Archive for September, 2011

Recently a very nice gent reached out to me via the World Wide Interweb and asked if I’d like to receive a journalists-only health newswire that I’d subscribed to when I was on staff at the dearly departed Cookie.

Why not? I’m already an info junkie. Might as well pile my plate with a little more. You know, so my head can completely explode, and I can develop such a case of adult-onset ADHD that I can barely string a sentence together.

That reminds me: Gotta get October Vogue; I spotted an ADHD cover line.

Focus, focus…

So the first installment of the newly re-upped newswire landed in my electronic inbox this morning, and already I’m struck by how much health data I’m not keeping up with. Yowsa.

Like, how did I miss an entire syndrome?

What was once simply recognized as being incredibly unhealthy is evidently now bundled into a tidy package called metabolic syndrome.

Per the Mayo Clinic, here are the hallmarks:

• Increased blood pressure
• Elevated insulin levels
• Excess body fat around the waist
• Abnormal cholesterol levels

And if any of the above conditions crop up simultaneously, in any combination, you’re at risk for sinister health woes including heart disease, stroke and diabetes.

Just now, a million metabolic syndrome-related thoughts went through my feeble brain, neatly in order of the bullet points above:

1. My blood pressure is fine, thank the lordy. (It’s all the exercise. Working out is the one healthy thing I do on a consistently regular basis.)

2. I need to cool it with the damn sugar already, which in excess can trigger insulation elevation. Unfortunately Häagen Dazs was on sale at our local A&P Fresh last weekend, and we nabbed Coffee, which I l-o-v-e looooooove. Still, sugar is bullshit and I know that already.

3. I’m chunking up around the mid-section again. That’s despite Point 1 (the exercise) and because of Point 2 (the Häagen Dazs). I need to scamper back onto the Ab Ripper X bandwagon, stat. Of course a flat stomach is a three-part equation: Sound diet, cardio and targeted spot work like Ab Ripper. Good times. Not.

4. Frankly, I don’t know what my cholesterol level is. That’s not very smart of Momover Lady. I’ll ask at my next doc visit.

Okay, so that’s my metabolic syndrome story. What’s yours?

Perhaps I’m on crack, but I think I’m a really nice person. Seriously, ask anyone who knows me, and she / he will tell you that I have a heart of gold.

And I endeavor to be thoughtful, too. Thus, when it comes to disseminating health info, and sharing my own personal health-related tales, I tread very carefully.

I couldn’t have had as long a career in magazine publishing as I’ve had if I didn’t tread carefully.

That’s why I went ballistic this summer when some jack-assian birthing website wrote a scathing takedown of my Momover book.

(OMG I just checked, and it’s still a “featured article” on the home-page months after it was published. Birthing Website People, get some fresh content!)

First, let’s be clear: In and of itself, I have no issue with a jack-assian birthing website writing a scathing takedown of my Momover book. The last time I looked, this was America.

But when I write to you twice, politely inviting you onto Momover.net for a virtual chit-chat about your frigging issues with my book, and you don’t even respond, that gives me agita.

And when I ask you to correct a major mistake in the piece – the reviewer claimed that I’d had “two C-sections in 18 months,” but I’m almost positive I only have one kid – and you don’t do that, consider me officially furious.

Patience, patience; I’m about to connect the dots between the jack-assian birthing website Momover review and this eye-popping New York Magazine cover story.

The birthing website book reviewer was apparently disgusted at what she (I think the reviewer is a she, the piece isn’t bylined, which is crazy-lame) considered to be my cavalier attitude about having had to receive a fairly substantial blood transfusion a few days after I delivered the Wee Lass.

For the record, I’m not even remotely cavalier about that transfusion. It was traumatic, which I both stated in the book and have subsequently blogged about. It took me a long time to recover from that, both physically and emotionally, which is one of the reasons why Hubby and I decided to have our baby nurse live-in with us for most of the first year of the Wee Lass’s life.

From what I can glean, Birthing Website Reviewer Lady was most incensed by the fact that, as an older first-time mom, I placed my faith and trust in my OB/GYN and went ahead with the C-section after laboring 18 fruitless hours.

But A, my OB / GYN is one of the most respected doctors at one of the top teaching hospitals in New York and B, I don’t know, was I supposed to go another 48 hours of fruitless labor and perish on the operating table like women – tragically and horribly -  do in Third World nations all over the planet?

