Archive for January, 2011

Ever since the first Beauty Armoire Monday, when that ancient (but untouched) Clarisonic wouldn’t buzz for love or money, I’ve had a bee in my bonnet. I was so mad at myself for missing the money-back guarantee (by, ahem, several years), that I went digging and came up with another still-in-its-unwrapped-box skincare gizmo: a Neutrogena Advanced Solutions At Home Body MicroDermabrasion System.

Happily, this one works. And extra-happily, even the batteries included weren’t due to expire for another year. So that alone put me in a cheerful frame of mind as I headed to my master bath for a little trial run.

It’s equipped with two heads that are snapped onto the hand-held applicator: Polishing Triangle Head for dry, cracked feet in need of TLC (like mine), and a Body Foam Sponge Head for pretty much the entire rest of you – chest, arms & elbows, stomach & hips, and legs.

Of all the real estate the foam head is intended to tackle, my chest is probably the area I’m most concerned about. While I don’t have any major age spots (hurrah), after years of baking like a brownie, it’s definitely crepier than it needs to be – especially since I wear endless v-neck tee-shirts.

So far I’ve only used the gadget on my rough little size 5s, but I can already feel the difference in my heels and soles, which are considerably softer. And I love the grainy Resurfacing Cream that comes with it. It smells completely delish, and if I didn’t think it would scrape several layers of skin off, I’d use it on my face.

Since I was on a Neutrogena roll, I selected Clean Replenishing Shampoo as my next victim. Because of loathsome frizz (which is obvi less irksome in the bone-dry winter than the humidity-drenched summer), I try tons of shampoos. And frankly, from time to time, I get mighty skeptical that you can actually tell one damn potion from the next. But lo and behold, my hair looks g-r-e-a-t after using this little brew, along with the companion conditioner. Two big thumbs-up for both of them.

Finally, I grabbed a slightly spendy, but über-lovely, old favorite: Darphin Aromatic Seaweed Bath And Shower Gel. Faithful readers know Momover Lady is absolutely besotted with the ocean, and I’ll use any means to get a little sea into my daily life. This lovely concoction is not only ramped-up with numerous skin-soothing essential oils, it’s one of the most beautiful shades of Mediterranean-esque blue-green I’ve ever seen. Yum times a million.

From a bare-bones perspective, I have a lovely home office. My desk is stationed in front of a massive window, the room’s filled with my beloved white Shabby Chic-manqué painted-wood furniture, and one wall is bedecked with a quartet of framed watercolors of Marie Antoinette types that Hubby and I nabbed at Tepper Galleries for a mere pittance. All of which amounts to a damn fine thing, because I’m in here constantly, either blogging up a storm for you Momoverettes or working on any number of rush writing projects.

But “rush” is the operative word; almost never do I get to just take my time, leisurely closing the door on one project before opening it again to greet a new one. No, no, no. That is so not my lot in life. Instead, because I’m wedging bits and pieces of focused concentration in between endless stroller drop-offs and snow days, I’m always hustling across the finish line at breakneck speed.

Consequently, there are piles. Neatly stacked piles, but piles nonetheless. There are piles of books that I constantly refer to, piles of project files that have yet to be sorted, and Freedom Tower-level piles of work-related reading (i.e., a knee-high collection of WWDs.)

When I gaze, unhappily, at all those stacks, I try to channel L.A. interior design guru Kelly Wearstler. Hot mama of two boys and owner of a crackalackin business, she’s known for her “maximalist” style and bold use of color. But at the same time, she is so completely NOT down with clutter. “Decorative boxes, vases and vessels are pretty places to conceal mess, ” she recently told Redbook magazine.

Until I can slow down, catch my breath and do a massive paper purge, I may need to go the shove-it-in-a-decorative-box route. But I might also do a little interim sprucing. I’m lusting over a piece of ocean “wall art” I discovered in a catalog called, hilariously, Improvements. And there’s a French country file cabinet I’ve been eyeballing that I think could help, bigtime, on the organization front.

After all, one’s workspace should be happy and inviting, yes? A little less like drudgery, and a little more like fun?

Please excuse the shameless, shirtless-dude eye candy. It is Friday, after all…

As if it weren’t hard enough to pummel yourself with up to 1.5 hours of mega-intense exercise six days a week, some of us (ahem, that would be moi) also have to contend with our Wee Lass getting up in our grill and asking, “Mommy, when are you doing Ab Ripper X? Did you do Ab Ripper X yet?”

