Archive for the ‘Zen Out’ Category

It is a huge, massive, whopper of a bee in my bonnet that my birth certificate doesn’t have my time of arrival on it. And before you kindly write me and suggest that I simply give the Tulsa hospital where I was hatched a little jingle and just ask, trust that I’ve already done that.

Here’s what the perfectly lovely woman on the other end of the line had to say to me: “Ma’am, we have no record of you. Are you sure you’re not adopted?”

Since my mother and father were already buh-bye by that point (heavy, heavy, heaaaavy smokers), I called my sister. “Hiiiiiiiiiiii!” I chirped, doing my best Kelly Bensimon impression (lightyears before I’d even heard of a Kelly Bensimon). “How are youuuuuu??? Am I adopted?”

Whatever. I’m not. But she still couldn’t tell me when I was born. And even though she was only about six at the time, for that I will never forgive her.

Okay, circling back to the related topic at hand: Retrogrades. Although I will never, ever, for as long as live, be able to have a proper chart done because of this whole time-of-birth business (sniff sniff sob sob), I still place a hell of a lot of stock in Susan Miller’s monthly AstrologyZone forecasts. Man, I live for those things. And I don’t just read them once; depending on my mood du jour, and what’s going down in Momover Lady-ville, I may circle back every few weeks.

Right now, my pretties – from August 2 through 26 – we are in a mother of a retrograde. And according to Susan, that’s when communication gets garbled, gadgets and gizmos don’t behave themselves, and anything you might be waiting for news about stalls out. In other words, if you’re on pins and needles expecting to hear about some fab new job you’re up for, give it a rest and bury that damn CrackBerry in a big bucket of sand.

Besides, if you do get an offer, Susan recommends trying to avoid making a firm commitment until after the retrograde lifts. It just isn’t an auspicious time to sign on any dotted lines.

But there’s one thing that retrogrades are really, truly wonderful for: Getting back in touch with old friends and loved ones. Or even former work colleagues. So don’t be afraid to schmooze and network, as long as you keep it light.

After all, it’s summer. Still. Yay!

Grrr…my pretty little ‘hood on the Hudson is being “discovered” by the masses. How do I know this? Because of the incessant jack-hammering around all the new condos and rentals going up to accommodate the many like-minded peeps who want to ditch Gotham but still keep it in their sight-lines.

In fact, there’s so much construction goin’ on ’round here that it reminds me of Battery Park City, which we fled three years ago because of all the…

…incessant jack-hammering.

Okay, snapping out of Whinge & Whine mode now to report on a phenom that I positively adore about where I live: the multi-culti morning rituals I see when I go for a rog (i.e., my special blend of not-really-jogging-and-not-really-running.)

Take yesterday, for instance. As I trucked along the marina, I saw my neighbors:

1. Sitting on park benches engaged in alternate nostril breathing.

2. Moving gracefully through a series of tai chi moves.

3. Lying face-down on a beautiful embroidered rug, grabbing ass cheeks. (Okay, it was just one guy, and maybe he was a big perv, but it certainly looked like part of some super-serious, elaborate routine.)

4. Power-strollering the mama-weight off. Yay yay yay! Way to go new mommies!

5. Twisting into pretzel-esque yoga positions on the lawn by the so-cute-you-could-just-squish-it miniature lighthouse.

6. Sculpting the booty of their dreams by doing leg lifts with resistance bands.

7. Huffing and puffing through jumping jacks and other flab-busting calisthenics, in a group class in the Town Square led by a fiercely barking fitness guru.

So inspiring, right? Just writing all that has made me jones for a little rog right now, before our big Sunday-morning breakfast and mandatory afternoon viewing of The Smurfs. And I’m off like a prom dress.

I was not a happy camper after filing yesterday’s gloomy blog post about all the damn (white) meat and dairy I’ve been gobbling lately. But then a bolt of lightning – or at least a way to assuage some of my guilt – arrived via the U.S. Postal Service.

Cracking open my WWD, I headed straight to the story about Alexander McQueen’s will, and the masses of money he left to his own pets, as well as several UK-based animal welfare organizations, including Battersea Dogs & Cats Home and The Blue Cross.

I was really touched by that. So much so that it emboldened me to rip open another piece of mail that arrived in tandem – a donation solicitation from Dogtown. The woof-woof arm of Best Friends Animal Society (that ginormous no-kill critter kingdom in the Utah desert that my sister and I intend to volunteer for when we’re old and gray), Dogtown looks like a pretty fun and wonderful place for these poor rescued pups to chillax. A “real” home would be better, of course, but at least they seem very well taken care of.