Evidently, per Birthing Website Reviewer Lady, transfusions are common after C-sections, especially for women she classifies as AMA (Advanced Maternal Age). Had Momover Lady done her research, tsk tsks witchy Birthing Website Reviewer Lady, Momover Lady would have known that.

But I’m still left wondering what it is, exactly, that I did wrong in Birthing Website Reviewer Lady’s eyes. Should I not have attempted to have a kid at age 42? To that, I can only say this: I shudder to think what the rest of my life would have been like if I’d passed up the opportunity to have the Wee Lass. I am sobbing right now as I write that.

Which leads, me, unbelievably circuitously, to this week’s New York Magazine cover story, which explores the phenom of women 50 and up giving birth.

And here are my deep thoughts on it: It is fantastically balanced, kicking under the tires of every nook and cranny of this issue. In other words, the writer, Lisa Miller, produced a work of solid journalism. Maybe Birthing Website Reviewer Lady should call Lisa Miller and ask her how it’s done.

When we first hightailed it across the Hudson three years ago, I went through major Manhattan withdrawals. None of the stores by us seemed cool and groovy enough, and I had a big old bee in my bonnet about the nearby mall, which is anchored by JCPenney and Sears.

Not that I’m a retail snob or anything. How could I be, when I basically live at Target? Still, I’ve become super duper picky about buying the Tar-jay clothes. Mainly, I stick to the basics, like Mossimo T-shirts. I’ve got lots o’ Mossimo T-shirts.

But back to that unsexy mall, and a very fun thing that’s going down over there: A mega H&M is under construction, and I’m counting the seconds until all the guys in the overalls beat it, and customers can break down the doors.

Hopefully it will be in time for me to shop this All for Children collection, pictured here, in part, in all its adorableness.

Geared to tots from baby to 8, it’s launching in October in collaboration with Unicef. (25 percent of all proceeds will go to a project of Unicef’s choice.)

Sophisticated in its styling – and looking like it should cost way more than it does – the All for Children collection is based on the characters in Moritz!, the cute-as-it-gets book shown here.

There aren’t any words in this cheerful little tome, but the illustrations are off the hook charming. And you can nab it, along with all the corresponding clothes and accessories. (And by “accessories” I mean hats and scarves and such, not the It Bag of the season.)

Just as an FYI, the Wee Lass gave Moritz! a big thumbs up, making up her own little story as she flipped through the pages. Maybe H&M will start a whole new trend of word-less kids’ books. Sure would make bedtime stories fly by.

Happily, I’ve pretty much recovered from my shoe meltdown of last week.

Why am I on the mend? Because of a Saturday shopping spree wedged between a 2pm showing of Moneyball (if Brad Pitt doesn’t get an Oscar nod, there is no justice in the universe) and dinner with Hubby. As he waited outside for me in the car, I bought three pairs of boots in 10 minutes flat.

Pretty good, right? I thought so.

I’ve been shopping at Moo Shoes on the Lower East Side for a few years now, and the selection just keeps getting better and better. While earlier I might have considered their offerings “pretty cute for cruelty-free,” I now consider them “pretty cute – period.” That’s a huge shift. And it makes me want to turn a cartwheel right here in this little ol’ home office.

Okay, so here’s what I bought, all linked-up so you can take a look-see:

1. Colorado Boot in brown by Jambu. So freaking cute. And wildly comfy. I’m gonna get them in black, too.

2. Sand Moccasin Boot in brown by Hearts of Darkness. I’d been looking for an alternative to Minnetonkas, which are real suede, et voila. I’m eyeballing the short versions as well. Possibly in off-white. My Native American ancestors would be proud. (Although theirs were definitely not faux suede…)

3. Zaney in black by Madden Girl. I’m on the fence about these. Might be too Eighties, and I hate the Eighties. But I dig the side snaps. And they were only $70 smackers, so no big deal.

Because I was completely in a panicked rush, I didn’t try on any actual shoes. (I have tiny feet, and shoes are always much trickier for me than boots.) So I intend to either head back down to Orchard Street for some more power-shopping, or take my chances online with these:

4. Chelsea Boots in black by Marais. Sharp, right? With the wood heel, they remind me of those Swedish Hasbeens clogs, only comfier. Actually, in brown, they’re even more Swedish Hasbeen-y.

And / Or:

5. Ricky K Boot from Novacas. These are a lot like the little Isabel Marant cowboy booties that the fashion world swoons over.

