Archive for the ‘Skin’ Category

After working so damn hard lately, I’m a ghost of my former self.

Cue the laugh track…

For various reasons, mostly pending thunderstorms, we haven’t been able to make it to our beloved town pool for the last two weekends. (Actually I should call it our beloved somebody-else’s-town pool, because we’re total interlopers who just pay the big bucks to drive over from our real native habitat and crash the party.)

The point is, I’m completely pale and need a tan like nobody’s business. Not a deep, dark genuine one; don’t have a cow. (And I even went to the derm just this morning for my skin cancer screening, so no lectures, s’il vous plait.) It’s just that I could use a little color.

So this week, because I’ve been rocking dresses with bare legs at the office every day, I’ve been faking it with my vast arsenal of liquid bronzers.

One, which shall remain nameless because it’s actually really good and imparts a gorgeous hue (alrighty, if you must know…it’s L’Oréal Sublime Bronze) sticks to your palms like Selena Gomez to Justin Bieber. Tough, tough, tough to get off.

Except if you happen to have, as I do, the seriously genius-y St. Tropez Self-Tan Remover. Man, does that stuff work. Love it.

Okay, that’s all I wanted to say for the moment. Peace out.

Yesterday evening, as we were waiting for the check and stealing the last few bites of dinner at one our favorite resties in Hoboken, the Wee Lass snuck outside while we weren’t looking. She didn’t go far, but when I found her, she was sitting on the sidewalk in full Lotus pose, hands on knees.

“Um, just what might you be doing?” I queried. “Meditating, Mom,” she said, as if every five-year-old kid on the planet just plunks herself on a busy New Jersey street in search of inner peace. Om…

When we got back home, she zipped right up to my office and into my walk-in closet to paw through this shoe cubby that I’ve devoted to crystals, my ocean-soundtrack meditation CDs and some other Zen gew gaws, like stones carved with the words “Peace” and “Forgive.”

Specifically, she was in search of the best meditation tool of all time: the “removable sound box” that I basically ripped from the innards of her Sleep Sheep. And although she closed the door for her meditation session, I could clearly hear that she’d put it on “Mother’s Heartbeat” and cranked it up as loud as it would go. (I didn’t have the heart to tell her that extremely loud noise kinda defeats the purpose of zoning-out…)

So where am I going with all this? In short, I miss all the nightly rituals – of both a spiritual and superficial nature – that I’ve let go of this year because A) I was obsessed with P90X and it completely absconded with my free time and B) I accepted a whopper of an in-house magazine gig that absconded with all my other free time once the P90X ended.

Watching the Wee Lass fake-meditate made me realize how much I miss doing it myself, as well as the elaborate nightly beauty ritual I use to devote myself to that IS SO UTTERLY RELAXING THAT I CAN’T BELIEVE I STOPPED DOING IT during this period of brutal, self-pity-party-throwing stress.

I haven’t been dry-brushing my skin on a regular basis. I haven’t been dabbing my wrists with yummy patchouli-spiked fragrances to trigger sound sleep. I haven’t been meditating. And more recently, I haven’t been consistent with the skincare regimen Dr. Brandt put me on in advance of my big summer face renovation. Even though when I use his amazing potions, I already look about five years younger. (More on the regimen in another post…)

I need to get back to all these systems, these rituals, these little hits of pampering that make me both feel and look better.

That should be me plunked down on that Hoboken sidewalk, not my crazy, stress-free-and-naturally-gorgeous tot. Om, indeed.

We’ve reached that time of year when I start acting like a multi-gazillion dollar body-parts model.

Seriously.

Instead of going about my business in my typical manner – careening here and there with nary a care about whether I smack into the pointy edge of the coffee table – I mince around very, very preciously.

And super s-l-o-w-l-y, as if I’d just swallowed a handful of ‘ludes. (Oooh – fun Eighties reference!)

