We love our new puppy, except that yesterday she ate a very large hole in our couch. The couch needed to be recovered, but when we were ready to do it. I can turn over the cushion, but I had forgotten that we bought the couch just before Dashiell was born and, well, you know what they say about boys and projectile vomit. There are shadowy stains all over it. Our next party is going to have to be dimly lit indeed.

The couch is part of a long list of things that Asta has had her way with. We couldn’t catch her in time. We have, to our credit, stopped her from making mince meat out of an endless variety of toys: Legos, Batman heads, storm troopers, Godzilla’s tail and the like. She has many bones and chew toys but she is adventurous. Here’s an accounting of things she’s had success destroying:

1. Ant trap =$35 call to Animal Poison Control where I learned ant poison actually has the same ingredients as heartworm medication and dogs are attracted to it because it tastes sweet. It’s not the poison that is dangerous it’s the plastic that can tear her intestines.

2. David’s eyeglasses. We first suspected Dash, who took the blame and gave himself a time out in the corner but I became doubtful he couldn’t tell us what actually happened. I took a closer look at the frames and noticed the white dents were clearly from puppy teeth. $600 (insurance will kick some back to us.)

3. Another ant trap

4. The foot of my antique child’s chair. I’ve told myself it adds character.

5. Socks–while your feet are in them. OUCH!

6. Conrad’s “gold” medal from a birthday party good bag (please don’t mention it, he still doesn’t know).

7. Wicker baskets in my office handmade by Amish. Irreplaceable.

8. And today she ate a crayon and has the red poop to prove it.

I offer this list not to blame her, but us. The problem is that our other dog Chewie is 13, and he’s not really a dog, he’s more like a lump of an animal that I have to pick up and move around  the house because he is going blind and can’t manage steps or crossing thresholds from room to room. For instance, Chewie has trouble walking into the kitchen from the dining room because the floors are different. I sometimes have to spoon feed him. Chew’s inertia and age has made us completely forget what puppies do and what they do is chew and play and pee and need to be moving all day–or at least 99% of it. When I see what Asta has done, I thank god that David is a cautious and deliberate person. On all those slightly drunken nights when I’m thinking oh who cares about birth control, David knows we could never handle that third kid I’ve always thought we could rise to the occasion to raise. Now that we have a baby girl, albeit a canine version, Asta has proved that if we can’t handle a second dog, I could never have managed a third child. If I had one, she would surely be on a Lindsay Lohan trajectory because children and puppies, no matter how tired, relaxed or just simply distracted I am, can’t raise, or in this case, train themselves.

There is something about a snowday that kicks my nesting instinct into a full-on cleaning frenzy.  The urge to clean is so intense, it’s like I’m in on Magic Eraser overdrive and my hands end up chapped and itchy from all the scrubbing and moppping I do prestorm.  It’s also why there hasn’t been a blog post in somewhat longer than my usual lapse. Thursday was my day to get back on it but then the promise of a big storm was on the way so I ended up using my me time to Pledge the baseboards. I think the connection is that if I can’t control the environment outside, at least I can organize and tidy my life inside and its makes me feel safe, the way other people buy milk and eggs to defend against a blizzard, even though I do that too. Thursday night, I pulled up the bedroom shades to watch the wintry mix from my bed. I love excitement of storms and their potential for drama—white outs, trees down, lost power, maybe it will be like the ice storm—of 76,—not the movie.  If I was better at science, I’d be a meterologist in Oklahoma or Kansas where they get big weather, tornado style. But my excitement is limited to a finite period: when house is clean and the kids are asleep.

Despite using a Q-tip to scrape dust out of the wainscotting, my cleaning coping strategy doesn’t offset my snowday fear: that unspecified anxiety that comes with knowing I will be alone with my kids for 8 to 9 hours in the house unable to go outside. It sounds nostalgic and cozy to people without kids but really, if we can’t go outside then I am just a referee to their fighting then playing then fighting and then begging for TV. Thankfully we were able to out yesterday. We made our own  X-games  with the swing set. I shoveled a ton of snow into a large pile and then pushed the kids on the swings and they jumped onto the mound and we rated each jump for its form and grace. There were a couple of bad calls. I accidentally pushed Dash off the swing too early once and fell on flat on his face but he walked it off.

