In the 1970s I was riding down a California highway with my aunt and uncle when the song You’re So Vain came across the airways. My uncle turned and said, “Amy, this song is about you.” I was 13 years old and didn’t know what to make of his comment.
What would my uncle have to say now that I’m a half-a-century-old and the desire to look good remains as close to me as my own skin?
And what would he have to say if he saw my face this morning?
The laser procedure I did a few days ago layered a strikingly-colorful series of tic-tac-toe patches all over my face. I knew it looked really bad when the clerk ringing up my eight bags of frozen peas (for the swelling) averted his gaze and when my husband recoiled and yelled when he saw me. I’ve been dabbling with cosmetic procedures for years and sometimes I go – well – a little too far.
Which is why I look like I got in a fight with a waffle iron.
It isn’t that I'm trying to look 25 years old, but I am a little afraid of aging, of looking old. Vanity. My uncle caught me off guard with the concept 40 years ago. And now?
I'll keep moving - and try new things. It’s part of this little road-trip called Amy’s life.
That song was about me, after all.
]]>My husband's eulogy for his mom.
When my mother was pregnant with me she didn’t know how she could do it. She’d been so crazy about my brother, how could she possibly have room in her heart for another? She was telling me about it last summer, her understanding of motherhood. It was a joy, a wonder. She said, “You give birth to this person and you just fall in love for life.”
In May of 1972 I hit the jackpot and became the son of a beautiful woman whose heart expanded to include me, and who smiled at me with such adoration that I couldn’t help but to conclude that all the world was my picnic basket, that groups of people and even adults were new friends to make, that everything was going to be all right, I would be kept warm and clothed and fed and feeling significant in a competitive world where thousands of little kids like me were born every day. Think of that, she made me feel that way, even as she was facing something as hard as the failure of her first marriage. When she had no income to count on, no security for herself, she found a way to give it to me.
***
There would be trees, a house. A line across the page where the Earth met the sky, and above that a sun hovering with rays and possibly eyes and a smile. The pictures were not working out, and I kept ripping them out of the pad and wheeling them into the air by my bed, hoping the next try would turn out better. I don’t know if it was something that I just did at that age, but on this night, before I gave up on a drawing I’d write, “I love Mom.” I did it again and again, writing, “I love Mom,”then throwing the page into the air.
Sometime after I fell asleep my mother would come in to shut off my light. This was our habit. I was afraid of the dark. She’d see the scatter of pages across the blue area rug and on the wood floor, and with a closer look she would see all of my sunny declarations. One by one she picked them up and set the pile on a desk or on a small table that was near the window, and in the morning I saw that she’d written me back, how on each page it said, “I love you, too.”
I’ll remember her beautiful face, her perceptiveness, her laughter, her thoughtfulness. I’ll remember her heart, and how it expanded for us. But I remember the contractions too, the times when we pushed her too far. She was our peace maker, our referee. It wasn’t a role that she volunteered for but there she was, living with three males, and there were times when it would exact from her something less than sweet.
My point is, my mother was strong.
Take for example the night of the hip check.
My brother and I were playing floor hockey after supper. We were, as we used to say, down cella’. To be fair, I was a pain. The kind of painful little brother who got hooked on his older brother and followed him. No one could understand why I kept going down cella’ with him when it almost always ended so badly for me.
So my brother was checking me into the paneled wall, slashing me, tripping me, and my mother could hear it all, the repeated thuds and the squeals and the protests, and Dad was out of town on business which was great because that’s when Jay could really explore his more sadistic feelings for me. I mean, if you’re going to have a little brother, he can’t be writing “I love Mom” on pictures of sunshine with smiley faces. Such cloying sweetness, that would need to be beaten out of him.
And on this night it was happening. I was being beaten in one way or another and my mother would come to the top of the stairs and yell, “Jay, leave him alone!”
He would hear that and call back up, “Okay, okay.” And he would leave me alone.
Until he wouldn’t.
So that, finally, my mother would drop the sponge into the sink, or would stop whatever it was that she’d been doing, and the next thing we knew our Mom, so sweet and kind, was a demonic wraith flying down the stairs, vaulting across the thin red and black carpet as all the kindness and sweetness was chased from her face, as she was gritting her teeth now and bearing down like a bull, a street fighter, a regular hockey goon, and throwing her 120-pound body hip-first into her first son, my assailant, and launching him, skinny boy with straight straw hair, flying sideways with shock on his face, landing crumpled on his side deep inside a plywood toy box.
It was -- awesome.
It was -- just.
It was -- more than a little frightening.
And I was as shocked as my brother was.
As we all left the cellar in silence.
Ahead of our mother, our peace maker, our referee.
