Archive for September, 2011

I just accepted my first all-grown-up digital job, so I figured I might as well throw a spotlight on my last (at least for now) hurrah for print.

And the fact that it can help you Momoverettes achieve world domination – and flatter abs – makes me super duper happy happy.

Okay, so it’s one of two special annual beauty issues of InStyle, and rather clearly and obviously, it’s called Makeover.

The other special beauty issue is called Hair, and I worked on that one, too. But this one is on the newsstands right now, thus it’s fully nab-able.

I was part of an amazing in-house team that busted its collective tush all spring to get this out. But since in-housers don’t get bylines, I wanted to tell you which pieces are mine:

Secrets To a Sexy Stomach

Start Today, Look Younger Tomorrow

The 10 Biggest Diet Mistakes

I interviewed scores of experts for these articles, too many to mention. But here’s a short list of the smarties whose brains I really picked, all linked-up so you can learn more:

Joy Bauer

Charla Krupp

Kendall Farr

Frank Lipman

Joe Dowdell

Rebekah Forecast

Also, also – clearly and obviously – there are about a million other articles in Makeover that I didn’t write. All of which are just what the mama ordered, packaged in InStyle’s crazy-addictive signature style.

Ooooh, so happy the ladies are back. After New York (painful) and Jersey (why, why do I still watch?), the RH of Beverly Hills are like a breath of carcinogen-filled LA air.

Who knew Camille could be so lovable? Not me. I’m actually feeling for her for losing some of her amazing pads. Her home in Beaver Creek is stunning. That stonework is straight outta Arch Digest, and I could so picture her and her troops celebrating Turkey Day there. Grrr times a million trillion.

Oh, and speaking of Beaver Creek, I 1000 percent loved what Kyle was saying to Taylor in the hot tub. Who hasn’t tried to get a gal pal to read the boy-writing on the wall, to see her own value, to not fear the future, and to get the hell out while the getting’s good? That was genuinely good advice. It felt real.

Here’s what else is real this season: RHOBH eyebrows.

A bushier, Shields-ian brow is one of the biggest beauty trends for fall, a fact I’m sure these hyper-groomed creatures are well aware of. Still, though, I kinda feel they march to their own tricked-out drum, and aren’t exactly memorizing The Row f/w 2011 catwalk look-for-look. (A primo example of the season’s power brow.)

But what if, for various reasons, your own brows are less than lush? Because of hypothyroidism, and waaaay too much professional plucking, I’ve had these weird “skips” (aka bald patches) in my own brow.

For a temporary fix, I swear by my Tarte Brow Mousse, which is still exclusive to QVC. It lets you fill in the gaps, and really stays put.

For a longer-term solution, my beauty junkie pal Nancy has been pestering me to try neuveauBrow. She even gave me one to try, but it’s buried in the cavernous recesses of my Beauty Armoire.

I’m on deadline now, so I can’t take the time to sift through all my little bins and baskets and unearth it. But I will later today. And in a few weeks (months?), I’ll report back.

Actually, it’s supposed to work in 30 days. So let’s chat about it in a month. In the meantime, vive les Beverly Hills!

I’m not used to having an epic battle with my daughter five minutes before drop-off, but perhaps I just need to pull up a chair and settle on in. It seems we’ve entered some kind of sinister new era, one in which if she’s not wearing exactly what she wants to be wearing, she will crumble like a croissant.

Oh, it was sad. And the nanny is with her right now, so I haven’t seen her since we flipped-out on each other circa 8:45. So I’m missing her, and hoping that when we re-unite, it won’t be weird and tense. (To all you über-experienced mommies out there, please have patience with me; this is my first and only kid and I don’t know what I’m doing.)

Long story short: She’s been getting progressively more sporty lately, which I’m thrilled about. She’s constantly challenging herself on the monkey bars, her swimming is off the hook, and her scootering is not too shabby. This has necessitated a sartorial shift to lots of shorts, and sneakers, which is a bit of a shocker. Just two months ago, she wouldn’t be caught dead in sneakers.

But when did the No More Dresses memo go out? And how could I have missed it? And more importantly, how could she have tricked me into buying her a bunch of frocks for BTS that she has no intention of wearing?

Recently, she and I talked about maybe having a Mommy Day once per week, on which I could pick her outfit. The other four days would be her choice. That’s pretty fair, right? One measly day to pry her out of the tomboyish stuff and slip her into a pretty little skirt and sweater?

