Archive for May, 2011

Actually, I lied: I have two things in common with the stunning supermodel and activist. Before my family and I high-tailed it across the Hudson, I used to live in her neighborhood, and I would often see her handsome film-director hubby playing with their two cute tots in the local parks.

So there’s that.

And then there’s this.

Yesterday, as we were heading out for the town pool, I shoved some reading material in my bag: One of those incredibly geeky Seaside Knitters mysteries, which I’m completely addicted to, and the new issue of More.

Turlington is the cover story this month, and her harrowing tale – which she’s used as the catalyst for a powerful new documentary – gave me shivers. And it was a good 90 degrees in the blazing hot sun where my lounge chair was parked, so that’s an indication of how rocked I got when I read it.

I shivered, then I cried, as a million painful memories came flooding back to me.

I urge you to read the piece, and to see the film. But in the interest of connecting the dots, I’ll summarize. Right after the natural childbirth of her first child, her daughter Grace, Turlington suffered a severe hemorrhage when the placenta would not dislodge on its own and literally had to be ripped from her body.

It wasn’t until weeks later, as she recovered at home and dove into research, that she realized that had she not received the proper medical intervention, she would have died. In many countries around the world (thankfully not this one), postpartum hemorrhage is a leading cause of maternal death.

Though I didn’t give birth naturally, and it wasn’t diagnosed immediately, I suffered a similar trauma. And four days after my C-section, I had to have a fairly substantial transfusion. I needed three bags of blood, and as each required about four hours to drip into me, I was hooked up to that IV for what seemed an eternity.

It took me months, no years, to physically and emotionally recover from that. And even now, it’s a fresh-enough wound that I cry when I think about it. It’s so scary to know that if I lived elsewhere – or even in this country, a century or two ago – the Wee Lass wouldn’t have a mommy to read her The Best Chef in the Second Grade, as I just did before turning out the lights and kissing her goodnight.

Too many moms don’t get to do any of that – the bedtime reading, and, most of all, to deliver those kisses. And I, for one, am so very grateful to Turlington for letting the world know.

We’ve reached that time of year when I start acting like a multi-gazillion dollar body-parts model.

Seriously.

Instead of going about my business in my typical manner – careening here and there with nary a care about whether I smack into the pointy edge of the coffee table – I mince around very, very preciously.

And super s-l-o-w-l-y, as if I’d just swallowed a handful of ‘ludes. (Oooh – fun Eighties reference!)

Why do I behave in this bizarre fashion? Because my fair, mostly-Celtic (with a dash of Native American + German) skin bruises like nobody’s business. Really. Just look at me funny and I turn blue.

Right now, however, I’d like to discuss all the other people in my life who share this same painful problem. Well, “in my life” is a bit of a stretch. I’ve never actually met any of them. But I have encountered them. And for me, that’s enough to weigh-in on their beauty woes as if they were my very best gal pals.

First up: Sonja Morgan. Oh. Em. Gee. Trainwreck. Though I watched the episode of RHONY in which she conveniently “forgot” the bottom half of her Marie Antoinette costume, it wasn’t until I read the New York mag recap (and flicked my fingers on my iPad so I could blow-up the chunk of tush in question) that I saw that black and blue whopper on her ass.

My, my, my. That was not pretty. It’s bad enough girlfriend was baring her 40-something behind on national telly; at least make sure there isn’t a bruise the size of Oahu residing there.

Next, we move on to a random stranger I saw in Chelsea on the way to my appointment with Anthony Gianzero, my so-cute-you-could-just-squish-him colorist. Cute girl, I’m guessing in her 20s, coming at me on the street wearing microscopic hot pants. That’s cool; figure-wise and age-wise, she could definitely pull them off.

But then she stops at her apartment building and starts jamming her keys in the lock. It was then that I saw a gigantic bruise on her leg, south of the hemline of those short-shorts. Such a head-scratcher for me. If you know you have this unsightly sitch going on, why put it on display?

Finally, we move on to the hostess at the restaurant Hubby and I dined at last night. Another pretty 20-something. Tall, thin as a matchstick, sporting an Ace-bandage-tight mini dress with nude stockings. Yes, you read that right: nude stockings. Perhaps it’s a dress-code thing? (But come to think of it, there was a co-hostess with tawny JLo-legs who wasn’t wearing them. Whatevs. I digress.)