Yes, my mother was strong, strong enough to keep her heart open even when enduring her worst nightmare, which was to lose one of the loves of her life, my brother Jay. When I think of it sometimes I think of an artist I heard about in Boston, and it’s a story I want to tell you because it’s a story that I love. This artist was a woman who also lost a beloved son, a young boy who, before dying of cancer, had said, “Mom, when I go to heaven, I’m going to paint the sky for you.”
And when the boy died the mother went back to her painting and painted skies and horizons in different places, different lights, and in different moods. Here was the Jersey shoreline, here was the top of a Ferris wheel, here were the tops of trees on the coast of Maine. There were blue skies with scudding clouds, there were skies of marble gray, there were yellow skies, and orange, and I recall one particular sky in different shades of red with something dark and dramatic in it too, and I remember thinking this woman could’ve been ruined with anger and spite at the unfairness of it all and instead she was showing this strength, making this beautiful work and finding something like peace once a day, or once in a while, painting the
sky with her son.
My mother had that.
Consider that only six months after my brother’s death she agreed to go to Colorado. She had been trying to find her way through the grief, unsure that it was even possible, when on a good ski day it occurred to her like a message she had not expected to receive, that she was actually having fun out there. It was not so much a thought as it was something that she felt. I talked to her on the phone at night and I could hear her smile when she told me. It was like she could see color again. It was more than that. She’d realized that she did want to live.
“Jay would want this for me,” she said. “Jay would want me to be enjoying this.”
Would sadness come back to her the next day, the next moment? Sure it could. That was the struggle, and that struggle could have ruined her. But there was this strength that caused her to try harder than that, to look for another way. To find a place where she could be with Jay, to try and paint the sky with him.
Yes my mother was strong and I believe she was always making her way toward peace. It was where she was headed when she out for her walk, when she was driving the car, swimming in the pool, those places she went to work out life’s challenges. I know she was often trying to work out our challenges too.
It was her strength that caused her to look for the part in the clouds, for the un-sad story, for the reason to smile.
My mother knew blue skies, she knew smooth ice for skating, she knew standing on a mountaintop with her boys and her daughter-in-law with a whole ski day ahead. She knew what it was like to be the prettiest girl in the room. She must have. She knew a man she could love and count on, a man with whom she shared values, interests, and laughter, and she was devoted to him for 39 years. She loved her husband’s family like it was her own. She liked to hear good news about her sisters and her brother and their kids and grand kids, and she loved to pass it on. She put her husband before her. She put her kids before her. On the day that she was diagnosed with MDS she told me through tears, “Well, the one piece of good news is
that it’s not hereditary. It would be random for you to get it.” And before her bone marrow transplant she said to me, “If I don’t make it through this,I want you to take care of Dad. I want him to be happy.”
She was Mary. Look at her, if you can, in your mind. That woman who was always working toward peace. Look at the joy and happiness in her face when she listens to your good news. Look at that smile, those teeth, those eyes. Look at that quiet example she set, how important it is to be loving and kind.
How clear it becomes in times like this, that it’s all that matters.
It is difficult to accept that she is gone from her body, that in this one sense she has left us. This person who worried so much about me, who always cared, the woman who said, “Kurty, don’t worry. You can brag about yourself to me.” The one who always loved me, no matter how hard I made it. The one who fell in love with me for life. The one with whom I wrote the best thing I ever wrote, that story made up of just two sentences.
The one that goes, “I love Mom.”
And then goes, “I love you, too.”
That story, I’m glad to say, is one that never ends.
]]>2015 – Day 1. On New Year's Eve we had bar-hopped through Girdwood, Alaska, a town of dinosaur scale spruce trees that take your breath away and Alaska variety hippies and quirky bars that served drinks, then served more drinks. I wish I could tell you that I woke with an inspiring list of goals and resolutions, full of motivation and energy to take into the new year but, the truth is, I woke up with a head ache. This didn’t help.
But the last 364 days didn’t help either.
2014 was a rollicking ride with ups and downs that grew steeper and deeper as the year went on until finally, a week before Thanksgiving came the news that brought us lower than we would ever want to imagine - my beautiful mother-in-law Mary collapsed and died.
Two weeks after planning his mother’s funeral (and delivering one of the most authentic, loving eulogies you will ever hear), my husband pulled together a perfectly-tailored surprise party for my 50th birthday. A glittery and gritty affair in a vacant, decrepit house (which we happen to own – that’s another blog) complete with life-sized birch trees, taxidermy draped in pearls, underwear stapled to the ceilings, shot-skis moving through the crowd of friends, and a plucky bluegrass band. The joy and love in the air that night was heart-warming, and it was one of the best moments of my life – of our life together.
And that was our year – dinosaur scale highs and lows.
