Gigi, R.I.P.

Our family dog, Gigi, died the other day. Our wonderful vet put her down. She was 15 years old at the time, and we had her since puppyhood.

Gigi was supposed to be my son’s dog, but of course feeding her and training her fell to me. That’s the way it is with family dogs. The parents say they’re getting the dog for the kids, but unless mom wants the dog and raises it like a 4-legged child, family dog ownership can be a calamity.

It’s embarrassing to say, but I embraced Gigi’s presence reluctantly. I didn’t want another dog. I already had Maisie, a nervous, sickly rescue, and a couple of middle aged cats. Yet there we were that Saturday in late October, driving around Mahopac. We had kids in the car, my son and his friend. They begged us to stop in a pet shop (my least favorite place), and before I knew it, we were coming home with a new pet.

Store bought dogs are notoriously unhealthy and not a purchase I recommend, but we got lucky with Gigi even though I’m pretty sure she was born in a puppy mill. Right from the start, she was full of vim and vigor, with intelligence to spare. She housebroke quickly and learned her name and developed a vocabulary. She loved us all, but she was crazy about my son. For years, everything was grand.

Of course Gigi was like every young dog, and she had her moments. One day in the back seat of my car, she ate a Coach handbag. She enjoyed dragging our soiled clothing all over the house, and she was a nuisance at the table, barking and begging for chicken. She ate cat poop. She had a passion for licking shower water off our legs. She could open any unlocked door. She was nosy, and loved going to other peoples’ houses. Once she found a pair of turtles living in someone’s bathroom.

Her biggest joy in life besides food was car rides into town. She was a natural café dog. She loved cars, especially my old Miata, where she rode shotgun with the top down. When she was my only dog, a situation that lasted 6 years, she accompanied me on work interviews and she was always well behaved. At home she had a collection of chewed tennis balls. When he was cooking outdoors, Gigi was my husband’s best friend. Referencing her love of barbecue, my son called her “the grill fiend.” 

Gigi was about well into middle age when we acquired Basil, the crippled pup. Then last winter, we adopted an older Chihuahua from the Westchester SPCA. While not exactly pleased about these interlopers, Gigi gave herself a job, obedience training and helping to housebreak both of them.

My son’s feelings were hurt in the late spring when he came home for a few days and Gigi failed to greet him. That was the day I came to terms with her situation and began to prepare myself for her end.

Caring for an elderly dog is not much different than caring for an elderly person. There were times when I could have been more patient. Gigi suffered memory lapses and was often disoriented. She was pretty blind and deaf. And yet she still enjoyed her walks, her food, and her car rides. Ugly warty lumps and bumps sprang up all over her small body and she developed an itchy skin condition that necessitated near-daily baths. She was depressed but bore it in good grace when I had to lift her into the car or help her up on the bed. In her salad days, she was quite the athlete.

My whole life, I’ve had cats and dogs, and understand lifetime commitments. Fortunately, I’ve had enough experience to know animals tell you when they’re ready to go, and it’s our job to pay attention. The hardest thing is not to human needs get in the way. Many, if not most people try to hang on too long, and a dog will keep trying for you because they hate to to disappoint. Everyone has their own rules about quality of life; for Gigi, I knew it would be when she stopped eating and drinking.

My husband came with us to the vet to say goodbye. It’s a personal decision, but I always stay with my animals through their last breath. Gigi actually seemed to be smiling as Dr. Scott administered the pre-euthanizing sedative. After that it went very quickly, probably less than 2 minutes. Afterwards I helped wrap her in the towel and kissed her head. Then I immediately left.

It’s been a few days and I’ve not stopped thinking of Gigi and what a good girl she was for so many years. I think about is our good times together and all the fun we had. Roger Caras famously said, “Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.” Gigi, wherever you are, we will always love you.

Gambling on Atlantic City

Last week Mr. Sax and I took a trip to Atlantic City. If your only idea of the town is through the HBO series, “Boardwalk Empire,” you’re getting some of the flavor, but hardly the whole enchilada. The city’s history, tied to booze and vice, is woven into the present. A.C. is still a gamey, even ridiculous, place, but that’s part of the charm, or at least that’s my opinion.

