Archive for March, 2011

Though I’m a happy little clam to be hopping on a plane in the morning, I’m sad that I’ll be missing an event that promises to be both yummy and heartwarming: An intimate vegan press lunch at Pure Yoga to celebrate the straight out of the gate success of animal-lover Kathy Freston’s incredible new book.

Faithful Momoverettes know I have a massive girl-crush on Kathy, and her new effort is only making me love her more. I really believe that her truly do-able “lean into change” stance – which gently coaxes rather than clobbers one over the head – will inspire literally millions of people to embrace a bit of veganism here and there.

Would Kathy love all of us to stop eating meat and dairy lock, stock and barrel? Yes. And would she also like to see us bag leather and fur? Totes. But she also gets completely psyched when we take baby steps, and just cut back.

As I sit here blogging in my navy Fuggs, I’m making a pledge in honor of Kathy: I am hereby committing to at least one vegan meal per day, and I will also – drumroll – cook a vegan dish from scratch twice a week. If you’re rolling your eyes about now, know that cooking is so not my wheelhouse I can’t even tell you.

Which is why I’m going to set the DVR tonight for yet another critter-friendly media happening I’m missing tomorrow: Martha Stewart’s first-ever vegan show. My buddies at Farm Sanctuary gave me a heads-up about it, which I’m in turn sharing with you:

Wednesday 3/30, Hallmark Channel, 10 AM ET/9 AM C

Martha, whom my readers know I’m also mighty enamored of, will spend the entire hour on the topic of veganism, including whipping up seitan bourguignon and chit-chatting with Farm Sanctuary president and co-founder Gene Baur.

Okay, signing off to pack for the beach. Viva la veganistas!

For a few months now, ever since I gave up on that ancient-but-unused Clarisonic collecting dust in my BA, I’ve been eyeballing the reasonably priced knockoff version.

So this weekend, on a power-jaunt through Target, I finally nabbed an Olay ProX Advanced Cleansing System. It was on sale, and I’d been wanting one, so I figured what the heck, right? It’s evidently a hot item, because there were only two left, both of which looked like a St. Bernard puppy had lovingly mauled them.

But later, when I opened it, I found it quite curious – and not in a good way – that it came with a positively microscopic tube of the grainy scrub you’re supposed to use with it. Had I known that, I would have just gone ahead and picked up a separate, regular-size tube. Irksome.

But here’s where I’m getting all genius-y and money-resourceful: When I chucked the Clarisonic, I hung on to the accompanying cleanser. Just call me a beauty-hoarding rocket scientist…

Except that…when I was rooting around in my armoire for the Clarisonic cleanser, I couldn’t put my mitts on the Jergens Natural Glow that I just know is in there somewhere. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe I got so hopped-up on my newfound love of liquid leg bronzers that I kicked the Jergens – which is basically a self-tanner disguised as a body lotion – to the curb.

Because we’re Jamaica-bound in 48 hours, and my bod is as pale as the backdrop on this blog post, I decided to spring for a new tube of Jergens. And of course there was a hitch: I wanted to try the new firming version (I have no idea why, because the only way to firm anything is to hit the weight rack), and the only one left on the shelves at my local CVS was for “Medium to Tan Skin Tones.”

I tan really easily for a blue-eyed sorta blonde. But after this loooong, slushy, watery winter, I’m ghostly.

So today, after “naturally glow”-ing last night, I look like I always do after using self-tanner: Spotted like a freaking leopard. This is not good, considering I’ll be sporting my new Malia Mills Raquel top and adjustable It’s A Cinch bikini bottoms in a few short days. My only course of action is to glow for it again tonight, in the hopes that I’ll miraculously hit the patches I missed with the last go-round.

But you know what? I’m just not gonna sweat it. My new ‘do is really cute, and after literally busting my ass for the last 10 weeks, my figure looks fit and trim in that sexy swimsuit. And besides, leopards are one of my favorite animals. Meow!

I needed a trimmy trim trim because my frizz-prone hair was turning into hay again, and boy did I ever get one.

The last time I got a cut this short, I went into full-on panic mode and paid $4000 – yes, you read that right, four grand - for hair extensions. I was a young(er) cashed-up swingle at that point, and had the disposable income to indulge that level of insanity. I had just started seeing The Man Who Would Become Hubby, and in between Date Two and Date Three, my hair fake-grew by about a foot.

Despite the steep price tag, I’d have to say those luxurious blonde pseudo-locks were hot – for about three weeks.

But then they started falling out in clumps all over Would-Be Hubby’s apartment and car, and that was sooooooo not sexy.

