Older Men, Younger Bitches

So, it holds true even in dogs.

I regret ever teaching mom how to text message, for this is what I received Monday night while walking along Collins Ave. with Schwartz:

"Tessie is no longer a virgin. I think she is now Wally's wife."

Eww.

For those of you non-dog owners, when they, um, make love, somehow in the process of doing it doggie-style, they manage to turn themselves around and get stuck together. It's pretty gross to witness, but as I've had dogs all my life, and as the beloved, dear, departed Betsy was mated with my aunt and uncle's dog, I'd seen this biological phenomenon before.

My parents (don't ask why) have chosen not to spay either Tessie (left) or Stella (right).

Now, Tessie is 1 1/2 years old; Stella is 5. They both go in and out of heat. Wally is 11; that's 77 years old in human years people, which should mean he's hit Viagra time.

But nooo. Apparently, he's still going strong. Tessie (below) is in full-fledged heat.


And Wally has been going after her like Hef to a Bunny. But, here's the thing. Stella (below) too, has been in and out of heat for years now.

But Wally clearly prefers Tessie. Why? My theory? Natch, you know I have one: Even in the animal kingdom, men go after looks and youth. Perhaps it really is a biological imperative. Wally sure seems to prove this theory.

Now, prepare yourselves, for if you are not a dog person, you may not want to observe the below pictures of Wally and Tessie, ahem, caught in the act.

Wally got a little bashful/guilty around mama, while Tessie rather seemed to be enjoying the action.

Nobody Does it Better . . .

Than my NYC girls. I loved having you all in town and partying like rockstars again. You guys rock and I miss and love you! I will see some of you next weekend. Manch, I cropped you out of the group pic cause your eyes were closed:( (But you're here in spirit.)





And I'm not sure quite what to make of this, but I guess it's always good to have a fan.

New York State of Mind

I'm a little curious as to why someone from the ACLU was reading my blog for 35 minutes today. Want to take up my case? Cause my lawyers are extremely brilliant but uber-expensive. Big fan of the ACLU.

Yay, I'm booked at Momotaro for my thermal reconditioning/"Japanese straightening" with Masato. I cannot tell you how excited this makes me. So excited it's pathetic. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Momotaro is the best. $500; $450 if you pay cash. Three-and-a-half to four hours, max. It's in the same building as Jimmy Choo and across the street from Saks, so after you are done and looking fab, you can glide through the stores knowing your hair is as stick-straight as any Shiksa's.

My plans are thus over the next week or so. Tomorrow my NYC girls arrive and Schwartz is here till Tuesday, when she flies back to NYC and I fly back to Jax. Then I am in NYC from Dec. 29th through Jan. 1st. So NYC peeps get in touch if you are around New Year's weekend. I'm doing the low-key family and family-friends thing for New Year's Eve.

I'm also psyched to dine at Del Posto, another Mario Batali venture, but I can assure you there will not be another Babbo-esque escapade this time. Probably won't be posting much in the upcoming days, but I got an awesome new digicam so will try to post some pictures.

Right now I am in PR hell trying to get stories lined up for next month's Juli B column, so I am off.

More JDate Observations

So apparently I made the presses again today without my knowledge, this time via Radar. So not cool. And FYI, the book is NOT on eBay, I am only selling directly on this site. Ahem.

I am actually busy between cleaning house for house guests, preparing for vacay and doing actual journalistic stuff, so I don't know why I'm bothering with this post, but as usual I feel the need to vent.

Some advice for JDating men:

1. Do not, under any circumstance, pose with your car.

2. Do not, unless it is an action shot—surfing, water skiing, boating, whatever—pose topless. If you have a hot bod, we can actually discern that through your clothing.

3. Do not read my profile and then send me bitter, mean e-mails. I have the courage to be myself in my profile, do you?

4. Do not use the "Flirt" option. JDate has these prefabricated e-mail lines that users can choose from instead of taking the time to actually write something personal. This is a bad idea and I rule out anyone who uses the "Flirt" option. I'm a writer; I want to know that you can actually express yourself via the written word.

These are the "Flirt" choices:

We seem to have so much in common, let me know if you agree.

I'm looking for a serious relationship, are you?

I'd like to start-up a conversation, can I write you sometime?

We've already "clicked", so why stop now?

All your imperfections are perfect for me.

I'm intrigued, feel free to email me.

I mean, how hard is it to type an e-mail?

5. Please check your spelling and grammar before hitting "send." I'm not the grammar police, but when you misspell even the most basic of words, frankly I don't think that bodes well for you.

6. Do not lie about your height; seriously, why do you guys do that? We know you're short, you're an MOT. So if you're 5'8 instead of 5'9 or 5'10, dude, just own up to it. I have heard from my boys that most women on Jdate post old pictures of themselves when they were thinner, but I do not. I always post pics within the past few months.

7. If someone doesn't e-mail you back after one shot, do not e-stalk her. You just give all other JDaters a bad name.

8. Keep it brief. I don't want to read an introductory e-mail that is 5 grafs long.

9. Do play Jewish geography; it will instantly put the girl at ease. If you know people in common, chances are you are not a freak.

10. On a totally related note that disproves #9, I've recently discovered that my first promising blind date I was set up on down here is, in fact, in rehab. I found out after we went out that he was a notorious cokehead, and I only found this out after the fact, even though our families have known each other for generations.

Googling JDate

So I have this theory about men and women and dating in this day and age. It goes something like this: I'm of the opinion that smart, uber-successful, attractive, Jewish men in their 30s are not looking for smart, successful, attractive, brassy, opinionated Jewish women (in their 30s, but age is irrelevant here). Meaning, I think most men under 40 are incredibly intimidated by an attractive, well-educated, strong, sophisticated woman who dares to speak her mind. Why get a gal who can string a sentence, let alone a book, together when they can just have a beautiful, not-so-smart babe who will do and say what they want? Translation: The men I'm interested in, the aforementioned smart, successful, attractive, Jewish ones in their 30s, aren't interested in me for the above (and below) reasons.

I'm not docile; I'm not domesticated; I'm not subservient; I'm not going to cook your dinner, run your errands or clean up after you; I'll be your arm candy (because we all know I love to get beautified and baubled), but I won't be silent while doing so.

To wit, I've conducted an experiment using JDate as my conduit. I have always taken myself on and off JDate every few months, because although it's a great time-waster, I have, in the past, not actually gone on many dates with JDaters. I always chicken out due to the serial-killer (or just plain old weirdo) factor, because an experience I had in New York was so traumatic, it put me off the process for a good long while. Plus, not so much down here, but certainly in New York, there is a stigma factor: I always think, would I really be able to stand up at my wedding and thank JDate?

But anywho, I put myself back on last night. Typically, when putting myself back on, I receive close to 40 e-mails within the first day or so. This time I decided to flirt with disaster. I included in my profile a hint that would enable guys to Google the name of this blog and arrive here. And in my profile I stated: You'll get the truest picture of who I really am by reading my blog. And they have read, in droves actually.

However, my point has been proved, because while I'm guesstimating that about 40-50 guys actually Googled "Dishalicious" and read my divine drivel, I've received a mere 18 e-mails. A record low for me. How interesting is that? Just proves my theory correct, and God knows I love being right.

JDaters who've Googled me and arrived here, please feel free to comment.

Sororiety Somnambulations

We've already established that I have very, very bizarre and memorable dreams. Largely a function of medications I am on.

However, I keep having this incredibly disturbing and unanalyzable dream about sororities. I was not in a sorority in college. I know shocker. But despite my many superficial fixations, I've always been a bit of a noncomformist, which, yes, in the Jewish world translates to: not joining a sorority, not becoming a doctor or lawyer, and remaining single well into your thirties.

