Archive for the ‘Stuff to Get’ Category

If I’ve ever doubted my husband’s intelligence (and Hubby, if you’re reading this, I never ever have), the fact that he CAN. NOT. STAND. to go to Target with me and the Wee Lass should be ample proof that he’s one of the smartest dudes around. Because while he just wants to dash in, grab the 12-pack of Bounty and the 20-pound bag of Iam’s Hairball Control kitty food and get on with his life, she and I could happily spend hours there.

And one day earlier this week, we did precisely that. I didn’t clock it or anything, but trust me, we were there a verrry long time.

Ostensibly, the purpose of the trek was to get the tot-lette a “get well” present, because I’d kept her out of camp for the day due to a slight fever she’d had the night before. But very quickly, I got side-tracked by the ever-growing $1 department and these cute little plastic totes I couldn’t resist. “I need one for my knitting,” I said, tossing a gray one in the cart. “And these hot pink and teal numbers for your room and playspace.”

Next it was off to women’s clothing (a navy Mossimo Boyfriend Pocket Tee had my name written all over it, especially for a miniscule 5 smackers), then lingerie, where I scored several of my new favorite bras (the super-comfy Warner’s Simply Perfect and stretchy Hanes for working out).

Then I had a mini panic attack when I saw approximately 8 million really great-looking pleather bags in the accessories department. Since I avoid leather, I’m always on the hunt for purses crafted from nylon and other synthetic materials. And for fall, Target has a truly kick-ass collection.

Especially impressive: the new Linea Pelle styles in pebbled pleather that are genuinely chic and rich-looking. I had such a hard time picking just one (and I’m sure I’ll be sneaking back for more), but finally settled on this roomy tote with nailhead trim. Love me some nailhead trim. In fact, our living room furniture is plush burgundy velvet with nailhead trim. Okay, getting off-topic now…

At this point, the Wee Lass was getting her tiny knickers in a twist. “I thought this trip was for me,” she said. “But it seems like it’s all about you.”

So off we went to the toys, where she procured yet another Barbie to add to her massive collection. This one is like Animal Rescuer Barbie, so given how much time I’d just lavished on the cruelty-free handbags, there was a certain lovely symmetry to her choice.

Along with several other utilitarian items I won’t tax your weary mama-brain with (new lunch box, thermos, etc.), I was drawn like a moth to a flame to the SATC boxed set in the DVD section. “Momover Lady,” it cooed from the shelf, where it was encased in scary wire because it’s a bit on the pricey side. “You know you want me.”

After working my way through a short internal debate (“It’s a lot o’ dough. I can watch most of the episodes for free on HBO Go. I’m not even working right now.”), I remembered the 48-hour rule. You know – that old saw about giving yourself two full days to really consider a purchase before diving in and cracking open the ol’ wallet.

Well, I’d been wanting that collection for years. 48 hours times a million.

So into the cart it went. “Wee Lass,” I said. “Dad’s gonna kill me.”

Earlier this week, at the end of a tasty lunch at Café Cluny in the West Village with my friend Maryellen (the one I’ve blogged about before with the ice-blue eyes), she mentioned that she was zipping off to the Malia Mills store in Nolita as soon as we’d settled l’addition.

“May I zip with you?” inquired Momover Lady. “I need another bikini.”

After last summer, when I squeezed myself into my trusty Vicky’s Secret “slimsuit” for our family treks to the town pool, it’s a relief to get out from under all that industrial-strength shaping. Don’t get me wrong; that’s a great suit. It’s really flattering, and I especially love the deep purple shade.

But happily, all my P90X-ing (and running, and jumping rope, and sweets-avoidance – grrr…) is giving me the gumption to wear a two-piece for the first time in years. So now, in addition to the black number I nabbed before our jaunt to Jakes this spring, I wanted to add to the coffers.

So I did. This time in a relatively more upbeat shade – Baroque Blue. (One of the things I love, love, love about Malia Mills is that it’s a Day Glo-free zone…)

I stuck with the halter-y Raquel top, which is perf for those of us who – ahem – need a little help in the lift and separation department. But for the bottom, I rather gamely opted for the Summer of Love style.

I’ve kinda got a set of you-know-whats, because it’s considerably skimpier than my It’s A Cinch, which you can adjust according to how many sinister Dora the Explorer ice cream treats and grilled cheeses you’re scarfing at said town pool.

Because these suits aren’t cheap, and I’m technically not even working right now, I figure I need to maximize my investment with several rounds of Ab Ripper X.