Why do I behave in this bizarre fashion? Because my fair, mostly-Celtic (with a dash of Native American + German) skin bruises like nobody’s business. Really. Just look at me funny and I turn blue.

Right now, however, I’d like to discuss all the other people in my life who share this same painful problem. Well, “in my life” is a bit of a stretch. I’ve never actually met any of them. But I have encountered them. And for me, that’s enough to weigh-in on their beauty woes as if they were my very best gal pals.

First up: Sonja Morgan. Oh. Em. Gee. Trainwreck. Though I watched the episode of RHONY in which she conveniently “forgot” the bottom half of her Marie Antoinette costume, it wasn’t until I read the New York mag recap (and flicked my fingers on my iPad so I could blow-up the chunk of tush in question) that I saw that black and blue whopper on her ass.

My, my, my. That was not pretty. It’s bad enough girlfriend was baring her 40-something behind on national telly; at least make sure there isn’t a bruise the size of Oahu residing there.

Next, we move on to a random stranger I saw in Chelsea on the way to my appointment with Anthony Gianzero, my so-cute-you-could-just-squish-him colorist. Cute girl, I’m guessing in her 20s, coming at me on the street wearing microscopic hot pants. That’s cool; figure-wise and age-wise, she could definitely pull them off.

But then she stops at her apartment building and starts jamming her keys in the lock. It was then that I saw a gigantic bruise on her leg, south of the hemline of those short-shorts. Such a head-scratcher for me. If you know you have this unsightly sitch going on, why put it on display?

Finally, we move on to the hostess at the restaurant Hubby and I dined at last night. Another pretty 20-something. Tall, thin as a matchstick, sporting an Ace-bandage-tight mini dress with nude stockings. Yes, you read that right: nude stockings. Perhaps it’s a dress-code thing? (But come to think of it, there was a co-hostess with tawny JLo-legs who wasn’t wearing them. Whatevs. I digress.)

Anyway, I’m sure you know where I’m going with this: When the teensy-weensy hostess stalked across the room to seat other diners, I spotted it – a ginormous bruise on her left thigh, again on full view for the whole wide world.

My conclusion: Maybe it’s time for me to pack away my Extreme Bruise Paranoia for Summer 2011. If all these other ladies are just fine with having everyone see their black and blues, perhaps I should be too. At least I could do away with the mincing around like a body-parts model bit. That isn’t easy, you know.

But you also gotta admit there’s something really nice about a bruise-free bod.

I’m one lucky puppy. Trust me that I know this, although my favorite past-time of late has been to bitch and moan like a rock star who didn’t get his precious purple M&Ms and case of Jägermeister in his dressing room, per the bullet-proof rider in his contract.

I have a lot of good things in my life. Not enough time to enjoy them right now, but at least I know they’re there.

So it in this upbeat, gratitude-y spirit that I will now relay to you what has gone down in the past 72 hours.

On Friday, during my visit to Dr. Brandt, he rawther sternly tsk-tsked me when I told him that I don’t wear sunscreen on my face religiously. Not brills, given the multiple skin cancer biopsies I’ve had over the years, not to mention the tiny chunk taken out of my forehead where an actinic keratosis was removed.

But, hey, at least I was honest, right? Many a less-brave mama than I would have straight-up lied to the dude.

Since he wanted to prescribe the Refissa for me (I’m only on Day 3 but I am in LOVE…), he made me promise that I would wear really strong sunscreen, at least 45 SPF, because any kind of Retin-A makes your skin much more susceptible to burning.

Grrr, I thought, do I even own such a potion? I’m more of an 8 girl myself. (Hence all the skin cancer biopsies…)

Today at lunch with my pal Patricia, a Lancôme public relations honcho and beauty savant, who just so happens to have co-written Dr. Brandt’s first book, she handed me a bag packed with goodies, including Génefique (the new youthifier you see in all those Kate Winslet ads). And Star Bronzer bronzing powder and Flash Bronzer tinted self-tanning body gel, so I can get my glow on.