Anyway, I’m sure you know where I’m going with this: When the teensy-weensy hostess stalked across the room to seat other diners, I spotted it – a ginormous bruise on her left thigh, again on full view for the whole wide world.

My conclusion: Maybe it’s time for me to pack away my Extreme Bruise Paranoia for Summer 2011. If all these other ladies are just fine with having everyone see their black and blues, perhaps I should be too. At least I could do away with the mincing around like a body-parts model bit. That isn’t easy, you know.

But you also gotta admit there’s something really nice about a bruise-free bod.

Raise your mama-paw if you were the least bit surprised by Wednesday’s piece in the New York Times that essentially says that being chained to an office chair is dangerous to your bottom line.

Last night, as I was slipping into my nightie at, um, 8 o’clock (an indication of how wild my life is), I caught sight of my belly. Already, only about a month post-P90X, my hard-earned ab definition is going buh-bye.

Well, it’s not like I’ve been sticking to my loose plan of incorporating some of the tougher, more-targeted P90X workouts – like Plyometrics and Ab Ripper X – into my fitness regimen.

That’s because I don’t really have a fitness regimen at the moment. I’ve been running a bit, mostly on the weekends (workends! grrr…), but I’m pretty sure that’s better for my brain than my behind.

I got jealous of Hubby this morning because he’s embarking on a second round of P90X after a one-week breather. Given that I have another month of my magazine gig, and a few more workends in front of me, I don’t think I can re-commit to those hour-plus workouts without completely losing my shit because I’m rushing, rushing, rushing around like a loony.

But I do know I have to get my act together. To recover some of my muscle tone while simultaneously hiking into the office AND keeping up with my mama-chores. (If only I had a pair  of “Dust Bunny Blinders” so I wouldn’t obsess too much about the current state of my lovely home…)

Aaargh, I’m getting all stress-y just thinking about it. Game plan, game plan…Mommy needs a game plan.

Okay, so it’s grainy. If you want the slick, vibrant-color version, trot on over to your local newsstand (or open your mailbox) and procure the latest issue of O.

So why, precisely, of the millions of images I see as I flip through my towering stack of magazines, did this one hit me like a tsunami?

A few reasons: One, I want to find that chubby, furry woof-woof and squeeze the pudding out of him. Two, that young girl just looks like the essence of kind-heartedness, and that’s exactly what I’m hoping for for the Wee Lass.

She’s already sweet, mind you, but kind? Kind takes time. Kind takes a little bit of life experience. Kind takes exposure to the not-great stuff in our world so we can learn to be grateful for what we have. And while she’s on her way, the Wee Lass ain’t quite there yet.

But here’s why this pic really stopped me in my tracks: It’s attached to a story about the New York chapter of Unleashed, and its remarkable program that trains middle school girls to recruit foster families for stray dogs, like the unspeakably delicious fluff-ball shown here.

At the risk of sounding far too crunchy for 6 a.m. on a Thursday, the story – and of course the picture – totes made me realize just how much I’m not “living my values.”

Sure, I write checks to the many, many animal welfare organizations pelting me with heart-breaking solicitations.

But I need to really get in there and actively help. And cuddle. And flex my kind-heartedness muscles so the Wee Lass will take note and hop right on board alongside Mommy.

I’m one lucky puppy. Trust me that I know this, although my favorite past-time of late has been to bitch and moan like a rock star who didn’t get his precious purple M&Ms and case of Jägermeister in his dressing room, per the bullet-proof rider in his contract.

I have a lot of good things in my life. Not enough time to enjoy them right now, but at least I know they’re there.

So it in this upbeat, gratitude-y spirit that I will now relay to you what has gone down in the past 72 hours.

On Friday, during my visit to Dr. Brandt, he rawther sternly tsk-tsked me when I told him that I don’t wear sunscreen on my face religiously. Not brills, given the multiple skin cancer biopsies I’ve had over the years, not to mention the tiny chunk taken out of my forehead where an actinic keratosis was removed.

But, hey, at least I was honest, right? Many a less-brave mama than I would have straight-up lied to the dude.

