Archive for December, 2011

Whoa, upon reflection,I was quite the busy bee in 2011.

The first six months were pretty brutal, with lots of 7-day stretches of paid assignments – and the sheer evil of “workends” aka weekends packed with work – that kept me hopping. Unfortunately, it kept me complaining too. Thus, I apologize profusely for all the digital whinging I did during the spring and early summer.

But then, after a 16-day road trip to Heartland America hinged around my family reunion in the great state of Oklahoma, I had tons of time off.

And oh my lordy, having July and August free basically re-wired my entire brain. To distract myself from Hubby’s, ahem, aggressive driving during the road trip, I taught myself to knit again. Happily, that unleashed a whole dormant artsy craftsy side of me that I’d thought was gone forever.

And when we got back home, I was also introduced to a room in my house that I’d like to call the kitchen. Who knew?

Other fond bloggy memories of the past 365 days: My “near-needle experience” with über-derm Dr. Brandt; my massive crush on the PBS costumed drama Downton Abbey; my inspiring chit-chat with Momover giveaway winner Daina; and the fact that Rach and Rodg joined the parent ranks.

So to send a great year off with a bang, I’ve compiled a list of the most popular posts and features, followed by other stuff I loved writing about. Enjoy!

Five Super-Popular Posts + Pages

1. Mama Guru: Mally Roncal

2. White-blond hair is looking really good to me right now

3. Rebecca Giles: Cookie “dictator” for a great cause

4. I ask myself: Would Kelly Wearstler work like this?

5. Chew on this: Juice-cleansing ain’t the only way to detox

Five (Okay, Six) Personal-Fave Posts + Pages

1. Visual proof that I am, in fact, knitting

2. Shocker: I totally chickened-out on the face reno

3. I’m with Marina Rust on this fighting-gravity stuff

4. Extreme Parisian chic evidently runs in families

5. Hot-Mama Appreciations: Gwyneth Paltrow and Rachel Zoe

In a particularly riveting section of Dominique Browning’s très excellent memoir, her new gynecologist, “Dr. Pat,” becomes alarmed at info Browning is relaying during the initial consultation. It seems Browning, way back in her 20s, had had a harrowing encounter with a decidedly gnarly kidney stone. The pain the stone caused literally brought her to her knees, writhing in agony, but once it passed, that was it; she never paid her kidneys much nevermind after that. No follow-up checkups or screenings, no follow-up anything.

Upon hearing this, Dr. Pat insists Browning schedule both a baseline vaginal ultrasound and an abdominal scan tout suite. But because she is at that time (but then she gets fired, which is pretty much the centerpiece of the book) the Editor In Chief of the now-defunct House & Garden, Browning doesn’t hop to it immediately.

But Dr. Pat doesn’t let up, and months later Browning finally gets her kiester to the radiologist. It had been 16 years since her last ultrasound, which she had in conjunction with the birth of her second son. And because she isn’t anticipating any bad news, she asks the technician for a guided tour of sorts, to essentially walk her through every organ as he’s scanning it. “There’s your bladder, looks perfect,” he says. “There’s your kidney, excellent.”

Aaaah, but it was the other kidney that was the problem. It was riddled with cancer. And if hadn’t been for Dr. Pat’s pestering, Browning’s story would have had a very different ending.

I thought about Browning, as well as a few very sick friends of mine, this morning, as I headed to the Upper East Side for my annual mammogram and breast ultrasound.

About five years ago, in the run-up to getting my implants out (yes, you read that right; don’t have a cow – I already outed myself in my Momover book), my plastic surgeon demanded that I have my first-ever mammogram. Even though I was already in my 40s, I’d never had one, mostly because I figured implants would make getting an accurate read next to impossible, so why bother?

I wasn’t entirely wrong about that; it is definitely harder for doctors to see what’s going on with your breasts if you have implants. But that’s absolutely ZERO reason to skip your mammogram. You’ll simply be assigned a technician skilled in “implant displacement views” and that godforsaken squishing and squeezing will be turned down a notch. Got that? GO!

Long story short, my first-ever mammogram uncovered a suspicious mass, which was subsequently biopsied and found to be benign. But since then, I’ve been religious about getting both a classic mammogram and an ultrasound every year.

Thankfully we have good insurance. But I would gladly pay out of my own pocket for both of those procedures. Because as much as I hate going – I’m a bundle of nerves for weeks in advance, and I lie on that table silently freaking out – it’s obviously better to know than to not know.

Dominique Browning almost didn’t know. And that is truly scary.

