Archive for August, 2011

I think I told you that I’m taking a home study course with organizing whiz Sue Rasmussen, right? With the intention of excavating my office?

Well, the re-org isn’t going well, and it certainly isn’t Sue’s fault.

Turns out that the spendy wood Kathy Ireland filing cabinets I bought didn’t fit, and had to be shipped right back. That was tons of fun. They weigh about 2000 pounds apiece and my office is on the second floor of our pad. Suffice to say that Hubby was not happy about this sitch, especially when he found out I hadn’t even bothered to measure the area in which they were intended to live.

Oops!

But according to my (imaginary) bestie Nate Berkus, not breaking out the tape measure before ordering costly and extremely heavy furniture for one’s home is a very common problem. So take that, Hubby!

Anyway, until I make other arrangements (I just ordered this gorge desk in Antique White) I really need to keep on trucking, and tossing unnecessary files, projects, etc. That way, by paring down the mountain of existing paper, I’ll make way all sorts of groovy new hobbies and obsessions! Oh, and “real” work, too. Grrr…

Yesterday, during my daily dig-out, I came across this handy little wallet card, the contents of which I’d like to share with you.

It’s a list compiled by the Environmental Working Group (that DC-based watchdog agency that monitors dodgy chemicals in our foods, beauty prods, sunscreens, etc.) of the produce we absolutely should buy organic, and those that we can purchase without worrying our pretty little heads about.

Before I get into the list, you can go here to print a PDF or download it to your phone. If you’re a Luddite like moi, you could always scribble them on the front and back of a plain white index card chopped down to wallet size.

So here it is:

High Pesticide-Load Fruits & Veggies (Buy Organic)

1. Celery

2. Peaches

3. Strawberries

4. Apples

5. Blueberries

6. Nectarines

7. Bell Peppers

9. Spinach

10. Cherries

11. Kale & Collard Greens

12. Potatoes

13. Grapes (Imported)

Low Pesticide-Load Fruits & Veggies (Aka Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Head Abouts)

1. Onions

2. Avocado

3. Sweet Corn

4. Pineapple

5. Mangos

6. Sweet Peas

7. Asparagus

8. Kiwi

9. Cabbage

10. Eggplant

11. Cantaloupe

12. Watermelon

13. Grapefruit

14. Sweet Potato

15. Honeydew Melon

Isn’t it cool that the low-pesticide list is longer than the one of the fruits and veggies that have been sprayed to smithereens? I think so. But I’m still keeping a big bottle of my favorite produce wash on the side of my kitchen sink in case I blow it from time to time.

Because as my Kathy Ireland Filing Cabinet Fiasco clearly shows, I am not always the smartest shopper.

*As well they should be.

But we’ll get to that in uno momento.

On our kitchen counter, in a Tupperware container sans lid, we have this really scary stash of “treats” the Wee Lass has collected in her travels. I just did a quick inventory, and here’s what’s in there:

1. AirHeads Xtremes, which she nabbed at the evil concession stand at the town pool.

2. Edible Legos, procured at a bday party she attended at this adorable Hoboken candy shop. Er, shoppe.

3. M&Ms and Hershey’s Kisses, housed in pastel eggs, obvi left over from Easter. Gross.

4. A massive pile of her new retro obsession: old-school Bazooka. (Grrr…she keeps asking us to read her the stupid comics that come with, which are in like microscopic, negative-5 point font.)

5. Rock candy – also retro, and sooo pretty. But she doesn’t really seem into it, probably because it isn’t fluorescent.

6. And a bunch of other cavity-producing crapola, including Nerds and Skittles.

Clearly, she consumes her fair share of chemicals. Not all day long, mind you, but she usually dips into her loot for a little somethin somethin once a day. Hubby has passed down a family tradition of a before-bed snack of her choice, and – shocker – she isn’t often hankering after a pear or a piece of string cheese.

Still, under no circumstances will a sip of soda pass her lips. We could be stranded in the middle of the Sahara, and if I whipped out a Coke, she wouldn’t partake.

And she’s hardly the only pint-sized people-person who shuns the stuff. Whenever I eavesdrop on her and her gang in a refreshment setting (i.e., one of these endless birthday bashes – even ones held at candy shops, er shoppes), it’s always, “I don’t drink soda because it’s really bad for you.”

Don’t get me wrong; this is a good thing. A really good thing. I grew up in 1960s Oklahoma, and you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a big ol case of “pop.” And I use to curse my own (Connecticut-born and raised) mama for making us drink milk 95 percent of the time, while my cousins could crack open a bottle of grape soda any damn time they pleased. Deprivation much?

