Archive for November, 2011

Here's a novel idea: Use a landline.

Okay, I am like sooo confused right now.

I was about to kick off this blog post by proclaiming my profound love for my QLink pendant, which I’ve worn around my neck like a freaking vampire amulet every night for the last six years.

I’m addicted to that sucker, and I am – or at least I was – convinced that it was not only helping me sleep better, but also creating a force-field around me by blocking the electromagnetic waves from the clock radio, the flatscreen and the umpteen portable devices Hubby keeps under his pillow.

(I’m not kidding; when he can’t sleep, he fires up his little MacBook Air and scrolls through a vast control panel of blogs and websites. Thus, he’s insanely up on current events. He isn’t particularly well-rested, but he’s definitely dialed-in to the imminent collapse of the euro.)

But back to my confusion about my precious QLink, and my faltering faith in humanity.

Dramatic pause.

I was gifted a QLink when I was on staff at Cookie. And after getting over my initial skepticism that it could change my life, I gave it a shot. And since then, I’ve completely bought into the notion that it reduces stress, increases focus and concentration and protects me from the evils of the high-tech world. I have it on right now, as a matter of fact, because I’m convinced it “helps” me write.

But it’s not like I think about it 24/7; if you consider something deeply awesome, and you wear it like a freaking vampire amulet every night of your life, do you constantly research it? No, actually, you don’t.

In writing about it for you Momoverettes, however, I have to hold myself to a higher standard. And as it turns out, there are all these stories on the World Wide Interweb and YouTube about how QLink is a scam.

Of course, there’s also this piece by the BBC that suggests that it is in fact not a scam. Still, it ends on a very imprecise note, something along the lines of: “We need to do more research.”

Despite all the nay saying, I intend to keep cluelessly wearing my QLink, as it has a lovely placebo effect on me. Though I suspect that the placebo effect doesn’t really work if the cat is out of the proverbial bag. Which it is now. Damn it.

Now, finally, to the main gist of today’s epic electromagnetic masterpiece: Cell phones, and the fact that they’re really, really bad for us.

Luckily, I detest cell phones. Always have. Hubby too. We both can’t stand them. Give us an old-fashioned landline any day. Or better yet, shoot us an email.

I can’t tell you how many times my pals and other family members have bitched at me because I never have my phone turned on. Most of the time I don’t even know where it is. Of course I make a concerted effort to track it down right before school ends, so the nanny can send me her daily text message about where she and the Wee Lass are gallivanting off to. But for the most part, I just consider it a massive annoyance.

For all the normal, sane mamas out there who don’t detest cell phones, I do urge you to reduce your usage. If you can’t – or won’t – do that, at least consider:

1. Switching to text messaging as much as possible, and reserving the big, gossipy chit-chats for your landline (assuming you still have one)

2. Nabbing this inexpensive retro handset, which even gorgeous Gwynnie digs and regularly attaches to her BlackBerry specifically to cut down on emissions

3. Shifting the phone from ear to ear throughout your call, so one side of your head doesn’t get completely blasted with radiation (sorry to be so graphic)

4. Reading this informative article that has several more ways you can lighten your electromagnetic load

There, I feel better. I didn’t lead you down the QLink garden path, and I shared some tips that might help you tame the electromagnetic monster.

Way too many children don't get enough to eat.

A slow day of stomach-virus recovery for Momover Lady, during which I shredded two ginormous trash bags of any document with a trace of financial or personal information. I don’t eff around with that identity-theft stuff. And though I’ve heard of “community shredding events,” in which an Iron Mountain-type of company will pull up in one of its big ol’ trucks and destroy your sensitive paperwork, right then and there, as a public service, I always somehow miss the ones in my ‘hood.

So there I sat on the family room floor for hours, shredding with my trusty Black & Decker and watching television.

Of course Nate was on the TV docket. He sure manages to cram a lot of content into one show. And I love that he champions really sophisticated colors for the home, like a mashup of black and navy that he’s keen on at the moment. I’d like to think that he’d swoon over “Geyser,” the decidedly uncheerful teal I just picked for the “accent wall” in my office. I know that my imaginary BFF Nate would be thrilled to learn that I even have “accent walls” in my abode. Oh, but I do.