I made a snow princess and Conrad made snow frog. He was extremely frustrated by not being able to roll the snow into perfect balls, which prompted the futile discussion of: “Well honey its not fun for you don’t do it… or just figure out a new way…Don’t cry over a snowman.” I tried to get him to suck on an icicle to cheer him up.

To be fair it is really hard to roll of ball of snow perfectly. Both our sculptures were more triangular mounds than classic round snow people. David said that later in the day after the sun had melted the details of my snow princess she looked more like a Klansman. She had a very pointy crown made from icicles, which took on the vibe of their menacing hat.

Then we went to friends who has a hill in her yard and went sledding. The hill slopes into a main drag of town so we had to catch the kids from soaring into the street. I was a very aggressive pusher. Pushing your kid down a hill on a sled really fast is A) Hilarious, nothing cracks me up more B) a workout and C) gets rid of residual snow day anxiety even when the day has gone well. Suzie did the catching and she finally asked me to ease up on speed because the sleds were cutting into her shins. We took turns and she was right, it was very hard and scary to catch a kid on zooming on a disc that slams into your legs.

By the end of the day we were ready for whiskey in our coco, but she didn’t have any, but there’s always today…

Earlier in the day I had also made this snowball sculpture. My beauty editor at Self, Nicole Catanese told  me that her boyfriend who is Austrian makes them for her mom on her patio whenever there is a storm. You put a candle in the center and watch it glow from the warmth of you house. David was very impressed. Don’t be alarmed by the shadowy figure behind it, that’s just my Princess and looking at it now, maybe David is right.

“Back when I was modeling, if someone said ‘I’m fasting,’ I would say, ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’”

Last night I was while flipping channels between the Westminster Dog Show and Men’s Figure Skating I was struck by yet another another stunning resemblance in both poise and showmanship.

Top, Ch Roundtown Mercedes Of Maryscot winner of the Best in Show; bottom, Evan Lysacek, USA Men’s Figure Skater who placed second in the short program.

I made these cupcakes with a friend for Valentine’s Day. They are supposed to be presented in an heart shaped box to make it look like they are Russel Stover chocolates. It was so easy and fun, all we did was melt store bought frosting and dunked the cupcakes in to give them a glossy finish of a real bonbon. The boys helped. We were very proud of ourselves when we presented them to our friends, Gregor and Amanda at Valentine’s Day dinner at their house, we acted like we were professional pastry chefs, “Oh these, they are mere trifles.”

We toasted with a glass of champagne, I felt a little flush and thought, gosh I’m maybe I shouldn’t bake, that sugar made me feel really weird. Then I realized I needed to lie down, so I very casually said, you know I don’t feel 100% and I think I’m just going to lie down. (It wouldn’t be the first time a friend needed to rest at a party, though usually that happens much later in the evening). I went into the living room to lie down. David came in to check on me and while I was trying to explain what was wrong I suddenly had to run into their powder room and once there I threw up so badly some came through my nose! (I know! So sorry!)

I didn’t know which was worse my embarrassment, the retching, or my guilt that I was now giving their whole family the stomach virus that was going around. David didn’t even flinch, he just bent down next to the toilet and held back my hair and helped me take off my cardigan because I had a little antique paper corsage pinned to it. Then because he knows I’m a complete germaphope he helped me clean up their bathroom with Lysol wipes. When I came out of the bathroom looking clammy and humiliated, Gregor turned to me and said: Leave the kids, let David take you home, we don’t care about dinner we just want you to feel better. They wouldn’t even let me be embarrassed.

It was hardly a romantic Valentine but it was filled with love.

How was yours?

Alexander Mcqueen’s suicide is still on my mind. I feel the same way I did when Kurt Cobain committed suicide, somehow to me they seem so similar because of the futures they both gave up. I still can’t believe we won’t see his creative mind anymore. The Cut Blog did a round up of his best looks and when I watched the show it was both beautiful and tragic.