This morning, though, totally unprompted by me, she decided to wear one of her new dresses. I tried to not get too excited, because as clueless as I am, even I know that that could easily backfire on me.

She looked sooooo purty. And just as I was about to grab the camera to snap a quick pic of her, the whole thing started to go pear-shaped. She didn’t really want to wear a dress after all, and the clock was ticking.

I forced her out the door, sobbing. And by the time we got across the street (yay! we live across the street from school!), she was a mess. So much so that she started almost having a little mini panic attack.

Luckily, all the kids keep a spare change of clothes in their cubbies. So I swapped-out the gorge dress for a long-sleeve T and pants that still had the tags on them. (Why? Because up until 10 minutes ago, she wouldn’t wear pants!)

The net-net: Within reason, I’m just gonna let her wear what she wants. Life is short, and I don’t think screaming matches are the most Zen way to start one’s day.

But I’m keeping the receipts for everything.

While my own particular patch of New Jersey was spared during Hurricane Irene (or Tropical Storm Irene or whatever it’s called now, how about Really Horrible Storm Irene?), so many other parts of the state were decimated by flooding.

Last weekend, in fact, after a last hurrah at the town pool we go to in nearby Cranford, we were really sad to see the ruined contents of so many basements parked on the sidewalk for garbage collection.

Block after block of destroyed toys, furniture and other gear families had spent their hard-earned money on.

And I know that’s there are still plenty of folks, up and down the Eastern seaboard, whose homes are submerged by floodwaters. It’s brutal.

So here’s what you, and I, and all the other mamas with Wee Lasses can do to help: Nab this extremely hip faux shearling coat from Garnet Hill. It also comes in brown and bright blue, and is a very reasonable $69.

As part of Garnet Hill’s “Shop With Heart” promotion, for every full-price kids’ coat or jacket purchased, $20 in merchandise (up to $50,000) will go to K.I.D.S. to help the East Coast disaster relief efforts from Hurricane Irene. And you’ve got from now until October 4 to plunk down that plastic.

I’ve posted about K.I.D.S. (Kids In Distressed Situations) on the Momover Facebook page before. It’s an extremely cost-efficient non-profit that totally swoops in when trouble hits, providing brand new clothing, toys, shoes, baby products, books and more to children and families who are hammered not only by natural disasters like the storm, but other life challenges like poverty and major illness.

I encourage you to visit the K.I.D.S. website to read their mission statement. And then head right over to the Garnet Hill site and start shopping for your tots. And while you’re there, might as well pick up a little somethin somethin for yourself, right? I thought so.

There’s no way to share this tale without sounding like Barbie, but I’ll just skate right out there on the thin ice and do it anyway. Because ultimately it’s a story about a love affair (mine with New York, my home since age 19) gone bust.

Plus, the lasting legacy of panic attacks and a standing Rx for Xanax are decidedly un-Barbie.

I was in Paris for work on 9/11. On day four, I think, of the splashy annual congrès of the massive French beauty company I was toiling for at the time. These were week-long affairs that gathered all of us from the four corners of the Earth to touch and sniff the upcoming miracle crèmes and perfumes, to ooh and aah over new TV spots, and to take copious notes during the unveiling of super-serious business plans for world domination.

And at night, there were glam dinners both intimate and gi-normous, with lots of smoking and plenty of champs.

On September 11, circa 3 pm Euro time, I was seated in a huge ampitheater next to my “Paris boss,” the intimidatingly chic (and crazy-awesome) Béatrice. It was the super-serious business part of the day, and I was gamely trying to wing it without the translation headphones they provided for anyone whose Français wasn’t up to snuff. But I was already mentally konking out by that point, and was probably only catching every tenth word or so.

All of a sudden, Gilles, the movie-star handsome global head of the luxury group, hopped up on stage to interrupt the proceedings.

“Dana,” said Béatrice, elbowing me in the ribs. “Are you understanding what Gilles is saying right now?”

“Um…he’s concerned about the strength of the U.S. dollar? And how that will affect the launch of Project X in Latin America?”

“No,” she said. “New York is under attack.”

The next 96 hours were a blur, a frantic scramble to try to book a flight – any flight – back to the States. I was swingle at that point, but was freaking-out over my cat Flynn, who I imagined buried under rubble in my East Village apartment.

