Archive for November, 2011

I hate to spring a really stunning conclusion on you on a sleepy Tuesday morning, but I came to one recently, and I feel duty-bound to reveal it:

When it comes to aging, we have a lot of control over how our bodies look. Our faces? Not so much.

There, I said it.

Sure, you can cut and paste a bit. And with any luck, you won’t resemble one of those glamour-pusses gone wrong who populate the “Plastic Surgery Disasters” issues of Star magazine. Those are mesmerizing. And, in their own weird way, a complete and total public service.

But I’d like to think – and I actually do think – that there’s a different wave crashing over popular culture right now: Guys with banging bods and craggy, imperfect faces. Cases in point: Daniel Craig, Jason Statham, Mark Wahlberg. (I know Mark’s been around forever, but I love that he hasn’t morphed into Botox Boy.) And now that he’s pushing 50 – and smokes like an effing chimney – we might as well add Brad Pitt to the banging bod / craggy mug pile.

When I go to the movies, which I do virtually every weekend, and watch the endless trailers for the upcoming action flicks, I get so energized. Immediately, I want to drop down on that sticky, soda pop-covered floor and start doing push-ups. Occasionally, I’m even pressed into service to watch one of those movies. And I can assure you, Daniel Craig in chaps is the only reason I was able to make it through Cowboys & Aliens.

They just look so….tough. And ready. Mentally and physically solid. Primed to kick your ass and hand it back to you on a silver platter.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about all this right now. Lie. I do know. My birthday is imminent, and I can’t help but do that annual soul-searching about my life and what I want it to look like in the upcoming years.

I’m thinking fit and strong might be a good place to start.

As we speak (or, more accurately, as I write and you read), there’s an entire fleet of handymen in front of our condo building, converting what is cheerfully known as “Elephant Plaza” into an ice skating rink.

They do this every year, moving the water-spouting Daddy, Mommy and Baby bronzey-brassy pachyderms off into the bushes nearby, along with the curvy stone tables and benches that the neighborhood nannies are camped-out on all day, every day, during the warmer months.

And over the next week or so, those same worker bees will build-out the rink, put down the ice and cover the adjacent concrete with rubber mats so all those would-be Johnny Weirs don’t destroy their blades.

I feel sad. Not swallow a handful of pills sad. Or even max-out the credit card sad. Just a little blue because it’s so official: The winter is upon us and the elephants are in the bushes.

So just now, as I was rousting around in my Beauty Armoire for that darn neuveauBrow (we’ve reached a crisis point with the thyroid-induced bald patch, and I know it’s in there somewhere), I came across about 90 other unopened goodies I want to try.

Beauty Junkie, thy name is Momover Lady.

But one product, in particular, will help me make the mental leap from Elephants to Ice – Lancôme Star Bronzer in Natural Matte 02 Sunkiss.

There’s a way to use bronzing powder in winter that reads more Hot Mom, and less Exotic Dancer, and I’d like to think I’ve perfected that technique. Here, my rules:

1. First, make sure your mug is very moisturized. Color on top of flaky skin is a massive no-no. Blech.

2. Next, even out your complexion before applying bronzing powder. Since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I’ve been dabbing Bobbi Brown Foundation Stick on any stray bits of redness – around the nose, chin, etc. I go through tubes of it. And I pay for it myself, which should underscore how addicted I am.

3. Only bump up your natural color two shades, max. My Lancôme was gifted to me by my publicist pal Patricia, who knows how ghostly pale I get this time of year, so the shade is mellow and manageable. And don’t even think about going the sparkly, shimmery route right now. At least not during the day; if you want to be all lit up like a Christmas tree at night, that’s your prerogative. But as long as the sun is shining, hit the matte.

4. Use a super-fluffy brush to apply it. You want an all-over wash of color, not a 1970s “contouring” vibe. (Though contouring is making a comeback, because it’s pretty brills for optically slimming noses and carving sexy cheekbones, sans surgical scalpel. Fodder for another blog post…)

5. Add a bit of blush on top. That looks sooooo purdy. And don’t forget a swipe of lipstick or gloss, perhaps in one of those universally flattering nudey-rose shades. It’s probably just my age (sniff, sob), but I can’t really get away with bronzing powder and blush without some lip action. Momover Lady needs some lip action.