So this dream. In it, I am invited over to this weekly sorority meeting in which grievances are aired and food is passed around. Perpetually, I am in charge of bringing over the salad, and it's always a wreck. (I don't, nor can I, cook.) Last night, the lettuce was wilted and there were chocolate chips in the salad. WTFuckingFuck? It was also in this huge, bright orange Tupperware bowl that I had apparently stolen from mom's house.

So I get to the meeting and my "sisters" are berating and belittling my "cooking" skills. And I seem to have been quite dressed up in jewels and stilettos and a dress as opposed to one of those T-shirts with the Greek letters on them. But the weirdest part(s)? I keep having the same damn dream with slight variations. Last night's twist was a beaute.

Ashton Kutcher was there. And he was asking me—referring to himself in third person, as if he were in fact not Ashton Kutcher and raather was some other regular college dude—what he thought he and Demi's chances were. I was the expert, cause, you know I worked at Star, and he seemed to know this. I told him I didn't see it lasting more than a few months. So you see, even in my dreams, I am completely wrong.

I know what prompted the dream, but I don't know what it all means to be quite honest. And I always think there are life-lessons to be gleaned from dreams.

1. Friday night at Hanukkah dinner, Dana, Faye, Daryl and I were discussing the fact that I was not a D Phi E at UF.

2. We were also discussing Ali Jablon, from last season's Apprentice, whom I grew up with and who was a cheerleader at UF.

3. I know this girl who went to college with Ashton Kutcher

4. The excerpt that Page Six magazine plans to run of my book, may or may not contain a character loosely based on Ashton.

Still weird though, no?

In other news, I was a bad, bad girl this weekend and made my first in a very long time treck to Neiman Marcus Last Call yesterday. I will post my findings tomorrow on Fashionosophy.

On a completely unrelated note. I am obsessed with Nip/Tuck and am dying to know what song it was that all the characters were lip-synching to at the end of the season finale last Tuesday. Any ideas?

Six Degrees of Depravity?

I've been "tagged" again, this time by Paige over at Life Goes On I Think. This time, we are supposed to confess six weird things about ourselves. Well, darlings, if you've been reading long enough, I think you already know most of my myriad eccentricities, but I will excavate the well for you once again.

1. I am completely, totally and obsessive compulsively maniacal about washing my hands and germs in general. I never leave home without Purell or Wet Wipes. And often, I wipe down things in public, e.g. the armrests, seatbelt buckles and buttons on plane seats and equipment at the gym. Plus my hands after I touch anything public. I think I go through a box of Wet Wipes a week.
I am convinced this is why I never get colds and why my hands are so dry they crack. Luckily I have a closet full of top of the line moisturizers.
So it follows that I never touch public door handles with my bare hands (per Oprah, door handles are where most germs live). The funniest anecdote I can think of regarding the door handle thing is this: The last time I was in Palm Beach with my parents' friends, Lynn, Alan and I were walking into The Grill. Alan was several paces ahead of us. Lynn is even more germ-phobic than me. So Alan rushes into the restaurant and the door shuts behind him. Lynn looks at me wide-eyed and shocked, "Now Steph," she says all exasperated and dramatic, "He knows we cannot touch that door handle. What is he thinking?"

2. I talk in my sleep. A lot. I often have full on convos with whomever I'm dreaming about. The other night I had a dream Alex Trebeck was hosting a celebrity Jeopardy tournament at my parents' house. God only knows what the hell I said to him.

3. Nothing makes me feel more powerful than running on a treadmill at a good clip. When I'm in that "zone" I feel like I can kick some serious ass. Though due to my tendonitis, I really can't run more than a couple of miles at a time per week, so there goes that theory.

4. The one thing I haven't done in my life that I would like to do very much, very soon is hop on a private jet. Mom and dad have enjoyed this luxury several times and don't see the appeal of it, so I say, "take me instead." They merely roll their eyes, but hey, I most likely wouldn't feel the need to Purell those seats.

5. I can't really drink anymore without getting sick and/or hungover. I suppose this isn't weird. Just a side-effect of becoming an old bag.

6. I heart therapy and I adore my therapist Dr. L. She rocks. And BTW, I do phone therapy as she is in Beverly Hills. Have been doing it for six years now. Don't think it's weird. Most people do.

Excuse all the errors but it's 2 a.m.
Okay, so now I've got to tag some others, sorry folks, but I think this is a fun one.
Always Double Back, Pan Kisses Kafka, Insomnia Haiku,
The Devil's Playground, Mimi New York.

Oh, and happy Hanukkah! I think I may have received an early, divinely bestowed gift that money just can't buy. More TK on that next week, hopefully.

The Price of Beauty

So I've written two columns for juli b, and this one came out today. It's difficult to do justice to treatments and products in so few words. But this is how I got to indulge in the super-terrific Holiday Breather treatment at the Mandarin Oriental spa Tuesday. This treatment is simply sublime and includes a wrap, exfoliation and massage. You can choose between the mud, algae or oceanic wrap. The algae one detoxifies, so natch I chose that. First they scrub your skin with a minty exfoliant using a brush that supposedly detoxes your bod and brings the toxins up to your lymph nodes so that they can be expelled. Then you shower in the private massage room you are already in. Next you get a fabulous aromatherapy massage. Finally you are slathered in algae—quite cool and refreshing, but not for those allergic to shellfish—wrapped in plastic and then covered in a heated blanket type thing. While you are in the wrap for 20 minutes, you enjoy a fabulous scalp massage with a deep-conditioning treatment applied to your hair. Then you shower again, and you're good to go, so relaxed though that you'll be moving at a snail's pace.

If you're in Miami and looking to de-stress before the holidays, I'd highly recommend this treatment. It's $290. And you get to take the brush home, which reminds me, I need to detox today. Mandarin Oriental Spa.

I also got to try the amazing ooh la La Mer Radiant Facial. This is an at-home facial brightening kit that lasts for about eight weeks. And as most of you know, la mer is the creme de la creme of skincare. This kit retails for $320. The results are quite good; your skin feels softer, silkier and definitely brighter. The only downside? This is what you'll look like while doing it:



Available at Neiman's, Saks and Bergdorf's.

Please visit today's Fashionosophy.

Spaaaaahhhhhh

I spent the majority of today at the Mandarin Oriental's spa, enabling me to reach the following conclusion.

Just as gold is the new black and 40 is the new 30, massage is the new sex.

For me anyway. And the best parts are: you can enjoy it whenever you want, you don't have to wait around for that dreaded phone call, you don't have to talk and at the end your skin is all smooth and silky and aromatic.

Hooray, I'm no longer a celibitch.

Housecleaning

So I am no longer a full-time employee, which means many things:

I can now indulge in my favorite things: sleeping, shopping, reading, going to Sports Club LA for hours on end, Pilates, thinking, looking at magazines, plotting my comeback, etc. etc.

But I also have serious stuff to do. Like moving. Is moving not one of the most loathsome tasks on earth? Ugh. The packing, the bubble wrap, the storage—it's enough to drive any somewhat insane persone completely insane.

And, yay, I get to be with my beloved Wally and other dogs in a few weeks. And double yay, I get to spend New Year's Eve weekend in NYC. I hope it's really chilly, as I haven't gotten to wear any boots, scarves, fur, gloves etc. in nearly a year!! This trip and subsequent move is the perfect excuse to take advantage of all the great sales at my most favorite stores.

And my brother has landed in India, which he says is pretty shitty, and if he says that, then I know my mom and I are in trouble, so it's now my job to convince him to meet the fam halfway somewhere cool like Thailand, Hong Kong, Vietnam or Japan. He's the only kid I know who would pass up an all-expenses-paid vacation that would probably include stays at the Mandarin Oriental or the Four Seasons. But I suppose that is what makes him interesting.