And best of all, a Lancôme classic: Bienfait. The UV version. SPF 50+, thank you very much. Now Dr. B will have to find another sunscreen slacker to tsk tsk.

I’ve been in a bad mood for at least a month. Growly, whiny. A real Oscar the Grouch, minus the slime green fur and trash can abode. Of course, it’s all my own fault – I accepted too many work projects – but knowing that hasn’t been enough to get me to pipe down with the griping already.

Today, however, I’m feeling chipper. Why? Because I finally went to see the insanely renowned beauty guru Fred Brandt. Although I’ve known him for almost 20 years via the editor circuit, I’ve never plopped myself down in one of his sleek black swivel chairs and asked him how he would go about the business of changing my life.

Because he does indeed change lives. Or at least enhance the living hell out of ‘em. Take Madonna, for instance. While Dr. B never – and I mean never – talks about her, he’s the main reason she looks approximately half her age. Well, from the neck up; we gots to give ol’ Madge props for keeping her 50-something bod banging. She bangs.

The purpose of my visit today was not to actually have him poke me with a needle, but to get a gameplan for the near future. The very near future, as in mid-July, when all my assignments wrap and I’m officially kicking up my heels for the summer.

So after dispensing with the polite chit-chat, he scrutinized my makeup-less face and made his friendly-but-brutal assessment:

“Your fat pads are slipping,” he said, tapping my cheekbone and gesturing south. “That happens as we get older. Your forehead isn’t bad. You could use some Retin-A. Have you tried any type of Retin-A yet?”

No, but frankly, I’d been dying to. I love my drugstore retinol products, but at a certain point, a gal needs to stop effing around and go for the industrial-strength concoctions. So, happily, he sent me on my merry way with an Rx for Refissa, a new riff on Retin-A that’s very moisturizing. So much so that I probably won’t need to layer a night cream on top.

The Refissa should definitely help with sun damage, particularly a few stubborn brown spots on my cheek. And when I go back to see Dr. B in about eight weeks, I intend to take the plunge with Botox and a some type of filler. (He’s keen on Restylane and other types of hyaluronic acid-based fillers, but we’ll see.)

I know, I know; I’m morphing into High-Maintenance Mommy. Or Crazy-Vain Mommy. Take your pick. All I know is that I’m excited.

“I can take 15 years off your face,” said Dr. B. “You’re gonna look great.”

Music to my high-maintenance ears.

I am a serial body-parts neglector. Especially my hands and feet. Since I’m not a big nails gal, nine months out of the year I pretty much totally ignore them.

And surprise, surprise: They aren’t in danger of winning any prizes at the next local beauty pageant. Translation: They’re not lovely to look at, and they’re exceedingly rough to the touch.

For now, I think I’ll just slather my paws in my miracle cream du jour. But I’m actually considering embarking on regular weekly manis. If only I had the patience to wait until the lacquer dries. I fuss and I fidget, and I smudge and I smush. And before long, $20 dollars and 20 minutes has been tossed right out the window.

Pedicures are a different story. I actually like those. So why don’t I get them more regularly, and not just in the hot weather months? Good question. Especially since I’m always pushing the panic button right about now, wanting to erase three seasons of apathy with the snap of my (lacquer-less) fingers.

Until I can nip out for a pedi, I’ll go the DIY route, by coating my tootsies with a little German beautifier that my friend Nancy told me about: Gehwol Med Callus Cream

(Or as it also says on the tube: Crème contre les callosités. Why does every beauty product on the planet speak Francais parfaitment? How did this happen?)

Nancy says I need to cover my feet with “cute little socks” after applying the Gehwol, which is supposed to work its magic not overnight – that’s too much to ask of any potion – but within a month. No cute little socks, she says, and it rubs right off on your sheets.

