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I've recronstructed the scene of the latest jewelry crime thanks to my digital photos, and it appears as the brooch was plotting its escape from my sweater shrug around 11 p.m. Saturday night in Atlanta at the wedding party. Oh, well—with 500+ people, a cavalcade of wait staff and caterers, I'm sure it's a major longshot that it will end up in my possession again.

It's now official: I have a plane ticket to Florida and will be exploring the options down there in less than two weeks. Crazy. I haven't even sent out a mass e-mail, planned a farewell fete up here or anything. But I'm rather excited to get the hell out of here. It's dark and cold and dreary, while my friends in South Florida are cruising around with their tops down and driving past the beach on their lunch hours. What this means though, is that in the next few weeks, I will have to hunt for an apartment, a car, a job, insurance, movers, etc. Each minor Manhattan frustration spurs me on in my decision to leave. Trying to book a 'trendy' restaurant for Friday night up here, was, as usual, an exercise in futility. I simply do not have the patience anymore.

"Do you have anything for around 9?"

"No, we have 5:30 or 11."

Right, cause I am so sure that earlybirds eat at Stanton Social right after their afternoon canasta games. Grrrrrrrr.

Moving also means that the South Florida setups will begin. Yentas, start your engines. By my count I've got two or three on my plate already and I haven't even visited yet. I think dating is easier down there though. In fact I think everything must be easier.

And on another random note, regarding the utter stupidity of the staff in my loathsome NYC apartment building. I get in the elevator today with this nice, master-of-the-universe type guy who lives here with his wife and child. Before stepping into the elevator, I hear him talking to the doorman who I played the "who's on first game" with the day the exterminator came. I note the frustration in the master-of-the universe's voice, and wonder what Diego has done this time.

MOU gets in elevator with me, carrying a box.

"Sometimes I just don't understand what the hell is wrong with that guy," he says.

I laugh.

"I mean, he kept asking me if I had a package from Staples. I said, 'my name is on the label, isn't it?' He was holding the package and my name is on it. Jeez."

"Ha. I know. I always wonder if he's just playing dumb or if he's on serious drugs."

The elevator stops on 10. I live on 15. I proceed to exit the elevator.

The MOU starts laughing at me.

"Who's the one on serious drugs?" he kids.

Sadly, though, I think Diego is completely sober all the time.

Oh-kay. I'm the paranoid one? I received this forward today. I know it's well-intentioned, but, um, yeah. I love the "better paranoid than dead" line. I guess I've completely forgotten what life is like outside Manhattan, what with rampant carjackings, kidnappings, muggings etc. Suddenly NYC is seeming slightly more sane than the burbs.

Then again, there is always the New York Social Diary to remind us that Manhattan really isn't so normal. Not even close. (http://www.nysocialdiary.com/) And these people are much more frightening in person, trust me. I'm done writing about personal stuff here, as now there are definitely random people reading and that totally freaks me out.

I want to murder the genius who invented squeaky toys for dogs. Bad, horrible, evil idea. My next dog will not be given these monstrosities. She will not be fed cat food either, God willing. It's like 60 degrees here and the dead of winter, which means that it will be snowing in April, when I am lying on the beach in Florida. Ha.

Subject: Safety for Women - not humor

We can now add to the list of victims the retired 77 yr. old TCU professor

from Ft Worth whose body was found last week in Oklahoma--and the 11 yr. old

in Sarasota, FL. Because of these recent abductions in daylight hours,

refresh yourself of these things to do in an emergency situation...This is

for you, and for you to share with your wife, your children, everyone you

know.



After reading these 9 crucial tips, forward them to someone you care about.

It never hurts to be careful in this crazy world we live in.



1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If

you are close enough to use it, do!



2. Learned this from a tourist guide in New Orleans. If a robber asks for

your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from

you....chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse

than you, and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER

DIRECTION!



3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail

lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The

driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.



4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating,

working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc.

DON'T DO THIS!) The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect

opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head,

and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS

AND LEAVE.



a. If someone is in the car with a gun to your head DO NOT DRIVE OFF,

repeat: DO NOT DRIVE OFF! Instead gun the engine and speed into anything,

wrecking the car. Your Air Bag will save you. If the person is in the back

seat they will get the worst of it. As soon as the car crashes bail out and

run. I! t is better than having them find your body in a remote location.



5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking

garage:



A.) Be aware: look around you, look into your car, at the passenger side

floor, and in the back seat.



B.) If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger

door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their

vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.