But it’s not just about the dough. I want to look like a mom-babe when I’m cheering the Wee Lass on as she leaps from the diving board. I always want to look like a mom-babe.

Bon weekend, my lovelies.

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.

I’m so not an Anthro girl. While I love the stores, especially the beyond-massive Rockefeller Center outpost by my office, it’s just not my aesthetic. Except for the Velvet offerings, which always stick out like a sore thumb (in a really good, relatively-streamlined-and-solid-color way) against the printy, swirly, girly, retro-y core Anthropologie look.

So this evening, when Hubby and I attend the Manhattan bat mitzvah of his boss’s daughter, I will be clad in the frock you see here. It’s kind of soft and perfect, and will be easily re-purposed for work with flat sandals and chunky, roughed-up bijoux.

But most important, it isn’t black. I’ve blogged about this a few times, but it’s still a sizeable bee in my bonnet: Once you hit a certain age, black just sucks the life-force right out of your face. And this is coming from someone who has lived in Gotham since college, and who, until quite recently, had 14 black dresses hanging in her closet. Alongside shelf after shelf of black tops and sweaters.

In my opinion, black is fine for your –s. I would even venture to say that if your lower body isn’t your strong suit, black is even advisable.

But on top, it’s a different tale altogether. And personally, I’m switching it up. With the addition of this new number, my navy dress count is inching skyward. Right now I have about 7, including some super-casual beachy looks in terry.

And I’m not alone in this new obsession. Last night, I helped celebrate my dear bud Maryellen’s birthday at a yummy restaurant in Brooklyn. She looked great – she always looks great – but here’s why she looked extra-great: She was wearing a really pretty silky, satiny Vince top in…navy. Just like moi, Maryellen has blue eyes and fair, Celtic coloring, so navy is crazy-flattering on her.

Okay, I think I’ve more than made my “yay blue!” point. Time to forage for breakfast and enjoy my Saturday. Go navy!

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 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.

It’s a truism, and not some manufactured-in-Hollywood-bulls–t, that women employed by the marquée name magazines based in New York wear massive, mondo, skyscraper-level heels. From interns to overlords, it is allll about high and mighty footwear.

But here’s what’s also written in stone: That once you move off a masthead, and start mixing up your magazine-ing with mommy-ing, you will get out of “high heel head” and will have a very hard – nay, almost impossible – time swapping out your flat boots and Birks for six-inch heels.

Still, it must be done. Especially if you’re Olsen Twin-tiny, like moi.

After being surrounded by chic giraffes at my guest-editing gig this past week, that point was driven home to me, yet again, in this cute piece in the Times by hot mama / Glamour Editor In Chief Cindi Leive. It’s basically a peek into her wardrobe, and there’s much chatter about shoes, and the high-heel peer pressure the 5 foot 2 inch dynamo is under.

“Once I had a bum ankle and was ordered to wear flats,” Leive writes. “I felt as if I was walking into the office naked.”

So now that I’ve accepted my situation – that I need to get high again, stat – my mission is to somehow combine comfort with altitude. Though there has been endless ink spilled about Spring 2011′s sensible high shoes, specifically “flatforms,” I’ll be damned if I can find any non-leather (i.e., vegan-friendly) numbers in my size. And trust me when I tell you that I’ve been looking.

But I think I just need to sleuth a little harder. Maybe once I dispense with this morning’s chores (P90X and a “friends are coming over” emergency house tidying), I’ll go hunting. Because I’m sure there are other miniaturized mamas in the same boat, and I need to help every last one of us.

Q: How do you know when you’re totally sleep-deprived, over-worked and out of it?

A: When you hop in the shower, wet your hair, and apply conditioner BEFORE shampoo.

The above scenario just happened to me five minutes ago, and it must be because I overslept while dreaming of another lifetime: Me, the Nineties, platinum blonde hair.

At the time, I had an intense fixation with the late, great Carolyn Bessette, who often wore her dyed-white waist-length locks scraped back in a super-severe, minimalist bun.

So so did I. For years. Most of my 30s, in fact.

More recently, however, I’ve worn a gorge honey blonde concocted for me by my loooong-time colorist, the so-cute-you-could-just-squish-him Anthony Gianzero. I get tons of compliments on my color, and the great thing is that it looks like it’s highlighted when it’s it actually just an easy, breezy 30-minute single process.