Over the weekend, post-earthquake and pre-hurricane, I was frantically stockpiling all the feel-good stuff I thought would help us weather the storm in a “fun” way. And along with the only bottled H20 I could get my mitts on (electrolyte-laced AriZona Vapor Water, which I’d never heard of, and is probably pure marketing bullshit), I slipped a pack of Diet Dr. Pepper in my cart.

The DP made me feel happy for about five seconds because it’s so gosh darn tasty, but it’s now giving me a case of the guilts. Why? Because soda actually really is bad for you. Especially the diet kind, which ratchets up the carcinogens a few notches. Between the aluminum cans and the chemicals, I’m asking for trouble.

That’s why I have a bottle of the bullshit electrolyte water on my desk right now as I type this. The earthquake and the hurricane are behind us, and I (hopefully) gotta a lotta healthy living to do.

The positives to having our Asbury Park trip shortened from four days to one:

1. The adorably decorated hotel we stayed in (I was impressed by how “layered” it is, in that Nate Berkus way) was very nice about letting us bail after one night, and didn’t charge for the rest.

2. The one day we were there was lots of fun, and we crammed in plenty, including a bit of beachfront condo-shopping. Swoon.

And most importantly:

3. Despite our proximity to the Hudson, the hurricane was much less severe by us than we’d anticipated. Still, my heart goes out to all the mamas in nearby Hoboken, some of whom had to be evacuated and are subsequently dealing with gnarly flooding.

Anyway, to kill the time indoors – and to, finally, get to the point of this blog post – I flipped through a towering stack of fall fashion mags and catalogs…

Wait, sidebar, before I really get to the point of this blog post: In September Vogue, you guys have have have to read a mother’s devastating essay about surviving 9/11. Heartbreaking. I was sobbing reading it on the way down to the Shore. But it’s ultimately uplifting, though. So git yer Vogue and READ IT.

Okay, back to superficiality.

I’ve been thinking about fall, and, by extension, my fall wardrobe. First things first, I need to do a big closet purge and finally, for the love of God, get rid of the never-been-worn mint-green pumps I picked up at a Chanel sample sale back in the 1800s. I’ve accepted the fact that I will never sell them on eBay, mainly because I’ve never even been on eBay. In fact, the very idea of online consignment kinda makes my head explode. Feels like too much work.

Once I’ve purged, I’ll have a better idea of what I might actually need moving forward. There’s a “real” job brewing, which either will or will not be locked in within the next few weeks, now that the Mercury retrograde has lifted. Should that come to pass, I’ll primarily be working from home, but will still need to look pulled-together for meetings.

But I’d love to be comfy, too. Not sloppy, though. My friend Jenny, who I’ve blogged about a lot, has the whole “work denim” thing down to a science. She’s not always in jeans, but she is a lot of the time, and she still manages to look really polished. I think the trick is in the carefully applied makeup and the piles of jewels. I’m a late-in-life convert to jewelry, but guess what? It really elevates an outfit.

Along with figuring out my own version of a work denim scenario, I’ll of course be falling back on my fail-safe: Dresses. J’adore. They are so one-stop-shoppy. You just put em on and go, the insta-outfit.

And I’m really loving this cute poplin shirt dress number from L.L. Bean Signature. I just tried to create a link for the dress itself, and it wouldn’t let me, which doesn’t bode well for ordering it. I have a paper catalog in front of me, so I’ll give that a shot once I sign off here. But it would be a pity if it’s sold out already. Grrr.

While I feel a little sorry for J. Crew because every other mom-friendly brand on the planet is cribbing from them, there is certainly something to be said for slightly lower price points. Which L.L. Bean Signature seems to have in spades. And free everyday shipping!

Now if only they’d make a non-leather, cruelty-free version of their tall waxed canvas Maine Hunting Shoe. I’d be all over that like a cheap suit.

UPDATE: The crackerjack social media team at L.L. Bean Signature just sent along the proper link to order the poplin dress. Get clicking, mamas. Because I just did and the Black Cherry shade is going f-a-s-t.

Ruh roh. We’re about to head out on our first and only beach trip all summer, just as Hurricane Irene is bearing down on the East coast. Man, after getting completely freaked out by the earthquake this week – our entire building shook while I was loading the dishwasher – I have to say I’m a teensy weensy bit nervous.

But Momover Lady will bravely soldier on. Mostly because we’re also, possibly, second-home condo-shopping while we’re down there. Swoon. I would kill for a beach house. Well not kill, exactly. But I’d really really really love one. Really.