2015 – Day 20. I haven’t resolved to do or be more of this, less of that. I’ve always held it up as an ideal, a thing to strive for, this idea that we should achieve balance in our lives. But now I’m not so sure. First of all, it sounds exhausting. And second, it sounds boring. That rollicking ride in 2014 showed me what it felt like to go all in, to move full-steam toward experience, life and love. We cried hard. We played hard. We did it together. We ended the year happy.
And you know what? I wouldn’t want this year to be any other way.
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This is slightly embarrassing to admit. I don’t wash my face. I mean, of course it gets wet when I shower. And, occasionally I do use a toner. But, truth be told, I never use a washcloth and cleanser. My excuse is that I don’t wear make-up, like the real deal make-up. My primping routine is basic. Moody Beauty. Bronzer. Lips.
But last week in Key West that all changed.
Bucket loads of sunscreen + 100% humidity do not make for happy skin. Desperate for a solution, I bought this weirdly prehistoric, lava black thing called a Binchotan Facial Puff. It was, in fact, a Japanese sponge made from Konjac vegetable fibers and micro-fine charcoal powder derived from burnt oak. The next thing you know, I’m hooked. Used without cleanser (!) this finely textured sponge gently cleaned, exfoliated and moisturized. My skin could breathe again.
For the Moody Beauty who wants a simple, smart skin care solution, this black beauty does it all.
Get your own Binchotan Facial Puff @ Rikumo
]]>Was the name of a drink I had on Saturday night. After a long week, I was wishy-washy about what to order, so I left it up to the waiter. It’s not surprising he brought me a vodka concoction which by name was designed to numb. Because last week I started therapy, and when you dive into that deep sea, you inevitably find a few sharp edges. There is a lot to recommend about seeing a therapist, but revealing my thoughts to a complete stranger had left me weary. So yeah, drinks with girlfriends is just what I needed.
My therapist had whiteboarded a tally of my self-sabotaging thoughts. Talk about peeling off an old Band-Aid – slowly – until the raw truth is exposed. I had hoped by now – half way through my life – I would feel less flawed, more evolved, cooler with myself. But the mind has a sneaky way of tricking us into thinking we are our thoughts, even the wacky distorted ones. Cognitive Behavior Therapy steps in to rewire the mind, one thought at a time. We confront the habitual thinking that creates drag on our progress – we talk back at it. Just like we do when we coach a sister or friend in crisis. We tell it like it is. And we tell it like it isn’t.
Which brings me back to last weekend.
I love how my friends enjoy the lighter side of life – surfing, sleepovers, a game of I Never (um, now that’s real exposure). But we also talk deeply about our lives, and help one another work out our stuff. And when life feels muddled we talk to one another with honesty, sure, but with a whole lot of kindness too. And that's the beauty of friends – they bring the power of kindness, humor and perception to bare on our negative-mind-loops and help liberate us from our own mental traps.
If we have the power to do that for a friend, then we have the power to do that for ourselves. Imagine how it would feel to talk to yourself the way you talk to a friend. There would be less pain to numb. There would be more desire to feel.
]]>Let the countdown to Spring begin.
But ... just in case you need a retail fix yourself, here are a few must-have beauty basics from my shopping bag.
The Intensive Care Unit isn’t usually the place for a family photo. But when my husband Kurt reached out to hold Jack’s hand, I realized it was probably the first time it had ever happened. I can’t be sure of course, but it seems likely given the fact that Jack – Kurt’s biological father – abandoned his wife and two very young sons over 40 years ago. He jetted off to a Caribbean island and never came back.
I’m simplifying the story because the truth is, it's complicated and because it’s Kurt’s to tell. But at the end of the day, at the end of his father’s life, it really doesn’t matter. Not to Kurt.
I sometimes think my husband is secretly a Buddha. He is quick to remind me that he is flawed. That he is an imperfect human. That we all struggle with anger, with judgment, with something. But what I see today is my husband’s remarkable ability to forgive. Kurt told me he has this inexplicable bond with his father Jack, that he wants to be the best son he can be. And when the going got tough, he stepped-up with strength and compassion.
I'm proud of my husband. To me, he is perfect.
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Breath.
Below is Jeanie's seasonal cocktail for creating a sense of relaxation, balance and energy.
May your days be merry and light.
JEANIE’S BREATH COCKTAIL
In the first example. Inhale 4 counts through your nose and expand your belly and lungs with this deep breath. Hold for 1 count, exhale for 8 counts through your mouth, and hold breath for 4 counts. Consume liberally.
TO |
Inhale |
Hold |
Exhale |
Hold |
Relax |
4 |
1 |
8 |
4 |
Balance |
6 |
2 |
6 |
2 |
Energize |
6 |
6 |
6 |
1 |
]]>
It would be easy to fill my head with concern, with worry and to overlook the spirit of this holiday. But all I want to do today is thank this anonymous donor – this man from overseas, this man we will likely never meet, this man with love in his heart for a complete stranger. Thank you for your selfless act of generosity. Thank you for giving us hope.