C.) Look at the car parked on the driver's side of your vehicle, and the

passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you

may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to

walk you back out.



IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)



6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible

places to be alone and the perfect crime spot. This is especially true at

NIGHT!)



7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN!

The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even

then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN, Prefer! ably ! in a

zig -zag pattern!



8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP. It may get you

raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well

educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He

walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked "for help" into his vehicle

or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.



************* Here it is *******



9. Another Safety Point: Someone just told me that her friend heard a crying

baby on her porch the night before last, and she called the police because

it was late and she thought it was weird. The police told her "Whatever you

do, DO NOT open the door."



The lady then said that it sounded like the baby had crawled near a window,

and she was worried that it would crawl to the street and get run over. The

policeman said, "We already have a unit on the way, whatever you do, DO NOT

open the door." He told her that they think a serial killer has a baby's cry

recorded and uses it to coax women out of their homes thinking that someone

dropped off a baby. He said they have not verified it, but have had several

calls by women saying that they hear baby's cries outside their doors when

they're home alone at night.



Please pass this on and DO NOT open the door for a crying baby ----This

e-mail should probably be taken seriously because the Crying Baby theory was

mentioned on America's Most Wanted this past Saturday when they profiled the

serial killer in Louisiana.



I'd like you to forward this to all the women you know. It may save a life.

A candle is not dimmed by lighting another candle. I was going to send this

to the ladies only, but guys, if you love your mothers, wives, sisters,

daughters, etc., you may want to pass it onto them, as well.



Send this to any woman you know that may need to be reminded that the world

we live in has a lot of crazies in it and it's better to be safe than sorry.

Minor, I Repeat, Minor Musings

Have had another exhausting weekend and long day of travel. What is it about airports and planes that is so draining? I will try to post more extensively tomorrow, but in the meantime:

Roberta Flack was on my flight from ATL today. There was no first class section; it was a Song flight. She asked one of the crew members if she would get a refund/credit on her ticket, because she was booked in first originally. Delta switched aircraft at the last possible minute, in Atlanta, in the middle of the afternoon, causing a huge glut in boarding. She wore sunglasses the entire time. Really dark ones. Only knew it was her because her road manager was sitting next to me and I caught snippets of his convo with someone across the aisle from me. I care VERY little about celebrities anymore after having washed their dirty laundry at a certain, unmentionable magazine I may have worked at, but I do think Killing Me Softly is a classic. The sunglasses thing—it's a celebrity form of nonverbal communication that screams, "Look at me! I am SOMEBODY!" Or maybe she was just hungover. Whatever.

I lost yet another piece of jewelry. This is becoming a disturbing pattern over the past couple of months. I try not to sweat the small stuff, but this was another very lovely, sentimental piece that belonged to my grandmother. I'm going to try to track it down, but given that the party was 500+ people in another state, I think that someone probably has an antique diamond and gold brooch they found on the ground somewhere last night. Alcohol.

Expensive shoes are, contrary to popular opinion, not better for your feet, more comfortable or more ergonomic than less expensive ones. I feel that I have scientific proof of this on a couple of different fronts. First, for about a year, I was running and working out in these totally ghetto, old-school looking sneaks I picked up at Woodbury Commons for like $20. My BFF made fun of me in these sneaks, as she said they were "cheerleading" shoes. I don't know if this is true, but I know that I never had one single foot problem or blister from these cheapo sneaks. Last month I went to the running store my parents frequent in their hometown, and one of the dudes there "fitted" me for new sneaks. Nice, expensive ones. Since buying them, I not only have nasty blisters galore, but my ankle is freaking killing me. I suppose I should just go pick up another $20 pair and call it a day.

Second, while at this great shoe repair place last week that Bergdorf's suggested, the saleswoman began talking my ear off when I requested slingback stickies. (Men: see picture. Repeat after me: Slingbacks Drop it in your next convo with your wife/girlfriend/mistress/paid entertainment. She'll be duly impressed.)





Slingbacks look hot, and they are nice in theory; aesthetically pleasing. The problem is, the slingbacks NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER stay in place, so they sell these sticky pads to put on the back of them. There is seriously a whole retail niche that has been filled by the makers of these ridiculous sticky pads. And we women, freaks that we are, buy them and stick them in the back of our stupid, overpriced shoes. Slaves to fashion. I've stopped buying slingbacks for this precise reason, but the ones I have I like, so I keep repairing them. This one pair of Manolos, has broken TWICE. First the slingback snapped in half, then recently another piece of the top snapped. I've worn the fuckers like three times total. $400+ shoes, should not break so easily, in my opinion. So I was at the shoe repair place, buying the damn sticky pads yet again, when the saleswoman revealed a trade secret. The sticky pads, are, as any woman who has used them knows, but probably won't admit, a complete gimmick that we continue to buy into—apparently, due to the physical positioning of the slingback (low on ankle), it is actually impossible for it to stay in place.