Anyway, I won’t be filing any brilliant dispatches from the Joisy Shore, so I wanted to leave you with a list of popular blog posts. That way, you’ll have something to read and remember me by until I get back.

If you already read ‘em, read ‘em again. But for all the newbies to the site – Welcome, Momoverettes! – enjoy:

I ask myself: Would Kelly Wearstler work like this?

Health paranoia: There are lots of way of getting iodine

Driftwood Spa at Jakes = beyond gorge, crazy-relaxing

Chew on this: Juice-fasting ain’t the only way to detox

Feng shui attack: My walk-in closet

To celebrate the latest Mama Guru featuring fitness whiz extraordinaire LaReine Chabut, she and I have cooked up a devious little get-your-ass-moving scheme.

If you email me (DanaWood@Momover.net) and share your post-baby getting back in shape story, we’ll pick the most motivating “you go girl” tale and reward you handsomely with:

1. A copy of LaReine’s book. This one, although she’s written like a million.

2. An exercise ball sized to fit your specific bod. (Why? Because they are deeply awesome and because LaReine and I finally figured out that we first met when I included her Exercise Balls for Dummies book in a pregnancy fitness story I wrote for Cookie back in the Stone Age.)

3. The opportunity to tell the Momoverette community about your fitness routine when I host you (and go all Barbara Walters on your –s) as a Special Blog Guest. Trust me, being a Special Blog Guest is tons of fun. Just ask artist mama Tish Johnson Cook.

Okay, officially standing by to hear all about your poochy belly triumphs. And remember: It’s not about whether you look like a mom-babe. We just want to know how you’re working your way back to fighting form.

UPDATE: LaReine (big old meanie) wants me to set a deadline of next Wednesday, 8/31. So get scribbling, vacay be damned.

DOUBLE UPDATE: I’m overriding LaReine and lifting this deadline due to the hurricane and the fact that this is literally the biggest vacation time-frame of the entire year. Tell us your fitness tale whenever you can!

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been eating like shite this summer. Come to think of it, I ate like shite last summer too. Detecting a bit of a pattern here. Summer = eating like shite.

Anyway, I’ve decided to wrest control over the situation (and my not-especially-svelte thighs) by doing something that worked like a charm for me all spring: Eating only fruit before noon.

This is not a new concept. And it’s not especially earth-shattering, akin to, say, the discovery of the New World by Christopher Columbus. Or Amerigo Vespucci, or whoever first landed on these fine shores lo all those years ago.

And speaking of ancient history…

You’re probably too young to remember a seminal diet book from the Eighties entitled Fit for Life. Well, I’m not. And that puppy was a game-changer. It was the first of the genre to get into the nitty gritty of proper food-combining, and the then-radical notion that eating fruit on anything but a completely empty stomach is a baaaad idea.

Why? Because – and please excuse the utter grossness of this theory – if you dig into a slice of watermelon or pop a handful of grapes in your mouth after inhaling a steak or a bowl of pasta, the fruit just lays there on top. And then the whole big blob of food (the steak, the grapes) starts fermenting and rotting. Blech. The personification of gnarliness, in other words.

According to the Fit for Life authors, fruit needs to fly free. And the best time to OD on it is in the morning, after a good solid eight hours of shut-eye, and before we’ve started shoveling in any other food.

Flashforward several decades and Hollywood’s hottest nutritionist – Kimberly Snyder - is banging the same fruit-only drum in her info-packed Beauty Detox Solution book.

I love the whole premise of Kim’s work, which is that what we eat – and when we eat it – plays a massive role in what we look like. That’s a really smart way to get us wanna-be hot mamas to load up on our fruits and veggies – appeal to our vanity and superficiality!

Which brings me, finally, to the BIG IDEA behind this blog post. I’ve completely bought into the fruit-needs-to-fly-free concept. I was on that bandwagon way back in the Eighties. But now, after re-reading Kim’s book – and remembering how much frigging energy I had all spring – I’m hooked again.

And most most most importantly, I’m considerably less chubby when I’m fruiting before noon. Fruit is insanely good for you, and it’s de-chubbifying. So much to love.

I use to have an office-mate who frequently begged me to light up. “Pleeeeeeze,” she’d plead, “you look soooooo cool when you smoke.” Hmmmm. Perhaps she had ulterior motives? Like maybe she wanted me to cough and wheeze and keel over in my cubicle so she could put on her big girl undies and do my job?

Nah. I think she genuinely meant it. But the problem was, and I think maybe still is, I agreed with her. I’d say that it’s my dirty little secret, except I’ve blogged about it before: If someone is young and beautiful, or old and beautiful, I usually think they look about 1000 times hotter if they have a ciggy dangling from their mouth.