Later, after a little channel-surfing, I settled on Dr. Oz. What a heartbreaker today’s show was. Themed around child hunger in America, he pinpointed the top 20 most poverty-stricken cities in the country.

My eyes lit up, and not in a good way, when I saw that my birthplace – Tulsa – was one of the 20. And then, as luck would have it, the Tulsa family (along with one in Orlando), was chosen for an in-depth profile.

God, it was so sad. Five kids, this close to starving on the days – the frequent days – when the milk runs out, when the cereal box is empty, when there isn’t enough for a second helping on the meager portion of spaghetti with meat sauce served up for dinner. If it weren’t for the free meals they get at school on weekdays, some of the older kids in the family would barely be able to focus on their studies.

Listen, I realize how heavily I traffic in superficiality here on Momover.net, and how so much that I write about entails getting and buying. If you’re worried about putting food on your table, you’re sure as hell not gonna give a flying —k about whether you just spotted a spider vein on your upper right thigh, or whether you have the right shoes to wear to some stupid event.

But the fact is, 30-plus years ago, I was one of those kids. The free hot lunch kid, the food stamps kid. And back then, when America was in much better shape, that was a true rarity. Today, although the stats I hear bounce around a bit, the number of children in this country living in poverty is either 20 percent or 25 percent. It’s staggering, and it’s tragic.

So, it’s in the spirit of both my former life and my current life that I’ve just donated to Share Our Strength, the end-hunger program Dr. Oz has aligned himself with. I hope you will too.

You can say that again, sister. Germs are not for sharing.

Not to head straight into TMI territory, but I’ve been semi-violently ill for the last 36 hours. I know – you’re either violently ill or you’re not violently ill. And if you can tap out a blog post, Momover Lady, you’re probably in the latter camp.

But can’t you just let me wallow in “semi-violent” self-pity for a few minutes? Can’t you give me that much? After all we’ve been through?

Since I’m on the mend, kinda sorta (I think a great night’s sleep will work wonders), my primary concern is that the Wee Lass and Hubby don’t get sick too. That would make me sad. Plus, it would turn our daily life on its ass, and I’m never a fan of that.

But it’s times like this that make me realize what a complete wimp I am. At the slightest hint of a malady, I’m diving through the medical literature and websites, conjuring worst-case scenarios. And when I’m not doing that, I daydream, fondly, of the Magical Place Where I Feel Great, and long to go back there immediately. In short, I’m a really lame sicko. I wish I were a brave sicko, but I’m not.

Last night, as I tossed and turned because my stomach was in agony, I at least had the decency to think: What about all the mamas out there who are in chronic pain? One of my best buds recently had a six-day migraine. Six. Days. And another has been embroiled in a brutal battle with breast cancer for the last two years. Two. Years.

I would like to think that I’d rise to the occasion should something serious crop up. My little family deserves that much, right? I do all this stuff to stay healthy, but so much of everyday life – like germ-transmission and food-borne illness from eating meals outside your home – is beyond our control.

I don’t want to be a paranoid Bubble Girl, although, after reading this stomach flu website, at least I know I’d have plenty of company. I was pretty amazed at the elaborate steps some moms take to try to stop the runaway sicko train in its tracks. Perhaps, if the Wee Lass and Hubby catch what I have, I’ll be wishing I’d burned the sheets and towels too.

But for now, I’m just going to hit the hay and hope for the best. Nighty night.

You, lovely image, will soon be on my office wall.

Forgive me, dear reader, as  I toggle back and forth between two super duper important topics today: 1) The painfully slow, but actually happening, redecoration of my home office and 2) my newly re-upped discipline around meditation, and how it’s already having a positive impact on my life.

Why the toggling? Because, as you’ll soon glean, the two super duper important topics are entwined, much like turkey and stuffing. (I didn’t go too nutso on Thanskgiving, by the way, and I’ll trust you didn’t either. A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips…)

First, stare hard at the gorgeous image above. That, I’m happy to say, will soon be mounted on my office wall. It’s called “Storm Rolls In” and was shot by photographer Jodi Cobb off the coast of Alabama. If you’re into gloomy, dangerous ocean – as I obvi am – I think you’ll agree that it is a stunning picture. Bad things are about to happen, and the muddy navy and gray hues are spectacular.