And it seems I have a rather ardent fan over at LeandroToro. She was, in fact, the first one to buy and read my book who is not an immediate family member or friend. I find her coverage of me and my misadventures both amusing and quite flattering. I actually have my own topic category. Cool. If only we could see ourselves as others do, we'd all have much higher self-esteems.

And I think I've made a decision regarding my future career, if such a thing exists and I'm not just to become a navel-gazing wastoid. Freelance writing is really where it's at. Especially if it involves travel, beauty, fashion and accessories. So that is where I will be focusing my energies.

And weird as it may seem, now that I am not working in an office full-time, I will have less time to blog. Oh, boo-hoo.

And for those of you who have complained that you cannot figure out how to buy my book: I will spell it out for you once again. Simply click the buy now button on the upper right hand side of this page below my profile picture. It's really not that hard, guys. **UPDATE: OK, SO STEPHANIE JUST INFORMED ME THAT ON NON-MACS, THE LINK IS ALL THE WAY AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BLOG ON THE RIGHT SIDE. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FIX THIS. IF SOMEONE DOES, HOLLER.
I'll get a notification that you bought it from paypal and then I'll email you the book. Much less effort than say, going to Barnes and Noble.

And if you're on my e-mail list and you haven't bought the book, well, then I'm afraid I'm rather disappointed in you. I'd buy your damn book. And in some cases I have. Doesn't mean I've read them, but I still made the effort. Ahem.

And Alec Baldwin? Soo nice to me when I approached him in Vegas. Though I was looking quite fetching and feminine that night. Guess these Gawkers weren't.

Well-heeled Travelers?

So my brother is in India and he says it's, well, shitty (duh). The fam and I are planning to visit, naturally, ensconced in the safety of a town car and a guided tour. The only luxury touring company I can think of that has programs there is Abercrombie & Kent.

Does anyone have any other suggestions? Has anyone been there in a luxury capacity? Basically, I want to go from resort to resort and site to site, with an escort/guide at all times. I know lots of socialites and wealthy folk do indeed travel there, and I know where they stay, but how do they organize the whole shebang? Please respond. Time is ticking.

eBay round 2

OK, it's officially up on eBay. There are three listings; my feedback has to reach 5 stars before I can sell multiples. What a pain in the ass. PayPal is much easier, so use that—plus it's a flat fee. I'm not eligible for "Buy it Now" status on eBay.

Unless of course you (NOT YOU, MOM) want to get in a bidding war, in which case, feel free. From now on, go to PayPal, cause it doesn't cost me anything whereas eBay charges for each listing.

Meanwhile, this chick must get her ass in gear to be moved out of Miami by the end of the month and in NY by Dec. 29th. Have I even called the movers? Um, no. Packed? No. Slept late, gone to the beach, the gym, the spa? You betcha. Not working is so great.

Oh, and for all you Jacksonvillians who feel the same way about this girl and her family as I do, you'll get a real kick out of this Gawker prize. And, sorry to say, she is about 33 or 34; was only two years ahead of me in high school. Let's just say though that while I visit the derm for facial rejuvenation, she visits the real surgeon, repeatedly and has for years.

PayPal is my New BFF

Well folks, apparently the whole PayPal thing does indeed work. I have just received my first official purchase of Dishalicious. So a big shout out to Leandro over at leandrotoro.

So right now, eBay is out of the picture until I get the kinks worked out, and you can indeed use the Buy Now button to go directly to the PayPal web site. I will then email you the non-disclosure agreement, you will fill it in and email it back to me, and then the book will be yours...

Oh, I just LOVE it when other non-NYC "writers" post about me. Esp. when they reside in the boondocks and call their site Suburbarazzi. Yeah. I'm sure there is a lot of action down there. So much so that they are writing about me.

Thanks, Gawker, but I hate that picture. Oh, well, you can't win 'em all.

Since I have some new eyes reading, in the tradition of my blogging buddy Mel, just the facts today:

1. I am 31, Jewish, straight and single.

2. I grew up in Jacksonville, Florida, where there are 794 churches and about 5 synagogues.

3. I currently live in Miami, where I moved from Manhattan seven months ago. I lived on the Upper East Side for about six years, and I plan to head back there as soon as humanly possible, which translates to about three months in Stephanie time.

4. I went to Emory University and the University of Florida as an undergraduate, and I got my master's degree in journalism from NYU. I'm certainly convinced that the NYU money would have been better applied toward a condo downpayment.

5. I've always known I wanted to be a writer and editor, and my first published "clip" (if you can call it that) was a letter to the editor in Vogue when I was 16. I followed that up with one in Interview and thus began my not-so-illustrious magazine career.

6. The most important elements in my life are my family, my friends, my family friends and my dogs.

7. There is no place like home: Bergdorf's, Barney's, 5th and Madison Avenues.

8. My favorite things include reading, writing, shopping, talking, sleeping, dreaming, watching quality TV and movies, going to the beach, traveling, being around dogs and just relaxing.

9. My least favortie things to do are flying (commercial), waking up early, being around lots of dirty people (e.g. riding the subway), driving and being told what to do.

10. More than once I have been labeled a pistol.

11. I have lived in Atlanta, Los Angeles, New York and Miami, and I'll take Manhattan any day of the year.

12. My true (superficial) passions are writing, reading, fashion and jewelry, and I would love to figure out a way to combine all of these things into a lucrative business venture. I seem to be the go-to girl when it comes to fashion concerns and advice amongst my friends and family friends, so I suppose that my dream would be either to author a fashion column or to be a fashion editor. Well, okay, my dream has always been to be a fashion editor, but I didn't have the patience to suck it up and "start at the bottom." Screw that. And since nobody wants to give me this dream job, I've created it: Fashionosophy. It doesn't pay very well.

13. I'm not afraid to break rules. In fact, I'm kind of unflappable when it comes to most things. When I was sued by American Media, I think that most people in my then-situation—unemployed, sans money, 28 years old—would have conceded defeat. I, however, put my dukes up, smacked their asses down in court, and though it didn't pay off in the form of a lucrative book deal, it was something I needed to do. The First Amendment was drafted for a reason.

14. I'm tough-talking and opinionated, but in real life, I'm a softie and play well with others.

15. I'm currently polishing up my second book, which be something along the lines of (no) Sex and the City meets the Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing meets Kissing in Manhattan.

16. My favorite book of all time is Confederacy of Dunces, with Gone with the Wind running a close second.

17. I'm like the Jewish, female version of Kevin Bacon. I seem to be connected to many, many people by less than six degrees, in large part due to my dad, who seems to know every person in the country in some way, shape or form.

You can learn more about me by reading some of my favorite posts:
On Dreams, On Cursing, On Registries, On Singlehood, On Rude Questions, On Happiness, On Leaving New York, On Rodents, On Sept. 11.

Thanks for stopping by.

eBay This Book!

Filed under the "Oh, Puh-lease Dept." from today's Keith J. Kelly Column in the NY Post
'ONE PARK'ING JOB ON STAR MAG'S REALITY TV SHOW

On a totally unrelated note: If you want to know what really goes on behind the scenes at a completely fictional, notorious, American tabloid, well, here's your chance, finally. I've decided to sell unpublished, individual copies of my manuscript Dishalicious on eBay. That's right folks. I know that most of the takers will be friends and family, but at least that will shut 'em up.

I'm not sure if this has been done before, but I'm sick of people asking to read the manuscript. So here's your chance. Buy It Now, or don't. Frankly, my dears, I just don't give a damn anymore. This is total, straight-up, American ghetto-style publishing. Purchase it, and I'll e-mail you the Word document. If you're really that interested, you can print it out yourself.


I'm having the confidentiality agreement drawn up now, which buyers will have to complete via e-mail once they've bought the book. So I should have this done by tomorrow, when I will post the link.