I woke up this morning to the sad news that Evelyn Lauder died yesterday. In her Manhattan home, of nongenetic ovarian cancer.

According to the obit in the New York Times, Evelyn was 75, which shocked me a bit. She was such a gorgeous lady, and I’d occasionally wonder how old she was. But then I’d be enveloped by her personal warmth – she was one of those people who actually focused on what you were saying at the precise moment you were saying it – and I’d stop trying to run the numbers in my head about whether she was 50, or 60 or whatever. I first met her when I was 26 and a tiny cub beauty reporter; you ponder such superficial matters as how old Evelyn Lauder is when you’re a tiny cub beauty reporter.

Over the years, I continued to clock some of the other stuff that didn’t matter. Her ever-changing hairstyle was definitely a biggie. “Oooh, Evelyn’s going a little longer this season,” I’d think. Or, “Wow, she’s rocking a full-on shag now.”

But increasingly, as I grew up, I came to realize how amazing Evelyn Lauder was. Among her long list of accomplishments: A world-class “nose,” she was the driving force behind some of the biggest Estée Lauder fragrances ever, including Beautiful and Pleasures. Oh, and she’s credited with coming up with the name Clinique, which is pretty much the epitome of brand-moniker genius.

Evelyn’s 52-year marriage to Leonard Lauder was also something I always greatly admired. The love and mutual respect between them was palpable – definitely a union for the ages. Evidently they met on a blind date. And I can just picture this vivacious young woman – whose family fled Nazi-occupied Vienna during World War II -  sweeping Estée Lauder’s eldest son off his feet. He probably didn’t know what hit him. But he was obviously smart enough to hang on, and hang on tight.

Still – and rightfully so – Evelyn’s legacy will be about the literally hundreds of millions of dollars she raised for breast cancer research. The Pink Ribbon? Evelyn. All the pink this and that we buy every October? That whole movement was originally plotted and schemed by Evelyn, way back in the early 1990s.

There is so much more to this woman you need to know. Please go here, and read more about Evelyn’s fascinating, powerful life.

I have the house torn to smithereens – I’m in holiday-party prep mode and it is NOT pretty – so I really shouldn’t take the time to blog full-tilt right now.

So instead of one of my epic prose masterpieces, I’m running a post-Halloween pic that Aunt Jan sent my way after she got back to Vegas and recuperated from her fun-filled visit.

Obvi, she and I are in the ballsy get-ups I procured for us. Well, mine’s a little ballsy, given my advanced age. But I think my sis looks rather regal, in an el cheapo costume kinda way.

Too bad you can’t see more of the Wee Lass in her little custom-tailored Draculaura ensemble. I don’t even know what a Draculaura is, but I think it stems from all the bad television I let her watch. She looked pretty cute in it. Shocker.

Okay, gotta get back to my obsessive organizing. TGIF, my lovelies.

If there were ever any doubt that I need to get a life – stat – the fact that I’m daydreaming about our spring vacation five months out should set me straight.

I actually think there’s something wrong with me that I love Disney this much. But I just do. Once, years before the Wee Lass was even a glimmer on the horizon – and I’d even met The Man Who Would Be Hubby – my sister and I parked ourselves there for an entire week.

And, oh, it got weird. Like when one of the guys dressed like Chip, or Dale, (I get them confused, but they’re chipmunks) took it upon himself to try to get frisky with me during breakfast in The Land at Epcot.

Rude, right? I thought so. Just because I don’t have a tot in tow doesn’t mean I want you to get all handsy on me. Sheesh. The noive.