So I needed a pick me up and when its cold in the suburbs, I revert to my teenage self and I go to CVS. (But if I want to feel chic, I pronounce it CaaVaaSaa). There I trolled the beauty aisle for a cream that had my latest obsession: hyluronic acid to draw all this chilly moisture into my skin and lock it in with its pseudosciencentific technology. I purchased Vichy LiftActiv Retinol HA SPF 18, it was featured in a January beauty story I wrote for Self and it’s actually doing the job. I know it takes three weeks for your skin to adjust to a new routine but I feel like I’ve found a drugstore face cream I can use in the winter that actually makes my skin look younger. It’s on the high-end side for drugstore purchase: it was $43 for 1.35 ounces. But I’m comfortable with that because just this week I was lucky enough to receive a package from The Organic Pharmacy that contained two exquisite products: Antioxidant Face Gel and Antioxidant Face Serum. They are made from all natural organic ingredients that are quick to be absorbed, smell citrusy and made me look like I’d slept in a king sized hotel bed all by myself all night. I glowed—truly, until I checked the catalog and realized that the gel is $84 for 1 ounce and the serum is $130 for 1 ounce. It get why it’s expensive and I’m over complaining about that, my problem is   how fast I’m working through each vial. If I had to order this stuff I would have spent $2400 on skincare annually, which is also a summer beach house rental or my powder room makeover. What does it say that I want my powder room to look prettier than me? Anyway, I can’t commit to that kind of beauty pricing. So viva Vichy! (Until I find something newer and cheaper).

We were sledding with the kids today on day two of our snowday blitz when Molly said, Oh my god Alexander McQueen is dead.

I thought she was joking. Apparently he was devastated by his mother’s death earlier this month and he hung himself in his apartment. I’ve covered fashion for a while and he was always my favorite designer because McQueen  defined what it means to be a visionary and in every collection there was a backbone of genius, fashion was never frivolous in his hands. He will be missed.

I took this photo of the dogs the other day and it immediately reminded me of one of my favorite David Hockney paintings, Mr. and Mrs Clark and Percy. Hockney painted the designer Ossie Clark with his wife, Celia Birtwell, she’s pregnant and wearing one of his dresses. Ossie Clark was a seminal fashion designer in the 60s and 70s, Yves St. Laurent was inspired by Clark, not the other way around and he’s talked about when people talk about the retro designs of Mary Quant and Biba. What I like is that the painting is filled with light, just like the photograph of the dogs–and I’m well aware that the similarities stop there. But to my credit when I showed Conrad the two images he burst out laughing and said, “Chewie is the one with the cat on his lap.”

Apparently, the painting is loaded with symbolism, the lilies next to Celia represent purity and her pregnancy while the cat on Ossie’s lap is a symbol of infidelity. Their marriage was rocky, Clark was bisexual and unfaithful and they eventually divorced in 1974. Oh and the cat’s actual name is not Percy, its Blanche, but Hockney though Percy sounded better in the title.

A reader asked about peels so I thought I’d elaborate because I’ve really seen a difference in my skin since starting one. A peel isn’t as scary or as invasive as it sounds. Usually, its pad like those old fashioned Clearasil pads, that’s soaked in alpha hydroxy acid and beta hydroxy acid, your derm may have his own line or you can buy one online, at Bliss or at your drugstore. Dr. Gross’s peel is MD Skincare Alpha Beta Daily Face Peel, it’s a combination of both alpha and beta hydroxy acid that makes your skin shine by gently sloughing off dead skin, dissolving the yucky stuff in clogged pores and builds collagen so you skin looks firmer. According to Dr. Gross skincare products with several different kinds of acids (AHA and BHA) are the most effective and least irritating, because when many acids are combined, the peel contains a milder concentration of each so you get a little bit of the good stuff, without irritating you skin. Your face will look a little red after and you absolutely have to wear sunblock when you are using a peel.

I’ve also heard good things about Earthen Instapeel which is face and body peel but it’s a gel that you use in the shower. Bliss sells it. But be careful because they also sell an Earthen kit with a French blackhead extractor which is a recipe for disaster. Even the most disciplined beauty lover can’t resist letting her inner-aesthetician use that tool to pluck blackheads. I’ll admit an extractor is extremely satisfying when it works, but it’s also dangerous because it practically eggs you on to dig just a tad too deep and end up with a huge zit that then becomes a pock that heals into a life-long scar.  Beauty treatments can turn ugly so fast.