I grew up in Atlantic City. It was my childhood home. I lived on Raleigh Avenue and attended the Richmond Avenue School. For the most part, my part of town was staunchly middle class. My best friends fathers were a surgeon, a psychiatrist, and a funeral director. My own father, while still alive, was in the music business. Elementary school is one big blur, but memories of life outside school remain vivid. Four seasons of the year we played on the beach and walked the boards. We lived on sub sandwiches, frozen custard, fish freshly caught. We rode bikes or took the Jitney or walked by ourselves everywhere. We were savvy at dealing with tourists. By 10, I was an expert panhandler.

My mother wore a mink stole when she left the apartment. In those days, the grand hotels, the Marlborough Blenheim, the Traymore, the Claridge, the Shelburne, the Ritz Carlton, the Ambassador, and Chalfonte-Haddon Hall were still in operation, but the mid 1960’s, the town was seriously run down. It was a big deal when Atlantic City was chosen to be the site of the 1964 Democratic Convention. Lyndon Johnson actually stayed in a beautiful house very near our apartment. The convention and the press coverage, however, cast a harsh light on the corruption of the city, and afterwards things faded fast. By the early ‘70’s, the grand hotels were being demolished and the town was overcome with drugs and pimps and the homeless.

Legal casino gambling revived Atlantic City, bringing thousands of visitors back to the shore. In 1978 Resorts International opened its doors. I’m not here to argue whether legalized gambling really is a good thing, but I am happy about the new and glam Revel entertainment complex.  Erected in what was for 50 years the most blighted part of the city, The Inlet, Revel, which is gorgeous, got off to a rocky start. Morgan Stanley, the 90% majority owner, discontinued funding for continued construction, and put its stake in Revel up for sale. Love him or hate him, Governor Chris Christie offered Revel $261 million in state tax credits to assist the casino once it opened.

Will the state’s gamble pay off? It’s a big bet with lots at stake. Not being a gambler, I still proposed to my spouse a visit to Revel to celebrate a major anniversary. Major foodies, over two and a half days and nights we dined at world class restaurants featuring Iron Chefs, Michelin chefs, James Beard Award winners, and food concepts from New York, Philadelphia and Washington, D.C. We laid out in the sun. We swam in the outdoor pool. We walked the beach and the boards until our feet were falling off.

Speaking of food, what didn’t I eat? I had Sack O Subs, Steel’s Fudge, Fralinger’s almond macaroons, clams on the half shell, steamed clams, escargot. At American Cut, headed by Iron Chef Marc Forgione, Mr. Sax had a steak he raved about. I loved Robert Wiedmaier’s Mussel Bar. At Village Whiskey, we snacked on Iron Chef Jose Garces’s duck fat fries and deviled eggs. Other famous chefs featured at Revel include Alain Allegretti, Luke Palladino, and Michel Richard. On Saturday we lunched at Bally’s at Harry’s Oyster Bar. Located just off the Boardwalk, under an umbrella in the sun, I had a half dozen little neck clams on the half shell, followed by an order of steamers in garlic broth. Mr. Sax had a grilled seafood platter featuring lobster, clams, scallops, oysters, flounder, and crab cake. Buzzed on Bloody Mary’s, afterwards we entered an arcade at the base of Steel Pier to spend $20 in quarters playing Skee ball. That was great.

A friend back home had asked me to place a bet for her on the roulette wheel, but we didn’t do it because we can’t gamble. Neither Mr. Sax and I could make sense of the slot machines, and we were afraid to lose our shirts at the blackjack tables or in the poker room, or at mini baccarat, or craps. We did get a kick out of  Ivan Kane’s Royal Jelly Burlesque Club, where round the clock pretty women wearing very little prance and strut their stuff.

What was my favorite part of the trip, aside from a chance to walk past my favorite childhood haunts and the homes of my old friends? It was Mr. Sax’s unrestrained joy returning to our room at 4 a.m. after an hour and a half of dancing at the HQ night club when he was too wound up to sleep. They were hosting a Madonna party, as the singer was in town. “The doorman was stopping lots of people, but he let me right in,” my husband gloated, slipping between the sheets. He attributed this to a cool hat purchased that afternoon at Irene’s. His elation was  so exciting. I was so glad for him.