"Manolo, Choo, they both do slingbacks too low. We must fix. So what happens? We take off slingback and actually reposition them for women. That is only solution," the shoe repair woman said conspiratorially.

My eyes widened. WTF? How the hell did I not know this, with all my experience? I should have my shopping license revoked. Seriously though, we pay sick, sick amounts for these freaking shoes and then we are supposed to pay more money, probably another $30, $40 to fix them, before they even break? I am SO done with slingbacks.

I am sharing this story for a couple of reasons. First, because I know that some of my friends/readers may not know this and will actually find the information useful. Second, it fits in with my running theme here of "the grass is not always greener." We Manolo and Choo-wearers are just as uncomfortable as you are in your less pricey pairs. So the next time you put on your Nine Wests or Steve Maddens or whatever, and wish you could afford a pair of those shoes you saw in Vogue or heard about on Sex and the City just remember, Manolo sucks. And Choo can kiss my ass. They are both clearly sadists.

And guys, next time you are on a date or in a bar or wherever, look at the women's feet. If she dares to wear a slingback, see if you can spot the telltale adhesive strip poking out of the back. You'll get a good chuckle out of it. And if there is no adhesive sticker thingy, thus it follows that: They are not Manolos or Choos, or, disturbingly, the gal has shelled out upwards of $400 for the shoes, AND, another $40 or so to have the backs repositioned. We are such suckers. I'm going to stop writing now, before I know it the Manolo Mafia is going to put a hit out on me. Must go to bed. My fucking feet are really killing me.

Prada Idiot Number One

I've never been accused of being a genius, but this time I think I've taken the moron cake. In my defense, however, several friends and readers weighed in on yesterday's mystery-package dilemma with the, "dead rodent in a box," answer, so I don't think I was being completely insane. It's all relative. This most recent incident is yet another reason I need to vacate the isle of Manhattan; it's apparently driving me clear over the edge. The ending to this story is so classically Stephanie, and so utterly true, that it's actually pitch perfect. I couldn't have fantasized a better conclusion.

The package sat in my hallway all-day yesterday. I went down, box in hand, to get Heather's perspective. She is just as paranoid/overly cautious as me, and knows what buffoons our doormen are. I showed her the package, the label, etc. She took it, while on the treadmill, shook it and then suggested I have the doorman open it for me.

"Oh, and ask Sam which messenger service it came from. They have to write that stuff down for safety reasons."

"But what if it's a bomb? As much as I dislike our doormen, I don't want to be responsible for killing them. I think I should just throw it away. I'm scared," I said.

"Don't throw it away," she said, then reconsidered. "On the other hand, what if it is one of your crazy readers and it's like a dead rodent or something? Maybe you should throw it away."

"Exactly what I was thinking. I'm going to go to the lobby, and if they don't have a record of who it's from, It's going in the garbage."

I went up to the lobby. I asked the doorman which messenger service it was from. He shrugged, bewildered, as if I were asking him for the formula for rocket fuel. Why didn't they write down who it was from, I asked? God fobid they should do their jobs once in a while. I swear, someone could deliver Hannibal Lecter on that restraining-board thingy and my doormen would sign for him/buzz him in. The UN my building is not. (On a related note, another of my dimwitted doormen, did, in fact, sign for the papers to my lawsuit while I was out of town. No biggie, right?)

"I'm a little nervous about opening this—there is no return address, you don't know who it was delivered by and I am not expecting a package," I said to Sam. The other doorman, much cooler and with some wits about him, was watching all this bemusedly.

"Oh, please," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "Want me to open it?" He asked, grabbing for the package.

"No! What if it's a bomb? I don't want to kill you."

"Oh, come on, a bomb," he snorted, in his thick, Brooklyn (?) accent. He grabbed the box out of my hand. I stepped back about ten feet. The other doorman was now raising his eyebrows and edging toward the front door. Sam tore into the package. I held my breath.

He pulled out a signature, silver box from Bergdorf Goodman. I started cracking up.