I think I can handle the socks. Besides, it’s not as if I have any choice. I have major tootsie TLC to catch up on and my beloved Birk Gizehs are just waiting for me to take them out with for a little spring fling.

Early last month, right after we got back from our slamming little Jamaican vacay, I decided I wanted to do a little sprucing up, so I booked a light chemical peel with one of my fave derms, Debra Jaliman.

I’ve had loads of antioxidant peels administered by Debra, and they are great great great. So I was looking forward to my office visit, which was long overdue.

Except that I was in deep denial. I had let my face get a little sunburned (bad, bad Momover Lady) on our trip, and I didn’t think it would be smart to add acid to the equation.

I reluctantly unbooked. And now my schedule is completely bananas, and there’s no way I can carve out the time to get in to see her for weeks and weeks.

After throwing myself a little pity party (I always get sad when my calendar gets packed like sardines in a tin can), I decided to rally and do my own DIY skin sloughing by stepping up my usage of my Colbert MD Intensify Facial Discs.

Love. They’re a little grittier and rougher than a peel pad, which makes all the sense in the world because they’re actually for microdermabrasion rather than peeling. And also, if I were using them correctly – by rinsing them first rather than just sand-papering at full strength – I’m sure they’d be perfectly gentle.

Still, I’m finding that my complexion is responding really well to these little numbers, which are laced with lactic acid and pineapple enzyme. For a blue-eyed, fair-skinned creature, I’m kind of a tough cookie.

Technically, it’s Tuesday. So shoot me. After work all day in the city yesterday, I was out partying like a rock star last night. (Not really, unless you classify one class of sauvignon blanc as the height of decadence…)

So last week, as I was prowling through of one those great Duane Reade Look beauty departments for a few items (hair accessory gew gaws for the Wee Lass, a birthday card for the nanny and a tube of Jergens Natural Glow in a light shade that actually bears some resemblance to my god-given skin tone), I caught something out of the corner of my eye that I just knew would spell wallet trouble:

An entire display table of this works, one of the yummiest beauty brands to come down the pike in, well, eternity.

Man oh man I love that line. But in particular, I dig the deep calm bath and shower oil. I use to call it “liquid Xanax,” and that description is wildly apt. Chock-a-block with coconut, lavender and vetiver, it’s divine. Dump a capful or two in the tub after a long, taxing day and I defy you to be stressed.

I discovered it not long after the Wee Lass (then lovingly referred to as the Diapered Darling) joined us. As much as I was overjoyed to have a tot, and as much as she completely and utterly rounded-out the happy picture that was originally just me, Hubby, Thunder and Lightning, I was fueled by anxiety in those early years.

There, I said it. As a new mommy, I was a big ol’ stress ball.

But now that the Wee Lass is older, and I can have incredibly charming and heartfelt conversations with her, and she can do lots of things for herself like getting dressed in super-schmancy outfits, I have a lot more inner peace.

But that didn’t stop me from plunking down the big bucks when I saw one of my all-time favorite beauty brews perched in front of me. Some stuff is just totally worth the splurge.

Now that my hair has deflated a bit from the humid island weather (well, actually it poured yesterday in Gotham, grrr…) it’s time to turn our collective mama-attentions to the utter happiness that is the Driftwood Spa at Jakes. My über-bestie Lisa had told me it was nice; understatement of the decade.

Picture large, super-comfy open-air treatment rooms facing the ocean that get tons of crisp, clean natural light. Not that dark, cave-y feel you can sometimes get in spas. Or, worse, harsh fluorescent lights attached to magnifying lenses. Of course I understand why aestheticians use those high-tech looking glasses: They need to scrutinize your pores at close range. But whenever I’m under one, I’m always expecting someone to pop out from behind a curtain and interrogate me in a “Where were you on the night of the 15th?” fashion.

Trust me when I tell you that the Driftwood Spa is not a no-pore-unturned experience.