Bigger than the White House

In the last days of August while my neighbors were all gone and the streets were so silent you could hear a pin drop, Mr. Sax and I had a “staycation,” in our own neighborhood. One afternoon we traveled to Cold Spring; another day, we hit Fahnestock State Park. In Portchester we had drinks and appetizers outside at BarTaco, and on the final day of our holiday, we drove to Pleasantville to catch a film at the Jacob Burns. The film we saw was “The Queen of Versailles,” which I’d read about in The New Yorker and was a topic of conversation at a sophisticated cocktail party in Pound Ridge we’d been to the night before. At the party, several people were talking about the film. “She got what she deserved,” one woman carped.

The film, a documentary by Lauren Greenfield, details the rise (and the fall) of David and Jackie (mostly Jackie) Siegel. David Siegel is a time-share magnate, founder and CEO of Westgate Resorts. The couple live the American Dream, but SuperSized. In 2007, when filming started, the Siegels are building a 90,000 square foot home in Florida they call the American Versailles. Larger than a 747 airplane hangar, featuring 9 kitchens, 30 bathrooms, two movie theaters, and a bowling alley, the home, if it is ever completed, basically dwarfs the White House.

In interviews before and after the film was released, Lauren Greenfield explains how she first met Jackie, who is fairly down to earth. The filmmaker, who has had a long career photographing images of extreme wealth for “Elle” magazine, encountered Jackie Siegel when she was taking pictures of Donatella Versace for the opening of the designer’s new store. Jackie is/was a valued Versace client. Soon Greenfield was helping Jackie convince her husband they should make a film about themselves.

At the beginning of the film, both the Siegel’s are open and voluble, clearly loving their extravagant lifestyle. In addition to Versailles, David is opening Westgate Resorts in Las Vegas, meant to be the largest and tallest building on the strip. Mr. Siegel talks about his modest youth in Indiana, and his father, who was addicted to Vegas. Siegel hints on film it was his money and influence that got George W. Bush elected. Jackie, a former Mrs. America and pageant queen, is 30 years younger than her husband (she’s Wife #3). Her joy and enthusiasm for spending and consuming is almost childish. What Jackie has most going for her is she’s not a snob. Cameras rolling, she’s just as much at home with McDonald’s as she is with caviar.

While the film play for laughs some of Jackie’s worst foibles, like asking for the name of her driver when she’s renting a car from Hertz, the real story begins after the financial collapse in ’08 when Westgate’s business stumbled, and its timeshare customers couldn’t make their payments. Six thousand employees are let go, the creditors close in, and construction stops on what was supposed to be the largest private house in America.

Greenfield is calm but ruthless as she continues to document the Siegel’s downfall. Chauffeurs, housekeepers and nannies are let go, dog poo collects on the marble floors. The Siegels are living in the 26,000 square foot home in Orlando the family still inhabits, and Jackie does her Christmas shopping at Walmart instead of Neiman’s. To ease the distress of the Orlando-based, Westgate ex-employees, on her own she in a warehouse a kind of Salvation Army. Kept mostly in the dark about her husband’s troubles, she tells Greenfield that it’s only through the filmmaking process that she understands what is happening.

While Jackie comes off as likeable if a bit dim, by the end, David Siegel is anything but sympathetic. One wonders why he permitted Greenfield to keep filming. As of this writing, he is suing Greenfield and the Sundance Film Festival for defaming his company. His lawsuit against them was filed about a week ago in Orlando in U.S. District Court.

When the Siegels initially decided to be filmed, they thought they were creating a legacy. At the end of the day, that’s still what happened, even though the story arc changed. In the film, David Siegel said, “This started out as a rags to riches story, and now it’s riches to rags.” By the end of the film, he is angry. He’s mean. He dislikes his wife and children, who go on blindly loving him. When Jackie says on camera that if it ends up the family lives in a modest $300,000 house, “with lots of bunk beds,” and that’s OK with her, you know she means it. Unlike a real floozy or gold digger, she did marry for better or worse.