And I want to help. So that’s why I just cut checks to Best Friends and the following other groups:

Farm Sanctuary

Defenders of Wildlife

The Jane Goodall Institute

Granted, they aren’t Alexander McQueen-sized donations. And they’re just a fraction of the organizations that reach out to me with heartbreaking solicitations every week.

But I feel a little bit better now. Every nickel counts, even if it’s from a fallen vegan wannabe like me.

Weirdness: After we returned from Road Trip 2011, and I slid slooooowly into my first few weeks of not-working/part-time Wee Lass-watching, I was sleeping really badly. Like wake up in the middle of the night for HOURS badly.

Grim. And completely mystifying. Why, with zero stress, was I having such a hard time staying asleep? (That’s the kind of insomnia I’m prone to – the staying-asleep variety. I have no problem initially drifting off.)

Of course what I did when I rocketed awake circa 2 a.m. didn’t help matters: crack open my iPad and start downloading Vogue Knitting e-books.

Bad move. Here’s why:

During one of my snooze-less stretches, I came across a très excellent website, Helpguide.org, packed with great info about insomnia and other stress-y conditions. And ironically, it’s on that site – which I was reading on my iPad in the dead of night – that I was advised to “avoid screens of any kind – computers, TV, cell phones, Kindles, iPads – as the type of light they emit is stimulating to the brain.”

So in other words, you’re much better off reading a good old-fashioned book- with actual pages to turn – than a new-fangled contraption that blasts white-hot light beams into your eyeballs.

Of course, the piece also included some more obvious tips, including the avoidance of caffeine. And the timing couldn’t have been better. One, I’m not on deadline on the moment, so I don’t need to be that mentally dialed-in. And two, our Keurig coffee-maker konked-out and needed to be “de-scaled,” so I couldn’t ply myself with endless cups of high-test Newman’s Own. That means I had to dust off the Cuisinart and – gasp – make a pot of the old-school stuff.

Since I’d also been reading no fewer than three books that heap major abuse on caffeine…

Veganist by Kathy Freston

Revive by Frank Lipman, M.D.

The Beauty Detox Solution by Kimberly Snyder

…I decided to take advantage of this probably very short window of jobby-lessness and scale back. To do so, I nabbed the low-test version of my much-beloved Chock Full O’ Nuts.

Bingo.

I’ve been sleeping brilliantly ever since I made that shift. Even when Thunder and Lightning wake me up in the middle of the night for a little kitty snicky-snack. I just stumble out to the kitchen, give them their grub, and sleep-walk right back to bed. No iPad, no knitting e-books, no nothing but snoozing. Happiness.

I think I’ve mentioned a few million times that I’ve developed a nasty little driving phobia? To the extent that I never get behind the wheel of our sleek silver wheels?

Well, until we get back to Joisy and I take some lessons (and/or get hypnotized, because I already have my license, it’s the fear that’s the problem), that ain’t gonna change.

Thus, obvi, for our massive half-country trip, Hubby has been doing all the getting us to where we want to be going. And as his co-pilot, I am so wracked with guilt that I will not permit myself to sleep as much as a nano-wink while I’m parked next to him in the passenger’s seat.

Instead, I’ve come up with a brills solution that doesn’t involve me burying my nose in a book or magazine and getting all anti-social and un-bond-y: Knitting.

Although I struggled in my first attempt a month ago – I couldn’t for the life of me remember how to cast on – I dragged the troops to this adorable shop called Loopy Yarns while we were in Chicago. And after spending a small fortune on yarn, needles, a Knit Kit and one of the Stitch ‘N Bitch books, I happily had a eureka moment in our hotel room and I’ve been knitting ever since.

All through St. Louis, Tulsa, Branson, back to St. Louis. And now we’re in Nashville, about to head to Knoxville. We’re working our way northeast to be reunited with our lovely home and our furious meow-meows, Thunder and Lightning, who have been tucked away at the Cat Practice in Manhattan, no doubt cursing us for two solid weeks.

By the time we pull up to our condo complex, I may just have completed my first project. It’s a ginormous heathery purple scarf that I know I will wear with pride next winter. Delusionally, I like to think that it’s vaguely Yohji Yamamoto-ish or Comme des Garςons–esque in its oversize scale and rough-hewn vibe.

Sure, there are a few dropped stitches (read: gaping holes) and such. But it’s mostly just awesome.

And awesome is good.

How much have I been whinging and banging on (suddenly I’m British, eh?) about being worked-out, stressed-out and in desperate need of down-time? Plenty, right? As if it’s another job-gig alongside the three I already have. My bleary-eyed frustration even caused me to coin an utterly sinister new catchphrase: Workend.

As in, “I’ve had nine workends in a row, and I am not happy about it.”

True dat, I have. Grrrr times a million…

(Oh, and btw, I’m still saying I coined “workend.” And unless I hear from anyone who begs to differ, I won’t stop believing.)