Here’s what else wasn’t sexy about that time in my life: The fact that I was so beauty-insecure that I had to literally buy my way out of a short ‘do. What’s up with that? Would-Be Hubby had already seen the pixie, and continued to pursue me, so obvi he was perfectly fine with it.

Whatever. I’m not gonna waste a lovely Saturday morning psycho-analyzing my younger self. “They” say money can’t buy happiness, but in that case, “they” were unequivocally wrong. I spent a small fortune on a foot-plus of blonde happiness – and five mind-numbing hours in a swivel chair at Warren-Tricomi Salon – and I don’t regret it for a second.

This time around I won’t be panicking. Yes, it’s short. Shorter than I’d even really bargained for. But in six to eight weeks, it will morph into the cut of my dreams. And until then, I’m gonna rock it. Rock it like a hurricane.

It’s not a competition, because she clearly blows me out of the water, but I feel like I’m trying to keep up with my workout goddess friend Colleen and falling a wee bit short.

Why? Because her idea of a fun vacation is hitting Canyon Ranch Miami Beach and blasting through 2 to 3 hours of fitness a day, including climbing rock walls and pounding through something called Stick Fusion. (I shudder to think how bruised I’d be after whacking myself with a 3-foot baton for an hour and change. I’m like crazy-uncoordinated…)

And this is coming on the heels of P90X Plus – because she’s already a graduate of “regular” P90X. I’m sipping my post-workout “Recovery Drink” through clenched teeth as I type this…

Kidding. I’m not really irked at Colleen for being in the 99th body fat percentile for her age group. (Okay, maybe a little.) Or the fact that she has like an 8-pack and can rock sleeveless tops 12 months a year. (Okay, maybe a lot.)

She works super hard to be that fit. And someday, if I keep at it, maybe I’ll actually catch up.

Yikes.

This is the fourth day this week (in a week that is only four days old, mind you) that my energy level has completely plummeted in the afternoon. I’m not used to this, and I am not digging it. I have this perfect little window of time right now, when I don’t have much on my work plate, that I could be using to whip this house into Martha-level perfection. And yet I’m not.

In fact, my sole effort along those lines is to clap and cheer the construction crew that has descended on our abode this week, turning our living room from a boring eggshell hue to a truly stunning cherry blossom. (For reals. When the first coat went on Pepto Bismol-pink, I freaked. But now that it’s dry…It. Is. Awesome.)

But back to those pesky health matters. Though I know exercise is the great bestower of energy, I think – gasp – that I may have been overdoing it recently with all my P90X-ing. Yesterday, I bagged on the P90X weight-training session I was scheduled to do, but then had such an attack of the guilts that I headed up to the gym in our building and hopped on the Elliptical for 30 minutes.

And while that made me feel a little peppier and little less guilt-ridden, I find myself in the same zombie-fied state today.

In desperation, I emailed my health-writer sister and my vitamin sales exec-brother. “Could be exercise,” my sis responded. “Could be the thyroid meds. Or a combination. When’s the last time you had a thyroid bloodtest?”

Actually, it feels like just yesterday that my doc jacked my Rx. And although it was in fact a few months ago, I still think it’s waaaaaaaay too soon for that to be an issue again. But maybe it isn’t. All I know is that I just want to crawl under the nearest rock.

So I might. But I think I’ll drag a new book under there with me. It’s called The Power of Rest: Why Sleep Alone Is Not Enough. Billing itself as a “30-day plan to reset your body,” it tackles what the author considers to be the four big buckets of rest: physical, mental, social and spiritual.

I’ll debrief you on what I learn. Soon as I wake up.

Last weekend, on our way to an early-bird Saturday night dinner, Hubby and I popped into a health food store in the West Village. “Maybe we should stock up on iodine pills,” he said, scanning the shelves, “before they’re sold out.”

Grrrr…

Though I’m generally a big ol’ fraidy cat about natural disasters, terrrorism and crashes of all stripes – and a biopsy can send me cowering under the blankies for days – for some reason I haven’t really glommed-on to the universal fear du jour: radiation wafting over to the States from Japan.

But since lots of other mommies are understandably freaked, I wanted to share some insights from health smarty-pants (and Mama Guru) Susan Blum.

Dr. Blum’s stance is that, for lots of people, iodine tablets are fine – with one BIG caveat: If you have thyroid issues (as I do, sadly), ramped-up iodine via pills can spell trouble.

“In these cases, and also in some normal-thyroid people, the high dose of iodine can actually cause your thyroid to become worse,” she says. “For this reason, it is important to make the decision [to take iodine supplements] based on your personal health history.”