Instead, the Signature Facial, which I had, starts with a chakra balancing. While placing little pebbly, crystal thing-a-ma-jiggys on my rock-hard abs (kidding, though they’re not bad these days), my lovely aesthetician asked me to try to visualize the colors the chakras correspond with. Starting with my belly button – the “root” chakra – and heading north, she ultimately placed seven stones, which stayed throughout the entire 75-minute treatment.

(Sidebar: I’m definitely getting more into crystals lately, and would like to learn more about the chakras. In fact, I may even nab this cute little kit.)

But back to my facial. It included a ton of massage, of the upper body as well as the face, which was impossibly yummy. I’m reading more and more about the benefits of facial massage, and I think it’s such a low-key, analog way to relax and, ultimately, look younger. And what Momoverette in her right mind doesn’t want that?

As a longtime wellness journalist, I’m very big on massage. Without question, it is so, so, so good for you. That’s why I also booked an Aromatherapy Massage for myself at Jakes, as well as a Swedish for Hubby. After P90X-ing to smithereens lately, and given the fact that we’re no spring chickens, I thought it would be just the just the ticket for our weary bones and muscles. And it totally was. We got to pick from three blends of Caribbean Essentials oils – Rapture, Restore and Release – all of which were laced with patchouli, so of course I, aka Crunchista, was intoxicated.

I could have spent my entire va-cay at the Driftwood Spa, sampling one Jamaican-flavored treatment after another. Like the Bona Fide Coffee Scrub and the Mocha Cocktail Rum Wrap. Or perhaps a little yoga on the roof. Jakes hosts many yoga retreats, and you cannot imagine a more spectacular setting than the upper terraces of this super-beautiful corner of the world. Swoon.

For a few months now, ever since I gave up on that ancient-but-unused Clarisonic collecting dust in my BA, I’ve been eyeballing the reasonably priced knockoff version.

So this weekend, on a power-jaunt through Target, I finally nabbed an Olay ProX Advanced Cleansing System. It was on sale, and I’d been wanting one, so I figured what the heck, right? It’s evidently a hot item, because there were only two left, both of which looked like a St. Bernard puppy had lovingly mauled them.

But later, when I opened it, I found it quite curious – and not in a good way – that it came with a positively microscopic tube of the grainy scrub you’re supposed to use with it. Had I known that, I would have just gone ahead and picked up a separate, regular-size tube. Irksome.

But here’s where I’m getting all genius-y and money-resourceful: When I chucked the Clarisonic, I hung on to the accompanying cleanser. Just call me a beauty-hoarding rocket scientist…

Except that…when I was rooting around in my armoire for the Clarisonic cleanser, I couldn’t put my mitts on the Jergens Natural Glow that I just know is in there somewhere. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe I got so hopped-up on my newfound love of liquid leg bronzers that I kicked the Jergens – which is basically a self-tanner disguised as a body lotion – to the curb.

Because we’re Jamaica-bound in 48 hours, and my bod is as pale as the backdrop on this blog post, I decided to spring for a new tube of Jergens. And of course there was a hitch: I wanted to try the new firming version (I have no idea why, because the only way to firm anything is to hit the weight rack), and the only one left on the shelves at my local CVS was for “Medium to Tan Skin Tones.”

I tan really easily for a blue-eyed sorta blonde. But after this loooong, slushy, watery winter, I’m ghostly.

So today, after “naturally glow”-ing last night, I look like I always do after using self-tanner: Spotted like a freaking leopard. This is not good, considering I’ll be sporting my new Malia Mills Raquel top and adjustable It’s A Cinch bikini bottoms in a few short days. My only course of action is to glow for it again tonight, in the hopes that I’ll miraculously hit the patches I missed with the last go-round.

But you know what? I’m just not gonna sweat it. My new ‘do is really cute, and after literally busting my ass for the last 10 weeks, my figure looks fit and trim in that sexy swimsuit. And besides, leopards are one of my favorite animals. Meow!