Archive for April, 2010

It’s no secret (at least among the five people who know me) that I’m complete Luddite. For reals. If I didn’t have to meet deadlines, I’d be crafting my stories on a stone slate, Wilma Flintstone-style.

Here’s just one example of my lack of tech-savvy: Last year, my work buddy Jenny C. and I decided to cover a “Real Housewives of New York” event for the W website, and I was supposed to track down the party-planner via text when we arrived so we could chat up Ramona and Jill. I sat there, cluelessly punching digits into my brand new iPhone until Jenny politely ripped the thing outta my hands and rescued the evening.

Recognizing this personal shortcoming, I bravely admitted to Erin, one of the two hilarious and genius-y “Manic Mommies,” that not only had I never done a podcast, but until quite recently, I’d never even listened to one. I’m pretty sure that’s not something to be proud of in 2010, but there you have it.

Still, my chat with her turned out kinda great.

Have a listen and hear for yourself.

At the end of last year, I whipped out my handy-dandy fitness log and counted the number of times I’d engaged in something — anything — exercise-related. Whether it was a decent-sized run or 10 minutes bouncing around on the mini-trampoline while watching my (imaginary) good buddy Matt Lauer,  I moved it exactly 138 times. Hubby was pretty impressed by this number; me, not so much. I knew I could do better. So this year, I’m attempting to do precisely that.

Although there’s a very good chance that I’ve set the bar too high for 2010, I’m hoping to have 200 workouts under my belt by the time we crack open the Champs on New Year’s. I know, I know: That’s about four workouts a week, which is a lot for any busy mama bear to tackle, especially one with workaholic tendencies such as moi. (What’s the French word for “myself”? Because I really should have used that here instead of “moi”…)

So far, the first quarter has been pretty solid: 47 workouts, and that’s even with a lingering head cold and a massive wipe-out in the street a month ago while running. Thus, it looks like I’m track on to meet my 2010 goal — provided I continue to hustle and my motivation stays high.

Oh, and if I manage my time really well, too, which is at the heart of every good mama-health decision we make in our jam-packed, little ol’ lives. Let’s take right this second as a case in point: I just packed Hubby and the Diapered Darling off to school with lots of good-bye smooches and a gentle shove out the door. I have about an hour and 15 minutes before I need to head to work, so upstairs it is for some trampoline time with Mr. Lauer. 48 and counting…

I love my home — it’s a beautiful home — but the fact of the matter is, and this has held true since I was swingle and 100 percent tot-free, I sleep better in hotels. Especially when I’m under a lot of stressure, as I have been of late.

For years I thought that the core reason for this sleeping-better-in-hotels business stemmed from the stripped-down, thoroughly uncluttered vibe you encounter in a for-hire bedroom. Okay, fair enough, out went all the uneccessary gizmos, odd piles of miscellany and fat stacks of fashion mags that can creep into one’s boudoir.

So, for me, bedroom clutter hasn’t been an issue for some time. There must be more to this profound mystery, I pondered. And then I finally connected the dots between hotels and sounder slumber: It’s the clean, crisp, sometimes even ironed, sheets. I change the sheets in our master bedroom every Sunday morning, and that evening, I always feel so gosh darn cozy and snuggly and ready to drift off with ease.

So I’ve made an executive mama-decision to add more laundry to the weekly chores. I figure that with all the great sleep I’ll be getting via crispy clean sheets, I’ll have oodles of oomph to power through a few loads of whites.

I think I may have mentioned that we’re going to Disney? After waiting what seems like an eternity, we’re taking off in a week and change. And although Hubby and I are doing seriously wrong by our wee lass — we waited too long to book breakfast with the Princesses and now it ain’t gonna happen — I know we’ll have a smashing time, regardless.

And here’s one key reason why: Rather than my usual pre-vacation routine, which is to work myself to the bone trying to “get a jump on things” (really, when, in our entire mama-lives, do we ever really get a jump on things?) before we leave, I’ve decided to opt for something far more radical: To live life at its normal pace and not try to morph into Super Mom. Or Super Person, for that matter.

Instead, I’m going to try to chillax as much as possible in the run-up to D Day. And I’m going to whittle down, rather than ramp up, my To Do list. Taking a page from that great book on mono-tasking I recommended a while back, The Power of Less, I’ll  prioritize my three most pressing tasks and make sure they get done. All the other stuff that I usually tackle before a trip, like cleaning the house until it shines like a 40-carat rockola, can wait. In other words, I’ll be resting up for my vacation. After all, I’ll be needing the energy.

Although I’m a happy little clam to report that I’ve been working out regularly lately, I’m in a bit of a fitness rut. Blame it on the good weather and my utter joy at being able to pry myself away from the gym in our building and get my ass outdoors, but when I consult my exercise log, I feel a bit like that so-cute-you-could-just-squish-him Bill Murray in Groundhog Day: 3/20 ran outside; 3/21 ran outside; 3/23 ran outside, 3/27 ran outside…

I think you get the picture. I’ve been running. Outside.

But as great as it is — and I’m convinced it’s a world-class blubber-peeler, not to mention completely meditative if you leave the iPod at home — running is only one part of the sound mama-fitness equation. Because I know this, I’ve been pushing myself to do other stuff, including jumping rope. (I swear by Tanita’s HealthyJump, which has a handy-dandy, built-in rotation-counter.) And I’ve been using my Urban Rebounder mini-trampoline, but not as much as I need to, which will be the subject of an upcoming blog post.

Most importantly, however, is what I call Project Joyce. In case you’ve never heard of her, there’s this ripped little (and I mean Olsen Twin-tiny, just like moi) paragon of weightlifting virtue named Joyce Vedral, whose books and DVDs I pretty much buy by the bushel. Lately, I’ve been deploying ol’ Joyce’s Definition workout, specifically the upper body segment, which I execute with 3, 5 and 8-pound dumbbells.

