My inner life is made up almost entirely of hooey like improving the look and feel of my hair. I live for improving the look and feel of my hair.

So this morning, after deep-conditioning with an ancient (and now discontinued, sadness…) tube of Aveda Deep Penetrating Hair Revitalizer, then shampooing and conditioning (yes, again with the conditioner) with Carol’s Daughter Sacred Tiare Anti-Breakage and Anti-Frizz Sulfate-Free Shampoo and Conditioner, then piling on yet more conditioner in the form of Suave Professionals Natural Infusion Light Leave-In Cream, I tracked down something on the World Wide Interweb that I’m hoping might aid me in getting the 90s-ish, Dior watch-campaign hair in the pic here, and/or “SJP in Paris with Artsy Al” -caliber curls:

Goody Style Flexible Rod Rollers 

I’m not kidding myself; neither the broad in the 90s-ish, Dior watch-campaign ad above, nor SJP in any season of SATC did her hair herself using some drugstore set of foamy gew-gaws.

But I’m not a model in a Dior watch campaign. And I’m not SJP, either. I’m just a Momover Lady with Florida-frizzy, unruly hair. And I want to do something about it.






Are you a Doer or a Talker? I’m kinda both. (But guess what? One’s a lot better than the other. Snap.)

Whoa. Okay. I'll deliver.

Whoa. Okay. I’ll “deliver” already.

Looooong before I met The Man Who Would Be Hubby, I had this boyfriend who repeatedly barked at me:

“There are two kinds of people in this world: Doers and Talkers. Which one are you?”

Please, you already know which kind of person he was. No one who isn’t a Doer would ever have the balls to bark at other individuals in such a dastardly, judgy fashion.

Still, he truly was a model of self-discipline, a real Get Things Done kinda dude.

He was (is, I should say … he’s still alive) a music producer and a singer / guitarist and he used to crank out the most amazing tracks in the teensy walk-in closet in our NY apartment. You’d have thought he was Dr. Dre – minus the tricked-out mega studio.

He came from nothing, but because he was super-thrifty, he always had tons of dough in his bank account. So while I was chewing through fancy-purse credit card debt, he was investing in real estate.

And because he hit the gym daily, he had abs you could bounce a quarter off.

Which isn’t to say that Mr. Six-Pack-Stomach didn’t have flaws. Oh, but he did.

And I’m very happy to report that Hubby is every bit as self-disciplined and successful, but not even a fraction as judgmental.

Does Hubby want me to accomplish stuff? Bien sur.

But he’s not up in my grill about it. I’ll say: “OMG, my driving is horrendous.” And he’ll say: “I think it’s getting better every day!”

But back to this Doing vs. Talking stuff.

Clearly, as much as it bugged me at the time, this idea of Doing vs. Talking really struck a chord with me.

That’s because I can swing – wildly - between Doing and Talking.

In fact, about six weeks ago, I was out on a Saturday morning run with my FLA bestie Michelle, and she said to me:

“If you actually do some of the stuff you’ve been talking about recently, it will be so great.”

I stopped in the street and laughed my ever-loving ass off.

Was it an insult? Kinda. But it wasn’t meant to be. And it was sooooo spot-on.

What Michelle knew, and I knew, was that I really needed to finish one big project – my danawoodwriter.com portfolio website – before I could move on to anything else.

She wanted to introduce me to people in FLA who could connect dots to writing work, and she really couldn’t do that until I pulled the trigger on my site.

Happily, I did finally do that. Yay me.

But there have been a few bold declarations I’ve made this year – on this very website – that I didn’t follow through on.

Exhibit A: My New Year’s Res of meditating and dry-brushing my skin every day. I was on such a good roll with those two, and then we moved mid-year and my concentration and focus just completely blew up. Ironically – and stupidly, because I know better – meditating is the first thing that goes out the window when I’m stressed-out.

Exhibit B: My more recent proclamation that I would machete thru my massive Gmail inbox. Um, I haven’t been very successful on that front. (Today’s email count: 9368…grrrr…) But remember that processing hack I gave you about playing the spam card on lists that won’t let you unsubscribe? It works. You’re welcome.

Okay, since I’ve now “talked” for several minutes, I’m getting antsy to move on with my day and start “doing.”

So without further ado, here are…

5 Ways I Shift from Talking to Doing

1. I look at the single word taped to my computer:


That moves me out of Talking mode, and back into Doing mode. I don’t admire people who are all talk and no action. In other words, who don’t deliver. A little talk = okay. All talk = blech. I strive to stay outta Blech Territory.

2. I ask myself what my “frog” is, and I “eat” it. 

This idea comes from one of the best productivity books I’ve ever read: Eat That Frog. The author challenges you to identify the one biggest, ugliest, scariest task you have on your plate – the one you most don’t want to do, but that will be the most beneficial to your goals – and dive into it first thing in the morning, before doing anything else. It’s a hard habit to get into, but so worth it. 