I bought the 40 X 30 version, and as soon as Hubby paints the “accent wall” behind it (in “Geyser” by Martha Stewart Living, a decidedly uncheerful teal), I will bid adieu to the current artwork residing there -  a quartet of watercolors of Duchess of Devonshire types nabbed from Tepper Galleries – and put it in storage for our eventual move to the New England version of Barbie’s Dream House. I’ve loved having my fashionable, fan-wielding ladies around to keep me company while I work, and in the future, I can envision a chic little sitting area with them as the backdrop. But right now, it’s time to pack them up and dive into the ocean.

Which brings me to my meditation practice.

I’ve blogged previously about my borderline addiction to ocean meditation CDs, as well as my tendency to gaze at the crashing surf on YouTube. As much as I dig those, however, and as much as I consider meditation to be a prime source of mental and physical health, my own “practice” has been spotty in the past year. Thus, endless guilt. I know meditation is incredibly healthy, so exactly why haven’t I been doing it on a regular basis?

Well, for my birthday earlier in the month, I made precisely one resolution: To meditate every day, even if it’s only for a few minutes before my concentration sputters and I’m mentally rocketed back into my busy life. From researching the meditation chapter in Momover book, I’d learned that it’s very much about ass in seat (or on a schmancy meditation cushion) every day. Better to meditate a little daily than to attempt some monster session once a month.

The everyday approach helps you to get into the zone that much more quickly, and also to provide a tiny dose of the relaxation that meditating is so great at imparting. Breaking up your daily stress cycle – that constant churn of having to do this, and having to do that – is key to building your immune system, and just generally helping you feel like you have the world by the you-know-whats.

My daily practice entails listening to my current fave ocean meditation CD while I move through a number of sea-themed tableaux. I’m at the top of a gorgeous, Architectural Digest-worthy lighthouse, with a 360-degree view of a roiling Arctic Ocean; I’m in Hawaii, watching the surf crash into a cave formed by lava flow; I’m sitting on the beach at a resort in Bora Bora, gazing out at a thatch-roofed hut; etc., etc.

There are more images I “visit” – beaches I’ve actually been to, shoreline I actually know – and sometimes those work their way in too. And since I’ve been keeping a log (I know; I’m so OCD with my logs and journals), I can see that I’ve been steadily increasing the time I spend moving through these “seascapes” in my sessions. (I don’t set a timer, although I know many other meditators do.)

But here’s what I’ve been pondering: Is what I’m doing meditating? Or visualizing? And should I care? Is one somehow “better” than the other?

When I field-tripped to the Blum Center for Health a while back, and took a guided meditation with Elizabeth Greig, director of the Mind Body Spirit program, she told me that what I do is basically a mashup of meditating and visualizing, “and it sounds great.” I was encouraged by that, and still am.

If we’re splitting hairs, meditation is “passive” thought awareness, and visualization is “active” thought awareness. But visualization, as I’m sure you’re aware, can also help you achieve goals by helping you form an intense vision of something you want to manifest. (This is the best book of all time on visualization; if you don’t already own a copy, buy one stat.)

But what I’m doing in my walk-in closet, eyes closed and earphones on, isn’t visualization in the classic sense. Why? Because I don’t really want to live in a lighthouse, even one as posh and luxe as the one I’ve created in my head. And maybe I’ll get to Bora Bora with Hubby at some point, maybe I won’t.

Nope, I just like to visit every day. Surf in a little stressed or distracted, and surf out relaxed, refreshed and Zen.

Dear Pie, you are lucky you aren't in my kitchen right now.

I think I must have been a lot chubbier last year at this time, or at least not in the state of denial I am right now, because I blogged about the calorie count in a single slice of pumpkin pie, and how a rigorous half-hour on the elliptical doesn’t do jack to mitigate that.

This year, however, I’m like eff it: I’m gonna eat the dessert I love most in this whole wide world for breakfast, lunch and dinner if I so choose.