Flashforward a decade-plus and my trips to Orlando are utterly G-rated. Hubby and I have come up with a slightly arbitrary plan that we’ll take the Wee Lass when she’s 4, 6 and 8. And then she’ll be “over” it, the way she’s already dismissed with so many childhood pleasures. (Except for two sleep-related biggies: Sucking her thumb and clinging to her threadbare “night-night.“)

Since we’re already embarking on the second of our three planned extravaganzas (sniff sniff sob sob), we’re going all out in April and camping out at the Grand Floridian.

I’ve been lucky enough to have stayed at some stunning hotels in my life, including Le Meurice in Paris (the be-all and end-all) and a number of really gorge Ritz-Carlton properties (Key Biscayne and Laguna Niguel are off the hook).

But there’s just something about this crisp white mega-resort that’s really beckoning to me. Maybe it’s all that crispy whiteness. Even the manufactured beach encircling it looks crispy white.

Until five minutes ago, I was even thinking of visiting the on-site spa while I’m there. But evidently it’s “under refurbishment” until 2013 (that’s a lot of refurbishment), and if I’m hankering for a Disney-fied facial or body scrub, I’ll need to visit the spa at the Saratoga Springs property.

I guess I can handle that. As long as I can hightail it right back to all the crispy whiteness for a post-spa siesta.

OMG, just thinking about all this is mentally taking me to my Happiest Place On Earth. Counting. The. Seconds.

I watch oodles of television.

I also read tons of books, and towering stacks of magazines and newspapers. And I see heaps of movies – at the multiplex, with popcorn. I don’t go to the theater nearly as much as I should. (I don’t know why, exactly, that’s a should. But when you live in proximity to Broadway, it definitely feels like a should.) I belong to the Met, which is – without question – my very, very, very favorite place in New York City. And I still buy CDs, because I’m a Luddite, and spend an inordinate amount of time on YouTube hunting down videos of Luna, Tindersticks and Bryan Ferry. (I totally love you, Person Who Invented YouTube.)

My point is that, given all my other pop-culture and artsy interests, it’s a little amazing that I manage to see quite as much telly as I do.

But there’s just soooooo much good stuff on these days. So many great shows. And according to a story in today’s Wall Street Journal, many mamas feel exactly the same way. It claims we’re basically up all night glued to our tellies, and cites research compiled by a scary-sounding entity called The Mom Complex that claims the top four shows among mothers from 18 to 49 are: 2 Broke Girls, The Voice, Dancing With the Stars and New Girl.

Oops, I’m two for four – barely. I think 2 Broke Girls is very cute, and New Girl is adorable. But they aren’t “appointment television” for me. Though in fairness, the only show I can say is unequivocally appointment is Mad Men. Oh my. That Don Draper. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

I have to go fetch the Wee Lass at hip hop class, so I won’t make this blog post too War & Peace-y in length. Rather, I will get right to my new – and oldish – faves of a television nature:

1. Suburgatory: Who knew Jeremy Sisto could do cuddly? Not me – or anyone else unfortunate enough to remember that icky incest story arc on Six Feet Under lo so many years ago. But let’s move on, shall we? Mr. Sisto certainly has, now playing the hunky single dad in a ‘hood full of ravenous housewives. Cheryl Hines is fab. And the girl who plays Tessa? Luminous.

2. Revenge: Set in the Hamptons (or a left coast facsimile thereof), this one is stylish and twisty. Maybe a little too twisty; every week, at least one pivotal person “gets dead,” as the Wee Lass puts it. At the rate they’re going, the entire cast will be pushing up daisies within a month. But until then, I’ll be tuning in to watch those cute other-side-of-the-tracks bartenders never get the girls.

3. Luther: Full disclosure: I would watch Idris Elba recite the telephone book. But happily, this BBC America import – about a London-based cop who is a lot smart and a little nuts – is way more compelling. I’m new to this series, and may have to track the first season down on DVD. But the few episodes I’ve watched are among the scariest, most disturbing slices of TV I’ve ever seen. A keeper.