"Oh. My. God!" I screamed, losing it.

"Yeah," Steve said dryly, "This is the kind of bomb I'd like to get." He rolled his eyes and handed me back the Bergdorf's bomb. It was a gift card, from one of my parents' best friends. A belated birthday present. I was thisclose to throwing the box away.

I ran back downstairs to the gym, where Heather was awaiting the conclusion to the story, probably expecting me to walk in sans a limb or something. I held up the gift card, hysterical with laughter.

"SHUT UP!" She said. "Shut up! Only you, Steph, only you would this happen to."

"I know! Is this not the perfect ending to this story or what? You should have seen Sam's face. If he didn't think I was crazy already, now he's ready to call Bellevue."

"This is so perfect. And to think, you almost threw it away! You would have never known either."

"I know. Oh, God, people are really going to think I'm making this up. I cannot wait to tell my mom. She is going to absolutely die!"

I went upstairs, called mom and told her the story. She was dying. Again, in my defense, her friend did not tell her to tell me to expect a package, and mom had actually told me to throw the box away! Dad told me to open it, but that "maybe this would teach me a lesson not to write about such personal stuff." Fat chance. It's all material, and I don't even have to exaggerate. I spoke to the gift-giver today and relayed the whole saga to her.

"It's a good thing you are getting out of New York," she said. Indeed.

Thanks for the material, C & D, and thanks for the lovely gift!

I am headed out of town tomorrow, so no posts until Sunday or Monday. I have started packing, and my little codependent dog knows what this means all to well. So as I was on the computer this morning, I turned around and looked in my suitcase and found him curled up in there on top of my clothes. Love the way dogs think, "Maybe if I just curl up in here, mommy will not notice and take me with her!" Not so much; brother will be dog-and-rodent-sitting this weekend.

Unabomber on the Upper East Side?

I am quite concerned about this mystery package. I do not think it out of the realm of possiblility that I have created a few enemies out there, and therefore could be the target of some sociopathic stalker. It is, in fact, possible that The Asshole or some other penned-about person may be attempting to scare me, horse-head-in-the-bed style. (Or was it a donkey? I don't think I ever really watched that movie all the way through.)

OK, so the facts:

This package, a standard-sized, square, brown cardboard box, was hand-delivered via messenger to my doorman last night around 8-9 p.m. (Swear to God, my doormen are more slow-witted than Duane Reade cashiers.)

There is no return address or postmark, and it merely has my name and address printed on the label, not my apartment number.

The address label is just printed on regular white paper, with some meaningless tracking number (un-Googleable), and the date of 01/21/2006.

It is very light in weight and when I shake it, something very light moves around in it.

It is not ticking.

I did not bring it into my apartment. I am debating on whether to just toss it in the garbage can outside the building, bring it to the police, or chance it and open it.

Now, I know it's probably nothing, and I am letting my imagination get the better of me, but if it is nothing, why the hell is there no sender info and why the hell was it hand-delivered by messenger? I am unlisted, what the fuck????

The only possible thing I can think of is this, and it's a loooongshot. I may have, in the past, indulged in a little smoking of the marijuana variety. When I did so, I used one of those uber-convenient delivery services, which, for those of you outside the city, entails calling a pager, having them call you back, and then having them show up at your apartment door an hour or so later. These services are commonplace up here, and the safest possible option when it comes to buying weed. Much safer, and more civilized than, say going up to some stranger in some strange park. Anyway, these companies are rather professional; they have business cards; they work on referrals; they use codewords and only know the customer's first names.

(Oh, shit, I just realized that the fact that they only know my first name negates the possibility that the package is from them. FUCK. Now I am really concerned. Motherfucker is going in the garbage ASAP.) To conclude the story though, said delivery service was busted by the feds recently, and apparently the DEA now has a list of its customers. I'm not worried on that front, my patronage of their services was insignificant, and they had many famous, ultra-wealthy clients that the DEA would be more interested in. But, it is not that farfetched to assume that the company reorganized itself after the bust and is now reaching out to former customers via the mail. But, like I just wrote, they didn't have my last name. In any case, it's an interesting saga:

The Smoking Gun via Gawker


I honestly can't make this shit up; I just seem to invite the drama.

One more option though—Mr. Devil/Scott has a bona fide stalker. I wonder if, for some un-Godly reason, Perri has moved on to moi? And if so, shit!!!!!!!!! If I do have a stalker, I'd prefer it to be male, Jewish and single, with a full head of hair, an Ivy education and a good job.