Whenever my busy brain starts ping-ponging between the endless “I could do this!” or “I could do that!” possibilities on the Massive Buffet Table of Self-Improvement + Transformation, I try to rein it all in and remember that there are only so many hours in a day, that I work quite a bit both inside and outside the home, and that I have a festive and charming tot-let and hubby I actually enjoy spending time with.

That only leaves so much mental bandwidth and energy for changing the world – or at least changing the way my –s looks in those super-soft J. Crew matchstick cords. (Oh how I want them in every color.)

But this year, as we round the bend on 2012, I’m torn. In one corner, we have minimalist simplicity-pushers – people I very much admire – like my all-time fave blogger Leo “Zen Habits” Babauta. Faithful Momoverettes already know how much I love him; I’ve written about his “Power of Less” book on numerous occasions.

If my imaginary BFF Leo were with me now, he’d probably say: “Calm down, Sparky. Whittle that giant laundry list of hopes and dreams down to what really matters to you this year, and then just focus on your top priorities.”

In the other corner, however, there are go for it types like Gretchen “Happiness Project” Rubin. I recently finished reading her book, and I was pretty blown away by how much she accomplished in one year. She went macro and micro – working on her marriage, becoming a whiz at making Shutterfly photo albums, forming a mini writers’ workshop and two book clubs devoted to children’s literature – and so, so much more.

It was dizzying, frankly. Especially when you consider that she basically layered each month’s resolutions on top of the other. For instance, she started lifting weights in January, and she continued to do that throughout the year, even as she was piling ever more on her plate.

Still, I’m completely considering embarking on a Happiness Project of my own. If I do decide that that’s the direction I’m heading in, I can use the handy-dandy “toolbox” Rubin has created for like-minded readers.

Whatever I do, I may or may not go public with it. When I committed to exercising 200 times in 2010, I got really close – 195 sessions. But then again, this year, when I didn’t have that goal, I worked out almost as much – 174 times. That’s still pretty good, right? Particularly when you consider that a lot of that was P90X, which is oh-so-grueling. Mega worth the effort, but grueling.

This transformation stuff is ultra important, so I think I’ll sleep on it. Right after I watch the new ep of Revenge waiting in my DVR queue. That show is so sinister-y. And ocean-y. And faux-Hamptons-y. Love.

I think I’ve mentioned a few million times that I love The Nate Berkus Show to pieces? But that, even if I’m working from home, I feel too guilty sneaking off for an hour to watch it?

Well hallelujah, it’s Xmas break, and I can do whatever I damn well please. Besides, his show – soooooooooooo freaking sadly – won’t be with us after this season wraps, so I need to get my fix in before the jig is up. Or, rather, before his gig is up.

Anyway, I think this week is mostly re-runs, so I’ve been pleasantly surprised to encounter two segments of “House Proud.” I never knew about those, and I am so smitten with the over-the-top creativity and design smarts of the HP moms I’ve watched in the last 48 hours.

One was “Jen from Wisconsin,” a mother of three boys who has an adorable blog called I Heart Organizing, and who, not-so-shockingly, has a home that’s ordered to a fare thee well. Even the refrigerator is immaculately color-coded. I was hyperventilating when I saw all that, and I’m sure she could hear me clapping in applause all the way from Joisy. Yay Jen! I heart organizing too!

Today’s segment, on “Shaunna from Alabama” was crazy-inspiring, I’m sure in large part because I utterly love her décor taste. All that distressed white furniture was completely speaking to me. Her office is beyond, tricked-out with a stunning daybed she created by chopping up the doors of her childhood home! Shaunna has a gorge blog too, and I intend to spend much Q-time combing the archives.

That is, when I’m not watching DVRd episodes of Nate. Sniff sniff, sob sob. I mean, WTH? There are all these shitty shows, that aren’t cheerful and groovy and completely dedicated to living well on a dime, and no one drives a stake through their heart.

I know, I know; it’s a business. And young Mr. Berkus will surely thrive after he leaves our living rooms. But I still wish he could continue, for maybe just the next decade or so, bringing us his special brand of double-breasted cardigan joie de vivre and his super-creative House Proud mommies.

I trust we all had a wonderful holiday? And that our assorted tot-lets turned cartwheels over their prezzies? The Wee Lass certainly did, especially over her pretty new Schwinn Dee-Lite, as well as her bespectacled Molly McIntire doll and the mega Palomino to go along with it.

And how’s this for perfect? Last Thursday, the Wee Lass thought it would be “fun” to hide one of her Zhu Zhu pets in a box of packing peanuts headed for the recycling center in our building. Guess who freaked out when she realized, much later in the day, what she’d done? Quelle surprise, after begging our super to sift through all the crunched-up cardboard in the basement, he came up Zhu Zhu-less.