Don’t agree? Google “Paul Newman smoking” and then get back to me.

I was never addicted to cigarettes; I smoked literally 1 to 2 per week for years. Well, maybe I was little more smoke-y during the time-frame I toiled for a massive French beauty company, and went to Europe a lot for my job. (Paris is basically cloaked in a giant Gitane cloud.) And also right after 9/11, when I was convinced there were terrorists hiding in the potted plants along Park Avenue.

My point is that I didn’t roll out of bed every morning and fire up a Marlboro Light. There was no physical craving. Rather, they were my little Friday night treat or my mid-freakout calm-down crutch. And I haven’t had one in years.

I just find it really bizarre-o that I can be trucking along in my smoke-free life and – shazzam! – I’ll be hit with the urge. Usually, it’s triggered by a paparazzi image of some glam creature puffing away. Which is why, duh, those are rarer and rarer these days. Most celebs have been shamed into not smoking in public, and I think that’s probably for the best.

I’m really happy that kids today don’t get bombarded with lots of intentional media images of smoking. Even when it sort of fits what’s going on in a show or movie. For example, I just read that the upcoming television series Pan Am will not show any of the groovy stewardess ladies lighting up. Despite the fact that it’s set in the Seventies, when everybody smoked.

For sure, all that government intervention seems to be working. Admittedly, my in-house focus group is pretty small, but the one tiny people-person I’m in frequent contact with doesn’t find ciggies cool at all.

“People who smoke will get dead,” says the Wee Lass, who just wandered into my office and asked about this picture of Kate on my computer monitor. “That’s why I’m never going to smoke.”

On Friday, when she and I were on a Mommy + Me field trip to Victorian Gardens, we came out of the subway just a few blocks away from Central Park South. And in the hustle and bustle, I spotted an older guy with one of those tiny apron thingies around his neck – the kind that covers an artificial voice box that is usually a tell-tale sign of emphysema, the disease my own mother died of.

Talk about a reality check. Every time this guy wanted to chat with the others in his group, he had to press on that box. He seemed cheerful enough, but that has to be a bummer, right? Pressing on a box on your throat and sounding like ET whenever you want to chime in on the conversation?

Not to mention the fact that he probably won’t be with us much longer.

I know, I know – I’m making assumptions; people get voice boxes removed – and emphysema – from other causes besides smoking. But it’s pretty rare. Mostly what happens is that people who smoke eventually get tons and tons of horrible physical problems. And then they get dead.

When I was at the dearly departed Cookie, overseeing health + beauty coverage for tot-lets and their gorge mama bears, I was visited by the ultra-smart guy who created Damon Braces. I think his name was Floyd, but you’ll forgive me if it was actually Frankie or Fabian or Fauntleroy, right? The Wee Lass was still a Diapered Darling at that point, so I was a touch sleep-deprived.

Anyway, what old Floyd had to say made such perfect sense. Here’s why:

If you’re my age (40s, okay late 40s, what-ev-er), and had braces when you were a tween or teenager, there’s a really good chance you had teeth pulled in the run-up to becoming a metalhead.

That was the shortcut route to alleviating crowding, and it probably lopped a solid chunk of time off your prison sentence. (Weirdly, I loved having braces, but I realize I stand alone in that sentiment.)

For example, I have a petite little mug and relatively large choppers, so four teeth had to go. And I think that was kind of the norm – two on the top, two on the bottom.

In the short term, this teeth-removal stuff is fine. You get your braces off and presto, change-o you are the biggest babe on the planet.

And then you get older. And everything starts to shift, and you lose “volume” in your face, and suddenly it all starts to go to dental-hell in a hand basket. And then, says Floyd, you are totally and completely cursing your parents for green-lighting that pre-braces yanking. Why? Because you realize how much you need them for the holy grail of youth and beauty: the super-wide smile.

Obvi Floyd isn’t down with yanking. So if and when the Wee Lass needs braces, and I think she will, we’ll undoubtedly go the Damon route.

But what about Momover Lady?

A few years ago, I went to visit the handsome and hilarious Marc Lowenberg, who has beautified the smiles of a galaxy of models, rockers and movie stars. I hadn’t seen him in eons, but he segued immediately from pleasant catch-up chit-chat to dire forecasts about my dental future.

It was all “dark triangles” this, and “collapsed smile” that, and by the time I left he had instilled the fear of god in me. I had much brighter teeth, because he’d just bleached me, but I was a big ol’ stress-ball all the same.