Since he wanted to prescribe the Refissa for me (I’m only on Day 3 but I am in LOVE…), he made me promise that I would wear really strong sunscreen, at least 45 SPF, because any kind of Retin-A makes your skin much more susceptible to burning.

Grrr, I thought, do I even own such a potion? I’m more of an 8 girl myself. (Hence all the skin cancer biopsies…)

Today at lunch with my pal Patricia, a Lancôme public relations honcho and beauty savant, who just so happens to have co-written Dr. Brandt’s first book, she handed me a bag packed with goodies, including Génefique (the new youthifier you see in all those Kate Winslet ads). And Star Bronzer bronzing powder and Flash Bronzer tinted self-tanning body gel, so I can get my glow on.

And best of all, a Lancôme classic: Bienfait. The UV version. SPF 50+, thank you very much. Now Dr. B will have to find another sunscreen slacker to tsk tsk.

I’ve been in a bad mood for at least a month. Growly, whiny. A real Oscar the Grouch, minus the slime green fur and trash can abode. Of course, it’s all my own fault – I accepted too many work projects – but knowing that hasn’t been enough to get me to pipe down with the griping already.

Today, however, I’m feeling chipper. Why? Because I finally went to see the insanely renowned beauty guru Fred Brandt. Although I’ve known him for almost 20 years via the editor circuit, I’ve never plopped myself down in one of his sleek black swivel chairs and asked him how he would go about the business of changing my life.

Because he does indeed change lives. Or at least enhance the living hell out of ‘em. Take Madonna, for instance. While Dr. B never – and I mean never – talks about her, he’s the main reason she looks approximately half her age. Well, from the neck up; we gots to give ol’ Madge props for keeping her 50-something bod banging. She bangs.

The purpose of my visit today was not to actually have him poke me with a needle, but to get a gameplan for the near future. The very near future, as in mid-July, when all my assignments wrap and I’m officially kicking up my heels for the summer.

So after dispensing with the polite chit-chat, he scrutinized my makeup-less face and made his friendly-but-brutal assessment:

“Your fat pads are slipping,” he said, tapping my cheekbone and gesturing south. “That happens as we get older. Your forehead isn’t bad. You could use some Retin-A. Have you tried any type of Retin-A yet?”

No, but frankly, I’d been dying to. I love my drugstore retinol products, but at a certain point, a gal needs to stop effing around and go for the industrial-strength concoctions. So, happily, he sent me on my merry way with an Rx for Refissa, a new riff on Retin-A that’s very moisturizing. So much so that I probably won’t need to layer a night cream on top.

The Refissa should definitely help with sun damage, particularly a few stubborn brown spots on my cheek. And when I go back to see Dr. B in about eight weeks, I intend to take the plunge with Botox and a some type of filler. (He’s keen on Restylane and other types of hyaluronic acid-based fillers, but we’ll see.)

I know, I know; I’m morphing into High-Maintenance Mommy. Or Crazy-Vain Mommy. Take your pick. All I know is that I’m excited.

“I can take 15 years off your face,” said Dr. B. “You’re gonna look great.”

Music to my high-maintenance ears.

This woman is 73.

Seventy. Three.

I’m sorry, but that third shot? She’s giving the multiple-decades younger Pippa Middleton a serious run for her money.

And don’t get me going on that hair. It is so sexy and fresh and youthful that I want that cut right now. Oops, I actually already have it, now that my inch-length pixie has grown out a smidge.

I only have five seconds before I have to hop in the shower and kick-off another hellacious (and utterly rain-drenched…grrr…Gotham is the new Seattle…) day, so I don’t even have time to find out why my idol Jane was in Cannes recently, looking like a billion bucks.

Of course it had something to do with helping people. My idol Jane really likes to help people, and she is exceedingly good at it.

But I think it’s also – maybe just a little – to show us all that if we take wicked good care of ourselves – eat right, exercise, embrace excellent grooming to the nth degree – we too can look (almost) this good at her age.

I continue to be inspired by this woman. And on a soggy, stressy Wednesday morning, I’ll take all the inspiration I can get.

It’s official: I have Gizmo Guilt.