3. Along with my frog, I make a really short To Do list.

Another gem, courtesy of another great productivity book – The Power of Less – by my crunchy crush, Leo Babauta. Leo’s thinking is that, with a massive To Do list, you’re probably including a lot of not-so-important stuff. And you’re not doing any of it very well. Go small, really focus, and knock it out of the park.

4. I recognize that I have both “on” and “off” days.

I hope this point doesn’t sound like a cop-out, because it isn’t. For whatever reasons – and it may have something to do with my hypothyroidism –  I don’t have an equal amount of firing-on-all-cylinders brain power every day. So now, on my ‘off’ days, I do a lot of house-y stuff: Organizing, cleaning, laundry, cooking, etc. When I was toiling full-time at magazines, I would use my ‘off’ days to plan my story lineup, hold meetings with my kick-ass team, return emails, go on market appointments, etc. – anything I needed to do that didn’t involve writing.

 5. When the day’s over, I wind down, hide the iPad and get some damn sleep.

While it might sound counter-intuitive, this is even more important following an ‘off’ day. I’ve just found it really helpful to “forgive” myself for not being hyper-productive in a professional, making-money kind of way. With down time and a good night’s sleep, I come back, guns blazing, the very next morning.   


Beauty Armoire Monday: Dr. Brandt DNA Time Reversing Cream is scary good, in a how-can-this-be-happening way

Expensive. Worth it. Over + out.

Expensive. Worth it. Over + out.

There are a lot of beauty products on this little ol’ Planet Earth.






And I happen to own a few (million) myself.

So why am I writing about Dr. Brandt’s Do Not Age Time Reversing Cream again, after I just freaking wrote about it last month?

Because here’s what went down in Momover Lady-ville since the last time I wrote about DNA:

I decided to double-down, and use only that every night before I hit the hay.

The last go-round, DNA was part of a broader Beauty Armoire Monday post in which I chatted about the lunacy of feeling like you need face and body moisturizers in Florida, where the humidity rages on relentlessly.

(At least in the summer; I’ve only lived here a few months, so I don’t know what’s in store for me in the seasons to come.)

In that installment of BAM, I was toggling between DNA and another excellent (and far less spendy) moisturizer: L’Oreal Paris Youth Code Perfector Day / Night Cream.

Toggling is fine if A) you’re okay with having a million jars open at once, taking up precious bathroom (or Armoire) real estate and B) you don’t ever want to know whether a particular product really works.

That last point – Point B – is really at the heart of the matter.

Because here’s the deal: Most beauty products, particularly skincare, don’t show results for weeks – many weeks, as in tripping-over-into-months kinda weeks.

And most of us, myself included, don’t have the patience needed to tough it out.

That’s why that Neutrogena miracle creme “graveyard” commercial is so effective.

You’ve seen that, right?


Well here it is. You’re welcome.

Anyway, back to Dr. Brandt.

I love Dr. Brandt the person. He is extremely lovely. But beyond that, he is one of the most highly published derms around. Seriously. He cranks out so many studies, in so many peer-reviewed journals, that it’s a wonder he ever finds time to shoot  Madge’s mug with so much damn Botox and fillers.

But he somehow he manages to not only publish, plump and create products, but also to bounce between his practices in New York and Florida and collect major, museum-caliber artworks in his spare time.

Soooo not a slacker, that Dr. B.

So what’s in his DNA creme, and why is it so good?

Though I attended the press event for the launch of DNA, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what Dr. B’s “Juvenessence+ complex” – the special sauce in the DNA range of products – is all about.

And to be perfectly frank, his website doesn’t shed a whole lot of light on the subject either.

And FYI, DNA isn’t a natural product, so if avoiding chemicals is important to you, you’ll need to sleuth-out another fountain of youth.

At the same time, though, per the website, it contains a few plant extracts, like Babassu Oil, that are meant to both smooth the skin and calm your ass down before beddy bye. In other words, “a joyous and energetic blend of essential oils creates a therapeutic aromatherapy effect.”

How cute is that? Joyous and energetic!

(Actually, “energetic” may not be optimal at 11 pm. But trust me: It’s not like you’re taking speed when you dab this lovely potion hither and yon.)

And most important, here’s how my skin looks after weeks of dedicated DNA use: Soft. Smooth. Even-toned. Glowy. Youthful.

Those are five really, really good things. Right?








Earlier posts that are trending. (I do so love a happy little “listicle”!)

Who needs books when you have old posts?

Who needs books when you have old posts?

There’s no accounting for taste, right?

People like what they like.

You can be blogging your little ol’ heart out about Stuff That Really Matters (I don’t happen to do that btw, but lots of other bloggers do), and World Wide Interweb Surfers will seek out the most superficial, ridiculous drivel.

Happily, this site offers plenty in the superficiality department. And I also weigh in, from time to time, about people – usually women – I greatly admire. (Which is how the late, great Carolyn Bessette stars in one of my greatest bloggy hits of all time.)

Okay, let’s get into the (vegan, fake) meat of this post.

Right now, for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom, here are the…

Top 5 Momover Posts

1. Christian Bale has really luminous skin

Awww…I really like this one too. But be forewarned: It’s almost as much about Casey Affleck’s blinding white teeth as it is Christian Bale’s luminous skin. But it does feature a rare recent pic of the Wee Lass, so definitely worth a gander.