A Rabbi recently told me that the purest form of love is showing up for someone when they are sick. I want to thank you for being that person.
Register at www.bethematch.com
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In a recent TED talk, social psychologist Amy Cuddy just confirmed that WW was on to something. It turns out that striking that power pose can change the way your life unfolds.
How?
Every day we are judged by our non-verbal expressions, even more so than the content of our communication (what we say). The way we sit and stand, the sense we convey with our posture, tips the scales to affect import outcomes like whether people want to date us, hire us, or mess with us.
People know better than to mess with WW – there is this aura of confidence about her. It could help to have that ourselves and not just when we are feeling best, but always. But really, pose like WW? Well, it turns out, there’s power in pretending.
Body language has a powerful impact on how we perceive ourselves. Cuddy says that doing a two minute power pose – à la WW – lowers your levels of stress hormone cortisol and increases your vitality hormone testosterone, configuring your brain to be calm and optimistic. In this state of mind your authentic, passionate, and confident self shines – leading to happy and successful life outcomes.
But my favorite part of Cuddy’s talk came when she shared the story of a traumatic brain injury she suffered when she was younger. Cuddy is someone who identified herself as intelligent, but when the accident caused her IQ to drop significantly, she had a crisis of confidence. She still went to an Ivy League school, but she felt like a smarty-pants imposter. When she told her adviser she wanted to quit, she was told to stay. Her adviser’s advice? Fake it. Pretend that she does belong. That she's exactly where she needs to be. To fake it again and again until she believed it herself, until she believed in herself.
So she did. Now look at her.
]]>Nowadays, I’m more afraid of sun damage. Beach going is the preferred summertime activity in my seaside town, but I’m pretty good at faking a sun kissed glow. For a sheer, au naturel bronzer mix a few drops of my MoodyBeauty oil with a smidge of Josie Maran Argan Tinted Mositurizer – SPF 30. In just 3 sun-free seconds you have a lovely golden glow – inside and out.
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I always loved how Martin called his sister Bea (my grandma) each night before she went to bed. And the night she died (at the age of 100), Martin called her to say goodnight, one last time.
It’s remarkable my relatives have anti-aging super powers, that they stay healthy and happy until the end. But what strikes me most is how my grandma and Martin put off their deaths, if only for a little while, so they could say goodbye. It isn’t particularly convenient to wait for someone when you are busy dying, but it’s astonishing what a person can do for someone who matters. My grandma and her siblings made each other matter – it was always that way. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it. But more than anything, I’ve felt it.
My grandma Bea lived next to her youngest sister Bobbie for what seemed like forever. Wherever Bea was, Bobbie was. And the affection they had for one another was there to the very end. Bobbie was there to hold Bea’s hand when she took her very last breath. Bobbie made us all cry-laugh when she remarked sweetly, “Look! All her wrinkles are gone. It almost seems worth it.” And she coiffed her dearly departed sister’s hair – just as she had done every week for 20 years – because you know, you want to look your best at Heaven’s gate.
In an email last week, my 87 year old great aunt Bobbie told me she’ll miss her brother Martin a lot. That they called one another every morning at 10:30. That she held his hand every day in the final week of his life. That she’s happy to live near her siblings, on the same road as the cemetery where they now rest in peace.
I cherish my super-sweet relatives. They remind me that life shows up in simple, loving gestures, that there’s nothing more important than our love for one another.
]]>I tagged along with my sister Jill and her friend Janet to Hawaii last week, and after a few vodka slushies one afternoon, I told them that Duchess, the psychic I’d seen recently, said I was good at attracting money, just not keeping it.
It struck a funny chord with my sister – that Duchess had been so spot on about me and money. She laughed and told Janet, “Amy visits tarot card readers all the time; she’s into that sort of thing.” It does have its quirk factor, the world of psychics, and those of us who visit them. Even so, I was a surprised when Janet replied, "Well, that's not very Christ-like."
On the surface it’s seems the three of us don’t have a lot in common. As a lawyer and athlete my sister Jill is driven to do things in such a high-octane way that I’m inspired and exhausted just thinking about her.
Janet is a happy, full-time mother of six kids – six! – who thinks nothing of loading them all into an RV and driving from California to Alaska for a week of summertime fun. I’m sure the Duchess would tell me not to do this, but this must be where Janet’s strong faith kicks in.
J + J also share a passion for competition, and this trip was mostly about training. Which meant running, swimming and biking every day and doing a Half Ironman. I don’t do any of that – ever.
It’s probably no surprise we found ourselves on the Big Island, famous for its micro-climates and its diversity. Jet-black lava fields collide with lush tropical landscapes. Billy goats graze under gardenia trees. Green sea turtles nest on black sand beaches. Contrasts so unexpected and dramatic they jolt your senses and wake you up.