And something with a bit of heel or wedge, comme ça:

6. Echo Boot in black by Big Buddha. A little Prada Sport-y and après ski-ish.

7. Fantizy Boot in black by Madden Girl. I like the toe peep. I’d like to think I can still rock a tiny bit of toe-peep, especially if the rest of me is bundled up.

I’ve had a long career in beauty, and one of the best parts was getting to know the late Kevyn Aucoin before he got absolutely batshit-crazy famous.

Kevyn was a great guy. A big old softie. But he could also be intense. Very, very intense. He once got so furious at me for something I’d written that he called and positively reamed me. But then he calmed the — down, reconsidered his position, and sent me masses and masses of fleurs with a heartfelt letter of apology. He was a volcanic rollercoaster of talent and love.

I think about Kevyn from time to time, mostly when I see props in the press for his fantastic makeup products. But here’s when he also springs to mind: When I look in the magnifying mirror on my bathroom counter and detect a bit of peach fuzz. Kevyn detested peach fuzz on his female clients, obviously because it short-circuited his ability to achieve the level of complexion perfection he was after. He wanted a flawless finish, and he didn’t want any fuzz getting in his way.

The other night, as I was surfing the new fall TV shows, I caught a glimpse of Whitney. I stayed just long enough to see a bit in which she and her husband are primping in the bathroom simultaneously.

Trouble, I thought; I believe firmly in separation of church and state. And when she whipped out a razor and started shaving her upper lip, I couldn’t switch the channel fast enough. Gads, WTH?

In the same vein, did any of you guys see the episode of RH of Jersey in which Caroline comes clean with the bizarre-o fact that she shaves her face every day in the shower? The other gals were completely freaked out by that.

So was I. She said it was for exfoliation, and here’s me, screaming at the flatscreen: That’s what scrubs are for! Get some Remède! Or Dr. Gross’s Alpha Beta pads! You can afford it, Caroline Manzo of the affluent township of Franklin Lakes!

Although I’ve shaved my legs almost literally every day of my life since I was twelve years old (seriously; I get the creepy crawlies if I can’t get to it for some reason), I’m so not down with letting that razor drift north, to my face. But maybe I should just get over it already. According to Hollywood lore, both Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe shaved their gorgeous mugs.

I can’t picture it. Or more to the point, I won’t picture it.

Not that you asked, but my de-fuzzer of choice is threading, mainly because it doesn’t leave my skin quite as irritated as waxing. Yes, it hurts. But I just channel my inner Marie Antoinette and repeat: Il faut souffrir pour être belle. Translation: Beauty must suffer, sister, so suck it up. Besides, I think a razor gash would hurt a lot more. Right?

I just ran into the handsome hubby of my neighbor in our lobby, and it reminded me of this insane exchange I had with her at her tot’s birthday party this past summer.

First, let me preface this blog post by saying that, on the first few encounters, I had such high hopes for this neighbor lady (let’s just call her Neighbor Lady, in case she’s reading).

Neighbor Lady is very, very smart. Neighbor Lady is very, very accomplished. But Neighbor Lady is also extremely status-conscious. Thus, Neighbor Lady has displayed a shocking tendency to get completely up in my grill about my newfound desire to sort of cool it on the career front and hang out with my kid more.

That’s why last winter and spring, when I was camped-out at InStyle, pitching in on those special beauty issues I told you about, Neighbor Lady was proud of me. Finally, at long last, Momover Lady was worthy of Neighbor Lady’s esteem.

Ha! And then I took July and August off. And then I became obsessed with knitting and other little artsy craftsy fare, like weaving the world’s best potholders. Oh, and then the nail in coffin: I spent entire weeks organizing little nooks and crannies of our home while the Wee Lass was at day camp.

Despite the fact that I hadn’t been that happy and relaxed in eons, in Neighbor Lady’s eyes, my worthiness stock plummeted.

So she had to zap me. Of course she had to zap me.

I hadn’t seen for her a bit when we all showed up at her tot’s birthday bash. But she came rushing over.

“Oh my god! You look so good! You’ve lost sooooo much weight! How much did you lose? It must be like 25 pounds!”

Twenty. Five. Pounds????? I’m 5’1, bro! WTH???

Momover Lady: “It’s really just a few pounds. I’ve been doing P90X. And running.”

Neighbor Lady: “C’mon! It’s like 25 pounds! I can see it in your face,” she said, grabbing my mug. “Your face is so thin.”