The funnest part – okay, the second funnest part – is how obsessed the Wee Lass is with my pumpkin pie intake. In the run-up to this week, we’d been chatting about how pumpkin pie season was fast approaching, and how Momover Lady really can’t be trusted within a 10-mile radius of my beloved treat.

Over the weekend, we bought one. And guess who just ate the last tiny sliver? And guess who, on a grownup playdate with my new pal Julia “Somewhere In Transition” Barclay yesterday, ordered both a pretentious artisanal beer and an entire mini pie at the cute little café by her house? (FYI, Julia was kind enough to help me out by eating a few nibbles. Thank you, Julia.)

Until I demolished the last bit of the one here at the house, my little lady has been getting the biggest kick out of going into the kitchen and playing Pie Cop. “Mommy!” she wails, mock-indignantly. “You are a pumpkin pie monster!”

I chuckle and say, “So what? I’ll just buy us a new one!”

I may or may not – buy us a new one, that is. After all, I’m not a massive fan of having pie-fat welded to my mid-section. But it’s fun not to sweat the small stuff. Or the not-so-small stuff – 300-plus calories per slice before the mandatory | obligatory | essential whipped cream.

Life is short and pie is delicious. Happy Thanksgiving my lovely Momoverettes.

I'll never get here, not that I'd even want to.

I have a problem with beauty compliance. AKA stick-to-it-ive-ness. AKA ADD. AKA I get super-excited about some new potion or gadget, use it for a spell and then wander off, only to get super-excited about some other new potion or gadget. In that regard, I’m like a two-year-old confronted with a pile of shiny toys.

With entire categories of beautifiers, this compliance stuff doesn’t matter. Like, say, with makeup. If you’re using a particular blush one week, and then switch gears to another brand, or formula or shade, the Earth will not stop turning on its axis. Really. It won’t.

But if you’re itching to solve an actual beauty dilemma – e.g., brown spots or frizziness or thyroid-induced bald patches in your brows (grrr times a million) – you kinda gotta stick with the program.

First, of course, you need the program. That’s why, last Monday, after I blogged about the wonders of matte bronzing powder, I moved “Find That Damn Missing neuveauBrow” to the top of my Beauty To Do List.

And after a lengthy search, I finally fished it out of my Beauty Armoire, along with its kissing cousin, neuLash.

It’s at this point in the blog post that I’m supposed to tell you that these were given to me for free, right? I sort of don’t get that whole “I didn’t pay for this” scenario, because I certainly never felt any such disclosure obligations as a magazine editor. But whatever, Momover Lady is perfectly happy to move into the 21st century, kicking and screaming. Besides, I spend tons of cash-money on beauty products and services, so it’s not like there’s never any shortage of stuff to write about that I did pay for.

Wait – is “for” a preposition? And am I therefore, grammatically speaking, not supposed to end a sentence with it? Sheesh. I’m a mess. First I get a bunch of free beauty products, and then I have the audacity to end a sentence with “for.” And looky there, I just did it again.

Okay, so back to these two baldness-eradicators, and where compliance fits into the mix. Of course now I can’t find the brochure that came with the neuveauBrow (where is Iris, my Clutter Whisperer, when I need her?), so I was forced to visit the website to find out how long I might need to keep at it before I start seeing some bald-patch fill-in action. Thankfully, the site has info on both products – lash and brow – so it was essentially one-stop info shopping.

So here’s what I learned:

1. In the testimonials section, Anne from Florida, age 60, is a happy, bushy-browed camper. And Daniele’s endless lashes are distracting her co-workers to such a degree that several corporate projects have now been derailed. (I embellished a bit on the end there, but Daniele is distracting her co-workers. She said so herself.)

2. Results for neuveauBrow can be seen “in as little as four weeks.” For neuLash, get set to distract your own co-workers in approximately 30 days. Hey, four weeks and “approximately 30 days” are basically the same! Close call. But at least this admitted math moron caught her mistake before she hit “publish” on this blog post.

3. Ouch, they’re quite spendy. For a 60-day supply, the neauveauBrow is $100 and the neuLash will set you back $85.

That’s actually a lot of dough. So I really need to stay the course and report back honestly to you Momoverettes about whether I think they’re working. So far, I’m eight days in with both of them. And while I thought I saw some regrowth on my “problem brow,” it was just a mirage (or wishful thinking.) Hold on, if you’re a thirsty camel in the desert, a mirage is wishful thinking.