A safe alternative, per Dr. Blum, is to boost your iodine levels through foods, including:

·     sea vegetables such as dulse, kelp, nori and haziki
·     seafood including ocean fish and shellfish

And the good doc is so keen on us mamas going the natural route, she even had Marti Wolfson, the in-house chef for the Blum Center for Health, whip up an easy-peasy, sea-vegetable condiment recipe for you:

Dulse and Sesame Seeds

Ingredients:
1 cup dulse
1 cup sesame seeds

Toast the dulse until it turns purplish and crispy and let cool. With a mortar and pestal or in a food processor, combine sesame seeds and dulse until coarse mixture. Sprinkle as a condiment in soups, salads, sandwiches and cooked vegetables.

Yesterday, I accidentally bought the Wee Lass six new bathing suits for our upcoming jaunt to Jakes.

Every year I get her a boatload, because she’s a complete water rat and is basically drenched from Memorial Day until the leaves start falling off the trees. But still, she doesn’t need that many, right? But they’re so inexpensive at Target that I was flinging them into the shopping cart right and left. And before I knew it…ka-ching.

This week, in anticipation of our trip, I’ll also be heading to Malia Mills to purchase the first bikini I’ve worn since I was preggers six years ago. I love that store, because the tops and bottoms are sold separately, and they’re mostly in dark, depressing solid colors that totally speak to my stuck-in-a-Nineties-time-warp, minimalism-loving self.

Will I look amazing in my new two-piece? No. Will I, after nine solid weeks of P90X, look perfectly fine? Yes. And if I avoid the dastardly new treat Hubby has discovered, I should be okay.

At least when viewed from a distance.

At close range, despite all my recent Ab Ripper X-ing, I still have a smidge of postpartum skin crepey-ness on my belly. I never really call it stretch marks, because I’ve studied those at length for my Momover book, and whatever I have going on just doesn’t look like that. But who knows? Maybe one woman’s stretch mark is another woman’s crepey-ness.

Anyway, I cracked open my Beauty Armoire to see what I could rush-deploy to help improve my skin texture. And happily, there was a big stash of Mama Mio just waiting to be slathered on.

First up: Skin Tight Toning Serum, which was created to retexturize and “zap crepey skin.” Yay! A firmer that taps right into my biggest tummy-beauty fear.

Next up: Goodbye Stretch Marks. Although it clearly states on the bottle that it could take up to 12 weeks to see results, and I don’t believe I actually even have stretch marks, I figure there’s no harm in going overboard, oui? It’s not like I’m a Vicky’s Secret supermodel or anything.

And for good measure: Boob Tube. This little number is beloved by broads the world over, and for good reason. It targets the bust and the neck, and it works fast. Within one week kinda fast. Yes this zone is north of my belly, but so what? Might as well look as good as possible all over. Especially when I’m parked poolside next to the Wee Lass in her hot little Hello Kittys. Talk about firm and gorgeous…

This is one of those times when I feel guilty for blogging rather than attending to more – dare I say it – important matters.

Like tracking down all my 2010 tax documents for Hubby’s big pow-wow with the accountant tomorrow morning, and blasting through the Ab Ripper X workout I didn’t manage to get to yesterday. (Though I did do Shoulders & Arms, so I wasn’t a complete loser slacker…)

Last night, as I was getting ready for beddy-bye, Hubby spied my bare belly for a nano-second. “Wow,” he said. “Your stomach is looking good.” And upon closer inspection, and some serious squinting, we both think we spotted two vertical grooves flanking my belly button.

Was it a mirage? One too many glasses of Merlot?

No, it was the result of SEVERAL tortuous sessions of Ab Ripper X, which I’ve complained bitterly about over the last eight weeks or so. It’s really short, under 20 minutes, which when compared to other P90X workouts like the 92-minute Yoga X, seems like warp-speed. But it’s brutal. And apparently effective, even when you eat like an idiot, as I have been lately.

In addition to Ab Ripper X, there’s another DVD in the lineup that I will most definitely be working into my post-P90X life. It’s called Core Synergistics, and it’s very, very intense.

A hyper mix of Prison Cell Push-Ups, Banana Supermans and Plank to Chaturanga Runs, Core Synergistics is designed to, as Tony Horton puts it, “tighten the entire mid-section into a hard, ripped sheet.”

Doesn’t that sound fantastic? I’ve never had a hard, ripped sheet in my life. But I think I’ll be one happy camper at the town pool this summer if I pull that off.

The other day, as I was fishing through a pretend bookcase in my office (it’s actually an old chest of drawers that I’ve painted white à la Shabby Chic and re-purposed in an utterly genius-y fashion, if I may be so bold as to say so…), I came across a tome I’d bought but never cracked open: Always Ask a Man: Arlene Dahl’s Key to Femininity.

