Get a Neck Lift to Look Great During Video Chat Sessions? Yeah, I'll pass...

My kids are at an age when they'll talk to any (and every) body on iChat or Face Time or whatever the latest computer/smart phone video chat program happens to be.

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Me? I tried saying hi to my brother once when his kids "called" mine, but after catching a glimpse of myself in the little P.I.P. (picture-in-picture) box, I lowered my head, muttered a hurried "Got to go" and made a secret vow to never, EVER, video-chat again.

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As I recall, one of the best parts about talking on the phone -- remember that antiquated device we used to pray would ring with some cute boy at the other end? -- was that you could talk to that cute boy in your PJs with a clay masque on and he'd be none-the-wiser. Everyone was a winner.

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But, now with the advent of all this video chat craziness, you have to "worry" about looking like a troll while you chat with the boy, the girl, or whomever else. Thank goodness boys don't call me anymore.

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Turns out that once again when it comes to modern thingamabobs, I may just be in the minority with my Victorian opinions. Here's the proof: I just read an article about a plastic surgeon who has invented a procedure that <i>"aims to improve the way you look when video-chatting."</i> Much as I'd like to say I'm making this up, I'm not.

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If you don't like your double chin or wattle or anything else that bugs you as you chat, book an appointment with Robert Sigal, MD, in Northern Virginia and he'll hook you up.

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Here's a little gem from a recent press release from the good doctor who says he first got the idea for the surgery when his wife bought the new iPhone 4.

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<I>"Patients come in with their iPhones and show me how they look on [Apple’s video calling application] FaceTime. The angle at which the phone is held, with the caller looking downward into the camera, really captures any heaviness, fullness, and sagging of the face and neck. People say 'I never knew I looked like that! I need to do something!' I've started calling it the 'FaceTime Facelift' effect. And we've developed procedures to specifically address it."</i>

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You can watch the following video of Sigal to get more info, but tell me -- would you contemplate having this procedure? Am I completely off base here? Help me people!

<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zSgW3YxERKU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

It Happened to Me: I Tried Hypnosis So I Could Love My Husband

(originally posted on xojane.com) I married my ex husband three months after having met him. Soul mate? Unbridled passion? Rock the roof sex? No. Meh. And, certainly not.

I mean, sure, I liked the guy and wanted to spend more time with him but because government red tape seemed hell bent on preventing that from happening -- he's Canadian -- we just decided that getting married was the thing to do -- with that piece of paper we could "live and work in the same country and see how things went."

Here's how things went: NOT WELL. For 18 what-the-fuck-happened-to-my-youth? years.

Did I ever stop to consider everything (anything?) that "MARRYING SOMEONE" encompassed? Yeah, no. It didn't occur to me, for instance, that I would be stuck with him, ostensibly, for the rest of my life. Or that, I wasn't allowed to have sex with anyone else. Ever. Never, ever again.

Yeah, I should definitely have given the matter a lot more thought.

To sum up how quickly things soured, I'll point out that we were in marriage counseling within 4 months of saying "I Do" to some Justice of the Peace. And, when I recount that towards the end of our first session, when the therapist looked at him and said, "Marc, run, run for the hills…I've never met a couple less suited to each other in all my years," I'm not exaggerating. Not even a little.

Marc didn't run. And I didn't either. Instead, somehow maybe because we're masochists, maybe because we're both resolutely stubborn non-quitter types, we dug in, stayed put and stuck it out.

Don't get me wrong, ours was everything but a traditional union, we took separate vacations, maintained our monies in separate accounts, kept entirely disparate work hours but still, somehow we stayed "married."

Then, 6 years into it (!) we had kids. Twins. Because, you know, God has a sense of humor. And things miraculously improved and we lived happily ever after.

Kidding. Naturally it all got exponentially worse. The ante was upped. Now it was the babies and me vs. Him and, boy did it suck even more than before.

Still, for whatever sick, twisted reason, we were determined to stay together for the "sake of the children." No matter that as they became people they'd witness our constant bickering, or worse, painfully long silences. Or that they'd grow up thinking that all daddies slept in the guest room and every mommy was sullen and withdrawn around her spouse. We simply had to stick it out -- divorce was for losers.

Then one day as a friend recounted how hypnosis had finally gotten her to quit smoking when nothing else had ever worked, I had an epiphany -- the solution to all my marital woes had at long last made itself known; hypnosis! Yes, clearly, having my brain "tricked" into thinking a different way was the answer to all my problems. I'd get hypnotized to love Marc and all would be perfect with the our world. Sign me up!

If you've never tried to find a reputable hypnotist who's game to try and snap you back into loving your mate, lucky you. It is NOT a pleasant experience.

