Archive for April, 2011

When it comes to pressing life issues, like whether my “post-baby” kangaroo pouch will deflate by, say, the time the Wee Lass heads to kindergarten in September, I can totes be the Queen of Denial.

Translation: I can work out like a complete mother-effer, for an hour-plus six times a week, for THREE MONTHS and still somehow convince myself that those leftover chocolate Easter bunnies and that Wisconsin-sized block of Brie won’t undo all my hard work.

Aaaah….but something miraculous is happening: In addition to the chocolate and cheese, I’ve also been POUNDING myself with fruits, veggies and salad in the last few weeks, and I’m actually finding that the more I eat, the more I crave.

It’s uncanny. I thought that only happened with sugar.

This weird sensation couldn’t be occurring at a better time. As I wean myself off the hardcore P90X, and bury myself in work for a few months, it is imperative that I get my food act together. I’ve been doing research for a big diet story, and every single expert I speak to basically says that exercise doesn’t do jack, weightloss-wise, if you’re eating badly.

Of course, being fit has about 8 billion other benefits besides downscaling your ass, so let’s keep it movin, mamas.

Speaking of which, I gotta jet. I’m on deadline and the clock is ticking. TGIF!

So after three months, my long and extremely well-documented journey with P90X has kind of sputtered to a halt.

I mean, it was supposed to end. But I completely half-assed my last week, so it wasn’t like some epic moment crossing the finish line, during which I bounced a quarter off my rock-hard belly and cracked open a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon to celebrate.

(Ugh. Do they even still make that stuff? I’m a beer snob, btw. Love all the pretentious “artisanal” Belgian numbers…)

But back to my bod. I don’t have a real game-plan now, which is dangerous from a flab perspective. There are some P90X workouts that I totally love (Legs & Back, oddly) and some that I loathe but see the true value in (Ab Ripper X and Core Synergistics). So those I definitely want to continue doing.

But I also want to run a little. I ran outdoors before drop-off and work today and it was divine. I forgot how much I love it, how it somehow both mellows me out and gives me lots of focused energy. Seriously. After I finish, it’s like I’ve been hit with a tranquilizer gun.

Too bad it really doesn’t do much to shape your body. Ooooooh, did I just say that? Why yes, I did. I’ve known that for forever, but just didn’t want to accept it. Sure, it burns calories, but so do lots of other activities, including doing plyometrics and lifting weights – and those sculpt you, to boot.

For the next eight weeks, I have a lot of work on my plate and plenty o’ stress headed my way. And then, we’re off on a massive road trip to the heartland. So I think, for now, I’ve gotta just mix up my workouts, and go ahead and freaking run if I feel like it. Especially before work.

No matter how you slice it, running is good for my brain. Maybe not for my behind so much. But I’ll worry about that down the road.

Technically, it’s Tuesday. So shoot me. After work all day in the city yesterday, I was out partying like a rock star last night. (Not really, unless you classify one class of sauvignon blanc as the height of decadence…)

So last week, as I was prowling through of one those great Duane Reade Look beauty departments for a few items (hair accessory gew gaws for the Wee Lass, a birthday card for the nanny and a tube of Jergens Natural Glow in a light shade that actually bears some resemblance to my god-given skin tone), I caught something out of the corner of my eye that I just knew would spell wallet trouble:

An entire display table of this works, one of the yummiest beauty brands to come down the pike in, well, eternity.

Man oh man I love that line. But in particular, I dig the deep calm bath and shower oil. I use to call it “liquid Xanax,” and that description is wildly apt. Chock-a-block with coconut, lavender and vetiver, it’s divine. Dump a capful or two in the tub after a long, taxing day and I defy you to be stressed.

I discovered it not long after the Wee Lass (then lovingly referred to as the Diapered Darling) joined us. As much as I was overjoyed to have a tot, and as much as she completely and utterly rounded-out the happy picture that was originally just me, Hubby, Thunder and Lightning, I was fueled by anxiety in those early years.

There, I said it. As a new mommy, I was a big ol’ stress ball.

But now that the Wee Lass is older, and I can have incredibly charming and heartfelt conversations with her, and she can do lots of things for herself like getting dressed in super-schmancy outfits, I have a lot more inner peace.

But that didn’t stop me from plunking down the big bucks when I saw one of my all-time favorite beauty brews perched in front of me. Some stuff is just totally worth the splurge.