But happily – if 1000 percent coincidentally – Aunt Jan had sent her another Zhu Zhu for Xmas, complete with a skateboard and U-turn track. Crisis averted.

Of course, the best news of all is that she doesn’t seem that into her new toy Singer sewing machine. Which is exactly what Momover Lady was hoping would happen. Thus she won’t know, or care, if I spirit it off for a few covert stitching sessions.

Aaaaah life is good. And it was made even better when I nipped off on Friday for a little pre-holiday pampering at the Vinotherapie Spa by Caudalie at the Plaza.

I guess I should have realized how packed the Plaza – perhaps the most storied hotel in New York – would be at this time of year. And indeed, it was Tourist Central, with peeps literally tripping over each other with their shopping bags and packages.

But tucked away on the fourth floor, the Caudalie spa is the very definition of oasis. So quiet and soothing, with a wine bar in the central hub, so you can get a tad hammered between treatments, if you’re so inclined. I didn’t imbibe, shockingly, but I will circle back to the wine bar in a second.

My purpose that day was to test-drive one of the “Beauty Under An Hour” treatments that I’d learned about when I attended the FITist FIT MOM press event several weeks ago. There are four treatments in total – all lightning-fast combo packs for face and body -  and I chose “Vine Power,” which included a full facial, manicure and a “petite” pedicure. (Which basically meant a buffing, sanding and clean-up for the tootsies sans nail lacquer, which I don’t bother with during the non-summer months anyway.)

The facial rocked. My aesthetician, Aniko, was a straight shooter, doling out the stern advice and the compliments in equal measure. On a nice note, she said my skin looked “excellent for your age” but she was not down with my recent Refissa use, which she thinks is rendering my mug entirely too sensitive. Though it might be okay in warmer months when the humidity is higher, right now, it’s giving me the scalies and flakies. Not good. Thus, I agreed to scale back to once every four weeks or so, to see how I fare.

Oh, and she was a little appalled by my messy eyebrows, which are actually kind of growing, thanks to my diligence with the neuVeau Brow. “I’ll just clean up a bit, if you don’t mind,” Aniko said, whipping out her tweezers. “No charge.”

Meanwhile, Gina, my nail technician, was busily engaged in ministering to my feet and hands. I feel like a Kardashian, I thought, as one woman tended to my facial pores as the other buffed and sloughed.

Though I almost never wear nail lacquer on my hands – because I don’t have the patience to wait for it to dry and I abhor chips and smudges – I thought I’d try it to appease the Wee Lass, who is forever up in my grill for not being fancy enough. Her frequent lament: “I wish I knew you in your high heel days.” Sniff sniff.

But I have to say that at the Caudalie spa, waiting for your nail lacquer to dry is a blast – especially for une Francophile comme moi. That’s because the wine bar | lounging area is packed with books like Paris Living Rooms.

Ooh la la – how did I not know about this book already? It sooooo has my name written all over it. Why? Well, the very first of the living rooms is Carine Roitfeld’s, stripped down to its bones. I mean, it looks exactly like a hotel. And faithful readers know I am forever on a quest to make my home look as austere, forbidding and utterly untouchable as a high-end hotel. How much does it figure that one of my idols has already completely nailed that look? In fact, it’s even less cozy, because La Roitfeld doesn’t even have a single piece of art on the walls.

Okay, I’m on nanny duty this morning so I better jet. But here’s to successful holiday prezzie-gifting, gorgeous spas and homes that look like hotels. Yay!

Last weekend, in an effort to round-out the Wee Lass’s Xmas situation (she’s getting her very first bike and a Molly McIntire doll, plus a few major goodies from her Uncle Tony, who’s flying in from AZ on Saturday), Hubby and I popped by our local BJ’s to try to find a few smaller, less-pricey items.

(It’s deeply un-chic to shop there, but man, can you nab some serious bargains at the Beej, as we like to call it. I routinely score New York Times bestsellers at rock-bottom prices.)

But back to the toys. Immediately, my eyes seized on the kiddie sewing machines.

“We have to get one,” I squealed, lunging for the shelf. “I’ve been wanting one for so long.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Hubby replied. “If you want a sewing machine for yourself, why not get a real one?”

“Naaaaaaah,” I said. “I’ve been down that road before. I’m a failed fashion designer, remember? Well, maybe I will. But right now, let’s start with this. I’ll tell her it’s for both of us.”