The mail has become a scary proposition. I remember after the anthrax scare, I didn't open my mail for months, and when I did, it was with gloves because my mail was sorted at the same facility as the contaminated letters that ended up at NBC in Rock Center. Coincidentally, I ended up working with, at Star, the first victim of the anthrax-by-mail attacks. She was the one who worked at the Post and opened that letter. Small world.

Yes, I'm maybe a little paranoid. No, it's not from the weed. I do not watch cartoons anymore.

Oh, and thanks for reading Nancy; somehow I think that anywhere I may live, aside from Jax., will provide for interesting material. Let's hope, anyway.

Not to get all mushy, but I just want to thank all my friends, family members and family friends for their unwavering support of me and my decision to get the hell out of dodge. You guys are awesome; I'm totally feeling the love. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I honestly don't know how people get through life without amazing friends and families. And as far as this being, scientifically, the "most depressing day of the year," I submit: February 14th.

At least for the single folks. And, I would imagine, it's not an easy day for the gents involved in new relationships either. I can't imagine it's fun negotiating the choppy waters of dating on such a loaded date, especially in Manhattan, where the restaurants will take advantage of any holiday to set prix fixe menus. Good luck with that, guys. I am here if you need suggestions—start saving. That's my first bit of advice. And, for the love of Hashem, do not book a first date on V-day. Or a second one, for that matter. Third one could work.

I have a mysterious package waiting for me in the lobby with no return address label. Given this blog and some of the random crazies who are reading it—I'm talking about the ones I don't know; I love my crazy friends and family members—I'm a little wary. If I don't post for a couple of days, call the bomb squad.

Just in case you guys have not seen this site, it's pure genius and LOL funny:

Overheard in New York

What Will You Miss?

Somebody asked me today, in so many words, whether I'd milked the city for all it was worth while living here. Did I feel that I'd done enough, seen enough to sustain me and make me feel as though I'd taken advantage of "all the city has to offer?" (Enter another JDate cliche.)
My response?

"Oh, who are we kidding? I've never been to the ballet; I've never been to the opera and I don't care if I ever do. I have no interest in those kinds of things. Soo, no, I probably have not taken advantage of 'everything the city has to offer.' But do I feel like I've been there, done that? Yes, I do."

And, the truth is that in going over what I've done here, I suppose it does seem like a long, strange trip over the past five and-a-half years.

I "earned" my master's degree at NYU.

I witnessed, literally, September 11th.

I finished graduate school during the worst economic/job slump the country has seen in decades.

I lived through the blackout and the transit strike.

I wrestled with rodents.

I was unemployed.

I got several jobs. I quit several jobs.

I wrote a novel.

I made Page Six, The New York Post, New York Daily News, Gawker, Women's Wear Daily, 60 Minutes, even.

I got sued by a loathsome, multimillion-dollar company.

I kicked said company's ass in court (with the help of some kick-ass counsel).

I discovered Japanese Straightening. I may as well have discovered oil.

I made some great friends.

I lost some not-so-great friends.

I made some enemies and some frenemies.

I had a hell of a lot of fun.

I mingled with media peeps, CEOs, artists, politicians, socialites, trendoids, hipsters and intellectuals.

I learned that no matter what you may think, the grass is almost never greener.

I was there, I did that. I'm over it. I'm ready for a new scene.

I'll miss Manhattan, for certain, I will miss many, many things and people. But New York will always be here, just a plane ride away.

I cannot think of one thing I haven't done that I wish I had done, and so I suppose that that means I have no regrets.

Dancing Queens? Yeah, Not So Much

The decision to stay or go would be much, much simpler if I didn't have so much God damn fun with my friends up here. And I love the fact that it's always when you least expect to have a rowdy time or big night that everything falls into place easier and you end up having a better time than when meticulously planning everything. Thought last night would be a quiet one, dinner w/the girls in Meatpacking, sending off Shartz (I'll keep calling you that until you give me a viable pseudonym)—poor thing is being forced to go to the Four Seasons in Maui—but ended up partying at a club with the guys and the girls and even my younger bro and his friends. My brother is more Lower East Side than Metrosexual, to say the least, so imagine my gleeful surprise to find him dancing and letting loose with both his friends and mine. Of course, it was after much cajoling from his gal pal, myself and my friends, and there may have been copious amounts of alcohol involved as well. Just a guess. But contrary to your opinion bro, you certainly have more rhythym than dad, who is quite possibly the whitest dancer ever. Makes Elaine's dancing on Seinfeld seem Martha-Graham-esque. Seriously.