Feeling very bubble-headed this morning. Bubble-headed and bald-patchy.

My ultimate dream scenario. Note the zero-crapola countertops.

Yesterday afternoon, I moved mountains…of clutter out of my kitchen cabinets. And in so doing, I don’t think it is overstating the point to say that I’ve feng shui-d the living hell out of our entire first floor.

The back story: Since I’ve started cooking in earnest (maybe two or three times per week, but for me, that’s “in earnest”), it has come to my attention how dysfunctional and bad vibe-y my kitchen is.

It’s not a nightmare. But there were two cabinets in particular that were driving me to drink. I’ve blogged about this before, but I was getting spooked by the fact that there were several unopened wedding gifts and a fair amount of magazine editor-swag lurking within.

I needed to assess what I owned, and then make some focused, crisp decisions – per my “One Word.”

To tackle this task, I hired an organizer, who herewith will be known as Iris. I suspect Iris will become a recurring character here on Momover.net, so let’s all give her a warm welcome.

FYI, I can’t link to Iris’s website, because Iris doesn’t have a website. But if you live by me, and would like to avail yourself of her services, just email me and I’ll send you her contact info.

Okay, so OMG. Though I’d suspected as much, hiring a pro is a complete game-changer. In an hour and a half, Iris and I completed a loathsome chore – the total re-org of the “problem cabinets” – that’d been preying on my mind for months.

Here’s how we did it:

1. We pulled out every item, one by one, and put them in four designated piles: Toss; Salvation Army; Storage and Keep.

“Toss” included the umpteen million really nice plastic containers our extremely environmentally unfriendly local Italian joint insists on using for takeout. We whittled down to six of each of three sizes, with lids. Which is still too many, but you should’ve seen the Everest-high pile there before.

“Salvation Army” contained a gorge ceramic ashtray monogrammed with a ‘B.’ Hubby’s first wife’s name begins with a B, and since I knew it wasn’t mine, I got properly paranoid. I figured I didn’t need to give shelf space to any tchotchkes attached to Wifey No. 1. Feel me?

“Storage” included a number of Cuisinart gew-gaws, such as a second(!!) unopened 11-cup Food Processor and, inexplicably, a brand new Ice Cream Maker. The latter had to have been beauty editor graft, because there’s no way I would have registered for that for my wedding. It’s like, ‘Hello, I just married you, and I will now proceed to get as fat as a house.’ Still, with the Wee Lass in our lives, I know we’ll use it come summer. For now, however, it doesn’t need to live on premises.

“Keep” is all the stuff I really use, and | or really like, such as a number of Tiffany serving platters and two crystal ice buckets. Those ice buckets are adorable, and I think they’d make super-chic potato chip holders for our upcoming holiday party. In fact, I think I have enough good crystal to create a festive winter ice-themed “tablescape.” Project!

2. We replaced every “Keep” item, one by one, according to designated function: Every Day Use; School Lunch Prep; Party Time and Currently Beyond My Skill-Set.

The first two categories are self-explanatory – nesting bowls, baking dishes, Hello Kitty thermoses and the like.

“Party Time” is all the platters, decorative bowls, napkin rings, etc., that we use occasionally – but not so occasionally that they’d be better off in our condo building’s storage unit. I got rid of several items from this pile that were either battle-worn or I just didn’t dig. Eventually I’d like to own a full set of perfectly matched stuff – I say that every time the Crate & Barrel catalog darkens our door – but until we move into our ultimate Barbie Dream House, it isn’t a front-burner priority.

Which brings me, finally, to the “Currently Beyond My Skill-Set” group. Along with a brandy new Braun Deluxe Juice Extractor, this stash includes an opened-but-not-yet-used other Cuisinart 11-Cup Food Processor. I am sooooo intimidated by that big beast. But I think it’s high time I got over that. Use it or lose it.

Yes, I know – big whoop, two freaking cabinets. But in clearing those out, I was able to make room for a bunch of stuff that was clogging the countertops. So now it looks soooo peaceful and organized, with plenty of workspace. A welcoming place to cook for my cute little family.