 “The Queen of Versailles,” is, of course, a parable about legalized vice and greed. Siegel’s father ruined himself gambling at the casinos; Siegel gambled with the banks. On the Today Show a few weeks ago, Jackie appeared with Greenfield. They both want the film to succeed. Jackie said her husband’s company Westgate is “doing great,” and that they still have dozens of time share resorts in operation. She believes they will finish building Versailles. “We came through the recession,” she said proudly. “And the house was never at risk.”

A vacation close to home

We took a random field trip the other day to Cold Spring. The trip was unplanned. Originally we were headed to Radovich & Dean Music Store, in nearby Carmel. If you’re still crying because Bramson’s closed and you don’t know where to go, Radovich & Dean is the place. They sell instruments, handle school instrument rentals; it’s a place to take lessons, and they do repairs. Mr. Sax’s alto had a sticky key, so when he said he was headed to Carmel, I said can I tag along, please. Our mission accomplished at the music store, a sign saying “Cold Spring, 15 miles,” beckoned.

Cold Spring is an old river town that grew on the Hudson. The old town, built straight up from the water, is quaint and charming. There are interesting residential side streets to explore if you’re into eyeballing houses, and it’s hilly, which is good for the quads. The views from every direction are awesome. Main Street, the main drag, is a long but pleasant sidewalk stroll past myriad antique shops, boutiques, a couple of B&B’s, a few restaurants and several coffee shops, many selling homemade ice cream. When I say homemade, I mean it, because Cold Spring’s downtown has no chain stores, and according to a local newspaper I thumbed through, is considering a law barring the opening of any new business that requires its employees to wear a  uniform or a logo-embossed anything.

Free spirit prevails as Cold Spring’s guiding light. Wandering in and out of shops for an hour, I began to appreciate what I perceived as the dual vibe of the modern Occupy Movement, mixed with old school hippie-dom. It was refreshing to hear (twice) people speaking French on the street, and nary a woman was sporting a Keratin treatment. There was one real estate office in town: Houlihan-Lawrence. By the river, a few people were fishing, while others sat on benches in the sun, facing the water.

At the Antiques Center I admired an old, rather beautifully framed print depicting a horse scene. There was an affordable old hoosier, my favorite antique kitchen piece,  as well as some really cool vintage clothing. Surprise, surprise, they had a very good selection, in good condition, of old Playboys and Penthouses. For $5, I scored a pair of sexy, dangling, silvery earrings. I was tempted by a shop called Country Clocks. But what really got me was the loads of outdoor seating where one could tarry, inside or out. The line too long for Moo Moo’s, at random we chose the Cupocchino Café. They specialize in many formulations of coffee drinks, tea drinks, chai drinks, and fountain specials. That day, on their sidewalk blackboard, they were recommending root beer floats.

Inside, Cupocchino was everything I think a café should be. I loved the back wall covered in huge blackboards, the worn wood floors, and the friendly atmosphere. The furniture was mix ‘n match. In a case were yummy bakery items including flaky scones and Danish and black and white cookies. The ice cream case offered a dozen flavors handchurned by a lady named Jane. You could get panini sandwiches made to order; a note on the blackboard said egg sandwiches are available until noon. I can’t even begin to list the choices of hot and cold beverages, including many true Italian classics like espresso macchiato and ristretto. Made with two big scoops of that handchurned vanilla, topped off with a full bottle of Stewart’s, my root beer float was crazy-good.

Waddling back to the car 20 minutes later, I couldn’t help noticing the outdoor tables everywhere. It made me mad to think about Katonah and this new nonsense about enforcing the county Board of Health regulations. Because of the recent brouhaha about outdoor seating, Katonah is suffering. The rules, whatever they are, are killing the downtown. Somebody needs to address this problem, and the sooner the better.