I still remember going to some concert at Radio City with the family when I was in high school and being exposed to the visual horror that is dad's "dancing." It was some hippie reunion concert with, like, Ringo Starr, Joe Walsh, The Guess Who, etc., and I thought dad was going to knock someone over with his gyrating, tushie-pushing and wacko arm movements. He doesn't care though, luckily, so he's still shaking his booty to this day. In fact, the 'rents are at a destination wedding at this very moment, so it's quite possible that Costa Ricans are being subjected to the Daddy Dance as I write. He doesn't read this too carefully, but if he does, this paragraph may be redacted soon. Anyway, I'm quite sure that his friends reading this will agree with my characterization of his white man's shuffle. Not that I am any better. In fact, nobody in my family seems able to dance, but that doesn't stop us. So brother is just accepting his rightful place in the Green family hierarchy. But I don't think either one of us can dethrone dad.

Will post last night's pics when I get them. In the meantime, support my friends and family by reading and watching the tube.

Amanda's book

Brother's article

Jon's show

I'm sure I have other shout-outs due, but I can't remember them at the moment.

I think it's hilarious that now whenever I am out with my friends and something funny happens, it's always followed with, "Is this gonna make the blog?" It's just you guys reading about yourselves anyway. And if I chronicled everything noteworthy or humorous here, I would be chained to my desk. Never a shortage of drama, and I have to protect the innocent, and the guilty, for that matter. And the juciest stuff is for our ear's only; this shit is just scratching the surface.

Miami Versus Manhattan

You guys (my NY friends) are making this decision to stay or go all the more difficult. I may actually have to do an old-school pro/con list. Spoke to the family members whose business I could potentially go into tonight, and the opportunities inherent in doing that would be almost limitless, compared to what I could accomplish on my own up here, business-wise. I'm a big believer in keeping family businesses alive, and I've always said that if I had a family biz that was located in a good place, I'd go into it. So it may be put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is time. And, God, the ocean, and the real estate down there, there is just no comparison. It's almost half the price.




(Look at the view from BFF's balcony, above, jeez.) And, I kind of dig the idea of kicking ass in the corporate world, think I could really be down with that.

My grandpa's family had a rocking real estate company in Florida that all but went down the tubes when he died, and I've always regretted the fact that we didn't keep it going. I would have gone into the biz, but it's in Sarasota, Fla. where the average age is probably about 80 and there is more parking for wheelchairs than cars. OK, so maybe there was that tiny, insignificant legal scrape with the EPA, but before that, all was swell. (Brother, have you ever read up on this case? Are you trying to atone for the sins of our family??????? I just made this connection. Better change your name or conceal your genealogy if you want to become a serious environmentalist.) Totally think the fam was innocent, BTW, it was kind of a witch-hunt type situation, wherein the government decided to make an example of someone, and that someone was my great-uncle and my fam's company; grandpa was already deceased. Otherwise, it may have been a different story. He didn't take shit from anyone, even the EPA. Hey, I guess I'm following in the family's footsteps by creating a legal hullabaloo.

Tampa Bay Business Journal

Paver Development vs. EPA

EPA

Anyway, after speaking with the fam and my BFF, who lives in Miami with her husband, the Miami move looks more appealing than staying here and spinning my wheels. Whenever I go down to South Florida and spend time with friends, family and family friends, they always ask me if I'd ever move down there and leave NYC. And my answer is always, "Well, in an ideal world, I'd live part of the year in Florida and part of the year in NYC." And, that's the truth. I suppose I am an 80-year-old snowbird trapped in a 30-year-old's body. But dual residency certainly isn't going to happen without a J.O.B. And, let's face it, there are absolutely no guarantees in the editorial field. I could say, "I'm going to get a job in my field in Manhattan," but, in reality, I have no control whatsoever over whether I'd actually accomplish that.

So it's a total catch 22: Go to Florida, where I would have this awesome opportunity, or stay here, where I may, may one day have the possibility of having an opportunity to write or edit professionally. I really don't see how I can rationally choose to stay. Mr. Devil, can you teach me how to do one of those handy polls? Should I stay or should I go?
I'll be going on a fact-finding mission down there fairly soon, so until then I guess my fate remains unsealed, though at this point, I'd say I'm 90% there.

Bienvenidos a Miami/The Dish Does Dade

I don't feel like sending out a mass e-mail at the moment, so let this serve as a substitute.