Running the numbers on motivation.

The blog post “headline” above is an actual cover line from a fitness mag I picked up at the newsstand this week.

How insane is that?

I don’t want to slam this particular mag on a happy, peppy Friday morning – especially since I consider it to be one of the most motivating, git-yer-fanny-in-gear workout and nutrition guides on the market.

But when I see stuff like that – 8748 of anything – one and only one thought runs through my head: Amateur Hour.

Know that this is an informed opinion; I have worked and written for women’s magazines for a very, very long time. Thus, I’ve seen various cover line trends come and go.

And in the not-too-distant past, it was very much a numbers game. It was all,  “579 Ways to Wear the New Fall Looks,” and “197 Reasons Why You’ll Die If You Don’t Use Sunblock” and “433 5-Minute Chicken Recipes.”

It got a little crazy, particularly for the low-level staffer whose job it is to literally count these ways, reasons and recipes. Seriously. Any magazine of quality has a designated “counter.” I have witnessed the struggle they sometimes go through when upper management really, really wants to use the number 213, and they can only sleuth out 209 of whatever it is that’s supposed to change the reader’s life.

Now, happily, the pendulum is swinging in a much more realistic direction. Those crazy numbers have been dialed back in. I just picked up a recent issue of O in a stack by my desk and this is verbatim cover verbiage: “What’s Holding You Back? 9 Ways to Change Old Patterns and Spark New Breakthroughs.”

Nine I can handle. 8748? Not so much.

Don’t get me wrong – I am the biggest cover line sucker on the planet. I’m completely addicted to magazines, and have been since Mommy got me a subscription to Vogue circa ninth grade. And clearly, I’m wildly aspirational; I always want to believe that if I just do this, or just do that, all will be magically transformed and I’ll be 10 inches taller. (Without the skyscraper “ER” shoes.)

But I don’t think I need almost 9000 ways to sculpt my hottest lower body. I’d settle for 90. Think I’ll deploy some of ‘em at the gym right now. Bon weekend, chère amies.

Deep thoughts are contained in these pages.

Before we get started, may I please take a sec to cast a spotlight on my fellow birthday buddies? Lauren Hutton and Martin Scorsese. Two very cool cats. A cool Scorpio girl cat and a cool Scorpio boy cat. Not that I’m biased, but I consider Scorpio to be the most bitching sign in the zodiac. We are all that.

So the thing about Scorps is that we’re often fixated on re-invention. We like to switch it up. Keep things moving. Keep ourselves moving. And even if you’re only a casual reader of this itty bitty website, you can glean that I like to tinker and fuss with the Me Project.

Sure, I might sit on my fat –s from time to time, knitting and watching RHOBH (Monday’s ep was a jaw-dropper; the “win” goes to Pinky), but mostly I can be found engaged in all manner of activities.

Like recently, when I hauled myself to a Nalini Method class at Rupa Mehta’s newish digs on the West side of Gotham. I hadn’t seen her for roughly a year, when I last took her class and was so sore I couldn’t move for days. Wowza.

This time, I was in slightly better shape (thank you P90X, thank you endless running along the Hudson River), so I wasn’t quite as stiff and rickety in the ensuing 48 hours. And that’s a good thing, because I had some work to do: Reading Rupa’s inspiring, original book about the “weight of words” and picking a single one that would serve as a catchphrase and guiding principle for my entire life.

Pressure much?

For the record, Rupa’s “one word” is CONNECT. Her chipper business colleague – Shannon – has chosen CULTIVATE.

Those are meaningful. Substantial.

But I wasn’t after substantial. I was after superficial. Superficial with a fairy-dust sprinkling of edge and discipline. And after wracking my brain for my “one” and only – I am a word person; words are my joy and my livelihood – here’s what I came up with:

CRISP.

CRISP as in: Buttoned-down. Organized. Decisive. Focused.

Sometimes I embody those values. But not nearly enough. Certainly not every day.

My desire to be CRISP doesn’t mean I’ll be morphing back into the workaholic I was in my swingle and pre-baby years. N-e-v-e-r again will I be so career-obsessed.