UPDATE: Man, eBay is a pain in the ass. eBay is taking longer than I anticipated. You can purchase Dishalicious directly through Paypal buy clicking on the buy now button on the right side of this page right above the flickr link. Er, so is PayPal. I should have this resolved soon; it has something to do with my slow ass Southern bank. You know, everything takes twice as long down here in the boondocks.

This is the summary I've posted on eBay, whenever they decide to move their asses and approve my PayPal account:

Dirt. Deceit. Dish. Divas. Sex. Drugs. Betrayal. Bribery. Lies. Paid
informants. All in a day's work at the country's most notorious
tabloid, Celeb. And it's research editor Serena Gold's job to make all
the stories seem legit. Except, well, they're so not.
The editor is an infamous demon; her second in command is a manscaped
albatross; her staff has a higher turnover rate than that of the Bush
White House; and the publication's unscrupulous methods of
manipulation are enough to drive any sane journalist slightly mad.
What's a nice, Jewish girl to do when she witnesses lie after payoff
after breach of ethics? Keep herself chained to her desk for the
14-hour-days required of the staff? Engage in retail therapy at
Bergdorf's and Barneys? Rely on her stable of delightfully eccentric
family and friends? Well, yes, but Serena must also show her bitchy
boss that you simply cannot claw your way to the top of the publishing
totem pole without getting a few scratches in return.
And as it turns out, Serena's nails are sharper (and better manicured)
than those of her editor.

And since I have a substantially wider audience with this post thanks to Gawker, please visit my sister sartorial site: Fashionosophy.

Bat Mitzvah Brouhaha

For those of you non-Jews out there who have never had the experience that is the bar or bat mitzvah, a primer. There are usually several de rigueur (sometimes conflicting) elements at work at the bar/bat mitzvah party, including: a cheesy band/dj combo; lots and lots and lots of food, most of which will remain uneaten; a whole lot of liquor; an abundance of glitter and glowsticks; goodie bags; the hora; diamonds and pearls and the town's finest baubles; blacklight; a dancefloor, whereupon the YMCA, the Electric Slide and the Macarena all will be massacred by our non-rhythmic tribe. So what this all translates to is this: a sea of drunk, young, sort of young, older and really old people thrusting their bodies around the dancefloor in celebration of a 13-year-old boy or girl becoming a man or woman.

It's a great excuse for a party, and I think that most of the time, at least in my family's circle of friends, the adults have more fun than the children. This past Saturday was such an occassion for the daughter of my dad's longtime best friend.

The 'rents and their friends were shaking their tailfeathers to the likes of everyone from Timberland and Outkast, to the Village People and whomever is the brilliant artiste behind "Hava Negilah." There's something about the sight of my parents, neither of whom have any rhythym whatsoever, doing the white man's booty shake that really cracks me up.




But what occurred to me most as I drank, danced and laughed too much at this party, is that nothing really changes in our cloistered little world. We Jews have been shaking our asses to the same perennial songs for the past 18 years, since my friends were anointed men and women: Unchained Melody, Shout, YMCA, Push It, Pump up the Volume, etc. We've been waving glow sticks, sneaking drinks from the bar, worrying about which boys will ask us to dance, watching our parents get drunk, throwing up in the temple bathroom, putting on our finest Manolos and then kicking them off by 11 p.m., for ages and ages. But still, there is something about seeing your loved ones hoisted up onto chairs that just gets you all verklempt.

It's silly really, but it's great fun.


I suppose a few things have changed though. After she was made to dance onstage with the band/dj/dancers, the bat mitzvah gal, a real pistol whom I have known since she was born and whom I adore, came up to me and said, "Omigod, Stephanie, I'm so embarrassed! I am so in love with the dancer, but he has a boyfriend!"

I used this horrible Kodak disposable digicam cause I forgot mine, so we all look like ghosts in these pictures. And I cannot explain why my dad's mouth is wide open in every picture.




And, the men in the sequined jackets?



My dad's frat brothers dressing up as the Four Tops and driving the crowd wild. Though they actually had some moves, so maybe some white men can dance.

Also, check out Fashionosophy, I actually managed to update it...

Gawker Does it Again

Required Disclosure: I know suicide is not funny.

But this sure as hell is. I'm in Jax., again, third weekend of traveling in a row. I will try to have some fun tonight so I can entertain all 12 of you with amusing anecdotes Monday...

On Beauty

Yay, I'm finally published again. And for the first time in very, very long, it's about material I'm passionate about: beauty products.

So check out juli b's Beauty Picks for Miami, written by yours truly.

Leaving Las Vegas and, oh yeah, Miami

Las Vegas was a good ol' time. Some of the highlights:

Love, the Cirque du Soleil show set to music by the Beatles. I am not a theater person, don't particularly like Broadway and am usually dragged to these type of things by my family, but I would highly recommend this show and even see it again.



My encounter with Alec Baldwin. I've mingled with my fair share of celebrities and am never one to approach or bother them when they are out in public. But upon seeing Baldwin in the giftshop of the Love theater, I just had to say something because I adore his new show 30 Rock. So I approached him and say, "Alec, I never bother celebrities but I just wanted to tell you that you are fabulous in 30 Rock and it's an amazing show. Congratulations." He was sweet and accepted the compliment and his son thanked me as well. They sat several rows behind us and left before the grand finale.

The shopping. I scored a classic, black Theory dress for about 40% off at Neiman's; a classic black Theory top for 40% off at Neiman's; a fab lacey black shirt by Roberto Cavalli for about 75% off from Nordstrom's; and a Spanx "body shaper" thingy. Now, why a size 2/4 woman should have to wear a girdle is another issue altogether, but there you go. Sigh.

Canyon Ranch. Words can't describe the inherent goodness and blissfulness of a good spa day. First came the haircut. Next the massage. And finally, my first facial, since of late my skin has been all over the place, probably from the Botox and Restylane experiments. The facial was nice, though I don't know that my skin is necessarily any better.

The classic Clark Griswold/Mark Green vacation comment. Our family vacays always turned into Griswold-esque misadventures when we were younger. Fittingly, it was Vegas Vacation this time. While eating at Spago with the fam, our aunt, uncle and cousins, who always go on international vacations as a family, I say to dad, "Well, we had never even been on a family vacation outside the U.S. until Bermuda, where I had to drag you kicking and screaming." We've been to Mexico, but that doesn't count.

"Uh, huh," dad says in his defense, "What about Hawaii?"

The Wynn resort is pretty, pictured below, but kind of a poor imitation of Bellagio from what I saw of it. You can view the rest of our Vegas Vacation pics by clicking on the Flickr link on the right side of this page.




This amazing leg massager from Brookstone, which my brother and I parked our weary asses in after dinner and drinks at Tao Sat. night. I think you can deduce from the expression on my face that it's pure heaven. The attached seat rest massager (only $99!) is divine too.



OK, now for the Big News: I quit my job today with about a month's notice. I am leaving Miami. This city just isn't my cup of coffee. I plan to go back to writing and editing full-time, first and foremost finishing my second book. I also plan on moving back to NYC soon, but am decamping to the family's pad in Fla. to finish the book and look for some freelance gigs. So holla if you've got some stuff for me. What? Why? When? More later, I am still jet-lagged.

Thanks

I am so thankful for the fact that mom didn't realize that her computer was logged into my blogger account due to my use of it over the weekend at the 'rents' house; otherwise she probably would've tried to post something. I'm thankful that I'm going to Vegas, which oddly enough is warmer than Miami right now. I am also thankful that I am flying out tomorrow instead of today. I feel for everyone traveling today, so good luck and Godspeed and all that.

And I'm uber-thankful that tomorrow's episode of Grey's Anatomy is extended, yay! After eating at one of Emeril's restaurants in Vegas tomorrow night, while my parents are at Celine Dion (oy vey), I'll be in our suite at the Venetian watching McDreamy. Yes, I am totally lame, and I don't gamble. I'll stash the cash that daddy gives me to gamble with and use it to shop, shop, shop.