When they don't hang up on you for being weird ("Um you're the freaking hypnotist," I'd think to myself), they vet the bejesus out of you to ascertain whether or not your intentions are legit. What's not legit about wanting to love your husband for crike's sake?

After an exhaustive Yelp and Google inquest I was able to lock in on a highly regarded practitioner who was, in fact, willing to take on my case. I met her at her office -- a guesthouse of some Cape Cod home deep in the San Fernando Valley -- and she was just as your mind's eye would picture. A roly-poly hippy type, draped in loosely fitting bold prints with bangles and baubles dangling from every available body part.

With the usual getting-to-know-you pleasantries exchanged, we got down to business -- namely, getting me to fall hopelessly, madly in love with the father of my children. Or, to at least be able to tolerate the man.

The "Dr." advised me to set my sights low. Urged me to be pragmatic and accept that the brain is a tricky, complicated organ -- one that sometimes will not be cajoled into a different way of thinking -- no matter how hard we try.

Then she took out a pocket watch on a chain and told me to keep my eyes fixated on it as it swung -- pendulum style -- back and forth. Only, not really. Apparently, they only do that in hokey movies. Here, I just sat in an arm chair with my eyes closed as I listened to the dulcet tones of this Mama Cass clone instruct me to go to (and I kid you not) "my happy place" and free my mind of all clutter and stress.

I tried. Honest, I did. I urged my frontal lobe, my reptilian brain and even just my heart of hearts to please capitulate just this once. After all, not only did my life as I'd come to know it, but that of Marc's and, now, of a little boy and a little girl, hung in the balance. I just had to find a way to make all this work.

Surprise! I didn't "come to" with Cupid's bow firmly planted in my heart. I didn't feel all warm and fuzzy and lovey-dovey or even ever so slightly filled with a renewed sense of hope or resolve. All I felt, as I began the long drive back over the hill, was increasing despair and that I sure as hell could've come up with a more satisfying way to drop $350 (!)

Worse? I went through pretty much the exact scenario two more times. Sure, the locales were different and the hypnotists themselves didn't all jingle when they moved but the results remained unchanged -- I didn't love Marc and no amount of reduced peripheral awareness was going to be able to modify that.

"You can't make your heart feel something it won't," Bonnie Raitt once said/sang. Make fun of country songs all you want but that one nails it.

Not surprisingly, Marc's and my story ended as so many today do. Despite our valiant efforts, we did ultimately get divorced -- 4 years after I finally convinced him to move out.

Did we all crumble and fall? No, we stumbled a bit, sure, but I truly believe that it was best for us all. Our children know that we love them and that they did not cause our break up and, best of all, they get to see us lead our (separate) lives as happy, content people who don't bicker and mope and spew venom on a daily basis.

In fact, Marc just got re-married, I have a live-in boyfriend who makes me laugh and love and feel all the things I was convinced I'd become numb to and we're finally both happy with our lots in life.

Is there something to be said for not throwing in the towel and trying your hardest to make your marriage work? Sure. Within reason. But, in my experience, resolutely sticking to your principles for self-righteous, stubborn reasons may not always be the best plan of attack. Kind of like marrying someone after knowing them for three months …

THIS JUST IN: I'M A BONA FIDE SNOB

I came to a semi-alarming realization this week: I think I may very well be a snob. 

It's not that I don't deign to do certain things or deem certain situations, places, and people as beneath me. It more has to do with what I will and will not wear. Shallow? Absolutely. Non-negotiable? Pretty much. 

Let me back track a bit. One of my co-workers was writing a very clever story on the 11 Celebrity Fragrances Our Editors Are Embarrassed to Love. And, it got me to thinking. I don't care HOW much I love a J. Lo or a Jennifer Aniston or a (perish the thought) Britney Spears scent -- there is NO WAY I would ever, ever, wear it. "Embarrassed" is one thing. Categorically shunning something based on something so shallow is another. 

So, in an effort to try to rid myself of this despicable shortcoming, I tried to picture myself in CVS picking up the (no doubt tacky) box and heading on over to the register. But I couldn't even visualize such a thing. WHY? The cashier wouldn't care (after all, she sells enemas and personal lubricants and nose hair clippers all day). No one would have to "know" and I'd smell good, right? I guess. But, still, try as I might, this mental scenario was a no go. 

This saddens me. Am I so wrapped up in what people think that I'd deny myself an affordable, good-smelling scent just because I think it's cheesy? The answer is a resounding yes. 