It’s a truism, and not some manufactured-in-Hollywood-bulls–t, that women employed by the marquée name magazines based in New York wear massive, mondo, skyscraper-level heels. From interns to overlords, it is allll about high and mighty footwear.

But here’s what’s also written in stone: That once you move off a masthead, and start mixing up your magazine-ing with mommy-ing, you will get out of “high heel head” and will have a very hard – nay, almost impossible – time swapping out your flat boots and Birks for six-inch heels.

Still, it must be done. Especially if you’re Olsen Twin-tiny, like moi.

After being surrounded by chic giraffes at my guest-editing gig this past week, that point was driven home to me, yet again, in this cute piece in the Times by hot mama / Glamour Editor In Chief Cindi Leive. It’s basically a peek into her wardrobe, and there’s much chatter about shoes, and the high-heel peer pressure the 5 foot 2 inch dynamo is under.

“Once I had a bum ankle and was ordered to wear flats,” Leive writes. “I felt as if I was walking into the office naked.”

So now that I’ve accepted my situation – that I need to get high again, stat – my mission is to somehow combine comfort with altitude. Though there has been endless ink spilled about Spring 2011′s sensible high shoes, specifically “flatforms,” I’ll be damned if I can find any non-leather (i.e., vegan-friendly) numbers in my size. And trust me when I tell you that I’ve been looking.

But I think I just need to sleuth a little harder. Maybe once I dispense with this morning’s chores (P90X and a “friends are coming over” emergency house tidying), I’ll go hunting. Because I’m sure there are other miniaturized mamas in the same boat, and I need to help every last one of us.

Look, I get it: You and your beautiful brood got all hopped-up after going to see the unspeakably adorable movie Hop, (OMG, the scene when E.B. is pretending to be a marching stuffy and clapping his paws? Cuteness explosion…), and now little Johnny or Josie is begging you for a real, live bunny or chick for Easter.

Um, you could do that. But we all know that when the novelty wore off…10, 9, 8, buh-bye novelty…little Johnny or Josie would be nowhere to be found and you’d be the one playing game warden.

I have a better idea. Sponsor a critter from Farm Sanctuary instead.

Like gorgeous Jade, pictured here in all her feathery, ruffly glory. She was rescued from a cockfighting operation. Or maybe Mr. Peepers? He’s a charming goose who had it verrrry rough until Farm Sanctuary stepped in. And then there’s Preston, a duck who was found wandering the streets of New York City after likely having been bought and abandoned during another Easter season.

Oh, there are lots of stories. But they can have a double happy ending if you, in turn, help Farm Sanctuary continue to do its excellent work by sponsoring a needy crowing, chirping or quacking creature.

Or simply become a member, like me. Either way, it’s an easier gig than green-lighting a living, breathing version of E.B.

Q: How do you know when you’re totally sleep-deprived, over-worked and out of it?

A: When you hop in the shower, wet your hair, and apply conditioner BEFORE shampoo.

The above scenario just happened to me five minutes ago, and it must be because I overslept while dreaming of another lifetime: Me, the Nineties, platinum blonde hair.

At the time, I had an intense fixation with the late, great Carolyn Bessette, who often wore her dyed-white waist-length locks scraped back in a super-severe, minimalist bun.

So so did I. For years. Most of my 30s, in fact.

More recently, however, I’ve worn a gorge honey blonde concocted for me by my loooong-time colorist, the so-cute-you-could-just-squish-him Anthony Gianzero. I get tons of compliments on my color, and the great thing is that it looks like it’s highlighted when it’s it actually just an easy, breezy 30-minute single process.

So if everything is so hunky dory on the hair front, and it totally is hunky dory on the hair front, why I am fondly lusting after my old bright white? Maybe it’s because it’s really short now, and I think going a lot lighter could spin in it a less boyish, sexier direction.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s because of the creepily phantasmagoric new HBO series Game of Thrones. Hubby and I watched the premiere on Sunday night and I’m still thinking about it.

It.

Is.

Insanity-ville.

I don’t have time to do it justice right now, but I will in an upcoming blog post, because there are tons of kids in it, which is somehow heart-warming and terrifying at the same time.

Anyway, the good folks at John Frieda are obvi reading my mind, because they just sent me a new product I’ve been completely and utterly craving: Sheer Blonde Go Blonder Controlled Lightening Spray. So now I can pretend I’m the platinum princess in the show, whose weirdo prince brother is trying to sell her off to the highest bidder.