My mind has essentially been made up for me. Didn't get this job I've been interviewing for, though truth be told, I suppose I didn't truly want it all that much. It would've been a nonprofit gig, e.g. 70-hour weeks for a paltry salary. No thanks. I think it's fairly evident that I don't necessarily have the mindset to work hard for something if I don't reap a fair amount of rewards. Soo, the thought of putting in horribly long days, getting out of work when it's dark out and then not having time to hangout with friends or do the things I have fun doing, while not earning a decent wage, is just extremely unappealing. The irony is, or not really irony, but humor of the situation is that whilst interviewing for this job, I was basically forced to conceal who I was at core in order to create the impression of who I thought they wanted for this job. I had to dress down. I couldn't wear my normal jewelry. I couldn't carry my favorite handbags. Couldn't wear the typical stilettos. Couldn't wear makeup. Essentially, I had to conceal who I was in order to give off the impression that I wanted/needed this job. Just goes to show you that hiding who you really are, no matter how noble the reasoning behind it, always backfires.

Fuck that shit. I like dressing well. I like wearing nice jewelry. I like being fashionable. I like wearing makeup. I like speaking my mind. I like being honest with myself and with others. I don't like riding the bus. I don't like going above 86th Street. I don't like being subordinate to other people in such a way that forces me to compromise my personality. And I don't like waking up at the ass-crack of dawn when it's sub-zero outside. This job would've required a great deal of cowtowing and diplomacy, and while I can certainly handle lots of different personality types, I probably wouldn't have been able to bite my tongue on an hourly basis. Hell, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

I actually had to borrow "conservative" clothes from my neighbor to wear to the interview. Knowing myself, if I really wanted to "make it work" up here, I'd find a way, and the fact that I am just not motivated to make it work up here, shows me that I am ready to leave. I'm sick of people asking me what I do and not having a succinct response. Not getting any younger, not in any sort of relationship, not magically getting some fab job that will alter the course of my existence, thus not seeing the point in merely biding my time here anymore. If the fam lived here, I suppose that would be another story. So I plan on pulling up ranks here very soon, hopefully within the next month or so, and heading back to the sunshine state, where life is easy, the weather is good and everyone knows everyone else. I heart NYC and all that, though, in the end, I guess I just don't love it enough to sacrifice standard of living, health, sanity, etc. etc. The truth is that I don't want to be 35, single, weathered, jaded and living in a studio apartment. If I'm going to be single and in my 30s, I'd much rather do it while having an oceanview, a nice car, a business and a family around me.

I think I'll have the opportunity to go into a family biz down in South Florida, and, even though it would mean totally changing careers, I'd much prefer to be a successful businesswoman than a struggling artist. I don't enjoy hardship or struggling. Life is way too short. I'm ready for a challenge that ultimately will be rewarding. At least that's what I'm hoping for. There is the small matter of moving, getting a car, an apartment, saying good-bye to my amazing friends, to Bergdorf's, to 47th Street, to Shun Lee Palace, to furs, to boots, to seasons, to the center of everything, to the media and to walking everywhere. But it's time. I'm ready to be a big fish in a small pond, and, finally understand the rationale of this philosophy. Ready to relax, ready to be an adult, ready to be around my old friends, ready for the beach. I am, not, however, ready to deal with drinking and driving. I wonder if car services are commonplace down there? Kidding. Save the nasty comments.

The Rodent Report

Was awoken by doorman ringing me for exterminator who was down in lobby. Told neighbor I would accompany him into her apartment since I would be home. I am not terribly lucid within the first few minutes of waking up; is anyone? This is especially so if I don't get my much-needed eight hours. So it took a good five minutes of a modified, "Who's on first" routine with the doorman this morning, given the language barrier and my general level of confusion, sans-caffeine.

"Miss Stephanie, the exterminator, he is here, Heather say you have problem? He is in lobby now."

"OK, can you have him wait a little while?" I was in my nightgown, and I needed a few minutes to get dressed and walk the dog.

"He is here now. You need him, yes?"

"Yes, I need him. But can he wait a few minutes?"

"He is here now, you need him?"

"Yes," voice rising, "But I need a few minutes. Will he be in the building for a while?"

"He is in the building right now."

"I understand that. I am asking whether he will be here for a little while. Could he come up in a few minutes?" Voice was really rising at this point.

"Heather say you need him? Do you not need him?"