How do I cure myself? (Short of some sort of intervention where my friends and family arrive armed with boxes of Kate Walsh and Halle Berry and (aaaaack!) Paris Hilton/Jessica Simpson perfume?) I know that not everyone feels this way -- after all, these starlets rake in mega bucks with these olfactory endeavors. So there has to be a way to just get over my lame self and spritz along with the hoi polloi. 

I've got this. Give me a month and you'll have a whole new (super-smelling) evolved blogger on your hands. 

Like Nora Ephron Before Me, I Feel Bad About My Neck

"One of my biggest regrets -- bigger even than not buying the apartment on East Seventy-fifth street [for a song], bigger even than my worst romantic catastrophe -- is that I didn't spend my youth staring lovingly at my neck. It never crossed my mind to be grateful for it. It never crossed my mind that I would be nostalgic for a part of my body that I took completely for granted."- Nora Ephron, "I Feel Bad About My Neck"

If I'd gotten the chance to talk to Ms. Ephron about my neck (before, we lost her to a relentlessly aggressive form of uterine cancer a couple years back) it would've required nothing more than a one-word editorial comment: DITTO. In fact, in this very column, I've made no bones about feeling bad about my own neck. How I really, dread the day when has become bona fide waddle.

It's so stupid really, it's just a neck after all. We all have them. They all age. Some faster than others. I have a friend who is nearly 10 years younger than I and her neck has always been ringed and kind of saggy. And, while that should make me feel better about my own, it doesn't. It just makes me feel bad about hers.

Here's the thing: I, like Nora and her famous friends, don't want to be relegated to turtlenecks and strategically tied scarves for the rest of my days. First of all, I live at the beach -- one of the ancillary benefits of which is getting to avoid having to wear such things. Second, I like tank tops, dammit! And, yes, now that I think about it (and think about it some more) I was fond of my old (young) neck.

I realize, of course, that this is an altogether vapid topic of conversation and that to maintain a modicum of dignity and self-respect, I should contain these CrazyTown musings to the confines of my own head, but apparently, in addition to an increasingly flaccid neck, I have a hefty case of diarrhea of the mouth. 

Since for many reasons (i.e. fear of dying on the operating table), a "neck lift" is most assuredly not in my cards, I decided to weigh my neck-firming options and, now, having read up on countless products and sifted through even more reviews, I've zeroed in on an apparently amazing item called Revive Formitif Neck Renewal Cream, $130, which was designed to give the neck and decolletage (aack, haven't even begun to freak out about THAT yet) a smooth, taut, firm appearance while protecting them from sun damage. And, it contains all sorts of special, bio-engineered ingredients and Nobel Prize-winning technologies, so fingers are majorly crossed that it's going to work.

Now, while it's not affordable and I'm going to have to do some creative financial maneuvering to swing it, I figure that, if it works, my inner peace (shallow though it will be) will have been well worth it. 

Then vs. Now: How Sun-Worshipping Has Evolved Into Sun Avoidance

A hit-home history of the wacked out ways we used to while away our sun-filled summer days -- and what we can do now to keep our skin as safe as can be I grew up in NYC with a mom whose life quite literally revolved around the sun. A woman who, at the first sign of viable tanning rays, would fling open the windows of our 10th-floor apartment and splay herself on the floor for as long as the angle would position the sun to hit her face.

On summer mornings we'd be awakened bright and early to exaltations of "sun's out, beach day" and rush to get pool/ocean side by 10am to ensure maximum "prime exposure" time.

My mom, a Mary Tyler Moore look-alike, clad always in a super teeny French bikini, was "brown as a berry" from Memorial Day through Labor Day thanks to a special, homemade, proprietary blend of baby oil and iodine and dedication, lots of it. It takes work to build a tan, people.

Then, when I was 16, mom received a pre-melanoma biopsy result on a mole she'd had removed and all of a sudden our sun-worshipping ways came to a screeching halt. Gone were the bottles of baby oil, spring breaks to sunny destinations (I had to learn to ski for cripe's sake!) and days of pursuing the golden glow. The fear of cancer had cast a literal pall on our family. And, to this day, she and my dad won't spend a minute outdoors without wearing powerful protection and a hat and sunglasses.

This story, or some version of it, is what basically happened -- and continues to happen -- to the world as we became aware of the damage that the sun's harmful rays can inflict if we don't take the necessary precautions to protect ourselves.

Of course, not everyone has been "scared pale," tanning booths continue to increase in popularity despite some seriously scary warnings, folks still "lie out" and the young persist in thinking they're invincible.

But, we're making some serious strides. Here's a look back at some of the seriously wacky things we used to do during sunny days and expert tips on what we can do now to ensure we're doing the best we possibly can to protect our skin.