Geographically this wasn’t possible; Ground Zero is a few miles away from St. Marks Place. Still, police checkpoints were staged in a fairly wide radius, and I didn’t know whether Deb, the tattooed biker chick I’d hired to feed him, would be able to gain entry to my pad.

Thank god for my pal Maryellen, who tracked down Deb (she used her too) and then sent me many reassuring “Flynn is fine. He’s so fat!” faxes from her office at Glamour. I kept those for years.

I also feel extremely grateful that two of my other great friends – Vix and Tina – were also stranded with me. The three of us would pry each other away from CNN and out of our respective hotels just long enough to get some fresh air and dinner. There was much hammering of cocktails, and lots of “WTF???” And “How do we get back home? And “What are we going home to?”

Eventually Vix and I were able to catch a flight to Canada with two other work colleagues. We white-knuckled it the entire way, crying a lot – no one wanted to be be on a plane days after 9/11 – and then took car service back to New York from Montreal. Door to door, it was a harrowing 24 hours.

So here’s where I get to the lasting-legacy part of this story.

1. The bad lasting-legacy stuff: After decades of living in New York, I no longer feel safe there. That breaks my heart, because I consider it the greatest city in the world. (Not the prettiest – not by a long shot. But def the greatest.) Although I’d experienced anxiety prior to 9/11, it kicked into high gear after that. And now, not only do I get panicky at times, I keep a bottle of Xanax in my medicine cabinet. And I never fly without one jammed in my pocket.

Now that I’m a mother, I work hard to manage my hair-trigger fear. And I’m happy to report that during the recent earthquake and the hurricane, I didn’t reach for any meds. That’s progress.

2. The good lasting-legacy stuff: Though I was already thinking, hard, about wanting to get hitched and start a family, after 9/11, I made it priority Numéro Un. I stopped wasting time, and barking up the wrong boy-trees. And within a few months, I met The Man Who Would Become Hubby. A few years later: the Wee Lass.

And although Hubby still works in the Financial District, mere blocks from Ground Zero, we hightailed it across the Hudson River a few years ago. Thus, the Wee Lass and I spend the bulk of our days (theoretically) safely tucked away, Manhattan merely in our sightlines.

But we’re not there, and I’m happy about that. And sad that I’m happy about that, if that makes any sense.

Jesus. Between shoving furniture up and down staircases during the big home-office re-org, and thwacking myself hard on the shins with my trusty tennis racket, my legs are a total disaster.

Sure, it’s finally looking good here in Momover Central. And my backhand has improved. Yay! But I’m black and blue from hip to toe and I hate, hate, hate that.

If only I had some grown-up Crawlers, the genius-y bumper-pad pants created by one Kristi Clark.

Kristi’s a friend of a friend, and I don’t know her that well. But she fled the hustle bustle and grime-y grit of NYC after 15 long years – to the loveliness of Hermosa Beach – so that in and of itself is applause-worthy. “I enjoy the slower pace and the sunshine,” she told me recently. Consider me officially jealous.

But back to those pants, because the backstory is so adorable.

As it turns out, Kristi’s Oregon-based mommy – Kay – is a kick-ass sewing machine. Well, not an actual sewing machine – a Sewing Machine. So when Kristi, after watching her many nieces and nephews take tumbles and spills all over the place, decided to press Mom into service for some bumper-pad pants prototypes, Mom obliged.

“She learned to sew from my grandmother,” says Kristi, “and is old-school and extremely meticulous. She was always doing creative projects when I was growing up – Halloween costumes, prom dresses.”

Prom dresses??? If you trust your mother enough to make the frock you’ll be wearing on the biggest night of your life, she’s right up there with Miuccia Prada.

Understandably, Kristi’s had some trust issues moving her Crawlers base of operations from Mom’s cozy sewing lair in Eugene to the big, bad world. But she had to, because her super-cute line (which also includes amazing dresses hand-stitched by You Know Who) is growing really fast.

In addition to her online business, Kristi just landed her first retail account, Magpie in Manhattan Beach. Oooh, how circle-of-life is that? Girl flees Manhattan, and winds up selling her cheerful and practical bumper-pad pants to one of the hippest shops in Manhattan Beach. Fairytale-esque, I’m thinking.