I just totally doused my hair in it. (So much for “Controlled”!) Evidently you can also ramp-up the lightening effect by applying a little heat via a flat-iron.

Maybe I’ll try that tomorrow. Right now, I have to scoot off to drop-off and dive into my day. Grrr. But at least I’ll be a little blonder, and a little more Game of Thrones.

In the past 72 hours, I’ve had ample opportunity to re-write my god awful photo ID history. Well, actually, it was more like one true opportunity and one near miss.

On Saturday, we went to get our new season passes for the town pool (it’s not our town, per se, but they’re nice enough to let us play bathing suit-clad interlopers) and I was determined to up the ante over last year’s. Talk about setting the bar low; my hair was in full-frizz mode that day, and I detect not the slightest bit of war paint.

This year, thanks to my new pixie ‘do, a smidge of makeup and – drumroll – a genuine smile, I look considerably better. And that’s just from the neck up. With all my P90X-ing, my bod is also much improved. Now if only I can keep the momentum going, especially while I’m juggling several simultaneous work gigs.

And speaking of which, today, when I returned to the magazine for which I’ve been temp-toiling, I was hoping against hope that I’d be able to replace that heinous work badge I blogged about in February. You know, the one that made me want to run screaming to the surgeon for a syringe full of Juvederm.

So before I headed down to building security, I busted out my makeup bag and went to town, applying a mix of “classics” and new-stuff-I’m-trying:

1. YSL Touche Eclat Radiant Touch (most genius prod of all time)

2. Bobbi Brown Foundation Stick (the absolute best of the genre, but I mostly use it as a concealer)

3. St. Tropez Powder Bronzer Matte Finish (just started using this but I really like it; matte is such a good idea for a bronzing powder – very work-friendly)

4. Noir Smooth Blend Eyeliner in Smog (another newbie for me; fabulous texture and zero “drag”)

5. mark touch & glow shimmer cream cubes (faithful Momoverettes know I’ve already heaped some love on this great beautifier)

5. Clinique Long Last Glosswear in Stellar Plum (a little dark, a little shiny and a lot of photogenic)

After plastering my mug with all that, and fluffing my hair a bit, I was ready for my close-up.

“Can I see your other ID?” asked the perfectly pleasant building security broad. “Sure,” I said, reluctantly forking it over and wishing I’d said I lost it.

After a quick sleight of hand, she handed it right back to me with a new expiration date and a broad smile. “Here you go,” she chirped. “You don’t need even need to get a new picture!”

Tant pis, as the French say. At least I looked polished and put-together. And besides, I’m quite sure there are other IDs in my future.

Yesterday – on my big weekly date with Hubby – it was all about mixed messages for me. But in the spirit of putting the cart before the horse, I’m gonna tell you about the second part – the stylish thriller Limitless - before I tell you about the first.

If you’ve already seen the movie, feel free to skip on down to the bit about – spoiler alert – my trip to the psychic.

Okay, so the movie. Basically, and implausibly, Bradley Cooper plays a dirtbag wannabe novelist who has a book deal but has not yet committed one word to page. (I say ‘implausibly’ because I mean pleeze, have you looked at Bradley Cooper???) And early on, after his hottie girlfriend dumps him because he’s such a loser and she is so very, very together, he is sad-sacking his way home to his crummy Chinatown apartment when he runs into his former brother-in-law.

In short, the creepy former bro-in-law supplies Bradley Cooper’s character with a drug that instantly makes him wildly productive. He’s learning languages! Playing the piano! Day-trading his way into millions with his newfound knowledge of complex algorithms! Starting and finishing his novel – brilliantly – within four days!

Oh, and of course he physically morphs into the real Bradley Cooper, i.e., stunning with nary an ounce of body fat.

Although, after seeing the flick, Hubby and I both said we’d like to procure a stash of the Limitless drug so we too could reach our full potentials, I couldn’t help but dial-back to the chat I’d had earlier in the day with Judy Turner, my beloved psychic of the past 15 years.

Now that my big life questions have been answered (the ones about whether I was ever gonna get hitched and have a baby), I only go to see Judy about once a year. But it’s always great, even when she has sad or scary info to impart, as she most definitely has had in the past. She’s a no-nonsense mom of three, warm and friendly but completely a BS-free zone. Despite a roster of famous clients, there isn’t a pretentious bone in her body.