But what am I most thankful for? Oh, yeah, you guessed it: the day after Thanksgiving sales, the fact that Neiman's is near our hotel and the fact that dad and brother will be occupied at Canyon Ranch while mom and I have retail reign.

Happy Thanksgiving and safe travels!

Savvy Sales Shopping

I basically posted this exact same thing on Fashionosophy today, but since nobody reads that site and I'm too lazy to keep up with it, I'm duplicating the post here. One of my 2 daily readers e-mailed me about this site he works for called Shop it to Me.

It's awesome; you choose your favorite designers--lots of good, high-end ones are listed--and then the site e-mails you sales these designers are having online. You also choose your size, so the e-mails you receive are specifically catered to your designers, sizes, etc. No more need to scour the web for deals. Why didn't I think of this? I eagerly await the post-Thanksgiving e-mail.

I'm off to Vegas, baby, for Thanksgiving. I don't gamble, but seeing as how Vegas has become both a foodie and fashionista destination of choice, I think I'll find some things to amuse myself with. Plus, Saturday I'm booked at the Canyon Ranch Spa Club, which is simply divine. Oh, and there's a Neiman's outlet a mere 39 miles away. . .

Are Rock Bottoms Solid/The Circle of Celebrity

I've had several moments in my life where I've thought, "OK, this is it, I've hit rock bottom." But then the mere fact that there have been several "rock bottom" moments implies that one of them really wasn't rock bottom, so obviously, the botom is porous and it's a sliding scale, especially for depressives. For a true depressive, I suppose that real "rock bottom" translates to thoughts of suicide or actual attempts. Anyway, my point is that I've had several times in my life where I've thought that "this is it; things just can't get any worse, how am I going to dig myself out of this whole and claw my way back to the top? (Or, the middle really.)

On Sept. 10, 2004, The New York Post ran a nearly full-page story about Dishalicious in the business section, accompanied by a photo of me and a photo of Bonnie Fuller. There had been previous items in Page Six, on Gawker and in Women's Wear Daily, but the business section of the Post? That got American Media's attention. Seventeen days later, Sept. 27, 2004, I learned that I was being sued by American Media. During all of this, the book was circulating amongst 10 publishers, and according to my then agent, prospects were good. Then I was served by AMI, and the bottom slowly began to fall out. The publishers' reactions went from "very interested" to "not interested, and I was once again unemployed.

Oct. 1, after I had a court date, after the press had both praised and vilified me and after the book was rejected by 9 publishers, my family and I went to the opening of our family friend's play, Jewtopia. Sam Wolfson, who I'd grown up with, is one of the stars and cowriters/cocreators. The audience that night was comprised mostly of family and friends of the stars. I was, as you can well imagine, an anxious mess that weekend. I was experiencing my first Warholian 15 minutes and was unsure what the hell it all meant? Would I challenge AMI? Would I settle? Would the book sell? And that night I was faced with a sea of Jacksonvillians I hadn't seen in years, so I had to do the whole 60-second-life story spiel about forty times.

I get through the pre-theater cocktail hour fine, doing the whole 60 second life story—book, press, lawsuit—several times over. Disconcertingly people seem to think that because I’m being sued, I’ve made it or I’m famous or I did something right. It’s bizarre.

Sam especially thinks this is cool. "Wow, you're being sued! How cool! Go get 'em Steph and let me know what happens."

In fact, this is pretty much everyone's reaction. The play is fantastic, and I’m so happy to see someone who deserves success finally achieve it. The thought that plagues me though is whether I’ll ever experience the joy that Sam is now, finally seeing his dreams come to fruition after struggling for so many years. I wonder if my parents will ever be as exuberantly proud as Denny and Arlene are of Sam. I have serious doubts they will.

After the play, at the small reception above the theater, my dad congratulates Sam's dad, Denny, with whom he grew up, saying something like, “I think your boy is going to make it!”

Denny, flushed with pride says something along the lines of, “It looks that way. Thank God, cause this is one difficult place to make it. You know, I came here after college to work on Wall Street and it was tough.”

“Well, you definitely have to be tough to make it here, otherwise the city will eat you alive,” I say, thinking, I wonder if I'll do the eating or be eaten.

Cut to two years later, this past Saturday night. Sam and Bryan are in Jacksonville doing a reading from their book. It's a funny book, and it was great seeing everyone again. But here we are again; two years later, a lawsuit, 30,000 edits of a manuscript, 500 pages of a new book and Sam, the actor, has a book and I, the writer, once again, have nothing. And once again, Sam's folks are laughing with pride, while my folks are, in answer to the question, "What is your daughter doing now," saying, "Well, she's in Miami, trying to figure things out."

Strangers or friends of my family I haven't seen in years, ask me what's going on and I have to do the 60-second-life-story yet again. "I'm in Miami, writing and working for my uncle."

"Do you like Miami?"

"No, actually, I hate it. I miss New York terribly."

"So what are you going to do?"

Good question.

Mercedes; The Ultimate Twatwaffle

10 hours in my car over two days does not a happy Stephanie make. Forced by the condo Nazis to "permanently remove" Wally from the premises, I drove up to Jacksonville yesterday, attended a patron's dinner for the JCC there wherein Sam and Bryan of Jewtopia were the featured performers, then drove right back down to Miami today. My back and neck ache, I've barely unpacked, and I'm off to Vegas for a true American Thanksgiving on Thursday. Funny stories from the weekend TK, from the Jewtopia event last night, but right now I must go stretch and hit the gym.
And, yes I'm bitching again, but if you don't like my bitching, then quit reading, because I tend to do quite a lot of it.

Stephanie's Reasons Why Not

I don't think it's any great secret that I don't like it down here, for myriad reasons, many of which I have already bitched about. Nonetheless, a refresher course in why Stephanie thinks Miami sucks and there really is no place like home (New York).

1. Spanish.

2. Condo Nazis. Give me a non-English speaking doorman and an ineffectual super on-the-take anyday over a building full of "condo commandos" whose jobs require them to narc on neighbors, spy on residents and discriminate against dogs.

3. Cars. Especially my car. I want to set the motherfucker on fire and then push it into the Atlantic where the sharks can feast on it.

4. Traffic. The traffic down here is simply unbearable, seriously. Everyone thinks NYC traffic is bad, but honies, let me tell you, a sea of cabs moving at 5 mph is much better than an ocean of cars six lanes thick not moving at all on I-95. Also, the conditions of the roads down here are so bad and there is constant construction, everywhere.

Case in point: Last Friday night, I had an event for the symphony. I elected to drive, as the event was a mere .08 miles from my apt. .08 miles people. Well, what did the wonderful city of Miami decide to do at the last minute after my friend had secured permits for the venue? Override her permits and tear up all the surrounding streets. What would have been a 2-minute drive turned into a 40-minute ordeal that resulted in me screaming into the phone to Dana, who was already there, getting into a fight with several valets and having a police officer escort me to the door of the venue and asking, "Are you happy now miss?"

Well, no, actually, I was so peeved by the time I made it into the event that I left after about 30 minutes.

5. Most of the people who live here. People who live here seem to fall into a few categories. a.) Working-class Latinos (pardon me if that is not the PC phrase, I never know). b.) Uber-wealthy South Americans with second residences here who think they own the city, which I suppose they do. c.) Old Jews. I love 'em, but since I don't live near Bal Harbour, I don't encounter many bubbies. d.) Youngish Jews, but not cool ones. Not New York Jews. Married young Jews. Boring young Jews. Non-stylish, under-educated young Jews who do not read the Times or even Page Six. In fact, they don't even know what Page Six is. And Gawker? Forget about it. These people down here barely know what blogs are. Seriously.