Shunning the Sun Believe it or not, having tan skin used to be déclassé -- a clear indication that you were poor. After all, farm hands and manual laborers worked outside in the sun, the "ladies who lunched" were most certainly not out in the fields perpetrating a tan. Pale skin equaled affluence.

In fact, as far back as Ancient Greece, people sought pale skin -- so much so that in 200 B.C. folks favored a white lead powder mask to give their faces the pallor they wanted -- never mind that it was it deadly.

Similarly, during the Italian Renaissance and the British Elizabethan era, women wore lead paint and then ceruse, a lethal mixture of vinegar and white lead, on their faces.

Today, pale is starting (ish) to come back into vogue. Editorial directors have tried to disseminate the Julianne Moore "white is beautiful" message but then Sofia Vergara or the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue girls come along in all their brown sun bunny glory and effectively suck the wind out of the "pale is pretty" sails.

"While you can't completely reverse the freckles and sun damage you have, you can prevent new damage from happening," says Dr. Heidi Waldorf. Wearing a good sunscreen and applying it properly and often enough is a good plan of attack and, as Waldorf suggests, "cleansing with a body wash that contains free-radical fighting antioxidants before applying your sunscreen" is a good idea.

UGH: My Kids Missed Christmas Because I Was in Rehab

The first time I drank alcohol I got super got drunk and threw up.

Over a movie theater balcony.

Onto the heads of the unsuspecting Chevy Chase fans seated below.

That should've been a clear sign that booze and I were not a match made in heaven but, hey, I was only 14 and it would take another 30 years before I realized I had a capital p Problem. And it sure as hell wasn't with those zany Griswolds. (Although they are pretty freaking annoying.)

I grew up in New York City in the early 80s and partying is what we did. And we did it WELL. Hanging at Studio 54 doing lines with the Rolling Stones is normal 15 year-old behaviors, right? Being way more proficient at "Quarters" than you are at Algebra is something every 9th grader should aspire to, amiright?

Because "FUN" is what I wanted more than anything else, instead of going on to college like the rest of my prep school class, I went to work for Club Med. As I saw it, getting drunk and meeting new people was the whole point of going to college anyway, and, hell, Club Med would pay me to do that and let me live on lush Caribbean islands while I was it. See? My algebra may have been sorely lacking, but my logic was flawless.

The party was on. I hit the aptly named Paradise Island as an 18-year-old whose job, when she wasn't teaching tennis, was to fraternize with vacation goers --to help ensure that they had the trip of a lifetime. So, like a good little worker bee, fraternize I did. At the bar. In various bathroom stalls (this was the Bahamas in the late 80s after all, cocaine was copious, cheap and hella pure.) And elsewhere. (But that's fodder for a different confession.)

 It was all fun and games for nearly 10 years. I traveled the world, drinking, drugging and having "fun" all in the name of "work." Then it all came to a screeching halt when, one day, I met a guy -- a good old straight-laced Catholic boy from Quebec City (!) and married him three months later. [Note: do NOT attempt this course of action.] Au revoir Club Med, how's it going Los Angeles? And a house, and a "real" job and, hey, why not?, let's add some kids to the mix and, just to keep things interesting, let's make 'em twins.

I stopped drinking the second I peed positive on that stick and didn't look back for nearly ten years.

Party girl me had been replaced by SUPERMOMMY me. It was easy; I didn't want to be that drunken mom. I'd shudder at the mere notion of driving my babies around while under the influence.

Nope, I now got high on life; on seeing things anew through the eyes of my little ones, on living new experiences through them, on being PTA president and room mom and baking cutesy cupcakes all that other pink cloud, new mom bullshit you read about ad nauseum in women's mags. But, things were great. Until they weren't.

Quebec and I divorced because, really, you should get to know the person you intend to spend the rest of your life with, money got tight, and basically life just sort of happened so, somehow I started to drink again. Just some wine with dinner. Just a few cocktails at parties. "Normal" drinking like everyone does. Because, of course, I had my shit together, I was SUPERMOMMY, remember? Yeah. Only not so much.

 Keeping your shit together when all you really want to do is be drunk all day, every day, is a tall order. Keeping all your commitments tended to when your alcoholism is fighting to get the upper hand, is a full time job. Getting your real job done becomes a monumental pain in the ass. Then there's the rub that planning your drinking is an exhausting pastime; how many glasses of wine can I have and still be sober enough to drive home? Can we see "Despicable Me" at the theater that has a bar? Why don't liquor stores in California deliver? Dammit!