Immediately, paranoia set in. Was I that fat before? What do I actually look like to other people? My face is thin??? That can’t be good if Neighbor Lady is saying my face is thin. I need those fillers. Maybe I should just get over my fear of needles and get those damn fillers already. I’ll call Dr. Brandt and reschedule.

Good times, right?

How about a simple, “You look great.” Or, “Have you been working out?”

Compliments should be short and sweet. And genuine. And on that note, xoxo.

The good news: I have schmancy events on my calendar.

The bad news: I may have to go barefoot.

I’ve mentioned a few million times that I avoid leather, right? Because of the critters?

Which doesn’t mean that I’m tossing my beloved Chanel “Jumbo Classic” bag that Hubby gifted me with one Xmas, or the many other lovely purses in my collection that were acquired before I got a clue.

It just means that I don’t buy anything new made from leather, fur or sheepskin. Wait, sheepskin is fur. Anyway, you know what I mean. I’m a cruelty-free fashion consumer.

And right now, I’m a cruelty-free fashion consumer who is having a total effing panic attack because she has back-to-back shindigs tomorrow and doesn’t have a single decent pair of fall-appropriate footwear.

This is the time of year that drives me utterly bananas. It’s too late to wear sandally, summery fare. Because even if it’s 100 degrees outside, that s–t just looks tired. And it’s really too early for boots, too.

Yup, circa-right-this-second, it’s time for straight-up shoes.

And how is it, exactly, that I don’t own any right now? It must be because I went straight from clomping around in boots all spring to clomping around in sandals all summer. And since I’m not the best planner-aheader, I blew off shopping for proper shoes until the last second.

This weekend, knowing I had shindigs coming up, I headed to mall with the Wee Lass to try to rectify the situation. She, of course, scored two pairs of super-cute sneaks, including these Converse with multi-colored tongues. Adorable.

And I came home empty-handed. Why? Because finding non-leather shoes that you’d actually be excited to wear is crazy challenging.

That’s why I wrote to the guys behind Matt & Nat – purveyors of incredible vegan bags – yesterday, literally begging them to make shoes and boots. It’s on their To Do list, they assured me. And they hope to get to it in the next few years.

What about tomorrow, Matt & Nat? Aren’t you worried about my shoe-less feet?

I’m sure I’ll get through it all somehow. But not with the confidence I’d have if I were wearing really cool shoes.

I need a plan. I need to stop waiting until the last second and coming home from the mall empty-handed. I need an entire wardrobe of cruelty-free shoes and boots that I love. And I need them NOW.

I’ll cop to the notion that he’s an unlikely beauty role model, but I’m totally obsessed with Ricky Gervais’s teeth.

Since he lost all that weight, I can’t help but notice the Brit funnyman’s other stabs at making himself over. And clearly, he’s spent some quality time at the dentist’s office having his teeth bleached to an almost fluorescent white.

Still, his choppers are completely wack and utterly imperfect – almost vampire-ish. And I’m not saying that to be mean, because I love him to pieces. I recently discovered his now-defunct show Extras on HBO Go, and it’s pee-your-pants hilarious.

All I’m sayin’ is that Ricky didn’t go so Hollywood on us that he swapped-out his pointy incisors for 20k per tooth veneers.

And I’m hoping lots of others in the public eye follow suit. Not because I’m not down with superficiality – I wave a flag for superficiality every day of my life. It’s just that I’m becoming very drawn to an aesthetic that’s all about beauty checks and balances. Like: Maybe you’re wrinkly and crinkly but your bod is bangin. And since I’m trotting out bizarre-o boy beauty heroes today, Iggy Pop is a perfect example of the wrinkly crinkly / bangin bod theory.

Okay, perhaps Iggy is a little bit too beat up to support my beauty checks and balances theory. I’ve probably been reading too many French fashion magazines. Whatever. He’s just so cool, and – to me at least – ageless. J’adore.

I just did a Google search of celebs with crooked teeth, and shocker, there aren’t that many. Not that many models, either. But there are a handful with gorgeous gaps, like Dutch stunner Lara Stone and Georgia May Jagger, who seems to have won the Jerry Hall / Mick Jagger looks lottery. I even spotted a gap-toothed guy model in the new Michael Kors campaign.

Of course I realize that having a gap isn’t the same as having crooked choppers. Or teeth that, over time, just don’t look that amazing. In fact, just a few weeks ago, I blogged about wanting to get braces again.