(Speaking of bodies, she helps the New Jersey police find ‘em. Dead ones. Spooky.)

Anyway, here’s the net-net of what she had to tell me yesterday, which is a happy twist on the Limitless message: This time of my life is all about slowing down, and enjoying my kid, my hubby, my house and my life. Yes, there are work opportunities – probably more than I can even handle. But, unlike previous pre-Momover Lady lifetimes, career stuff isn’t what defines me anymore.

Instead, Judy wants me to dive into cooking and driving, and to build my confidence around both of those core mommy-competencies. And trust me, she isn’t reading this blog, so she doesn’t know how much I whinge about my poor cooking and driving skills.

For the next 10 weeks, I have an insane amount of work to get through. But then Hubby and the Wee Lass and I are taking a massive cross-country roadtrip to visit relatives in Tulsa and St. Louis.

I’m living for that road-trip. And the cooking, driving and mommying that will follow. So yes, Limitless productivity – but in a very, very different way.

So I’ve been reading the new issue of People, the one with Jennifer “World’s Most Beautiful Woman” Lopez on the cover. Please, I’m in full agreement. Just ask Hubby. At one point, during the auditions for Idol, I kept grabbing the clicker and rewinding to one particularly jaw-dropping clip of her.

“I kinda can’t believe how incredible she is,” I said, while realizing the folly of drawing one’s husband’s attention to the extreme beauty of another woman. “I mean, it’s almost not human.” Shocker: He was very much on board with this notion.

Anyway, the entire issue is a fun read, with a cute little piece on the number of hours of beauty sleep some celebs get. Because she hits the hay when her kids do, hot mama Heidi Klum clocks in at 10 hours. Jon Hamm says he logs 12, but broken up into four-hour chunks. Um….okaaaay. But far be it from me to quibble with success. I’d be hard-placed to find a yummier male specimen than Hamm tricked-out as Don Draper, so whatever’s he doing is obvi working for him.

And here’s what’s working for me: My gorgeous new Branché sleep mask. I am so in love with this little number. Faithful Momoverettes already know that I’m a huge fan of sleep masks because they block light that can prevent the release of much-needed melatonin. But this one goes above and beyond the call of beauty duty.

Why? Because they’re crafted from premium silk, which, according to the Branché snooze experts, contains skin-repairing amino acids and copper. Also, when your face isn’t being smushed into crinkly cotton sheets, you are far less likely to wake up with crinkles yourself.

When it comes to sleep, silk is your your face’s – and your hair’s – BFF. That’s why Branché also makes pillow cases in the same delish fabric – to tamp down those dastardly frizzies and keep the hair-breakage to a bare minimum. And guess who’s also supposedly a fan?

None other than La Lopez.

I don’t know about you, but the news that the freakily stunning (and talented, grrr…) Catherine Zeta-Jones has been diagnosed with bipolar II disorder, and recently sought in-patient help for it, has hit me a little hard. Especially since, from what I understand, it’s a mental illness that can take root at any age, is characterized by heaps of depression, and is often precipitated by a highly stressful event.

I’m pretty sure watching one’s beloved movie star husband dealing with advanced throat cancer qualifies as a stressful event.

For years, I’ve been fascinated by this woman. To me, she represents pretty much the epitome of having it all. First we’ve got the looks, and then we’ve got the unimpeachable acting | dancing | singing chops, and then we’ve got the Hollywood royalty spouse and the adorable kids.

Oh, right – and the Oscar. Remember how cutely preggo she was when got up there to collect her little golden guy?

Still, in all lives, even one as blindingly sunny as CZJ’s, a little rain must fall.

Because perfect strangers sometimes approach Hubby and tell him he looks just like Michael Douglas (thank you, cleft chin!), and because Mr. D happens to be one of the best actors of all time (if you haven’t seen Solitary Man, you must must must Netflix it immediately), we were both tracking his bout with cancer pretty closely. And we were so relieved that he got through it, and is on the mend.

Now, with this turn of events, I’m again rooting for this gorgeous couple. She’s super-brave for putting it out there for public consumption, and without question, she’s throwing a much-needed spotlight on an ailment most people (including Yours Truly) didn’t know much about.

I’m wishing her all the best. Team Catherine. Big time.