You know how some peeps are real roll-with-the-times types, embracing an endless stream of new fads, trends, gadgets and gew-gaws?

I’m not one of  ‘em.

I mean, I do like to learn. And even though I’m finally – thank the frigging universe – a very happy mama camper, I’m still on a never-ending quest to tweak and improve myself. That’s why they call it Momover, folks.

But in digging out my office, and deciding what gets to continue living on my bookshelves and in the drawers of my beauteous new “Antique White” desk, I’ve been struck by the fact that the stuff I love and want to learn more about hasn’t changed a whole hell of a lot since I was in high school.

Here’s the tidy list of topics I semi-hoard books and info about:

1. Dutch genre painting: I’m obsessed with the 16th-century works of Pieter Bruegel the Elder, and have many gorge coffee table books of his lively, colorful and psychotically detailed paintings.

2. Français: In my office cabinet (and there’s more in storage), I have workbooks, dictionaries, CDs and DVDs by Berlitz, Rosetta Stone and Living Language. The Rosetta Stone was très spendy, nabbed at one of those handy dandy airport kiosks when a flight got delayed. I think it’s high time I finally used it. But then again, I find the Living Language materials so much more Luddite-y and compelling…

3. Fashion: I’ve been on a tear lately, snapping up advice books right and left. But the ones in heavy rotation right now are Style Evolution by Kendall Farr, That Extra Half an Inch by Victoria Beckham and I Heart Your Style by Amanda Brooks. Love.

4. Crunchiness | Grooviness | Spirituality: In addition to an alarming number of tomes by the Dalai Lama (a byproduct of my Richard Gere fixation, me thinks), I have soooo much great stuff on meditation, crystals, rituals, etc. But you really have no idea how happy I am that I unearthed my precious Angel Cards. They’d gone missing for a while, just long enough for me to forget how fun they are. There are lots of ways to use them, but I like the daily approach. You just think about something you’d like to accomplish that day, or a problem or hurdle you need to get around or over, and then pick a card from the shuffled deck. Each of them has a quality that you should focus on to help you work your magic.

Right now, it’s 7 a.m. and I have a very full day in front of me. I’ve just shuffled the deck and the card I’ve chosen is…

PLAY

Whoa. That’s wack. I’m starting a new job today.

Here’s what the Angel Cards book says about PLAY: “Maximize every moment of aliveness. Experience pleasurable involvement in all your activities and enjoy what you are doing. Have fun!”

Bingo. This is support from the universe telling me exactly what I’d already been thinking: That after a glorious summer off, I need to bring that spirit of happiness, lightness and balance into my work. I can do an amazing job and keep the stress under wraps. And still have lots of Q time for Hubby and the Wee Lass.

That’s kind of the challenge for all of us mamas, right? B-A-L-A-N-C-E.

Oh. Eminem. Gee.

In my next life, please let me come back as the Wee Lass. She and her coddled kindergarten pals have a “staggered” start to the new year at their school, so that means they’re only clocking two hours per day there until next week. I barely get through drop-off when it’s time to go back and fetch her.

Still, I’m not complaining, because she’s in one of the very bestest rooms, with a stunning view of the Hudson. And she’s right across the street from our condo now, and not at the Hoboken campus. I mean, really, how much did I whinge about schlepping her to school last year through the wind, snow, sleet and hail? A lot.

Plus, when I put my mind to it, I can be quite time-efficient. This morning, as soon as I got the urchin parked in place, I bolted to the city for a fashion press event in SoHo, and a bit of impromptu shopping directly thereafter.

I have no idea how this happened, but until today, I had yet to step a foot inside a Uniqlo. You’d think it’d have my name written all over it – super-inexpensive and very, very minimalist. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m completely stuck in a 90s minimalism time-warp, and the late great Carolyn Bessette is my style idol. I spotted her up close and personal once, at some schmancy beauty luncheon at the Waldorf Astoria, and I damn near hyper-ventilated.

So in honor of CB, I nabbed an extremely no-frills navy v-neck pullover and this down vest, which has soooooo much going for it.

Like what, you ask? Well, it’s hooded. It’s stretchy. It has extremely mama-friendly zip pockets, which you can cram with your keys and cell phone, thus keeping your hands free to swat your tot. Kidding. I’m not a swatter. A fly-swatter, maybe, but not a tot-swatter.