Like that’s gonna work. Can you imagine? Me wresting the munchkin-sized Singer out of my little lady’s tiny mitts? D-r-a-m-a.

Still, I have to admit I’m excited to get my own mitts on that darling toy. It feels very circle-of-life, because I originally moved to New York for the crazy-grueling Fashion Design curriculum at F.I.T., but switched my major early on because my sewing and draping skills weren’t up to snuff.

As a Vogue-besotted high schooler, I learned to sew well enough to get into FIT, but not well enough to really excel in the program – especially in comparison with classmates who’d honed their chops at vocational fashion high schools, stitching up frocks on industrial machines that clocked-in at about 100 stitches per nano-second. (I’m not making excuses, but there’s a big difference between personal and commercial sewing machines.)

So I ended up in Communications, interned at a magazine in my last semester et voila - a 20-something year career in fashion publishing.

But for years – decades – after that, despite the fact that my jobs in magazine-ville were increasingly crack-a-lackin, I couldn’t shake the notion that I’d given up too easily on the design thing, and that if I’d just kept hammering away, I’d be…what, exactly?

A not-Japanese version of Rei Kawakubo? A not-British version of Vivienne Westwood?

So at one point, I had not one but three sewing machines in a storage unit in the East Village, a few blocks away from my groovy St. Marks pad. Just knowing they were there, covered in dust and wedged in-between my off-season purses, made me feel that, some day, I’d revisit my childhood fantasy. And make it work this time.

I realize how much emotional baggage and backstory that is to spring on an innocent little girl, who just reallllly loves doing crafts with Mommy. So I think I’ll just keep it to myself. After all, artsy craftsy endeavors should be fun, not fraught with angst, right?

But lordy, how much would I love to learn to sew really, really well? A lot.

A. Lot.

In the cute-yet-bleak new movie Young Adult (love Charlize, but she needs to stop smoking – I can see it in her skin), a group of hip local moms in the fictional podunk town of Mercury, Minnesota form a hobby band so they can bond, let off steam, sport flannel shirts and rock old Nineties ditties.

The adorable name of this not-bad musical ensemble? Nipple Confusion.

But here’s what’s not adorable, in the slightest: Real, genuine nipple confusion. The kind that can make life for traveling breastfeeding mamas a sheer, living hell.

Enter mimijumi, bottles crafted to be eerily similar to the real deal. They come in two sizes (Very Hungry and Not So Hungry), and they’re blessedly free of BPA and phthalates, so you don’t have to add that to your long list of Stuff To Stress About.

You can order them online here.

I didn’t even breastfeed the Wee Lass (I know; alert the Mom Police), but I just remember that air travel with a newborn was really, really rough. As far as I’m concerned, changing a diaper in 2 inch by 2 inch airplane john should be its own Olympic Sport.

So I give a massive thumbs-up to anything that makes heading to Grandma’s for the hollies more enjoyable – and less stressy – for us hardworking mommies. And to all you first-timers: Yes, you’ll actually get through this. Pinkie swear.

An early Xmas prezzie arrived in the form of some truly stunning Tom Ford makeup and one of his gorgeous artisanal scents, Jasmin Rouge.

That Ford has crafted impeccable, covetable beauty products isn’t brandy new news; in-the-know types have been swooning over his richly pigmented, grown-up lipsticks since the 2010 launch. And the full range of maquillage, as well as a tightly edited collection of skincare items, made a rather splashy debut at Bergdorf Goodman last month – helped in massive part by a personal appearance by the dashing designer himself.

Happily, I’d been thinking it might be time to step away from the girlish glosses – at least occasionally – and embrace full-on lipstick again. Ford’s super-hydrating numbers feel great, with a texture that isn’t madame in the slightest.

And clearly I’ve been watching too much RHOBH, because I immediately thought of Kyle Richards when I clicked open the Eye Color Quad in Silvered Topaz.

But here’s what I didn’t expect to happen: To get so taken with the line that I would spend quite a bit of Q-time on the Bergs website, as well as Ford’s company site, learning more about it.

I’m in love with this earnest video, in which Ford discusses his beauty philosophy. It’s a message of glamour and polish and putting your best foot forward, all of which I heartily applaud. He and I are the same age, so a lot of his cultural touchstones – that hyper-glossy, Studio 54-era makeup and windblown hair – are mine as well. I was weaned on late-Seventies Vogue and Bazaar, and all those glamazons. And right now, as I type this post, I can see not one but two copies of Scavullo On Beauty in my office bookcase. (Hard cover and paper, natch.)