Was it island-living, a good night sleep, Mai Tais at the local beach shack? I don’t know, but the three of us quickly found a rhythm. J + J would leap out of bed at the crack of dawn for a run, and with encouragement I’d trot behind – far, far behind. On a whim one morning I joined Janet for a local church service, the first I've been to in a while. It seemed a little divine to me that the sermon should be about accepting differences in one another. I grew up listening to my Grandfather’s church sermons, and that morning I was reminded how they inspire personal reflection. When I wanted to drive 15 miles to drink cappuccinos at a dreamy seaside resort, J + J hopped in the car without hesitation. And so it went all week, breezing in and out of one another's worlds.
Dramatic differences can be uncomfortable, but they can also be refreshing and inspiring if you let them. Our versions of life and faith, of exercise and leisure are different, but last week we created a climate of our own - one that was open to new things and open to each other. We clicked.
I just got off the phone with my girlfriend, a straight talking girl with Buddha-like insight. She’s also one of the top executive coaches in the country, so when she makes an observation, I listen. When she told me just now that I'd lost my cool-girl edge (gasp!) there was no ignoring it. I knew what she meant.
There is this intangible quality – a kind of vibe – that you broadcast to the world, whether you are aware of it or not. I’ve been idling in the same head space for a while now and it has bogged me down and stymied my creative drive forward. It’s cause for concern.
As I spend another day in my standard-issue Lululemon uniform, I have to ask, how can I inspire others, build a dynamic brand, play big in this world, if I’m boring?
Sure, I’m being dramatic. It’s my way. I know my friend was simply pointing out that I was stuck in a rut. But like anyone, I want to be cool and inspiring. And it really tweaks my ego to hear that I’ve flatlined, that I’m verging on frumpster-hood.
So I did something about it.
I marched straight to the salon and had bangs cut (ironically, the day Duchess Kate did the same). Then I took my first-ever Bikram class. For a girl who hasn’t had bangs since the third grade, and who doesn’t do hotter-than-hell yoga, this felt pretty bold.
And being bold is not boring. You gotta start somewhere.
People around here tend to think that because I’m from Alaska I should be used to extreme weather. It’s true, we have sub-zero temperatures and a lot of snow, but we generally know what to expect. You might see a Frankensnowman or two, but never a Frankenstorm.
Still, whether you are on the East Coast or the last frontier, winter in either place is harsh on the skin. The double-whammy of raw and cold outside + dry and hot inside create a monster of a different sort – dry, itchy skin.
So what’s a girl to do?
Well, for one, you could follow the lead of our Egyptian friend Cleopatra. She used to bathe in Dead Sea salt water, an ancient but effective way to hydrate skin because of the high concentration of magnesium.
You can also listen to a contemporary girl – me – and try a few of my go-to methods for making it through the winter with your skin intact:
1. Add MoodyBeauty to your Dead Sea salt bath – the oil veils your body, moisturizing skin and making it silky soft. And, the hot water and essential oils create a soothing sensory experience. I use SALTWORKS Dead Sea salt. Do not deviate – not all salt is created equal.
2. Add a few drops of MoodyBeauty to a dollop of Shea butter and warm between palms. Great for dry hands, but I also use this on my face because the butter makes a barrier and prevents moisture loss. Don’t be afraid, you won’t look like a grease monster, promise. I use NOW Shea Butter – it is lightweight and absorbs quickly.
Nature is confounding - it can be a ferocious beast or a friendly benefactor. And when the going gets tough this winter, we can use the elements – water, salt and oil – to soothe and heal.
Please email me directly if you have a friend or loved one who has been impacted by the storm. It’s a small gesture, but I’ve set aside several bottles of MoodyBeauty to send to New York and New Jersey, with the hope it can bring a little relief. moodybeauty@hotmail.com
Did I buy these gold brocade Prada shoes because I’m a label snob? Am I channeling a celebrity starlet with this velour track suit? And this faux-fur-trimmed cape – what, was I drunk?
I cleaned my closet last week and I liked it.
And it’s no wonder; the clutter was making me neurotic. But in the process of getting rid of stuff, I saw that I could do the same kind of clearing for my mind.
Because my mental space is no different from my closet in the way it can fill up with useless stuff. I’m talking about the kinds of thoughts that take on a life of their own; weird worry thoughts that hang around because I let them. Why don’t my sisters call me more often? Why does my dog love my husband more than me? Why can’t I finish this blog? Sure harmless enough, but the clutter gets in the way and keeps me from seeing what’s possible.
So … rid myself of these thoughts? Name them and tame them? Throw them onto the trash heap of unproductive thinking? When I clear my mental space like this I feel free to create something new in my life. And today I’m making room for that.