On another note, Ebba, the Katonah-centric home goods and jewelry store is selling this insanely addictive fragrance called Miss Marisa. Viktoria Fisch, Ebba’s owner, had a wildly successful business, also called Ebba, for years in Los Angeles. Ebba Katonah is now her only physical store, but in the world of virtual commerce, www.ebbalosangeles.com is thriving. Fisch, who creates her own fragrances, conceived of the line years ago to embody what she describes as the quintessential modern woman. Fisch said, “The line distills an elusive je ne sais quoi essence that makes all 6 of the Misses memorable and intoxicating.” I’ve been wearing the one she calls “Zest” for a week and I can’t stop sniffing my wrists. Besides “Zest,” Miss Marisa comes in 5 other scents, including “Original,” “Nuit,” “Fleur,” “Marine,” and “Tropical.” Miss Marisa has been featured in Lucky Magazine, In Style, Vogue, and Vanity Fair. Fisch’s cousin dubbed the scent, “The Man Catcher!" Some celebs who wear it include Amanda Seyfriend, Jenna Jamison, Carmen Electra, the model Nikki Taylor, her own grandmother in Sweden, and, yes, Dave Navarro! I know Kourtney Kardashian loves it. How do I know? She talked about it (and Ebba!) on her http://officialkourtneyk.celebuzz.com website. Now that’s what I call pretty wow.  

Let the sleeping games begin

Not me or Mr. Sax, but other people have been sleeping late in our house all summer. It’s only early August, but I’ve already changed the spare room sheets enough times to make me feel like a hotel laundry. While we’ve enjoyed the company of our company, and Mr. Sax, aka the Grillmaster, loves any opportunity to show off (so far he’s served overnight visitors his signature BBQ ribs, BBQ chicken, rotisserie chicken, rotisserie turkey, grilled pork tenderloins, all accompanied by grilled sweet corn), the main thing that stands out about our guests is how they sleep, some of them well past the noon hour. Years ago a young boy we didn’t know stayed with us for a week. We were his hosts while he was involved in the Summer Program at the Children’s Center at the Bedford Women’s Correctional Facility. The boy, who 10 at the time, spent the hours between 9 and 3 with his mother; joining us afterwards for trips to the Katonah town pool, followed by a home cooked meal, and dessert from King Kone. The boy lived with his grandmother in one of the rougher neighborhoods in Brooklyn, and he couldn’t get over our night time quiet. In response to my question,  “How’d you sleep?” he said, “Good. There’s no gunshots or cars backfiring or people screaming,” relayed over Capt ‘n Crunch.

This batch of summer guests are also Sleeping Beauties. One guest arrived so exhausted and jet lagged after a three week journey hiking in the desert that she basically collapsed into a coma. One day she slept 13 hours. Another guest who claims she never sleeps in, slept until 10:30. She undoubtedly would have slept longer except that Mr. Sax started playing his instrument, and rather loudly.

This past week on unbearably sultry mornings, instead of rushing off , I’ve been lingering inside in the air conditioning to watch the 2012 Summer Olympics. I’m following, as best I can, wrestling, fencing, shooting, swimming, and, of course, equestrian. While I’m rooting for the entire American team, I am especially intrigued by Reed Kessler from nearby Armonk, who at 18 is the youngest person ever to compete on an Olympic equestrian team. In London, she is competing on Cylana, her 10 year old German Warmblood, who is related to McClain Ward’s now retired champion, Sapphire, through the Darco line. Reed’s impeccable posture and perfect hands are inspiring. It’s been said ice water runs in her veins, which is probably a good trait to have in this arena. In the months and weeks leading up to the Olympics, I heard a fair amount of grumbling and hostility directed at this girl; that she isn’t a “great” rider, but because of her family fortune has only ridden great horses. Like Reed, I, too, was a horse crazy child. My stepsister says she can’t remember when I wasn’t trying to touch, talk to, or get on some horse. One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was when my mother’s 2^rd husband, Maurice (Geraldine married numerous times), a wealthy Philadelphia furrier, offered to send me to any boarding school I chose so he could be alone with my mother. Why didn’t I say yes and let him pull whatever strings he claimed to have and apply to Ethel Walker, Linden Hall, or Oldfields? Because I was clueless. At 12 I didn’t know anyone who went to boarding school. Bad decision. I want a do-over.