She must really like the title of that P90X workout, because she chimes in with it at every opportunity. But of course she isn’t the one hitting the mat, so it’s easy for her to get excited about the torture her poor mama is inflicting on herself several times a week.

Though it’s a short 16 minutes, the Ab Ripper X routine is tacked on to the end of three truly rough-and-tumble workouts. So that means that after an hour of basically killing yourself with lunges, squats, push-ups, pull-ups and a whole other galaxy of fat-busting, muscle-building moves, you’re supposed to dig deep and crank through another 300+ ab exercises.

Yes, you read that right: 300+ ab exercises. You do 25 reps of 11 moves, and then an extra gazillion of something called a Mason Twist right at the end, when you’re on the verge of A) passing out, B) dialing 911 or, in my case, C) hurling.

But btw, in case you were lying awake at night worried about me, I figured out the whole exercise / cusp-of-puking thing. For me, it was a byproduct of mild dehydration coupled with working out much harder than I’m used to, and it’s already getting better. Hurrah!

But back to the Grim Ripper. Hubby and I just finished Week 2, and I can already tell that my post-baby kangaroo pouch is shrinking a bit. My jeans are fitting better too.

If only I could turn this weakness – my complete and utter loathing of ab exercises – into a strength. I would be so happy if I actually learned to love stomach work. Every fitness guru I’ve ever chatted with (for the umpteen fitness articles I’ve written and the abs chapter in my Momover book) has told me that a strong core is the centerpiece of a strong, fit bod.

But at least I’m not alone in my sentiments. Even Mr. Eye Candy professes mixed feelings about the psychotic stomach workout he expects us P90X-ers to power through. “Ab Ripper X,” he says. “I hate it…but I love it.”

I know, I know: I swoon over this, I swoon over that. So much so that “Swoony” is quite quickly becoming my middle name.

But this time I mean it.

In recent weeks, when I’m not doing my bit upstairs in the family room – huffing, puffing and stopping just short of a heart attack executing one of the grueling P90X workouts – I’m sneaking downstairs to my boudoir to watch DVRd episodes of two wildly divergent slices of pop culture: Jersey Shore and Downton Abbey.

Actually, the “upstairs / downstairs” reference is the perfect analogy for these two shows. I spend a great deal of time literally screaming (“Oh. My. Effing. God.”) at the television set during Jersey Shore, primarily because it’s so hard to believe that these guidette and juicehead kids can be so sweet and so funny and so incredibly trashy at the same time. The mind boggles.

Suffice it to say that Downton Abbey has the polar opposite effect. But yet, it’s fascinating to see how the household staff, who conduct much of their lives in the nether regions of the spectacular titular estate, interact with the rich-but-about-lose-everything Grantham family.

The entire cast is amazing, but of course I’m zero-ing in on Elizabeth McGovern, who plays Countess Cora and mama to three daughters who are in need of wealthy hubbies ASAP. I’m old enough to remember her early 80s heyday in films like “Ordinary People” and “Racing With the Moon,” and it’s so much fun to see how beautiful she still is – and not in a surgeried, Botoxed into oblivion fashion.

Plus, her Edwardian-era costumes are to die for. Trust me when I tell you that this pic doesn’t do her wardrobe justice.

The Countess is warm and fuzzy with her three spoiled chicklets, but she just wants them married already. Especially the eldest, who is willful and headstrong, and exhibiting a disturbing penchant for potentially ruinous trampy behavior.

Not Jersey Shore-trampy, mind you; that won’t surface for another 100 years. But tarty nonetheless.

And lucky for me, I get to see both. The  entire upstairs / downstairs, high brow / low brow, swoony / scary spectrum.

Last week, I hopped a train outta Grand Central to Rye Brook, to visit Blum Center for Health and gather lots of groovy, wellness-oriented info to file away for future use.

Of course it isn’t surprising that I’d learn so much on my little field trip. Faithful readers of this blog know that I’ve recently featured the center’s founder – integrative doc Susan Blum – as one of my Mama Gurus.

(If you haven’t already read that piece, in which Dr. Blum chats about her holistic approach to treating chronic illness, do so now. I can wait…)

So in between inhaling a yummy dish of quinoa prepared by Director of Nutrition Marti Wolfson and descending into a deep state of relaxation during a guided meditation with Elizabeth Greig (Director of Mind Body Spirit Programs), I gleaned the following health tidbits:

1. A lot of the cruelty-free fake meats I’ve been trying contain a crummy ingredient that should be avoided like the plague: hydrolyzed protein. According to Elizabeth, who is also a Nurse Practitioner, I need to stick to products that are as natural and veggie-based as possible. And on that note, Dr. Praeger’s is a good bet.