And lastly, just yesterday I was at CVS and noticed this product: Medical University Face Lift Wrinkle-Free Kit. Granted the name sounds like a total fraud and the site is very much in the infomercial genre. Think the Ginsu of beauty brands. But the products use serious ingredients: GABA (which instantly plumps) and hyluronic acid, which brings moisture to your skin, even though they don’t explain its benefit very well. According to some Walmart shopper reviews their products work—especially the University Medical Face Lift 20 Minute Wrinkle Free Eyes. It got 5 stars and women said they saw a difference right away.

It’s possible that Montclair is the healthiest town around. Everywhere I look there are people jogging and biking even in 20 degree weather. I overhear people ordering organic brown rice to go with their Chinese entrees. I’ve known mothers who sign up to provide nuggets for a class picnic so they can bring Bell&Evans organic, free-range chicken nuggets to expose all children to antibiotic-free poultry. Sometimes I wonder if there is a collective orthorexia, where the whole town is so focused on eating healthy that it is an unhealthy obsession. But I only think that when I’m pms-ing and I was pms-ing last week.

Last week I missed the crazy abbondanza-sized sandwiches from the Italian deli in Carroll Gardens, the gelato on the street corner, and the absurdly large muffins and Cannoli at Mazzola’s bakery we get every Sunday night. In Brooklyn, the food was reckless and authentic and most important, delicious and when I ate it I didn’t feel like I was being “good” I felt like I was experiencing a culture that still mattered. Food was a celebration, in every bakery, coffee shop and trendy restaurant.

Everyone in Montclair loves to cook and we have lots of fun at dinner parties. My favorites were the night friends made chocolate fondue and after we dunked all the exotic fruit we broke out a bag of pretzels, or the exquisite curry a friend made for my birthday, and I’m pretty sure my husband eyed his second wife the night a friend served Ina Gartens’s flaky and comforting chicken pot pie. But with every entrée there is always a predictable side dish: a discussion about how much exercise will have to be done to pay for the crème fraiche sauce.

Last week, I just couldn’t deal with listening to women qualify every bite of food with the promise of kettle bells. It was so cold and I was ready to eat pasta for breakfast—and lunch—and dinner. But I went to bootcamp and all I heard was how little everyone was trying to eat. I know why. Its the new year we all have goals, but it was boring to hear woman after woman say, I’m doing a cleanse or I’m giving up sugar or I’m giving up wine and chocolate. I wanted to say I’m giving up being miserable about my body. But I couldn’t because the more I listened the more I compared myself to them. I am the curviest of the bunch and I easily fall into a Special-K hole of diet obsession. The trouble is, dieting doesn’t make me feel good, it makes me feel cranky, and hungry, and fat (and I’ve been to enough disordered eating workshops to know fat isn’t a feeling). I keep looking in the mirror to see if I’ve lost weight.  It takes me forever to get dressed or I’ll walk around in yoga pants because I need to an elastic waistline to stop thinking about my progress.

When I start this cycle, it’s like my own diet version of Back to the Future. I did all this fretting over food in high school and it just made me heavier and unhappier than I needed to be. I can’t go back to 11th grade and worrying about how much sugar is in a Certs. And if I could, I would tell myself to put away the Weigh Watchers scale and find the things I really love to do because that has been the only way I’ve found happiness.

The other day I was walking the dogs and I had spent a good five minutes thinking about what I wouldn’t eat that day and I realized I was tired, more tired than I usual, and I knew I it was because I worn out by feeling like it was senior year and I was hating my thighs. So I thought, screw this. I love food and I love exercise, and when I let myself have as much as I want of each, I’m happy.

It just so happened that I had to skip a week of working out at the gym because I was helping with school tour week. I started walking the dogs a lot because they were home alone in the morning and I ended up clocking in four miles a day. I ate salad when I wanted and chocolate covered almonds too and you know what? I lost two pounds.

I’m a grown up and I’m over feeling bad about my body and I’m over feeling bad about food. The news in Haiti is bad. Lindsey Lohan’s line for Ungaro is bad. But I’m not going to call a bearclaw that Dashiell made in cooking class bad. I’m too old to live in a food police state. I simply need to trust my instincts and taste buds and my clothes will fit. And now that I am 40, I know if I really want to worry about something I can obsess over the wrinkles under my eyes instead of my jiggle on thighs.