I know Dr. Lowenberg is right. And I know Floyd was right. The question is: What am I gonna do about it? I’m not really into the idea of veneers. I know a lot of people with those, and I never think they look especially natural. Blinding white and perfect, yes. But maybe a little too Hollywood. I don’t know. I’m not ruling them out, but I’m not ruling them in, either.

As crazy as it sounds, I’m leaning more toward Braces, The Sequel. I’m at least going for a consultation. Maybe I’ll end up with Invisalign, maybe Damon, maybe old-school metal. Whatever will get me fairly quickly and inexpensively to a wider, more youthful, Angie-r smile. Brad Pitt not included, of course.

Damn it. I have things to do. Chores to knock out, recipes to track down (I want to make salmon for the Wee Lass’s dinner, with a yummy mustard sauce, and I’ve misplaced my dog-eared, 10 year-old copy of Martha Stewart Everyday Food), and a bit of “hoovering” to do, as the Brits say.

How cute is that expression? Hoovering. Although it also reminds me of cocaine, which is not cute in the slightest…

But perhaps drugs are the perfect segueway to today’s blog post: A loving look at the extremely troubled O’Neal père et fille.

I just got completely sucked into the vortex of the last few episodes of their show on OWN, which I watched on demand. (I’m beginning to think this 24/7 access isn’t good for Momover Lady, who is obsessed with pop culture and really needs to be sleuthing out salmon recipes rather than keeping up to speed on reality telly.)

You never know when the lives of perfect strangers are going to get under your skin. But, without question, Ryan and Tatum are under mine right now. I genuinely feel for these two – both of them, but never at the same time – and for what it’s worth, I’m trying to beam crunchy unicorn and rainbows positive energy to them out in L.A. Lord knows they could use it.

I made poor Hubby sit through a few early episodes, and his stance was unequivocal: Ryan is the bad guy. Why else would his kids be so heroin-y, and jail-y and car crash-y? You don’t get that way without the help of a really shitty, narcissistic, Hollywood heartthrob father, right?

I can see Hubby’s point. Especially if Mr. Love Story was quick with his fists, an allegation Ryan (mostly?) denies.

This isn’t TMZ, so I won’t get into specifics here, but I have to say my heart broke a little when I heard about Redmond’s latest woe. He’s only in this show a teensy bit, but I just feel crazy, crazy bad for him. Please, did you see him a few years ago at Farrah’s deathbed clad in his prison uniform? OMG times a million.

But still, even though I mostly sided with Tatum throughout the series, there were times when I wanted to reach through the screen, shake her and say, “Can’t you see how hard Pops is trying? How can anyone who can be so devoted to a rescue mutt who pees on expensive carpets be that bad? He has leukemia! Remember the leukemia???”

I think she heard me. And if she didn’t, I’ll fire off a heartfelt email. Just as soon as I make the salmon and do the Hoovering.

The other day, I went to collect a UPS package in the lobby of my condo complex. And when the doorman went to fetch it from the mailroom, I heard the intercom on his desk start to crackle and sputter. And of course, I was all ears.

Besides twiddling my thumbs, what else would you expect me to do but eavesdrop?

“The eagle has landed.” Crackle, crackle, sputter, sputter. “I repeat: the eagle has landed.”

Wondering when I’d inadvertently moved into a James Bond movie, I signed for the box and headed back upstairs. And as it turns out, it was filled with free beauty products, as so many of the boxes in my life tend to be.

E-listen very closely: I AM NOT COMPLAINING. I’ve had a mad love affair with beauty brews for decades. Two of those decades I got paid to conduct my dalliance with all manner of cremes, powders, lotions and potions. But for at least another 10 years book-ending those decades, my obsession has been precisely that: A form of acquisitive madness.

Some gals are into shoes. I’m into Sephora. And spas. Spas with kick-ass shops.

But when I originally conceived of Beauty Armoire Mondays, it was with the grand design of emptying mine. Of using the products I love, discovering hidden treasures lurking in all the boxes and bags crammed inside, and getting rid of the rest.

It wasn’t about getting more and more additions for the testing pile. That’s why the “getting rid of the rest” part of this equation doesn’t seem to be working very well. And that’s why my Armoire Monday posts have been sparse of late.

I needed a better game plan.

The eagle had to land. And start making some decisions about what stays, what goes, and what gets re-gifted to the nanny.

Thank god the nanny’s back. It’s been a fun summer with the Wee Lass, but I need to have another grown-up woman in my midst, one who would looooooove a constant stream of beauty goodies.