In a classic case of “coulda, shoulda, woulda,” decades later, watching Reed in the Olympics, I wonder what might have happened if I’d taken Maurice up on his scheme. (For the record, he tried to woo me by gifting me the first time we met with a fall of authentic human hair; incensed, I threw it away.) So instead of going to a fancy boarding school and getting out of Dodge, I stuck around, and within days Maurice sought an annulment from my mother, who he said had tricked him (after a whirlwind courtship, they married while I was in the Poconos, at Camp Timber Tops). My mother blamed me that because of the split, she didn’t even get a mink coat. It all happened in August, after all. Far too warm for fur. How differently things might have gone if I’d only embraced boarding school. I’ll never know. But at least I can sleep like a log in the quiet of our house, dreaming of horses.

How sexy media can liberate you

“I just read ‘Shades of Gray’ and loved it,” a friend recently gushed to me. This is a woman I admittedly don’t know very well, but she strikes me as fairly conservative. She’s been married to the same man a long time, her kids are mostly grown, and judging from the way she dresses, even when I’ve seen her dressed up, appears to be someone more at home in yoga clothes than, uh, leather and nipple clamps. She seemed almost defiant, telling me her reading tastes. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. Every woman needs a bit of a sexy shake up from time to time, and what fills the bill better than a dirty novel?

Sexy media, whether it’s a work of fiction, or a movie (foreign films, for the record, usually have twice as much sex in them, especially if they’re French), a hot magazine cover, a racy advertisement, are really good for shaking things up, and putting you in the head of a person who thinks about sex. It’s been said (and oft reported) that the average man has hundreds of sexual thoughts every day, but that women only think about sex, or things that are sexy, occasionally. That’s because the average woman is consumed and inundated with both mundane and pressing things on her to-do list, things like laundry and picking up something for dinner and work deadlines. These things, while necessary, are pretty libido killing, at least for the majority of women.

Getting out of your head is an important step in reclaiming your sexual health and vitality. It’s also a good way to release stress. A few weeks ago in a movie theater crowded with middle aged women, two girlfriends and I laughed and squealed and howled at the bumps, grinds, and moves of the male strippers featured in the popular summer film, “Magic Mike.” The girlfriend sitting next to me, married to the same man for 28 years, practically wet her pants when Mike’s break-a-way pants broke off, revealing his deliciously bare bottom. “Look at that hairless butt,” she marveled. “My husband is so hairy. I wish he would wax his back and ass.”

Hopefully when my friend got home from the movie, she closed her eyes and made believe her husband was Magic Mike. Or Mr. Gray. Fantasy is wonderful. Embrace it. Embrace sexy media. It’s stimulating. It’s sexy. And best of all, it’s a safe and healthy way to behave sinfully.

Beauty deeper than skin deep

 The double punch for beauty

by EVE MARX

They say beauty’s only skin deep and what counts is what’s within, but if your complexion is marred with dark spots, fine lines, or rosacea or rough skin, you’re probably feeling less than beautiful, and that hurts your self esteem. Fortunately, you can remedy these unattractive but not life threatening medical health problems with the help of a skillful and licensed medical aesthetician. Two unique services offered by a local med spa and a beauty bar done in tandem have produced excellent results combating the signs of too much sun and simple aging. I call them the Double Punch.

Kristen Evans is the new skin specialist at kdstudio in Katonah, a beauty bar. While the store specializes in hypoallergenic, non-animal tested and fragrance free skin potions and condiments, they also offer a variety of facials and natural tanning options. Among the newest offerings of facials is a procedure called dermaplaning, a somewhat controversial but increasingly popular with celebrities specialty Ms. Evans is licensed to implement. Dermaplaning is essence is shaving your face. It’s done with a surgical blade (yes, you read that right: it’s a scalpel) by a trained professional. Dermaplaning helps eliminate wrinkles, scarring,  reduces hyperpigmentation,  and it does remove every speck of hair on your face. That blond peach fuzz that no laser hair removal will make a dent in? Dermaplaning will get rid of it, and for a long time.