I’m building quite the collection of down vests, but this one from Uniqlo is all that and a big bag of Kettle chips. And if you happen to eat a big bag of Kettle chips (yum), that stretchy down will come in mighty handy.

Welcome back to the post-Labor Day grind, my lovelies.

Thankfully there was no rain to speak of in Gotham this weekend, so I got to watch so much of the U.S. Open on the telly that I’m actually quite surprised my head didn’t explode. And when I wasn’t watching, I was reading that kitschy klassic Learn Tennis In a Weekend book I told you about.

Now I’m rush, rush, rushing to finish my chores so I can catch of a few of today’s matches, which start in a scant 2.5 hours. I think I’m addicted.

Which leads me, in my typically meandering posting style, to a new feature I’m inaugurating on Momover: Hot-Mama Appreciation. And who better to kick off this grooviness than the major babe who pulls a new talent or expertise out of her magic hat on a daily basis?

I swear on a stack of holy bibles that I hadn’t seen the terrific cover story in September Elle when I posted last week about craving ciggies, even though I lost my own 3-packs-a-day parents to smoking-related causes. But when I read that Gwyneth lights up occasionally, despite the fact that her own papa died of lung cancer, it made me love her even more.

If you’re a Gwynnie-basher, you might want to stop reading right about now.

Still with me? Fantastic. Because I will now put aside my gargantuan envy of this gorge creature to tell you what I find so, so, so inspirational about her:

1. She’s always learning something. Like playing the guitar, which is so frigging hard. And intimidating, one suspects, when you have a world-class rock star perched across the breakfast table every morning.

2. She busts her ass. Literally. To all those who bitch and moan about the fact that GP has the dough to keep Tracy Anderson on speed-dial, I say, “Yeah, but she still has to show up and do it.” That ain’t no walk in the park. And besides, you can always order one of Anderson’s great DVDs and bond with the tiny powerhouse in your very own living room.

3. She speaks Spanish to her kids. Again: Hard. Again: Takes effort. I don’t know what the stats are, but I don’t think many Americans have mastered a second language. I certainly haven’t; I just took a French proficiency exam on About.com, and my score was a paltry 74. And this is after years of French classes and private lessons at Berlitz. You know Gwynnie would never stand for a 74. Project!

4. She’s hilarious. And for that alone, I would nominate her for Momover’s First-Ever Hot-Mama Appreciation Award. I ask you: What’s more beautiful and engaging than laughing your head off and genuinely enjoying yourself and your tots? Nothing in the universe, that’s what.

We were P90X-ing for the first half of the year, and then off on our (unspeakably fun) Road Trip 2011, so Hubby and I didn’t get around to taking tennis lessons – held, oh so conveniently, on the courts on top of our building – until recently.

As emblematic of virtually everything else in our lives that requires skill and knowledge (with the possible exception of slathering on nanotechy miracle crèmes and memorizing obscure Dutch fashion magazines), he’s in the “Advanced” class, while Momover Lady is stuck firmly in “Beginner.”

But this year, I’ve segued beyond obsessing over my cute little outfit to something…else. Now that I’ve (loosely) mastered the basics, I – gasp – might actually want to get better.

I think that’s what it takes to move the needle on tennis. Or anything else you’re learning, for that matter. You need a bit of internal fire, a competitive spirit.

Yesterday, I was hanging out with a new pal who was introduced to me by my über-bestie, Lisa. And when the talk turned to tennis, I said, “Can you believe Lisa was ranked as a teenager?”

“Please,” said New Pal cheerfully. “I mopped the floor with her.” Oh snap!

Faithful Momoverettes might recall that I consider Andre Agassi’s memoir one of the best books I’ve read in some time, right up there with my ultimate fave, House of Mirth. Sooo good; the handsome charmer hit it right out of Arthur Ashe with that one.

This long Labor Day weekend, at least in Gotham, is unfortunately shaping up to be a wee bit waterlogged. (Translation: Thunderstorms are predicted for all three days.) Thus, I expect to be glued to the telly watching the U.S. Open.

But if the matches get pulled for rain, I’m gonna spend some Q-time trying to track down my ancient copy of Learn Tennis In a Weekend. The pictures are hilarious, because the guys are clad in these teensy, McEnroe-short, togs. But it’s packed with lots of good info.

I know it’s here someplace, and I need it. I want to get better. Watch out, Lisa.