Then there were the pesky hangovers from hell. The only way I knew to quell them would be to start drinking again. So I did and that's when things got bad. Really, really bad. My kids, then 11, had never seen me "drunk". They'd seen me drink wine, they'd seen me and their friends' parents get loud and laugh-y and all that but they'd never seen me stumbling, out of control shitfaced.

That all changed last Thanksgiving when, saddled with the stress of having to host my family (I love them but, God I require copious amounts of vodka to deal), the pressure of having to get my house ship shape, and feeling that I had to out-Martha Stewart freaking Martha Stewart with the week-long food prep, I lost myself in a bottle of Kim Crawford. OR 20. OVER THE COURSE OF FOUR DAYS. When you're 5' 5" and weigh about 102 lbs. soaking wet, this is not a good thing.

With my entire family having taken up temporary residence at my house, I spent Wednesday before Turkey day "sick" in bed with an increasing stash of empty green glass bottles of sauvignon blanc hidden under my bathroom sink) and, lo and behold by the time that giant inflated Snoopy was winding his way down 34th street, I was in the E.R. with a doc telling me that I was malnourished, dehydrated and should strongly consider going to rehab. He also, thank GOD, told me NOT to stop drinking on my own, that I could have a seizure and die. I made him put that in writing so I could survive the family meal.

The next day, while I sat sipping fermented grapes in an effort to stave off both a horrific hangover and that theoretical life-endangering seizure, I watched my siblings and parents transform my living room into command central as they vetted myriad treatment centers. Ultimately, the onus of rehabbing my wayward ways and me fell on the capable shoulders of the nearby Betty Ford Center. I was willing to go, but frantic at the prospect of missing my kids' parent/teacher conferences, their holiday vacation and, oh yeah, CHRISTMAS. I mean, sure, getting my shit together was of paramount importance and, maybe I'd get lucky and end up with Lindsay Lohan as a roomie but at what price?

What kind of mother abandons her kids -- at freaking Christmas? One who needs help, that's what kind. As I kept telling myself again and again while undergoing the check in process (pretty pedestrian), the detox (pretty gnarly) and the soul-searching (overwhelmingly OUCH-Y), the "best gift I could give my kids for Christmas was a healthy, back-to-normal, me."

So that's what I set my sights on and committed to doing. I worked my ass off at that place; admitting that I had a disease, that I was "powerless over alcohol" but that I didn't have to drink again if I used the tools I was learning to deal with life's stresses (family gatherings, anyone?) instead of the bottle. Was my month in the desert chock-full o' sunshine and unicorn tears? Fuck no. But it was great in a different kind of way. I got my life back. I got my priorities back. I got a second chance. And guess what? Those terrific kids of mine didn't whine, or complain or guilt trip or any of the things I'd feared. They were supportive and loving because, hey, whaddaya know? I'd done an ok job raising empathetic humans. And, this year, with 387 days of sobriety (touch wood) under my belt, we can celebrate the holiday together and I'll even be able to remember it the next day. Talk about a Christmas bonus…

Why Looking Middle Aged Is the New Goal (Or So They Tell Me)

Find out why many professional women are opting not to over plump or perma-freeze their aging faces

"My patients aren’t in here because they’re trying to hold on to their husbands. If they’re trying to hang on to anything, it’s their jobs." So says Dr. Macrene Alexiades-Armenakas a highly sought after Manhattan-based dermatologist in The New York Times.

What the good doctor, who holds not one, but three degrees from Harvard, is alluding to is that, after a certain age, professional women can be dismissed as too old to do the jobs they've worked so hard (and long) to get. As one client put it, "I’m on an airplane to a different continent every other week. There’s no way they’d let me keep up this pace if I looked as exhausted as I am."

But, having the technology to be able to erase the ravages of a (longish) life lived is a double-edged sword. If these high-powered dames lift every sag and iron out every wrinkle they run the risk of looking too young (and perhaps vain/Real Housewife-y). So, as The Times says, "What these women seek is not so much the fountain of youth as its corollary, eternal early middle age. And so Dr. Alexiades-Armenakas strives not to iron out too much of life’s ravages."

One high falutin' vice chairman concurs, saying that she, and others like her, are looking to be "suspended at the 45 to 55 range."

As a result, dermatologists like Alexiades-Armenakas strive to leave some of those hard-earned crows feet and laugh lines in place, the concept being that "If you leave a few wrinkles, it looks more authentic."

While it's amazing that we live in a time when it's possible to (fake) dialing back the hands of time to a precise age range, is it equally amazing (read: sad) that these women feel compelled to do it? Would Warren Buffet or Richard Branson ever have such a notion enter the super-successful minds housed inside their decidedly wrinkly heads? High doubtful. How can we have come so far but still have such a long road to trudge?