I wasn’t sure what I was getting into when I tried the process. I had been getting facials for years, and not just soothing, smoothing ones that leave you relaxed and glowing. I was prepared for some ouchiness since I’m one of those people who don’t think a facial is complete until my blackheads are extracted. During the dermaplaning, the blades glided smoothly over my face. Dermaplaning or blading as it is sometimes called, removes the outermost layers of dead skin, leaving what’s underneath immediately more smooth and supple. Appearance and tenderness afterwards varies from individual to individual. Some people leave the treatment and immediately apply their favorite cosmetics. My own skin was rather red and tender, even though for years I’ve been told my skin is thick.

During the dermaplanning process, the aesthetician gently scrapes what is most commonly a No. 10 scalpel along the surface of the skin, using short, brisk strokes. The sensation is not unpleasant. Afterwards Ms. Evans showed me a pile of scraped off, wafer-thin papery bits. Because the procedure is considered non-ablative, there is no cutting of the flesh. I was advised afterwards to not engage in my usual exfoliating rituals (I am a fan of scrubs of all descriptions) because the new skin was so delicate.

It was Ms. Evans suggestion to follow up the dermaplaning fairly swiftly with a photofacial, another skin rejuvenating procedure I told her I’ve been doing on and off for two years. Photofacials are a proven, effective method of reducing the signs of aging and sun damage on the face, neck and hands. It is a pulsed light procedure to  rejuvenate the skin by stimulating the production of the body’s own collagen and elastin. The procedure eliminates broken capillaries, minimizes fine lines, shrinks enlarged pores, and is one of the few proven methods to treat facial spider veins. While the tool used is always a pulsed light laser, age of the equipment does make a difference. Bellava MedAesthetics & Spa in Bedford Hills uses the Artisan system from Palomar, the leading generation of cosmetic lasers.

Ms. Evans suggestion to have a photofacial within a few days of the dermaplaning was a good one, because the photofacial, she said, would be doubly effective. With less layers of dead epidermis to penetrate, the laser could go deeper and be more curative. Anne Gentner Hughes is the photofacial expert at Bellava. She concurred with Ms. Evans. I scheduled an appointment for the photofacial four days after the dermaplaning.

While I’ve been having photofacials for quite some time, they never hurt like they did following dermaplaning. My skin was much more sensitive and every pulsed light pinprick really pricked, especially where the most dark sunspots I was trying to get rid off occurred on the left side of my jaw and my upper lip. Afterwards, Ms. Hughes handed me an iced roller to run up and down my sore chin and cheeks. 

Ms. Hughes and Bellava were adamant about after care. I received directions both written and verbal. A mild sunburn like sensation was to be expected that could last anywhere from 2 hours to 3 days. I could expect some mild swelling. Black lesions (the lasered sun spots) might even appear worse than usual for a few days. I was advised not to scratch at them, or pick. Some scabbing was not to be unexpected. I was to avoid using any hair removal process for several days, to avoid direct sunlight, and use at least a #30 SPF.

Unaware and unprepared how ugly I’d look for a few days (more like a week), at first I was dismayed by the Double Punch treatment. The black spots got even blacker and refused to be covered by make up. Then on Day 6 the spots began flaking off, and with a slight abrading with a washcloth, were erased. The redness disappeared, as did the slight swelling and touch of soreness. The fun and gratifying part was when people began telling me how great I looked, and asked what I did to make my facial skin look at least 10 years younger than it is.

It’s been six weeks since I had the Double Punch treatment and I’m extremely pleased. If blades scare you, Bellava recommends substituting dermablading for one of the VI or chemical peels offered there. The VI peel is blend of powerful ingredients including vitamin C and salicylic acid. It tackles a wide range of skin issues from uneven tone, to acne, to age spots. The spa also offers two different chemical peels; the Obagi Blue Peel, which contains trichloroacetic acid; and the D’Vine Wine Jessner Peel which contains lactic acid resorcinol, salicylic acid, raspberry and wine extract. But if you’re not afraid of the blade, submit to the scalpel treatment offered by the highly trained Kristen Evans at kdstudio. Like I said, I fell asleep on the table. It was that relaxing.