“I like people who are comfortable and confident.” That’s what my friend Mark said last weekend after the Donavon Frankenreiter show. DF is a surfer singer song writer from Southern California. He has a dreamy voice, a shaggy-dog hairdo, and is definitely California cool. That cool factor shot up right before the final song of the night when DF picked someone to sing the chorus.
“You’ve been standing in front of me all night,” he said to some unseen person in a crowd of people raising their hands. “C’mon up here.”
The guy who lumbered onto stage was tall and beefy and he had a sweet face. He was sporting orange foam ear plugs. And when I saw his hand trembling wildly, I actually got uncomfortable for him. There’s DF, a seasoned performer in bleach-splotched skinny jeans, and there’s our gentle giant shifting nervously beside him. And there I was feeling nervous – terribly nervous. I wasn’t entirely confident this was going to turn out well. I turned to my friend Jen and yelled, “no matter what happens, we are going to love this guy.”
The whole scene triggered something I wrestle with – a fear of putting myself out there in a genuine, uninhibited and full throttle way for the world to see. But there is always a pivotal moment where you make a choice – to accept and to act. Our guy with a trembling hand knows fear, but it doesn’t matter enough to him. Not enough to keep him off the stage.
DF quiets the crowd, revs up the band and finally signals the cue. That’s when our guy sings the chorus three times in a pitch-perfect, beautiful voice with joy screaming across his face. In about 45 seconds, he makes the whole night unforgettable for me and all the others erupting around me. This young guy stepped into a new experience, took action despite his fear and made the moment uniquely his own. It gave me chills.
It’s probably no coincidence that the chorus was – if it don’t matter to you, it don’t matter to me.
]]>You see, without children of my own I’m hyper aware that nothing orbits around me.
My husband, my sisters, my friends – they’ve listened with tremendous compassion, patience and wisdom. But even they are tired of hearing the same old story. My best friend – willowy southern blond who can go from Hi y’all casualness to raising her voice and gesticulating wildly when annoyed, said this to me:
“You know the problem and you make the solution complicated. You always want it to be only a certain way or only big. It’s not complicated. Here’s the problem: You want a flurry of activity, a dynamic organism, something orbiting around you. What you are describing is energy. Energy equals life. Here’s the solution. There are three ways to get life: plants, animals or people. That’s it - choose one. Choosing something is big, doing nothing makes you small. You know all this and being the way you’re being is just lame!”
Dang. Really? That shook me up. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear at the time, but I’m glad I have friends who will actually say stuff like that to me.
There are some problems in life you can’t solve in one step, and certainly not in one blog post. But as I type this right now on this very hot day in June, I have the most gorgeous basset hound puppy sleeping at my feet. This live little creative stirs my heart and helps me feel the beauty in orbit around me.
Down with the umbrella. Let the whole world spin.
]]>It kept me up all night. I was so captivated that I brought it to my husband’s tennis game. When he and his friend asked what the hype was all about, I told my husband to read a passage aloud. He did. And then he raised his eyebrows.
I might as well have said, hey, why don’t we watch some porn?
The material is totally outlandish, totally salacious - it does make your jaw drop just a little. But, I’ll leave the discussion of spanking and sexuality to someone else.
Because, dipping my toe into the murky pond of kinky sex actually had me thinking about scent and sensuality. After all, MOODYBEAUTY is a sensory experience – a fragrant nudge that hints at something. And that is the beauty of scent – it winds its way through your brain to trigger an emotional response that is uniquely personal.
The book I just read was so not subtle. But, scent and sensuality can be – an imperceptible quality that hangs in the air around you, like a whisper. MOODYBEAUTY is just that. And so it goes with sensuality.
It’s more exciting to leave something to the imagination.
]]>I’m munching on Pirates Booty recovering from the I-think-I-want-to-die stomach flu – the kind where you can’t peel yourself off the floor. The kind where nothing your husband does for you is right or good enough. Our household was miserable. And then poof – just like that – it was gone. And now I can sit up straight and my husband has his sense of humor again. He wanders by and asks, “How is my little moody booty?” with an emphasis on booty. Then he says I’ve lost weight. Ah, the bright side.
And, there always is.
In the past month we’ve been swallowed up by a heart breaking family drama - a complicated history, an aging parent, declining health, financial instability, and dementia. I swung between patience and irritation, helpfulness and hopelessness. My attitude ranged accordingly – either can-do or WTF. Eventually, I did an emotional nose dive to the dark side. Suddenly, all I could see was suffering, and all I could see was me. I thought, I can’t do this, I can’t take this, I don’t want this. I became a big moody monster.
Then I got stomach flu.