2. Shocker (not): Carolyn Bessette was incredibly cool

In traffic terms, this one belongs in the Momover Hall of Fame. Lordy, I loved that woman…sniff sniff. And obvi a lot of you do, too.

3. More about this SeroVital-hgh jazz

Whoa, there are a lot of ladies (and gents) who want to look younger and leap tall buildings in a single bound! FYI, I had a “moment” with this stuff but I’m not really taking it right now. Which isn’t an indictment, btw. It was just making me feel a little…off. Speedy? Yeah, that’s it. Speedy.

4. Grown-up Alert: I’ve stopped cheating on my eye exam

Since this is a post about something pretty horrible that I did, I’m a bit alarmed that it’s so popular. Why? Because that means lots of other people are doing exactly the same thing. Or at least they want to. Grrrr times a billion.

5. Gallons of lemon water + juice = post-cruise detox 

Fresh intel about blasting bloat: It never gets old, right? Never, ever.




Beauty Armoire Monday: The flat-iron to beat all flat-irons. (So good.)

Uplifting Sarah Potempa-speak.

Uplifting Sarah Potempa-speak, from the styling iron box.

Fact 1: I’ve had personal DIY blowout lessons from giants (giants!) in the beauty business. Including a few from none other than Bumble and bumble founder – and all-around hair god – Michael Gordon.

Fact 2: Despite these extremely high-level custom tutorials, and an unhinged amount of at-home practice, I couldn’t give myself a decent blowout if you put a gun to my head. My lack of expertise is like so, so sad.

But have I completely given up on ever mastering this important life skill? No, not yet.

After all, I’m currently knee-deep in learning two other extremely important life skills: Driving and cooking.

When you live in New York for decades, and you’re completely, utterly besotted with your career, it’s all too easy to kick driving and cooking to the curb.

That’s what boyfriends and takeout are for, right?

But lordy lordy, if I’d learned how to give myself a decent at-home blowout back in the day, I could have saved myself a bloody fortune.

Water under the bridge, babes. Moving on.

So now I live in psychotically humid FLA, and my naturally frizzy hair has basically looked like shite for three solid months. I’m not being mean to myself when I say that, btw; I have many sterling attributes, but good hair isn’t one of them.

Anyway, even though we’re still in Hurricane Season, I’m detecting a slight shift in the climate down here, to something approximating – gasp – fall.

Not autumn in the New York sense…the apple-picking, crisply cool, break-out your J. Crew cable-knits kind of autumn.

Rather, it’s a little breezier, and a touch less wet. A drop from, say, 97% humidity to…93% humidity.

Emboldened by this microscopic change in the weather, I decided to actually fuss with my hair a bit over the weekend.

To help with this project, I dug into a stash of heat appliances I’d been hoarding in my Beauty Armoire. Although I’m not to be trusted with a blowdryer, I’ve had good luck over the years with other types of tools.

Like my trusty InStyler Rotating Iron. Oh how I love that thing. But it went missing in our move to FLA, and I haven’t set eyes on it moons. Sadness.

Since I can’t put my mitts on my InStyler, I broke out my brandy new Sarah Potempa Ceramic Styling Iron.

You über-clued up Momoverettes know who Sarah is, oui? Besides being the cutest (and cheeriest!) celeb hairstylist on the circuit, she makes really innovative tools that have “change your life” written all over them. She made her name with her clever Beachwaver, which spins in this direction and that direction, crafting lush curls, and has since created many more awesome hair devices and gew-gaws.

When I reached into my Armoire and pulled out my Ceramic Styling Iron (CSI, for short…) I was immediately struck by these Sarah-isms on the box:






I want all of that stuff, I thought when I read those words. Sign me up. 

Important: I was already bone dry before I embarked on Project Make My Hair Look Less Shitty. I’d shampooed earlier that morning, slathered on a product cocktail of Redken Blonde Idol BBB Spray and Suave Professionals Natural Infusion Awapuhi Strengthening Light Leave-In Cream, and let it air dry. Maybe I’m deluding myself, but I like to think starting with a dry base before you iron results in at least a little less damage.

J’adore the Sarah Potempa Ceramic Styling Iron because:

1. It’s very lightweight. And sleek, sexy and silvery. You’ve heard of “curb appeal”? This slim number has countertop appeal.

2. It heats up so fast you’ll kinda freak out. Literally in seconds. Whoa.

3. Speaking of heat, you can adjust the temperature. It goes up to a scorching 45o degrees. While super-hot is typically the best way to get results, it’s a killuh on your hair. I stopped at 420 degrees. That was plenty hot.

4. It turns off by itself. I work at home now, so leaving an appliance on isn’t the end of the world. But when I lived in Gotham, I can’t tell you how many times I’d get almost to the subway on my way to work and then have to turn around because I was convinced I’d left something on that might burn my pad to the proverbial ground. And guess what? On more one occasion, I was right. Snap.