I could go on for pages about what I don't like down here, so I think that is a sign that perhaps I've made a colossul, monumental mistake in relocating, but I'm not quite sure what to do about this. I have some serious, serious thinking to do people, and I'm going to try to do it over the weekend, in Jacksonville, where I have to drive to deposit Wally since he has been evicted by the Condo Nazis.

What, you may ask, if anything, do I like about Miami? The beach is lovely. But I do not go to the beach; it is far and requires me to drive and it makes my skin even worse and I don't belong to a beach club here so I have to go to a public beach and there is just simply not enough Purell in the city to enable me to do that. So there, once again, I'm a complete and utter mess.

Awanta?

Awanta: Who do they think they are? Hebrew-style.

American Media (all links via Gawker) is, once again, reading this. Is it a lackey? Is it a lawyer? Is it Bonnie or Joe? Most likely, it's a lackey, as this particular AMI slave was logged on at 9:47 p.m. last night and read for more than 15 minutes.

Sooo, because I'm in a particularly bad mood today and because AMI pretty much made my life a living hell with the lawsuit (despite the fact that I smacked their asses down in court), this is what I have to say to you American Media: Fuck off, lech lehizdayen, joda lejos and baiser de. Hebrew, Spanish and French, respectively. But cursing in phonetic Hebrew is the funnest.

There's:
zonah: whore
benzonah: son of a bitch (son of a whore, literally)
lech zayen et ima shelcha: go fuck your mom
arss: white trash

My favorite Hebrew phrase, however, is sababa, meaning cool, okay, fine. It's just so fun to say. Sa-ba-ba.

Ah, the things you learn at sleepaway camp, in Hebrew school and in Israel. I miss Israel and esp. Israeli men. Everyone thinks they are chauvinistic and sexist and maybe they are a little. But, they are hot. They are strong. They are men's men. They are also sweet, complimentary and put women on pedestals. They are, in short, much better in my opinion than American Jewish men, who tend to be coddled, prissy, dorky and often spineless due to years of thinking they are the best thing since sliced bread, thanks to their overbearing mothers.

I think I need to go back to Israel; the last boyfriend I had was Israeli, and though things would've never worked out due to cultural chasms, he was hot, sweet, hardworking, hardbodied, caring, sensitive, funny, goofy and he gave great massages.

Condo Commandos Catch Clandestine Canine!

Wally's jig is up. Seeing as how I stopped using the stupid Sherpa bag and have been walking him freely, just like, oh, any other normal dog, I'm not surprised. Alas, he was ratted out in ways of which I am not aware, but I suspect the security guys. I think they probably get kickbacks for being narcs. I mean, how could anyone possibly take offense to this face?

Anyway, I was planning on driving him back to the 'rents house this weekend so he could avoid the whole moving ordeal. After I returned from Jax a couple weeks ago with Wally in tow and told my realtor-friend, he responded with this humorous e-mail:

"I hear someone singing

Reunited and it feels so good

This breakup we had

Has left me lonely and sad

But we’re reunited, hey hey"

And then today, upon me telling him that the way in which Wally was caught was nothing dramatic--for he has since become a loyal reader and expects nothing less than high drama from moi--responded:

"I pictured the condo emperor running you down as you sauntered out with that oversized LV puppy purse. 'What whimpering...oh that?...um, that's my cellphone...got to go!"

D. I think you may have missed your calling as a writer or something;) Although I'm sure a sense of humor comes in handy in your line of work.

Check out today's Fashionosophy; I actually managed to post something. Or nothing. Eye of the beholder and all that.

Sitemeter

For those of you web newbies/old people out there, we bloggers have a function called sitemeter that often enables us to see who is reading our blog and for how long. With the exception of AOL users, we can see your IP address, your company name, your geographic location, how long you spent on our site, how you entered and exited the site, and what page you were referred from.

Sometimes this falls under the heading of "too much information."
Case in point: Today someone from the law firm of Sedgwick Detert Moran & Arnold viewed 79 pages of my blog! WTF? I didn't even know I had 79 pages. You're an atty--don't you have, like, work to do?

One of the best parts of sitemeter, however, is that when someone arrives here from a Google search, you can see the exact phrase they typed in. Usually, it's just my name or Dishalicious. But some of the funniest ones I've had are "hairy green scary," "lexapro and kicking and screaming in sleep," "seeking for 100% auth dating site in maryland in 2006," and "slingbacks adhesive" and "jdate freaks."

Leave it to Me

To be one of those idiots who never deletes e-mail addresses and enters each person into my "contacts" because I had Hotmail and otherwise it went to Junkmail. What this means is that when I sent out my e-mail today announcing that I was switching to Gmail, and selected "all" in my address book, the email went out to every ex, every potential employer, every JDater, every ex-friend, etc. etc. who was still in my address book. And now they all not only have my blog addresses, but also my cell phone #. Ah, the wonders of technology and the stupidity of moi. So, er, welcome back people. It's been one of those days.

On the plus side, I've gotten to chat with lots of old peeps who I haven't heard from in a while, so it's all relative.

Dog Day Afternoon

Wally and Cubby's second playdate, in which Wally, trying to establish his dominance, ignores Cubby, and Cubby tries fruitlessly and relentlessly to engage Wally in a little lighthearted play. Wally wasn't having it.

The Bitch Must Die

Is it justifiable homicide if I, say, accidentally murder my upstairs neighbor with one of her stiletto heels because she wakes me up repeatedly? No? Well, what if, say I have major sleeping problems and treasure those sleepy Saturdays and Sundays as if they were platinum laced with D-colored diamonds? How about then? I'm about to leave a note on her (see #9) door that says:

¿Habla inglés? No? Bien entonces, gracias para despertarme otra vez. He tratado de ser próximo tiempo cortés pero llamo a policía o inmigración. Espero su Visa o Tarjeta Verde está en la orden.
la mayoría del sinceramente suyo,
su colinda abajo

Translation:
Speak English? No? Well, then, thank you for awakening me again. I have tried to be polite, but next time I am calling police or immigration. I hope your Visa or Green Card is in order.
Most sincerely yours,
Your downstairs neighbor

I am not kidding here people; I will photograph the sign and scan it in for your pleasure later. This nifty online translator rocks; it translates whole paragraphs at a time.




And this site, making fun of Page Six on my behalf, is pretty groovy too: Swanky Beast.

More TK later after I've taken out my frustrations at the gym, posted my nifty sign and taken Wally and Dana's dog Cubby for a walk. It's about time the little beast made nice with other canines. I also have some more post Botox and Restylane pictures to share. I'm sure you're all just oozing with anticipation.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

OK girls, I've stumbled upon the singleton's version of a registry and fabulously, it's courtesy of Neiman's.

In light of the overwhelming response to my post about the cost of being in a friend's wedding, consider this the singletons' revenge or something like that. So here's my Neiman Marcus Wish List, and naturally it's far-fetched (hey, isn't that what wishing is for?) and I expect to get nothing from it, but it's a fun diversion. And, um, this is very addicting; once I started, I just couldn't stop!

So girls, (and guys, if you're so inclined) I encourage you to do the same, and please post your link in the comments section so that everyone can see what you've registered for! If you don't already have a Neiman's online account, you simply have to register with your e-mail and a password. And to view each other's, we need to have one another's e-mails, so include those in your link. Happy shopping, er, wishing, hoping and dreaming!

And visit Fashionosophy for a glimpse into the inner-workings of my designer-diseased brain.

Twatwaffle, Tee-Hee-Hee

It's a dry day, please visit Fashionosophy. But, oh, am I loving this: Gawker's smackdown of the twatwaffle. That's not my word, it's Gawker's or one of its commenter's but oh what a brilliant word. I'm adopting it. The comments are the funniest part, so be sure to read those . . . The fact that this twatwaffle has a book deal is just beyond.

Update: My ongoing love affair with the word "Twatwaffle" has taken a new turn. Gotta love Gawker for their contributions to the lexicon of low-culture. And I mean that as a compliment Gawkers...