So what did I find myself doing yesterday? Shutting the door to my office at my guest-editing gig and having a fairly lengthy conversation with someone about possibly coming on board for a new project as soon as my present several wrap.

For months —– MONTHS —– I have been plotting and scheming taking July and August off to chillax, get the house in order, California Closet the Wee Lass’s boudoir and playspace, jazz up my home office in a decidedly Kelly Wearstler fashion, and per instructions from Judy Turner, my beloved psychic:

Dive into domesticity, cook for my family and take some damn driving lessons already.

I’m not kidding. Judy point-blank told me that these are “not my career years” and that I need to stop working my unmanicured fingers to the bone.

And speaking of fingers (in a roundabout way), I’m also dying to take up knitting again, and just bought this gorge book by the Chicks With Sticks gals.

So circa 2:30 am today, when I of course was woken up out of sound sleep by anxiety (I have the type of insomnia that lets you drift off, but not stay drifted), I tried to mentally shore up my resolve to not commit to any more work until I feel really, really, really rested and energized again.

I don’t know when that will be exactly. But it sure ain’t now.

Yay! Yay! It’s Friday! I have to work all weekend! But at least it’s Friday!

No, I haven’t lost my mommy marbles. It’s just that after living through them for the last month, and knowing that I have another month of them in front of me, I’ve become a just-add-water insta-expert on what I’ve christened a “workend.”

Or maybe I didn’t christen it; maybe some other genius wordsmith already coined the term.

Whatevs, I digress. And with the short leash I’m on, I don’t have time to digress.

Okay, so quickly, here are my kick-ass tips for surviving a workend without feeling like throwing yourself a massive pity party on Sunday night at 11:

1. Sleep late both days. This is key. Think about it: What really distinguishes weekend days from their evil and sinister workday counterparts? The fact that we can languish in our cozy little beddy byes, and don’t have rocket out from under the blankies the second the alarm clock rings.

2. “Chunk” your work project down into bits. That way, you’re at least enjoying some semblance of both days. Let’s say you’ve estimated your weekend work-load at 8 hours. Bust it up and maybe do two hours 4x, sprinkled throughout Saturday and Sunday. Not only is it less psychologically grueling than knowing you have to park your ass in front of the computer for an entire day, it’s easier to pawn the tots off on Hubby for a couple of hours here and there.

3, Make sure to squeeze some cardio in, preferably on both days. I blog a lot about how simultaneously calming and energizing running is, but really, anything that gets your heart rate up will do the trick. So don’t phone it in. You need to break a sweat to maximize the stress-relieving benefits.

4. Lay low on the other gadgets. If you’re having a workend, that’s enough technology. You don’t need to also be checking email, Facebooking and Twittering.

5. Once your workend is over, do some soul-searching…and figure out how to avoid having another one, ever again. We mamas need a rest, and agreeing to too much work seriously compromises the quality of our lives. Of course, this tip is mostly for me, because I’m actually quite pissed at myself for piling my plate with too many projects. But that’s why it’s good that I’m going public with these “rules.” Now, I’ll actually have to follow them.

Especially Number 5.

I’ve been riding a real stress rollercoaster this week, up and down and all around, with wildly different outcomes when I walk through the door after an 11-hour day. On some evenings, I’ve been coiled like a rattlesnake and not tons of fun to be around. On others, I’ve been able to shrug off the tension and just enjoy what little time I have with the Wee Lass and Hubby before we all hit the hay.

Monday night, even though I somehow managed to blog about my skincare obsession du jour (Colbert MD Intensify Facial Discs), I was not in a stellar frame of mind. It had been a rough one in magazine-ville, and coming off a weekend during which we attended three (three!) kiddie birthday parties, I wasn’t psychologically prepped for having every nano-second of my day crammed to the rafters with urgent tasks.

By the time I got home, I wanted wine. Big deal, you say? Um, it isn’t and it is. I’m really not down with using booze as a coping mechanism, for a few excellent reasons:

1. Women develop a dependency on alcohol at a much faster clip than dudes do

2. It exacts a steeper toll on our bods than it does for men, in a shorter time-frame

3. You may fall asleep more easily, but you’re almost guaranteed to wake more frequently and never really reach a restorative, REM-rich state. Why? Because when the alcohol finally dissipates in your bloodstream, you enter a mini-withdrawal state, and suddenly you’re up at 3 a.m. reading HuffPo on your iPad.

Tuesday night was about 1000 times more chill, and not because my day had been any easier. For some reason, I just had a lot of emotional energy, which is critical to handling stress.

There’s a lot to emotional energy, but one big component is not making mountains out of itty bitty mole hills. All day long I kept telling myself:  It will all get done. And then you’ll hop in the SUV with the fam for the most deeply excellent cross-country road trip of all time.