And I think I probably will. Plus, I’m gonna buy a case of Crest White Strips Advanced Seal. (I’ve tried a million home kits, and those are the best.) But no veneers. I wanna be a super spiffed-up version of natural, just like Ricky.

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs to push aside her pricey OTC miracle cremes and clear some shelf space for the guns-blazing prescription stuff.

For me, that time came this summer. Actually, my moment of truth arrived a lot earlier than that, but I managed to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich about it for quite a while. It also came in handy that my eyesight isn’t amazing and I refuse to wear glasses. If your vision is sorta lousy, and you squint whenever you look in the mirror, you are perpetually 27.

Try it; denial is not merely a river in Egypt.

But for whatever reasons, I’ve been facing the music lately. Kinda. I could definitely benefit from some more invasive dermatological intervention. But I already tried that to do that, and I completely caved before any filler-filled syringes were actually waved about.

Wuss, thy name is Momover Lady.

Not that all was for naught: Along with an ill-defined desire to learn to age gracefully, I got something powerful out of my near-needle experience: A prescription for Refissa. Snap. I’m in love.

Though it can’t help with sagging and loss of volume (two huge bummers attached to advancing years) Refissa, which is a moisturizing spin on retinoic acid, addresses the third ghastly hallmark of aging skin: Discoloration, fine lines and that crepey-ness that comes from too much sun and champs.

It’s pretty mild – containing only 0.05 percent of tretinoin, the prescription-strength vitamin A used in Retin A. Still, that’s more than Renova (0.02 percent), the earlier ramped-down version of Retin A. And it’s a hell of a lot more high-test vitamin A than you’ll ever find in a drug- or department store retinol product.

Which isn’t to say that retinol products are a waste of time, because they aren’t. Several are really fantastic. But they don’t contain 0.05 percent tretinoin. If they did, you’d need a prescription to buy them.

Perhaps you’re not where I am, face-wise. If not, by all means dive into a big vat of RoC or philosophy help me.

But let’s say you want to raise your game, and give those little brown spots and sun damage a swift kick in the pants. Or a gradual kick in the pants, if, like me, your skin only likes to be Refissad about three times a week. Just call your dermy doc and go for it. You have nothing to lose but the third ghastly hallmark of aging skin.

TGIF, my lovely Momoverettes. After a long week, we all deserve to collapse in a big ol’ heap. I suggest doing so while getting a relaxing mani/pedi in a fall-appropriate burgundy hue.

But first, a celebration.

Never, as a hard partying-slash-workaholic swingle, did I ever imagine that I would one day be overjoyed that my multiple-cheese lasagna would be a massive hit at the potluck dinner at my kid’s school.

But you should have heard me boring poor Hubby to tears last night, recalling the many ways I doctored a recipe from the Martha Stewart web site and made it 100 percent (okay, whatever, 40 percent) my own.

I was jabbering away 100 mph, like I was on crystal meth or something.

“And then I alternated layers of classic marinara with Newman’s Own Sockarooni! That has lots of spices! And then I swapped-out the grated parm for Four Cheese Shred!”

Perhaps you’re thinking: Listen sister, real cooks don’t use jarred sauce and pre-shredded cheese in their lasagnas.

And to that I would politely reply:  A month ago, I killed myself making this psychotically hard, from-scratch veggie lasagna – so much chopping I felt like a sous chef – and it wasn’t half as good.

Besides, the real triumph here is that I’m finally, for the first time in my life, enthusiastic about cooking.

And I’m improvising, which means I’m gaining confidence.

So how did I get there? By focusing on it. I basically took the months of July and August off, and although I played part-time nanny to The Wee Lass when she wasn’t in day camp, I had the time to ponder. And destroy the kitchen on the daily basis.

And of course, because I’m an info junkie, I snapped up a few trendy books for inspiration. Here are three new ones I love:

1. Double Delicious by Jessica Seinfeld. So chatty and friendly and girl-power. And I completely dig the Joy Bauer nutrition tips sprinkled throughout.

2. 100 Recipes Every Woman Should Know by the staff of Glamour magazine. Maybe the most cutely and cleverly written cookbook of all time. My only mini-complaint: I wish it were illustrated. Rookie cooks like me need pictures!

3. My Father’s Daughter by Gwyneth Paltrow. Far beyond my current skill level, but I just had to have it anyway. You guys already know how much I admire GP.

Now, with the start of my new job, I have to make it a priority to keep on cookin.’ I think I will. Now that I’m actually getting half-way decent at it, it makes me really happy. And my little family likes it too.