No big surprise. I’m pretty convinced the cells in our body are in tune with the frequency of our thoughts. If I go emotionally haywire, my body goes physically haywire. If I tune my frequency to anxiety, that is what I get. If I tune my frequency toward acceptance, that is what I get. Buddhists call this karma – what you think, you become. My theologian Dad reminds me that – whatever you sow, you shall reap. This just touches the surface, but you get the idea.
So I've re-tuned. I'm committing to showing up as peaceful and connected, instead of an edgy, control freak attached like some craggy barnacle to an outcome.
What else did I get, besides a smaller booty? The family situation is not a simple one, but in it I see an opportunity to see a different way of life and to accept it. I take the challenge to deal with my own discomfort, the chance to contribute in way that is meaningful to someone else. And, I see an opportunity to just relax and be a friend.
The bright side was there. I’ve just had to get over myself to see it. And now, I’ll keep it in sight - always.
]]>Wow, what a Diva.
When I was 16 my parents took my sisters and me to the Dead Sea. I was too teenage-cool back then to see that bobbing in those biblical waters could actually be, like, an experience of a lifetime.
It’s funny how you circle back on certain things. Lately I’ve been reproducing the Dead Sea for long soaks in my tub. It would be nice to say this comes from my love of history, but it doesn’t.
It’s just really good for you.
Dead Sea salt is comprised of minerals such as magnesium, potassium, calcium and bromides which infuse skin cells with nutrients and boost cell metabolism, balancing the skin and reducing inflammation. And, the high concentration of magnesium in Dead Sea salt (40% more than ocean water or table salt) draws water to skin, and that increases the moisture content of the epidermis. This is no joke - there is research to back this stuff up.
The net-net: the mineral compounds in Dead Sea salt are soothing and hydrating, which means my skin looks younger and even more beautiful. Perception is reality, right?
This worked for Cleo. And this works for me. Who needs Mark Antony.
* Skip the airfare and order your own 25 lb. bag of Dead Sea salt (free shipping) from Salt Works.
But generally, there was a straightforward, retro coolness about this 20th century poster. And, like a lot of things that make their way here from somewhere else, it inspired derivatives like this:
As my British brother-in-law would say, “How very American.”
But you know, that somewhat staid British slogan is actually packed with a whole lot new age wisdom – wisdom that is well, quite old really. What bubbles up when I think about it? When I am calm and centered, I feel at ease and happy. And that forward feeling of being in action and moving toward something, it adds a layer of hope and excitement. Really, it’s this idea of being both content and dynamic – I love that.
So, here is my version for 2012.
A good start.
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Well, it turns out he is right. Taking a deep breath – the kind where the belly expands – is one of the healthiest, hormone-balancing things we can do. And, I mean do all the time, like for the rest of our lives.
So, what’s the big news here?
For me, it was learning that breath actually changes our physiology by signaling the brain to send out a chemical-hormonal response. Brenda Stockdale, director of mind-body medicine at the RC Cancer Centers, tells us in O Magazine that shallow breath signals the adrenals to produce cortisol, slowing down immune cell response and wreaking havoc on our bodies. With deep, abdominal breathing there is no bad-news cortisol, so our immune cells can do their job and facilitate healing.
But here's the juicy part.
Dr. Sara Gottfried dives deep into the connection between breath and pleasure in a webinar she designed to re-ignite sex drive. Btw, Dr. Sara is my favorite
Harvard-trained-integrative-doctor-extraordinaire. Her mission in life is to
get women feeling “sexy, vital and balanced from their cells to their
souls”. See why I like her?
Anyway, Dr. Sara and her guest speaker Ellen Heed explain that deep breath is the magic bridge to our erotic self. When breath reaches the lower portion of the lungs (where there are more relaxation receptors, more blood vessels) the brain takes note and down regulates the nervous system. The body is now in a position to relax and it can afford more attention inward, toward the present moment. The net-net. Deep breath wires us toward pleasure.
Not only can my husband feel good about being right, he can feel happy about this too.
PS Check out Dr. Sara Gottfried's very juicy, worthwhile Mission Ignition webinar series.
]]>Look, I’ll be honest. I am a bit more sensitive about aging than the average girl - my husband is 7 years younger than me. Yes, I know he loves. But I’m human, and forgive me, a little vain. A long time ago someone said I was a HMB - High Maintenance Babe. It was a guy and he said it to my face. My sisters love that story.
Anyway, let’s just say I take this skin stuff seriously. Here's the equation I had in mind when formulating MoodyBeauty:
Healthy skin cells + Hydrated skin cells = Youthful skin
So here’s the deal.
MB is a powerhouse full of therapeutic botanical agents. Essential fatty acids are plant compounds that nourish and support skin cells. Antioxidants are phytochemicals that protect skin cells from damage caused by free radicals. These natural anti-inflammatory agents support cell regeneration and protect skin from damage and disintegration.