Singles Versus the World

There is an ongoing, pervasive war being waged between the women in this country: It's the singletons versus the fiancées, and it's getting bloody people.

What I'm speaking of is the showers, the parties, the destination weddings, the hideous bridesmaids' dresses, the endless shelling out of dough that it now costs to "celebrate" your friends' happiness. In the good ol' days, at least according to my mom, there was simply. . . an engagement party thrown by the parents, preferably at the yacht club;a wedding and reception; and a honeymoon. Period. The end. There was minimal "cost" involved for the celebrants and atendees. You wore a pretty outfit, you showed up, you toasted, you sent the couple on their merry way and that was that. Hurrah.

Oh, but for the good ol' days. It was quite a bit more civilized then, no? Sure, there were registries, but mainly for bone china and place settings, not for, say, cappuccino makers, bread makers, ice-cream makers, nic-nacs, picture frames and things that have nothing whatsoever to do with weddings, per se. And there was simply Tiffany, Bloomingdale's, Bergdorf's, Neiman's, Jacobson's. There was, thankfully, no Bed, Bath & Beyond. And then, I am almost positive, the registrants did not return your gifts for store credit.

But now, there simply must be a party for everything. And let me tell you, for us singletons, esp. those of us who will never marry, this gets to be a huge pain in the ass and causes a major dent in the wallet. It's even worse if you are the maid of honor.

So let's do a case study of a destination wedding in which I am the maid of honor.

First, the phone call.
"You know, of course, that I want you to be my maid of honor," says the best friend, gushing.

"Oh, um, thanks?" I reply, knowing that this was coming, but also thinkingfabulous. I'm unemployed, the wedding is in Napa Valley, not an easy or inexpensive place to get to, and we also live in different cities.

So here's what is on the table over the next six months celebrating her engagement/wedding:
1. Engagement gift: Jay Strongwater decorative box: $135

2. Engagement Party, thrown by my parents and me, at my childhood house in our hometown:

• Invitations: $125
• Food: $200
• Alcohol: $200
• Plane ticket home for Wally and me: $350
• Shirt to wear to party: $200

Total Cost, Engagement Party: $1,075

3. Bachelorette Party:

• Transportation to Miami for Wally and me: $350
• Hotel Room: $100-200 (I don't remember)
• Food/Alcohol: $100

Total Cost, Bachelorette Party: $600

Shower:

• Thrown by other bridesmaids; I didn't attend. Enough was enough.

4. Wardrobe:

• Bridesmaid Dress. Not something I would ordinarily buy: psychedelic print, strapless, shiny silk, multicolored, ruched and knotted, asymmetrical hem.

Let's lowball it at $150.

• Handbag for Ceremony: Prada black nylon, mini shoulder bag with silver chain, about $300.
• Dress for Rehearsal Dinner: Classic, black Max Mara dress, $500 or so.
• Jewelry: Borrowed from mom, free.
• We won't go into mom's dress for the wedding, or her shoes, but suffice it to say that the dress was Luca Luca (retail) and the shoes were crystallized Manolos from the evening collection. My target audience knows what kind of digits we are talking about here.

Total cost, my wardrobe: $950

5. The Actual Wedding:

• Plane fare, NYC to Sacramento, CA $450
• Rental car, Sacramento to Sonoma: $340
• Hotel: $900 for three nights
• Add to the above the fact that my mom, dad and brother also went, so triple the cost. But this is about ME.

Total Cost: Wedding: $1,690

6. Wedding Gift: Jay Strongwater candlestick, shared by another family, don't know the cost.

Grand Total, Best Friend's Wedding, Cost to Maid of Honor and her family: (exclusive of the rest of the family's plane fare and the actual wedding gift): $4,600.

Why, I could buy my very own Monique Luhllier gown for that cost. Or perhaps my own Jay Strongwater piece. Or maybe even a Chloe Silverado Satchel and a Fendi Spy. Or a Chopard Happy Sport watch that I've been coveting for years. Or a few days in Italy. Or actually, that would've covered two months' rent in my Manhattan apartment.

Oh, but it's the right thing to do, right? Cause (and this is what people always say) "She would do it for you in a heartbeat." And she would, except here's the rub: I'm not getting married. And most likely never will. I'm not getting the parties, the gifts, etc. etc. etc. The singles, my friends, get shafted. Big time. Remember that episode of Sex and the City where Carrie registered at Manolo Blahnik because of all of the above reasons? Well, it's not so far fetched, after all.

But here's the worst part about being a maid of honor--you don't actually get to enjoy the wedding or the party like you should because you have to worry about bustling the dress, making the toast, making sure the bride is taken care of even though there is a wedding planner. Oh, the endless joys of being single in a married world.

And before you comment, yes, I'm bitter. I'm bitter that single people aren't recognized as whole individuals. We may as well be mutants--we are pitied, poo-poohed, fixed up, fussed over, worried about. Hey, we're not the ones asking our friends to shell out thousands of dollars to make us happy, so tell me, who, really are the screw-ups? Singles or Marrieds?

Fashionably Late

OK, people, move on over to Fashionosophy and check out my first post. It's really scary how much more I enjoy fashion than almost anything else in life aside from Wally. I will continue to post here as well, but since my sartorial life is much more exciting than my social life, I wouldn't hold your breath.


UPDATE: Cartier has lost my Tank. What the HELL is going on today? Seriously? Maybe I'll get a new watch out of all this if those morons can't find my three-year-old one.

Fashionosophy It Is...But I Need Some Tech Help

OK, the votes are in, and by that I mean, like three of you. But Fashionosophy it is. I'm working on a prototype now and trying to figure out why my damn camera has such a hard time taking close up shots of jewelry. If I were smart, which I never accuse myself of being, I would have lugged the camera to Cartier in Bal Harbour with me today, where I drove to pick up my watch. Come to find out that my watch, which I'd left there for an estimate and had subsequently balked at the $789-repair pricetag, was located in the "repair shop" upstairs, which isn't opened on Sunday. Oh well, at least Wally got to see Bal Harbour. And he wasn't the only Poodle in Cartier either, which is the truly sad thing.

Anywho, check back on Fashionosophy in the next couple of days.

Shit, can someone please tell me how to change my profile on each blog separately? My Dish profile is now the same as my Fashionosophy profile, God forbid. There's gotta be one tech-savvy reader out there...

Reader Response Required

OK girls and queens, this one's for you. I'm going to start another blog that deals exclusively with beauty, fashion, accessories and jewelry. I'm trying to think of a cute, snappy, one word name. I want the title to include the word "fashion," or "fash."

Which do you like best, or, if you can think of something better, please feel free to comment.

1. fashionabulous

2. fashionosophy

3. fashionfesto

4. fashtastic

Things That Make Me Go Grrrr

My car.
It insists on having its oil changed, tires rotated and aligned and likes to leave me "messages" on the dashboard. E.G. "wiper fluid out, please refill," except the wiper fluid is not out, thank you very much. And this one: "service type 2 required in 24 days." What, do I speak Latin now? I'm supposed to thumb through the 290-page manual to figure out what "type 2" is? God, words cannot express how much I loathe driving and specifically my car. Take a lesson from me people, do not let your parents buy your car from eBay, especially if you have not driven in six years and therefore don't understand the significance of taking it for a test drive. Oh, and I have I mentioned that the schmancy CD player won't play burned (or in Mercedes lingo, "copyright protected") CDs? That's why I listen to audio books. Well, that and the fact that I'm a completely lame geek.