Talk about a time-warp. It still had the price tag on it, and it seems that I plunked down a whopping $75 for it at the chi-chi Jane Stubbs book nook within Bergdorf Goodman. But please, do not tell Hubby about my profligacy, I implore you…

Even casual readers of this blog know I recommend a lot of books. But just FYI, I’m not an Amazon affiliate. I’m not an anything affiliate. I’m waaaaaaay too much of a tech-spaz to figure out any of that nonsense. So when I give shout-outs, it’s just because the spirit moves me.

And today, I feel like giving a solid round of applause to Madame Dahl and her classic 1965 guide to glamour. Because her (sixth!) husband is in the cosmetics biz, I’ve actually met her several times, and she is indeed extremely pulled-together and coiffed to the nines. And now, reading this, I totally know why.

To justify the fact that I spent so much of our hard-earned family moolah on my 975th beauty book (seriously, I’m such a hoarder), I’ve decided to dole-out some of Dahl’s best tips over the course of a few blog posts. Here’s the first batch:

1. Fake clean hair. If your locks are a bit greasy and grimy and you don’t have time to shampoo (and, say, you’ve run-out of your precious Klorane), “fill the bristles of your brush with shredded cotton or gauze and then brush your hair thoroughly.”

2. Bag the crazy cleanses, for reals: “Crash diets are bad for the skin because they usually lack nutritional balance. Also, the constant up-and-down fluctuation of weight usually produces sagging tissues and premature wrinkles. Need I say more?” No, Arlene, I think that’s sufficient…

3. Develop a daily beauty routine, and keep at it: “Just one hour a day can make the difference between a plain Jane and a glamour girl. If you divide it up this way, it will soon be as natural to you as brushing your teeth:

* 15 minutes in the morning, for make-up, hair and grooming.
* 15 minutes at your convenience for planned exercise for face and figure.
* 15 minutes in the afternoon, for relaxation, to relieve tension.
* 15 minutes at night for brushing hair, removing make-up and lubricating face and body.”

I can hear you howling from cyberspace about this last bit: “Who has an hour?”

Um, you do. I do. We all do. Especially if you chop it into manageable chunks, as Dahl has. And if, and only if, we make ourselves a priority, which shouldn’t be even remotely negotiable. In fact, as soon as I hit “Publish,” I’m heading upstairs to do today’s P90X workout, Plyometrics. And lemme tell ya, it far exceeds Dahl’s suggested 15 minutes. Grrr.

But how much are you loving her afternoon “relaxation” reco? That’s probably the smartest beauty tip I’ve read in years. Nothing is more aging, or less attractive, than a face all scrunched-up with stress. So chill, my mama friend, and stay gorgeous.

Recently, how much have I been whinging about not having any free time? A lot, right? Like non-stop?

[Sidebar: Don't you love "whinge"? I think it must be a Brit-speak mashup of "whine" and "cringe." Because whenever I hear myself whining about my manufactured Barbie Problems - when there is so much freaking misery in the world - I cringe along with everyone else within earshot...]

So yesterday, on my first day in about five weeks of not having to do drop-off and haul myself straight into the city for work, you’d think I’d kick back a little, right? WRONG! Yes I stopped for yummy pancakes on my way back to Casa Us, but once I arrived, I dove into a list of chores as long as the Mississippi.

Many of them were household-oriented, including ironing and starching my sheets. In one of my massive stacks of mags, I’d read this great tip about bringing your fresh-from-the-dryer 500-thread-counts to the cleaners and having them pressed.

Since I’m obsessed with hotels, and that whole crispy-crisp sheet thing, why didn’t I just do that? There’s a drycleaner literally in the bottom of our condo complex. No, I figured I’d attempt it myself – on the measly half-board that’s part of a California Closets built-in in the Wee Lass’s playspace. I can assure you, sheet-wrangling on a toy-sized ironing board is a tougher workout than P90X.

Later, I continued my geek-streak at the annual spring fund-raising auction for the Wee Lass’s school. Amid all these great prizes – harbor cruises, weeks at the Shore, dinner for two at Le Cirque – what did I bid on and buy? A three-hour house-cleaning and a private consultation with a clutter-buster.

Anyone with even a passing acquaintance with Momover Lady knows I’m counting the seconds until the all-powerful Clutter-Buster darkens my doorway. I have an even bigger fixation with organizing than I do with crispy-clean sheets.

I think it’s my way of tricking myself into believing that I have some degree of control over the chaos of modern life. In fact, I know it is.