4. Boardwalk Empire: I was a baseball widow until quite recently (Hubby is from St. Louis and is a massive Cardinals fan), so my betrothed and I are now overdosing on the entire second season of this fantastic show. Everyone is so good, your head kind of explodes. Love Michael Pitt. Huge props to Steve Buscemi. The women are terrific too, particularly Gretchen Mol and kooky krazy Paz de la Huerta. Until Mad Men – and the impossibly swoony Downton Abbey – resurface in 2012, Boardwalk is my tippity top pick from the bygone-era pile.

Before anyone gets their knickers in a twist and starts going all Occupy Wall Street on me, let me just state upfront that this blog post is mostly aimed at preggos and new moms who have a bit of disposable income at their….disposal. Maybe not Petra Ecclestone-level dough, but definitely a bit of pocket change.

I know people get really pissed about that these days; I can’t tell you how many blogosphere wrist slaps I’ve gotten for admitting I belong to Harry & David’s Organic Fruit Of The Month Club. Sheesh, the venom. You’d have thought I’d traded the Wee Lass for a Birkin.

Anyway, the only reason I’m being so gauche as to discuss money is that I’m about to tell you about a very smart – if indulgent – plan called FIT MOM that can help you ace your pregnancy and | or new mommyhood feeling vibrant and energetic and up to the challenge. That’s really important. Given how much our hyped-up, modern lives have cut us off from a more natural, slower approach to having babies and recuperating postpartum, a qualified support team can be a godsend.

So first, I’d like to tell you the specifics of FIT MOM, which is brought to you by FITiST, the members-only “one-stop booking website for wellness and fitness,” based in New York and L.A., that offers a range of curated regimens and access to many top fitness studios and spas. Then I’ll summarize some very useful advice I got from the press event to launch the program.

FIT MOM

Monthly Plan

* 12 classes customized by Pregnancy Fitness Expert Andrea Orbeck. Via Skype, Andrea will tailor a program perfectly suited to your body, goals, lifestyle and needs.
* Weekly nutrition advice from Dr. Oz Garcia
* One private yoga session
* Caudalie Limited Edition Spa in a Bag: Tone and Slim Collection
* Price: $525 for New Yorkers; $440 for Los Angelenos

FIT MOM PRESS EVENT

There was a panel of super-smarties at the press event, including Orbeck, whom I’d never met before, and celeb nutritionist Oz Garcia, whom I’ve known for years and have blogged about several times. Rounding out the group were Pilates whiz Brooke Siler; yogi Kristin McGee and Mathilde Thomas, co-founder of the lovely French skincare brand Caudalie.

Here, excellent preggo + postpartum tips from each:

1. Andrea Orbeck: Having whipped Heidi Klum into shape after baby number four (!), Andrea is known as “the Pied Piper of sexy bottoms and long, lean legs.” She’s all about re-orging your fitness routine to fit your new post-newborn life. Only have 10 minutes to work out? Go for it, no excuses. “Intensity is a surrogate for duration,” she says. “You have to re-invent and be creative,” breaking one long mega-session into do-able chunks.

2. Oz Garcia: I felt vindicated when Oz mentioned that pregnancy can wreak havoc on our thyroids. Since my own GP scoffed when I posited this theory, I loved hearing this über wellness guru basically tell me that I wasn’t insane. According to Oz, a lot of what gets diagnosed as postpartum depression may in fact be thyroiditis. So to that end, he suggests that every new mom who isn’t feel up to snuff get her thyroid tested. Wearing his nutritionist’s hat, Oz urges a largely plant-based diet, with a bit of low-mercury seafood thrown into the mix (or fish oil capsules) for the omega 3 essential fatty acids they provide. “Eat small,” he says, “trout, bass, grouper, salmon and sardines.” Other healthy musts: Nuts, lentils, beans. But if you’re pregnant, he says, stay the hell away from coffee. Caffeine easily leaps the placental barrier, and you don’t want to subject your little Miss or Mister to that.

3. Brooke Siler: A Pilates pioneer of sorts – not that she isn’t totally young and amazing! – Brooke says to make the playground your new fitness studio. In other words, instead of sitting on that bench yakking with the nannies and checking your CrackBerry, do some pull ups on the monkey bars, or run a few laps around the perimeter. Just move it. Also: If you’ve never done Pilates before, pregnancy is not the time to start. Wait until you’ve delivered – and fully recuperated – before you embark on a beginner program. Another cute tip: Use your baby as a weight for squats. Trust me, they’ll love it.