2. Traditional cleansing can starve the liver of the food it needs to do its job of detoxifying our bods. Dr. Blum offers a very different – medically supervised – plan of attack, at three different levels: The 5-day “Bang,” the 10-day “Boost” and the 21-day “Beyond.” It all sounds very smart, slow and safe. Read about it here.

3. Being stuck in a meditation rut is better than not meditating at all. Before she kicked-off our guided session, Elizabeth asked us about our current practice. And immediately, I found myself apologizing for my total addiction to Zen-ing out to ocean meditation CDs. I described how, in my sessions, I “travel” to different settings – the rough, rocky Atlantic, the Carribbean, Malibu, etc. “It’s like a mix of meditation and visualization,” she said, “and it sounds great.”

I wouldn’t call it the biggest mistake of my life, but it was damn close: On Sunday afternoon, in an attempt to de-clutter the DVR queue, I accidentally zapped the season finale of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Before.

I.

Even.

Watched.

It.

To say I was beside myself is an understatement. Coming on the heels of the oh-so-stressful Barbie birthday bash, it was almost more than I could bear. But for some reason, Hubby wasn’t really feeling my pain. In fact, I think he was secretly psyched to be able to watch the football game instead. How could he be so insensitive to my plight? Grrrr times a million…

So of course you won’t be at all surprised to learn that I spent a good chunk of yesterday trying to piece together whatever clips I could from Hulu. Though it’s a bit patchwork quilt-y to watch it that way – a snippet here, a snippet there – I think I saw most of the scrape-your-jaw-off-the-floor highlights.

And even more importantly, I also saw a few sneak peeks of the explosive upcoming reunion episode.

I won’t play spoiler by telling you what’s coming down the pike. (And I’m actually even a little mad at myself for sneak-peeking.) But I will say this: They all look g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s.

For a split second, I couldn’t figure out why they all seem approximately 10 times younger and fresher on the reunion than they did when they were trotting through the season double-cheek air-kissing and making mincemeat out of each other.

But then it hit me:

Seriously dialed-down eyeliner.

If I had to hand out a Most-Improved award, it would have to go to Kim, followed closely by Adrienne. With soft blush and lipstick – and no raccoon eyes – they both are so much prettier. Of course, Pinky looks amazing. Despite all the fan love for Kyle, and the undisputed fact that Camille has the body of cellulite-free 16-year-old, I’m totes Team Pinky.

Giggy I can take or leave. But Lisa of the Louboutins? Pure glamour.

I’m experiencing stress. There, I said it. Not only am I still reeling from the chaotic start to the Wee Lass’s b-day bash (due to the late arrival of our Barbie-for-hire), there is some genuinely sad stuff going on that I won’t tax you with at the moment. Just know that a few of my BA choices this week are reflective of the fact that I need to chillax – or at least look like I am.

Though I love nothing more than a piping-hot bath, I know that my skin feels otherwise – especially in the winter. No matter how much oil you dump in, hot baths are incredibly drying. Still, after all my P90X-ing, a good soak feels fantastic. And with my latest discovery – Ahava Mandarin Cedarwood Revival Bath Salts – it’s like sensory overload, in a good way. I kept the packet just because it smells so amazing. And this morning, the Wee Lass, who has a bionic nose and is obsessed with great scents, tried to steal it from me. Y-u-m-m-y.

Next, because I’m getting up there – and I love the very sweet and seriously smart Dr. Brandt – I grabbed a jar of his Crease Release Rapid Wrinkle Reducer. Though I’m not especially wrinkly, when you’re under stress, you naturally scrunch your face more than when you’re all blissed-out and peaceful. And Dr. Brandt, who is a mega-expert on Botox, naturally makes some of the best “faux-tox” around. I’m slathering it on my crow’s feet and pretending everything is hunky-dory.

Finally, I’m adding Aveda Green Science Perfecting Cleanser to my heavy-rotation skincare lineup. I’ve been using the Sphatika Facial Cleansing Crème since New Year’s, and it is absolutely lovely – a real keeper. But I have this weird habit of bouncing back and forth between cleansers, so I always like to have a few on hand. And the Aveda cleanser contains argan oil, which has been one of the beauty industry’s fave ingredients for a while now.