MB is packed full of oil that our skin recognizes as similar to its own natural oils. So, it easily absorbs between cells and boosts the overall lipid content of skin. We want this. Dry skin is susceptible to free radical damage and looks dull and, can I say, pinched. The moisture binding properties of MB offer a protective veil that seals in water so our skin looks plump.
So there you have it.
Healthy skin cells + Hydrated skin cells = Youthful skin
HMB? Hmm, how about Healthy Moisturized Beauty.Until last week.
The Avon Breast Evaluation Center at Massachusetts General Hospital called me. The cutting-edge 3D mammogram I had a few days earlier revealed "something". The radiologist wanted to do further imaging. Could I come in the next morning? My husband went with me. I had an ultrasound. It was a benign cyst. I cried with relief.
It may sound straight forward, but it wasn’t. I was a wreck for 24 hours. Really, my husband even called our doctor to prescribe Valium. My melt down was dramatic and unexpected, and nothing had even happened yet. It was just a phone call. But, it scared me to death.
And when you catch a glimpse of death, it sets you straight. As I jogged past the local cemetery this morning (I know, I know - it's on my route), the lesson crystallized. There is no way to avoid it; I will end up as compost, as dirt. And sure, at times my monkey-brain will take over and fill my day with anxiety. It’s in the wiring. But, I have to pay attention to this. And do what it takes to unwind my mind so that I can experience the beauty that is my life – and I mean really feel it, deep down where it counts.
That’s my responsibility.
]]>Time to de-scale.
I have finicky, sensitive skin so I favor gentle products for my de-flaking regime. If you also want to whisk away those pesky dry flakes, try one of my favorite exfoliants below. Finish up with a hydrating layer of MoodyBeauty oil and there you have it - smooth, luminous skin.
Leave the scales to the fish.
Deluge. A drenching rain; downpour. And, just a bit depressing to wake up to this morning. I can see and hear the rain pummeling the windows and I feel like I’m in a car wash. I have a vision of those freakishly big rotating brushes that descend onto the car. And in that funny way my mind winds around to a thought, I am reminded of my own collection of body brushes. Um, I know. I have a lot. And, they all look like they belong at a car wash, not in my shower.
Sure, my brushes may be a little prickly but I love, love them because they leave my skin feeling so darn smooth and soft. And now is the perfect time to whisk away our leftover summer skin, so give it a try. Don’t be afraid - it won't hurt.
***
I typically use #1 and #4 pre-shower with the dry brush technique. Use these brushes daily or any time you need a good scrub - simply suds up your brush with shower gel or a body scrub. I love Kiehl’s Crème de Corps Soy Milk and Honey Body Polish.
You can find my brush collection at these online:
#1 - Opal London Lymphatic Massage Brush
#2 - Jokipiin Pellava Villa Linen Mitt
So, I often resort to drama to get her attention.
Text from Amy: ER. Recipe needed. Stat!
Text from Jenny: I am at the park.
Dang! That didn’t work. I’m in a frenzy trying to pull together an impromptu soup + wine gathering. Deep breath.
Text from Amy: I need an Autumnal, one bowl meal.
Text from Jenny: Just make my pork and cider. It’s good. In my cookbook.
Did I mention she wrote a cookbook? To raise money for a week-long dog sledding charity trek she did across Sweden. I am not kidding. Our lives and personalities couldn’t be more different. Jenny is big town – I am small town. Jenny is a mother – I am an Aunt. Jenny is practical – I am dramatic. Jenny mushes dogs – I do not.
But with Jenny, I have had a revelation.
Through the mysteries of DNA, family culture and birth order, we do share a sensibility for authentic, down-to-earth goodness. Jenny makes no-nonsense food that tastes divine. I make no-nonsense botanical oil that smells divine. We connect around things we make – these things that leave us feeling content, nostalgic and nourished.
And I realize that is exactly how I feel when I connect with my sister.
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So, I wonder. Is there such a thing as a beauty DON'T? Probably. Does it apply to faking a sun-kissed glow? Um, yes, if you go the fake-and-bake route. Check out this photo of me and my friend
Teresa in the early 80s. Cringe. My Jersey Shore tan + hair says it all.
But anyway, what about my pale, white skin after Labor Day? Can I wear bronzer?
I say yes. I’m a big fan of bronzing all year round. But again, it’s all about what you wear and
how you wear it. And, achieving that just right shade of color requires a bit of mixology.
For a sheer, au naturel color that hints of a tan, mix a drop or two of MOODYBEAUTY oil with a bronzing cream or a medium-toned tinted moisturizer and smooth over your face, neck and decolletage. Voila! A lovely, golden glow on the outside and the inside.
The perfect combination.
If you prefer to dust on a smidge of a tan, I particularly like Too Faced, Caribbean in a Compact, Sun Bunny Bronzer. I love that it has a mirror.
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