In short, I exhibited grace under pressure – and it felt freaking f-a-n-t-a-s-t-i-c.

Wednesday: Bad again. Worse, actually, than Monday.

Thursday: Good again. Not as peppy as Tuesday, I guess because as the week wears on everyone starts to flag a little. But overall, I’m alright.

Except for the glass of wine parked just inches from my keyboard.

So after three months, my long and extremely well-documented journey with P90X has kind of sputtered to a halt.

I mean, it was supposed to end. But I completely half-assed my last week, so it wasn’t like some epic moment crossing the finish line, during which I bounced a quarter off my rock-hard belly and cracked open a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon to celebrate.

(Ugh. Do they even still make that stuff? I’m a beer snob, btw. Love all the pretentious “artisanal” Belgian numbers…)

But back to my bod. I don’t have a real game-plan now, which is dangerous from a flab perspective. There are some P90X workouts that I totally love (Legs & Back, oddly) and some that I loathe but see the true value in (Ab Ripper X and Core Synergistics). So those I definitely want to continue doing.

But I also want to run a little. I ran outdoors before drop-off and work today and it was divine. I forgot how much I love it, how it somehow both mellows me out and gives me lots of focused energy. Seriously. After I finish, it’s like I’ve been hit with a tranquilizer gun.

Too bad it really doesn’t do much to shape your body. Ooooooh, did I just say that? Why yes, I did. I’ve known that for forever, but just didn’t want to accept it. Sure, it burns calories, but so do lots of other activities, including doing plyometrics and lifting weights – and those sculpt you, to boot.

For the next eight weeks, I have a lot of work on my plate and plenty o’ stress headed my way. And then, we’re off on a massive road trip to the heartland. So I think, for now, I’ve gotta just mix up my workouts, and go ahead and freaking run if I feel like it. Especially before work.

No matter how you slice it, running is good for my brain. Maybe not for my behind so much. But I’ll worry about that down the road.

Yesterday – on my big weekly date with Hubby – it was all about mixed messages for me. But in the spirit of putting the cart before the horse, I’m gonna tell you about the second part – the stylish thriller Limitless - before I tell you about the first.

If you’ve already seen the movie, feel free to skip on down to the bit about – spoiler alert – my trip to the psychic.

Okay, so the movie. Basically, and implausibly, Bradley Cooper plays a dirtbag wannabe novelist who has a book deal but has not yet committed one word to page. (I say ‘implausibly’ because I mean pleeze, have you looked at Bradley Cooper???) And early on, after his hottie girlfriend dumps him because he’s such a loser and she is so very, very together, he is sad-sacking his way home to his crummy Chinatown apartment when he runs into his former brother-in-law.

In short, the creepy former bro-in-law supplies Bradley Cooper’s character with a drug that instantly makes him wildly productive. He’s learning languages! Playing the piano! Day-trading his way into millions with his newfound knowledge of complex algorithms! Starting and finishing his novel – brilliantly – within four days!

Oh, and of course he physically morphs into the real Bradley Cooper, i.e., stunning with nary an ounce of body fat.

Although, after seeing the flick, Hubby and I both said we’d like to procure a stash of the Limitless drug so we too could reach our full potentials, I couldn’t help but dial-back to the chat I’d had earlier in the day with Judy Turner, my beloved psychic of the past 15 years.

Now that my big life questions have been answered (the ones about whether I was ever gonna get hitched and have a baby), I only go to see Judy about once a year. But it’s always great, even when she has sad or scary info to impart, as she most definitely has had in the past. She’s a no-nonsense mom of three, warm and friendly but completely a BS-free zone. Despite a roster of famous clients, there isn’t a pretentious bone in her body.

(Speaking of bodies, she helps the New Jersey police find ‘em. Dead ones. Spooky.)

Anyway, here’s the net-net of what she had to tell me yesterday, which is a happy twist on the Limitless message: This time of my life is all about slowing down, and enjoying my kid, my hubby, my house and my life. Yes, there are work opportunities – probably more than I can even handle. But, unlike previous pre-Momover Lady lifetimes, career stuff isn’t what defines me anymore.

Instead, Judy wants me to dive into cooking and driving, and to build my confidence around both of those core mommy-competencies. And trust me, she isn’t reading this blog, so she doesn’t know how much I whinge about my poor cooking and driving skills.

For the next 10 weeks, I have an insane amount of work to get through. But then Hubby and the Wee Lass and I are taking a massive cross-country roadtrip to visit relatives in Tulsa and St. Louis.

I’m living for that road-trip. And the cooking, driving and mommying that will follow. So yes, Limitless productivity – but in a very, very different way.