Publix and Grocery Store Clerks.
Now, Mich, maybe you can answer me this question or start a campaign or something against grocery store baggers. Could the country's recycling issues not be resolved merely by grocery store clerks just cutting down on the sheer volume of bags they insist on using? Does each item really need its own separate bag? Do my soy chips really require their own plastic entity? Are my bananas really going to be irreparably damaged if they touch my frozen dinners? The overuse of grocery bags infuriates me irrationally, I think because I have to carry them from my car to my apartment, so I insist on consolodating everything into as few bags as possible in my wretched car. This results in the front seat of my car looking like a Publix shopping bag repository.

Network TV Executives, Nielsen TV Ratings and The American Public in General.
Oh, you're yanking Studio 60 already? Big surprise--it's smart, engaging, culturally relevant and cutting-edge, just what America doesn't want. Aaron Sorkin's brilliant and beautiful dialogue is just a little too smart and witty for you? Four episdoes weren't enough to garner high ratings? Do you think that perhaps it has to do with the horrible time slot it was shoved into, as lame-ass, overeducated peeps like me, who are probably the show's target audience, are tired at 10 p.m. cause we are now old and lame? Oh, and I'm still smarting over Arrested Development. Perhaps the most brilliant show ever created. Ever. As much as I hate my car is how much I love AD. Love, love, love it. Why didn't HBO buy it? Why am I still obsessed with it? Maybe because it's brilliant and I'm lame and need to get a life.

Desk chairs.
Why are they so uncomfortable? Even now I have to quit typing and get up and stretch because my desk chair and my damn car aggravate my tendonitis. That's my rant for today.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Nothing Special

OK, first of all Restylane freaking hurts. Bad. As compared to Botox, which requires a few mere pinpricks, Restylane requires about ten on either side of the mouth and it's painful. You have to sit there with numbing cream on for about 45 minutes and then come the injections and then you have to ice it. I was pretty swollen walking out of the derm's office last night. Today I'm a little red and a little swollen, but overall, the pain? Sooo worth it, ladies.

For those of you who don't know what it is, Restylane is a filler that goes around the frown lines around your mouth, or technically into the "Naso labial folds," which run from the bottom of the nose to the bottom of the lip. Anywho, I'm icing my face at the office today. I don't have my own before and after photos, but take a gander at these:

Restylane before and after photos

On a completely unrelated note, my friend Daryl's You Tube video that he compiled for the guys, has me cracking up today. These are the guys I grew up with, and after watching the video, you'll probably realize what an awesome crew it is and what I mean when I say that I'm truly blessed with regards to my friends, family and family friends. Young Yearly Video

Also, completely unrelated, I seem to be having dreams about people whom I have absolutely no conscious relationship to and/or haven't thought about or seen in years. Last night it was this very nice fellow also in the crew I grew up with who apparently is a rising music star. Mutual friends have been telling me to listen to his stuff for a while now, and I just got around to it. I'm not musicially inclined nor do I pretend to have good taste in music, but I dig it:

Ashton Allen on MySpace

I think it's funny how the ad at the top of this site this morning was "What Really Attracts Guys." Oh, the irony. How about "What Really Repels Guys?" Yesterday it was, "How to Attract a Wealthy Guy." Yeah. Now it's "Put Your Face on Ice" and "Lip Fat Injections." Man, Google does a good job of targeted advertising.

The ad from this a.m., "What really attracts guys," brings me around the subject of modern women versus traditional women and parental role models. As I have said before, my parents are very modern. They share almost equally in the responsibilities of the marriage. They both work hard and play hard. And they don't keep secrets from each other like many of their friends do. Secrets mainly such as, "Oh, I was really bad at Neiman's today and I'm just going to intercept the bill before hubby sees it."

We don't play like that in my family. Anywho, I know that in most marriages in the Jewish community the women do play like that, or they're on an allowance or the husband goes over the bills with a fine-tooth comb. Well, where am I going with this? Oh, OK, even though we don't keep secrets like that in my fam, mom is the one who buys me pretty things. Dad stays out of the shopping picture with regards to me. Sometimes dad doesn't know to what extent mom spoils me, because she's spending her own money.

His curiosity factor usually goes something like this. I'll see him and be carrying a new Chanel bag or something. "Oh, that's pretty honey," he'll say, "Is it new."

"Yes, I got it in New York last time we were there, remember?" and then I'll catch mom's eye. For some reason he notices handbags but it takes him a while to notice jewelry.

Up until I saw the "Go girl" comment from last week, I was unaware that dad is a regular reader. So I got a little flack when I went home this weekend about the Botox, fashion stuff, jewelry, etc. etc. that I just didn't think daddy knew about. I was going to write more on this subject and how it all ties into my mom's traditional friend berating me this weekend b/c she thinks I am too upfront with men, how they don't need to know about my botox, my jewelry, my clothes, that I should be more subservient, less intimidating, but now I'm tired so here's the short version. Mom's good friend, whom I am very close to, ALWAYS tells me this stuff, and I love her to death but we do not see eye to eye on this subject. I know I need man advice, and perhaps I should even listen to it, but, let's face it, I'm not going to. I'm going to continue to be me.

My response this weekend, to mom's friend's comments that I should not blog about my Botox, jewelry, etc. was as usual, "A man can take me as I am or not take me at all."

And if there are no takers, then that's just dandy by me, cause at least I'm keeping it real.

Enquiring Minds...

OK, Anon, this one's for you. We all have some questions for you, so I figured instead of speculating with my friends and family and other bloggers, I'll just put 'em out here into the great cyberspace void.

1.) How old are you?

2.) Where in NY do you live?

3.) How did you find my blog?

4.) If we played Jewish Geography, would we come up with some common names?

5.) This one is from the moms and the yentas, what do you do?

Feel free to respond via the comments . . .

Wally Is Back

OK, first an update, dear readers. Tomorrow I will go into the details of my weekend and last week. I arrived home from Jax last night around 9:30 with a petrified Wally in tow. I smuggled him into and out of the building in his new Sherpa Tote Around Town bag (thanks for the rec, Mel).

He is a little skittish, but was playing with his toys last night and seems happy to be with me again. I have the bark collar on him today while I'm at work, because he tends to howl when I leave.

A hot topic of conversation among my parents' friends who read this blog was the anony-commenter who seems to have a slight crush on me, against his better judgement. My mom wants to know who he is and my mom's friends do as well.

I got to hang with Nancy P., my biggest fan amongst my parents set--it was great to see you too--and found out that indeed, my dad did leave the "Go girl," comment. Truly frightening. I also have some pre- and post- Botox pictures to share later when I upload this weekend's pics. Tomorrow I go back for some more in the forehead and Restylane around my frown lines.

Thanks to Lynn and Alan for being such great hosts in Palm Beach as always. And I do have some funny stories but I will wait until later for those. For now, I thought I'd amuse you with excerpts from my diary, circa 1985, when I was 9 years old. I don't remember exactly what I looked like at that age, but I'm pretty sure I was in a lovely awkward, fat phase. And in the throes of my first-ever true crush. This is verbatim, spelling and all:

April 23, 1985
Dear Diary,
Today wasn't too bad. Guess what? Bryan sat next to me at lunch. He talked to me without making fun of me. I guess I still like him. But I think he likes Jessica and Cecelia. I had piano today. I hate it! I'm not sure if I want to quit or not. Mabey Bryan does like me! Bye!

Same Day
We wrote limericks today in school, here's mine:
There once was a girl named Jane who knew she was a pain. She bumped her lip and cut her hip and from then on she used her brain.

Like it? I do. Bye!

April 24th or 25th [The dates seem to jump around a lot. I guess I wasn't as type-A at age 9.]
Today he was mean to me. I don't think I like him anymore. I hate my teacher. She's a pain in the rear end! Yesterday we got our report cards. I only got one C+ [probably in phys ed]. Want to hear my grades? B, B+, A, B, B+, A, B, B.

April 26
Dear Diary,
Someone died in our class. His name was Tarek John. He died of a blood vessel in his brain, it popped. He was Christi's boyfriend. He was nice to people. I am sad he died