So if everything is so hunky dory on the hair front, and it totally is hunky dory on the hair front, why I am fondly lusting after my old bright white? Maybe it’s because it’s really short now, and I think going a lot lighter could spin in it a less boyish, sexier direction.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s because of the creepily phantasmagoric new HBO series Game of Thrones. Hubby and I watched the premiere on Sunday night and I’m still thinking about it.

It.

Is.

Insanity-ville.

I don’t have time to do it justice right now, but I will in an upcoming blog post, because there are tons of kids in it, which is somehow heart-warming and terrifying at the same time.

Anyway, the good folks at John Frieda are obvi reading my mind, because they just sent me a new product I’ve been completely and utterly craving: Sheer Blonde Go Blonder Controlled Lightening Spray. So now I can pretend I’m the platinum princess in the show, whose weirdo prince brother is trying to sell her off to the highest bidder.

I just totally doused my hair in it. (So much for “Controlled”!) Evidently you can also ramp-up the lightening effect by applying a little heat via a flat-iron.

Maybe I’ll try that tomorrow. Right now, I have to scoot off to drop-off and dive into my day. Grrr. But at least I’ll be a little blonder, and a little more Game of Thrones.

So I’ve been reading the new issue of People, the one with Jennifer “World’s Most Beautiful Woman” Lopez on the cover. Please, I’m in full agreement. Just ask Hubby. At one point, during the auditions for Idol, I kept grabbing the clicker and rewinding to one particularly jaw-dropping clip of her.

“I kinda can’t believe how incredible she is,” I said, while realizing the folly of drawing one’s husband’s attention to the extreme beauty of another woman. “I mean, it’s almost not human.” Shocker: He was very much on board with this notion.

Anyway, the entire issue is a fun read, with a cute little piece on the number of hours of beauty sleep some celebs get. Because she hits the hay when her kids do, hot mama Heidi Klum clocks in at 10 hours. Jon Hamm says he logs 12, but broken up into four-hour chunks. Um….okaaaay. But far be it from me to quibble with success. I’d be hard-placed to find a yummier male specimen than Hamm tricked-out as Don Draper, so whatever’s he doing is obvi working for him.

And here’s what’s working for me: My gorgeous new Branché sleep mask. I am so in love with this little number. Faithful Momoverettes already know that I’m a huge fan of sleep masks because they block light that can prevent the release of much-needed melatonin. But this one goes above and beyond the call of beauty duty.

Why? Because they’re crafted from premium silk, which, according to the Branché snooze experts, contains skin-repairing amino acids and copper. Also, when your face isn’t being smushed into crinkly cotton sheets, you are far less likely to wake up with crinkles yourself.

When it comes to sleep, silk is your your face’s – and your hair’s – BFF. That’s why Branché also makes pillow cases in the same delish fabric – to tamp down those dastardly frizzies and keep the hair-breakage to a bare minimum. And guess who’s also supposedly a fan?

None other than La Lopez.

Mostly it’s just a massive albatross around my slim, swan-like neck, but sometimes my beauty-hoarding totally pays off. Like recently, with my new pixie ‘do. I’ve never needed, or wanted, to sport so much “product” in my life. But now I can’t get enough of the gloppy mystery goos that have been piling up in my BA.

You know:  the “texturizing pastes” and “molding muds” and other tacky, sticky stuff that you don’t know what to do with.

Until you do know what to do with them. And then they come in right handy.

For example, I am completely doing the happy dance that I hoarded some concoction called Align 12 Straight by Redken. It bills itself as a “protective straightening lotion for medium hair.” But since I don’t really use heat that much (except when I have my occasional bouts of InStyler addiction), and don’t especially care if my locks are stick straight, I never really thought twice about this Redken balm after I chucked it into the dark recesses of the armoire.

I don’t know what made me grab it recently, but I’m glad I did. It plasters down my new cut to just the right degree. Not a helmet head, but not dancing footloose and fancy-free either. It also makes it a bit shiny, which is nice.

I’m also dabbling with a “classic” of late: Bumble and bumble Grooming Creme. A primo de-fuzzer for coarse texture like mine, it, like the Align 12, holds the whole situation in place in a decidedly un-Pauly D-like fashion.

My point, and I do have one, is this: Some looks just require a little more assistance than others. More goo, more glop. Especially when you’ve hacked all your hair off, as I just did.

Long hair drenched with buckets of product is among the scarier things in life. (There’s the good kind of crunchy, and then there’s the bad kind of crunchy. Grrr…) But short hair with a little somethin’ somethin’ generally looks good. Like a girlified version of the über-handsome Michael Douglas. Or Sharon Stone, when she’s really working it.