If I have two copies of Scavullo’s seminal book, I’m sure Tom has ten. Thank you, Mr. Ford, for bringing all that glamour and luxury back – in spades.

In my Momover book, I wrote an entire chapter – and it’s the most important one, by leaps and bounds – about the importance of positive “self-talk,” that endless inner chatter that can either support us, or make us feel reaaaaallly bad.

I included tips about “reframing” our thoughts, and what we “say” to ourselves, so that we can instantly feel better, and more on top of our mama-game. And because it’s a book aimed primarily (but certainly not exclusively) at first-time moms, I included an example about homemade organic baby food.

Rather than silently beat yourself up about the fact that you’re the only one in Gymboree class who doesn’t feed her Diapered Darling the self-puréed stuff, I wrote, “you could say something like, ‘Wow, if all the other Gymboree moms are feeding their kids homemade organic baby food, maybe it’s easier than I thought. I’ll check out some recipes online when I get home. It just might be the perfect excuse to to get that food processor I’ve been eyeing at Williams-Sonoma.’”

My goal, in that chapter and in that example, was to help us build our reframing muscles, and shore up our mental defenses against internal negativity. Because we need to be able to do that, all of us, new moms and seasoned pros alike.

But this morning, in reading Prime Time by my gorge idol Jane F, I’ve learned that reframing is not only mentally important, it’s massively physically important too.

Here’s the CliffsNotes recap about why: When we bring a lot negativity into our thoughts about a situation, past or present, and allow ourselves to respond in an angry, threatened or sad way, we unleash chemicals and hormones that harm our bodies.

It’s a little science-y, but it has to do with neurons, those nerve cells that send signals pinging all over us.

By reframing, per Fonda, we can develop entirely new neural pathways, which will help us age more successfully. And even if you’re only in your 20s or 30s (and not a still-stunning 74, like Fonda), who doesn’t want that?

“If we can learn to assign new meanings to stressful situations, we can actually avoid the biochemical and hormonal reactions that cause damage to our systems, especially with age,” Fonda writes. “Recent cognitive research shows that our ability to change our attitudes and behaviors manifest neurogically, as well.”

I don’t know about you, but that gives me such a sense of control over my physical destiny – via my internal dialogue. And on that note, I’m going running – my favorite mind | body form of exercise. Happy Saturday, my lovelies.

In consulting my geeky fitness log, I see that I’ve worked out 169 times in 2011.

Pretty good, right? Not as good as last year – 195 – but then I was on a mad quest to get to 200 workouts. (To new readers who may be aghast that I keep a fitness log: I have no life, and admit so freely.)

But here’s the problem: According to my trusty little notebook, the last time I exercised – I ran outdoors – was on 11/25.

November 25 was a really, really long time ago. If you’re trying to stay fit, which I am, it’s an eternity.

My meditation sessions have been spotty too. Not as spotty, but spotty all the same.

So what’s my lame-ass story? Well, I can absolutely trace the origins of my sloth to that gnarly post-Thanksgiving stomach virus I had a few weeks back.

But still, what the hell? That was ages ago. Plus, it was pretty short-lived. I was fully back to my perky self circa 12/1.

And here we are, two weeks later.

I guess I can also “blame” the fact that I’ve been working in the city three days a week, plus the other two days here. And that I had to whip this house into Martha Stewart-level perfection for our holiday party last weekend.

But that’s all BS, and I know that. Je detest excuses. That’s because I’m convinced that we all make time for exactly what we want to make time for.

Case in point: Have I missed a single episode of RHOBH or Boardwalk Empire in the past three weeks? Of course I haven’t.

So, obvi, when it comes to all this taking-primo-care-of-myself stuff, I get in good ruts and I get in bad ruts.

And today, I’m officially pushing myself back into a good rut. I’ll have lots of time off from work for Xmas, and we’re landlocked here in Joisy for the holidays, so there is literally no excuse not to get back in the groove.

I always think of the “virtuous circle” concept when I need to shore up my resolve around keeping the chubbies – and the crazies and stress that come from not meditating – at bay. I’ve kind of invented my own definition of a virtuous circle, because it’s primarily an economic term. But in Momover Lady Lexicon, it’s essentially “the more good things you do for yourself, the more good things you want to do for yourself.”

There’s a lovely domino effect, in that you’re less likely to undo that 30-minute session on the Elliptical with a crummy Twinkie. Or, my personal bête noire: Kettle Chips – in almost any flavor, they’re all impossibly delish.

Alrighty, today’s the day I hop off the Excuses Express and climb back on to the Wellness Wagon. Wish me luck.