4. Kristin McGee: While standing balance poses can really help shore up your confidence around carrying your ever-growing bundle of joy, McGee says that Plank, an all-over toner that’s fairly easy to execute, is pretty much her desert island must-have move. And to keep your energy high, she recommends keeping an empty Altoids tin packed with almonds.

5. Mathilde Thomas: To prevent the dreaded “mask of pregnancy,” Mathilde says SPF is crucial. And make sure to OD on body moisturizer, despite the fact that your face might actually be producing more oil during pregnancy and require a lighter formula. Not gaining too much weight while pregnant is also a great idea, she says. I happen to agree with her. But bear in mind she’s French, and as we all know, French women don’t get fat.

More on Mathilde in an upcoming blog post. I’m going to visit the gorge Caudalie spa at the Plaza Hotel, so I’ll report back on my yummy experience. Just because the Wee Lass is pushing six doesn’t mean I don’t need to pamper myself, oui?

I just read two excellent pieces on the borderline-tragic phenom of mothers who can’t sleep. One was in the New York Times, and corralled a number of different voices, many of whom discussed their more-than-occasional reliance on OTC and prescription meds. The other, in the November issue of Town & Country, is an intensely researched first-person account written by a good pal and former work colleague of mine, LA-based journalist Christine Lennon.

Both articles pull no punches about the negative impact our kids have on our nightly Zzzzzs. Whether they’re beseeching us to come check under their bed for monsters, or simply – through their very existence – cramming our heads so full of data that we can’t shut down when we need to, there’s virtually no question that they’re doing a number on our deep sleep.

Thankfully, I don’t have the first half of that problem; the Wee Lass is a champion snoozer and almost never wakes up during the night. But I’m absolutely part of the “three a.m. club” referenced in the Times, the growing horde of moms who nod off easily, but then wake up – and stay up – in the dead of night.

Most of my insomnia can be placed neatly into two little boxes – it’s either hormonal (and so cyclical I can practically map it on a calendar) or situational, i.e., some minor life-drama is upsetting me to such a degree that it wakes me up so I can “solve” it. What a crock. I’ve never solved one damn thing at 3 a.m., except maybe a craving for DoubleStufs or ginger ale.

Christine’s struggle to get more shut-eye led her to test-drive a gizmo called a Zeo Sleep Manager, which monitors the amount of time you spend in the REM state vs. the fragmented, light stuff that doesn’t do jack for making you feel rested. And immediately, she started trying to beat her score from the previous night. The chief way she did this: By prioritizing her sleep over the zillions of diversions and distractions that shortcircuit our eight to nine good solid hours.

In the sleep chapter of my Momover book, I’m positively evangelical about sleep-prioritization. When we treat it with the respect it deserves, I say, it will pay huge, massive physical and emotional dividends. And I completely practice what I preach; I’m usually in bed by 9, and completely zonked out by 10.

The trick, for me, isn’t unplugging as much as it is staying unplugged.

In an effort to Zen up my bedroom, I just gave my nightstand a complete overhaul. It’s one of those cabinet-with-a-door numbers, with tons of space underneath for books. And since I’m a huge reader – and I’m forever sampling a few pages of this and a few pages of that – it was crammed with a vast assortment of fiction, non-fiction and memoirs.

But I made an executive decision that almost all of the non-fiction – especially the business | career books – were getting the boot out of my bedroom. I’m on the fence about some of the memoirs. If they’re too depressing and disturbing (that means you Glass Castle and Lit), they need to find a new home on a shelf in another room. If they’re quasi-uplifting, like A Place of Yes, they can stick around. For now. But at the slightest hint of doom and gloom, they’re gone.