But can’t I be CRISP about blasting through my To Do list in the morning so I can hang out with the Wee Lass in the park all afternoon? Or keeping my lovely home a zero-clutter zone akin to a cold, impersonal hotel? (Swoon. Love cold, impersonal hotels.) Or attempting to learn French for the zillionth time? Or getting over my driving phobia so I can spirit us away to the town pool at a moment’s notice, and not have to rely so heavily on Hubby?

Clearly, I’ll be getting a lot of mileage out of the multi-dimensional CRISP.

After I told Shannon what my “one” was, I asked him (that’s not a typo; Shannon’s a dude), to pass it along to Rupa for her feedback. And she emailed back both her thoughts on my choice, as well as a handy-dandy definition of my word:

“Whenever someone comes to me with their word, I love to look up the definition. I love that Dana is driven to have it together and be buttoned-down, but what I also find interesting is her humble, driven energy to be fresh and new, hence her site and life goals. And, she seems to be able to make decisions and follow her passion in her unique way which all fall in line with the definition of crisp. She’s not afraid to be different and I think her word reflects that too:)”

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I likey. I’ve always wanted to be slightly intimidating, and to cut people off mid-sentence, crisply. But I haven’t quite nailed the crisp writing bit. At least for this blog. In my “real” work, I’m not nearly as chatty.

I thought it was very sweet of Rupa to take the time to suss-out my wacky word. And before I forget, I want to let all you mamas know that for the 9:35 and 10:45 am Nalini Method classes, she’s offering free on-site childcare (complete with creative movement, art and story time throughout December).

Okay, I’m nipping off for a pedi as part of my dawn to dusk birthday celebration. While I’m out, be sure to pick your “one word.” It just might help you re-org your very existence.

Tony P90X Horton and a super-fit gal pal, mid-jump knee tuck.

I just killed it up in our family room -  58 long, painful minutes of plyometrics with my old buddy Tony. That’s a crazy-sweaty workout, which entails lots of leaping. Tons of leaping. And while you wouldn’t think, necessarily, that hopping around would eventually lead to flatter abs, somehow, miraculously, it totally does.

How do I know plyometrics eventually leads to flatter abs? Here’s how: When I do plyometrics I have flatter abs. When I don’t do plyometrics – even if I’m running a lot, which I have been, for months – my abs aren’t as flat.

That’s what is commonly known as “anecdotal” evidence. It’s the “because I said so” branch of theory-proving.

And by the way, I use the term “flatter” here very loosely; no one would ever look at me and say, “Wow, Momover Lady, you are so very, very chiseled.”

Still (and here I go getting all anecdotal again), when I was doing P90X full-throttle last winter and spring, I had the beginnings of a two-pack, if you squinted really hard when you gazed upon my lovely form. Granted, some of that had to do with the fact that I was also cranking through a lot of Ab Ripper X workouts, but there is no question the plyometrics also helped deflate my mommy pooch.

So what exactly is (are?) plyometrics? Glad you asked, dear reader.

This is lifted verbatim from the P90X Extreme Home Fitness guide:

“Plyometrics are drills designed to connect strength with speed to produce power. Also known as ‘jump training,’ this technique emerged in Eastern Europe in the early 1970s. Coined by American track coach Fred Wilt, the term derives from the Latin plyo+metrics, or ‘measurable increases.’”

The Momover Lady translation: It entails lots of leaping. Tons of leaping.

I already said that? Well, that’s because it’s true. The truth is spoken here.

And here’s the abbreviated version of how plyometrics can bust your gut: One, it burns beaucoup calories, which automatically pares inches off your midsection. Two, the jumping action works your core by forcing you to stabilize yourself post-leap. And three, with certain plyo moves, you’re bringing your knees up to your chest, which pounds your entire lower abdominal region.

A classic example of what I’m talking about, and by far the hardest move in the P90X plyo workout, is a jump-knee tuck. These are hard as s–t. Don’t believe me? Take a gander at this cheesy metalhead YouTube video and then give me a jingle.

I’m scared of how sore I’m going to be tomorrow after all that jump knee tucking.

But mama wants flatter abs, so mama has to suck it up. Or tuck it up. Wait, that sounds weird.