Okay, I’m off to hop back into my stressful day, relaxing beauty goodies in tow.

Without question, the Barbie-themed birthday bash we just threw for the Wee Lass was infinitely more stressful than embarking on – and sticking with – the P90X program we started 8 days ago.

(And that just gives you a clue as to how challenging that party was to pull off. Let’s put it this way: Our Barbie-for-hire was circling Jersey City in a taxi loooong after the guests had arrived. Good thing the girls were in full-tilt freakout mode when she finally showed up. So sweet.)

But back to mama-fitness. I won’t pretend for a second that P90X isn’t hard; it’s grueling. I think the shortest of the 12 workouts is 58 minutes. That’s much longer than I’m used to exercising, and when it comes to intensity, much more akin to working out with a trainer than winging it on your own.

Oddly, I’m really loving it. Maybe not the Yoga X so much. That’s a killer. And the Ab Ripper X is definitely not my idea of a good time. But I really like the program as a whole, and I feel such a huge sense of accomplishment when I power through my session for the day.

This morning, when I was changing from PJs into my workout clothes, I thought I spotted the beginnings of ab definition. Sadly, it was just a few tiny bruises – no doubt from smacking myself with a dumb bell during one of the routines. Still, for once after delivering the tot-let five years ago, I think bonafide tone in my midsection is actually in the cards.

We’re only on Week 2 of a 12-week journey, but I’m digging it. Yesterday, in the three-way mirror in the fitting room of Target, as I tried on a few tops and sweaters and eye-balled my –s in a pair of tight-ish jeans, it was all good. More hard work, and it will be even better.

Shhhh…please don’t tell the Wee Lass, but I’ve hired a dead-ringer for the babe on this invitation to help her and her tiny gal pals celebrate her fifth birthday this weekend.

Though rent-a-princesses are oh so easy to procure, a good, solid Barbie is a bit harder to come by. In fact, I was so desperate that I booked one pretty much sight unseen. “I’m assuming you’re tall and hot?” I emailed. “You didn’t send a picture.” Hint hint.

She did send a pic. And she is indeed tall and hot. Conscientious, too. For instance, I asked her if she could find a wig exactly like the one here, and she politely – but immediately – rejected that request.

“I’ve included a picture of my current blonde wig, which has bangs but is a little softer than the Barbie in the image you provided,” she wrote. “I’m concerned that such an abrupt wig will look fake to the girls.”

I guess a little faux is fine, but too much – even for a life-size Barbie for hire – isn’t good. That’s why, after a bit of back-and-forthing about what she should wear (hot pink, natch), I stopped just short of suggesting she get a spray tan.

But maybe Mommy will sneak off to City Sun to get one instead. At least one of us should be fake-baked for the big bash, right? Might as well be moi.

I boldly traveled out of the city yesterday (all will be revealed in tomorrow’s blog post), and I have to say that after literally running through Grand Central to catch my train, it was impossibly lovely to plop down in my seat, crack open my iPad and read all about the Bennet girls and their hubby-hunting for the ninetieth time.

When I got my luxe little gizmo for Xmas, I promised to part company with my Luddite tendencies and embrace the 21st century. And I kinda have. Still, it’s a tad ironic that one of my favorite things to do with it so far is to devour a cherished novel written in 1813.

Personally, I love the juxtaposition of toggling back and forth between centuries at random – in all forms of media. Take my television viewing this week, for example: I jumped up and down when the hottest Fitzwilliam Darcy on the planet accepted his much-deserved Golden Globe award for The King’s Speech; I rode the emotional rollercoaster that is the fifth and -sniff- final season of Friday Night Lights; and much to Hubby’s chagrin, I discovered a new piece of PBS Masterpiece mini-series brilliance – the costumed period drama Downton Abbey.

If you’re anything like me, you will agree that Downton Abbey is all that and a massive bag of Kettles. (Which I haven’t been eating, btw, ever since I started P90X – hurrah!) It’s set a little later than Pride & Prejudice – right around the time of the sinking of the Titanic – but it still embodies all those highly constrictive Brit customs and societal values that we, as modern-day Super Mamas, can hardly relate to.

I like my life now, and the freedom it affords me. Like picking my own hubby, for instance, and not having one thrust upon me by a Mrs. Bennet type. But there is just something so swoony about dipping into these other lifetimes – even via iPad. A corseted, horse-and-buggy mommy time-out.