So what stays? A pile of thrillers and chillers I’ve started, stopped and started again, including Paris Requiem and the boxed set by the Game of Thrones dude; my precious Seaside Knitters mysteries, and books on spirituality and meditation, especially if they’re soothing, like 5 Good Minutes in the Evening. Also making the cut: Trippy stuff about karma and the afterlife.

The big idea: To lift myself out of the mental rat race and go someplace else for a while. And then drift off, with a tank full of dream-fuel that has absolutely nada to do with tomorrow’s To Do list.

As I write this, I’m wracked with guilt. Why? Because I’m four months behind on my dental checkup. I completely blanked on the last appointment, and when an email reminder popped up on my iPad during Road Trip 2011, I promised I would reschedule as soon as I got back. Obvi, I’ve yet to do that. Hence the sheepishness.

But my sordid dental saga brings me to the very heart of today’s blog post, in which I will be introducing you to one Russell Moon, my newest Mama Guru.

A father of four with one hell of a business track record (he’s a co-creator of SkinCeuticals, that über-effective, de-wrinkling skincare brand), Russell and his fleet of dental experts has harnessed the power of antioxidants for a new line of oral care products designed to ratchet your mouth health skyward.

I don’t need to tell you how important oral health is, right? I think my “job” here is just to underscore it, by sharing Russell’s new venture with you.

After extensive research, Russell and his PerioSciences colleagues determined that a lot of what we do to make our teeth more beautiful – especially bleaching – can generate free radicals. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.

To counteract these loathsome free radicals in our oral cavity, PerioSciences developed a range of easy-to-use items – packed with antioxidants – dubbed AO. (Get it? Anti? Oxidant?)

There’s an alcohol-free, breath-freshening AO ProRinse and a few variations on the star product, AO ProVantage. This is a gel that’s applied to gums and helps with irritation, recession and all manner of “soft tissue” woes.

And there’s even a product for smokers and tobacco chewers, called AO ProVantage Post Nicotine Blast. In a refreshingly un-PC moment during the event to launch the line, Russell admitted he’s been known to dip into the Skoal from time to time.

Russell’s from Texas; they do that there. And since I’m from Oklahoma, I can say that here. In fact, I’ll go even further out on a tobacco limb: My great granny, a full-blood Creek Indian, never went anywhere without her shiny brass spittoon.

Okay, gotta go slap on some war paint for an afternoon screening of Puss In Boots. Oh my lordy, no one is looking forward to this movie as much as I am. That kitty kat is so cute I could just squish him. Meow.

Throw me a pity party: I usually have too much going on – and a hefty dose of built-in guilt – to park myself in front of the Today Show for however many hours it’s on these days. If I have to prioritize my viewing, I’ll catch a little of Hoda and Kathie Lee, because I cannot believe women can get paid so handsomely to have so much fun in their day jobs. Sign me up.

Still, I catch snippets here and there. But the snippeting actually isn’t great, because then I just feel completely deprived because I don’t get to watch the entire segment I’ve just snippeted. I’m tearing up right now at my sad tale. Wait, gotta go grab a tissue…

I’m back. Okay, so this morning, I saw a tiny bit of a segment about the Michael Jackson trial. It featured Conrad Murray frollicking on the beach in a Momover-pink T-shirt (yay!) with his girlfriend, and it was all about how, if he gets put in prison, his frollicking-on-the-beach days will be few and far between.

I haven’t been following the trial at all, but I was mesmerized by a clip the Today Show presented in which Murray’s girlfriend was explaining what she does for a living – and how she spends the bulk of her days. “I maintain my instrument,” she informed the court. “When you’re an actress, your instrument is…you.”

(Note: I may be paraphrasing the second part of the quote, but the instrument-maintenance bit is verbatim.)

Well, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck me from the heavens. THAT’s what I do here on Momover.net! I regale you with the minutia and nuances of my own personal instrument-maintenance. And through my many, many blog posts on flat abs, and detoxing, and flawless skin and frizz-prevention, I am aiding you in your instrument-maintenance journey as well!

Wow. I feel really good about this instrument-maintenance stuff. The pity party is officially over. TGIF, my lovelies.