Although there’s no end to the benefits of lifting weights (for reals…), I’ve got more superficial matters on my mind. For right now, the goal is to be fairly arm-confident by the time we head to Disney in two weeks, and totally ready for sleeveless tops come Memorial Day. And guess what? I think I’ll make it. Let’s hear a big round of applause for those cute little hand-weights.

How’s this for a lovely co-inky dink? A friend at work forwarded me a great piece on momlogic about — gasp — turning off your BlackBerry and actually focusing on your little people-persons while you’re, say, enjoying an incredibly beautiful spring day.

Obvi, this is an obsession of mine, as evidenced by my multiple blog posts about mono-tasking and an entire article about ditching technology from time to time to regain your peace of mind.

So it was with much glee that I saw that the momlogic story/piece/post had been written by Ellen S., creator of the super popular To the Max blog for special needs kids. Ellen and I have known each other slightly over the years (a former mega Glamour editor, she edited a few beauty pieces I wrote for them), but we have a great mutual friend in common, who is forever yapping about us to the other one.

Anyway, you’ll be hearing more from Ellen on this here little ol’ website, because already I’ve corralled her into being one of my upcoming Mama Gurus. In the meantime, read her momlogic piece. And turn off that cellphone, please. Pronto.

After returning home from work the other night, Hubby decided to fix himself an on-the-rocks type of bevvie. “Uh, why are there spoons in the ice cube bin?” he asked our beloved nanny Christine, automatically assuming the Diapered Darling had tossed them in there during her many daily jaunts into pockets of the house she really doesn’t have any business jaunting into. Christine hadn’t a clue, except that the Diapered Darling didn’t have a darn thing to do with it.

That’s because Mom was the ice cube bin culprit. Mom with the extremely puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. You see, frosty teaspoons are just the ticket for weary orbs. You simply lay them right on top of the lid, the curved part (not the scooped-out side) smack dab against the skin. And then you lie there for a spell, thinking really yummy thoughts about anything that strikes your fancy. (A slamming new outfit, perhaps, or a trip to somewhere warm and wonderful…) In a few minutes, you’ll be de-puffed and ready to face the day, or night, looking considerably fresher and friskier.

Fellow style writer-slash-mama Jenny Feldman (of Glamour mag fame) and her hubby Michael LaRocque have conjured the cutest way to make a donation to Smile Train, the charity that performs cleft lip and palette surgeries on children in developing countries. Their new initiative, TweetMySmile, allows you to upload pictures of smiling creatures in your life — you, your tot(s), the family iguana — via Twitter, and direct $1 for every image uploaded straight to this amazing, life-changing cause.

An offshoot of the couple’s popular fashion-y social media sites, TweetMyStyle and TweetMyBag, the happy-peppy TweetMySmile just completed its first round, raising lots of dough through a partnership with fashion and beauty brands Aldo, Thread Social, Jen Meyer Jewelry and Current Elliot. It did so well, they’re reprising it for Mother’s Day. (Don’t worry, I’ll remind you…)

“Smile Train is a charity that we’ve always donated to—it’s super-easy to get involved with and a surgery ($250) makes the perfect Father’s Day/Mother’s Day/Christmas gift,” says Jenny. “So when we decided to bring a charitable angle into what we do, we thought a site like TweetMySmile had great potential for micro-fundraising, using social media as our tool.”

Mark your calendars, mamas.

I’m slamming Nyquil at night, Dayquil during the sunshine stuff, coughing, sneezing and just generally feeling like something the cat(s) dragged in. We have two, fluffball Maine Coon beauties named Thunder & Lightning. But I digress and I really want to get my whinge on here. Don’t you just love that word – whinge? Oops, digressing again…

The fact is, I’m sick and I have no one but myself to blame for that. Why? Because I haven’t been practicing what the Momover Lady preaches, which is to guard our mama-health with the white-hot intensity of a shoe addict at a Louboutin sample sale.

For instance, have I been practicing “Good Sleep Hygiene,” as in the excerpt from my book that Well Mom ran this week? Not religiously, and it’s not as if I couldn’t use the help, because I’ve been sleeping very, very badly lately.

And here are my other recent mama-health sins: accepting too many outside work projects just because they sound fun and interesting; not busting up the stress attached to said fun and interesting work projects with DAILY meditation, journaling, yoga, etc.; eating waaaay too much sugar in the form of leftover Easter candy — bad for my thighs and ass, yes, but even worse for my immune system.

So I hereby make a pledge to get my Momover act together by slowing down and moving my mental, physical and spiritual health back onto the front burner. Hubby and the Diapered Darling are depending on it. But much more importantly, so am I.

I was on deadline today for a project, but I managed to sneak out for a few minutes to enjoy the sunshine and to try to track down the new 10th anniversary issue of O at the local newsstand. Words can’t express how much I love that magazine. It just speaks right to my crunchy, fancy handbag-loving soul…

While I was O-ing, the cover of the new Reader’s Digest caught my eye. “THE VITAMIN SCAM” it blared from the cover. “Read this before you pop another pill!”

I’ve only skimmed the piece thus far, and intend to really read it in the morning. (It’s late now, and I’ve got bedtime stories to dispense to the wee lass.) But I can already tell I’m a little alarmed. The net-net is that there’s only ONE vitamin worth taking in their estimation, and that would be D. Otherwise, we’re supposed to get all our nutrients from food.

Stressure much? Time to toss the Twinkies and start slaving over a hot stove. (Or zip off to the farmers’ market, stat.) To be continued…