Right now, here are all the beauty gadgets that I’ve started using in recent months, but have temporarily abandoned because my crack-a-lackin work schedule has cratered my precious personal grooming time:

1. My NuFace

2. My Neckline Slimmer

3. My cheapy riff on a Clarisonic

4. My Neutrogena battery-operated foot- and chest-microdermabrasion thingamajig

If my great friend Tina, Beauty-Marketing Guru Extraordinaire, were sitting in front of me right now, she would tell me that I have “compliance” issues. In other words, I’m not using my get-gorgeous stuff, so it can’t do me a lick of good.

That’s the problem with all these gizmos, she says. Women get all hopped-up about ‘em, thinking they’re gonna change their lives. And then after a week, they’re collecting dust in that big black hole under the bathroom sink.

Aaah…but then you can just yank them back out again when your schedule lightens a bit, right? That’s what I’m banking on.

Besides, in the meantime, I’ve been pretty faithful to the best, best, best beauty gadget of all time. I’m not kidding. It. Is. The. Bomb.

Yay! Yay! It’s Friday! I have to work all weekend! But at least it’s Friday!

No, I haven’t lost my mommy marbles. It’s just that after living through them for the last month, and knowing that I have another month of them in front of me, I’ve become a just-add-water insta-expert on what I’ve christened a “workend.”

Or maybe I didn’t christen it; maybe some other genius wordsmith already coined the term.

Whatevs, I digress. And with the short leash I’m on, I don’t have time to digress.

Okay, so quickly, here are my kick-ass tips for surviving a workend without feeling like throwing yourself a massive pity party on Sunday night at 11:

1. Sleep late both days. This is key. Think about it: What really distinguishes weekend days from their evil and sinister workday counterparts? The fact that we can languish in our cozy little beddy byes, and don’t have rocket out from under the blankies the second the alarm clock rings.

2. “Chunk” your work project down into bits. That way, you’re at least enjoying some semblance of both days. Let’s say you’ve estimated your weekend work-load at 8 hours. Bust it up and maybe do two hours 4x, sprinkled throughout Saturday and Sunday. Not only is it less psychologically grueling than knowing you have to park your ass in front of the computer for an entire day, it’s easier to pawn the tots off on Hubby for a couple of hours here and there.

3, Make sure to squeeze some cardio in, preferably on both days. I blog a lot about how simultaneously calming and energizing running is, but really, anything that gets your heart rate up will do the trick. So don’t phone it in. You need to break a sweat to maximize the stress-relieving benefits.

4. Lay low on the other gadgets. If you’re having a workend, that’s enough technology. You don’t need to also be checking email, Facebooking and Twittering.

5. Once your workend is over, do some soul-searching…and figure out how to avoid having another one, ever again. We mamas need a rest, and agreeing to too much work seriously compromises the quality of our lives. Of course, this tip is mostly for me, because I’m actually quite pissed at myself for piling my plate with too many projects. But that’s why it’s good that I’m going public with these “rules.” Now, I’ll actually have to follow them.

Especially Number 5.

I’ve been so discombobulated lately that maybe I dreamt this (or nightmared it), but I’m almost positive Jill Zarin said something borderline brilliant on last week’s episode of RHONY.

It was during the bit when she actually hoofed it over to Brooklyn – eek gads! – to make nice with Alex McCord. Trying to give ol’ Al props for her new white-blond hair and overall spiffy appearance, La Z said something to the effect of: “You can do the kids thing and the hot thing. Or the work thing and the hot thing. But you can’t do the kids thing, the work thing AND the hot thing.”

Were truer words ever spoken? I think not. It was if I’d stumbled upon the master key to the mommy universe.

Looking great takes major effort and organizational skills, for sure. But here’s what it also takes: zero tolerance for stress. Once you start freaking out about work, your face automatically scrunches into a tight, ugly little ball and you instantly look 10 years older.

I know this because freaking-out has been on my daily agenda for the past several weeks now, and I do in fact look older. Okay, let me qualify that: I’ve been looking my age, which I’m not used to.

As soon as my sched lightens up, and I go back to just doing “the kid thing and the hot thing,” I’ll be okay. Especially since I’ve booked a consultation with a veddy veddy well-known anti-aging guru. I’m gonna have the dear doc give me a To Do list, and then I’m going to systematically check off each item.

The kid thing and the hot thing. Sign me up.