"YES," really losing my patience now; Heather and I think this doorman is either playing dumb or on serious narcotics. He is always out of it; barely opens the door for anyone, except around holiday time (when tips are customary). "I NEED HIM. I JUST NEED A FEW MINUTES. WILL HE BE AROUND?"

This went on for a good ten minutes, swear to God. Eventually I ran into the exterminator in the lobby. He was the one who was here over the summer, when they found a fucking family in my radiator and I completely flipped out and went to the suburbs to stay with a friend.

I ushered him up to my apartment, told him that I wasn't necessarily having an issue, but since my friend was, and I knew the building had a problem, I wanted him to check everything out. Plus, I told him, there is constant construction in the hood.

"I remember you from the summer. I swear, your's was the only apartment in the whole building I found live ones in."

Am I the luckiest girl on earth or what?

"Well, I don't really buy that, as I know the whole building has been having problems."

"That may be, but, your's was the only one where I actually saw them. This building really isn't that bad."

OK, whatever, tell that to my nerves. "Now, I'm going to ask you to do me a favor," I said, as I let him into my apartment. He looked at me warily; I can only imagine the shit this guy has seen in his career as an NYC exterminator. "If you do find anything, just don't tell me. I really don't think I want to know. If you find something in the radiators, please just fix it and don't tell me."

He looked at me like I was a serial killer. "I've never heard that one before."

"Really? Well, I just don't think I could rest at all knowing they are still here." I'm not a subscriber to the ignorance-is-bliss school of thought, but in this case, I'd prefer denial. Thankfully, all was ok in my abode (am knocking on wood at the very moment). Heather was not so lucky though, and her pain is mine right now.

And this is what he told me, as I followed him around both apartments:

• They only need 1/4 of an inch opening—hence my steel wool in every last crevice.

• They do tend to stay away from the pipes in the winter when the heat is on, but since they only need the smallest of openings, there are no guarantees.

• If the droppings are "moist," they are fresh; if they are hard/crunchy they are old. Ewwwwwwwwww.

• They are warned off by the scent of cat food. Actually, I have known this since the last incident. Wally has been dining on Fancy Feast for the past few months. He's perfectly happy. Ignorance is bliss.

Continued, AKA Reasons to Head South for the Season

I'm still baffled as to the strangers who are reading this, but hey, as mom says, "We all have our mishegas."

Friday, January 13
So I spend literally a couple of days contacting the people I've put down as references on my resume, some of whom I haven't spoken to in a couple of years. I mail the thank-you notes, send the follow-up e-mail, and wash my hands of this interview process. I honestly don't give a shit anymore, as I'm like 90% on my way back to Florida. We all end up there anyway, what's the point in delaying the inevitable? My friends up here are ab fab, but I really can't justify staying here just because I love my friends and have an action-packed social life. The truth is that I can write anywhere, can fail anywhere too, for that matter. At this point in my life, if I have a potential family business to go into or an opportunity to make a career change (and actually have a "career" per se), then better now than later.

I also paint and draw, though not of late. But I do have a fair amount of skill in that area. So when it came down to choosing a career path or major, I went with writing and editing, thinking it was the safer bet. Thinking that it's easier to earn a living as a writer/journalist/editor than a visual artist. However, now, I often say and think, "Fuck, I may as well have gone to art school if I knew I was going to be a 'starving artist' type."

Anyway, back to the weekend. Friday night started out at this bar on Park Avenue South with the girls, and Mr. Devil and his friends ended up meeting us out. They all asked permission to refer to me as "Dish." Oh, what the hell? I suppose there are worse nicknames. Quite a funny picture of Scott and his friend; quite unflattering of me, but I'll always choose humor over vanity. Well, most of the time anyway. I've cropped it to protect the guilty. It merely appears as though Mr. Devil is copping a feel. As we all know too well, appearances can be deceiving.



And, as it turned out, the brother of the person whose birthday we were there for, is dating this woman who lives in my building. I was thisclose to asking her about the rodents, but she has a child, so I didn't want to freak her out.

We ended up at Home until like 4 a.m. hanging out with the guy-friends, though don't worry guys, I am not writing about you specifically cause you always give me shit about it and I don't want to hear it. Couldn't sleep again that night b/c of "the issue."

Saturday, January 14
In the morning, spoke to my friend in L.A. who I haven't spoken to in more than a year, and was so out of it and sleep-deprived that I had to check my cell phone to make sure that I'd actually spoken to him. I had. For a half-hour. Oy vey. I can't stand to be in my apartment, so I bolted in the early afternoon and saw Match Point with my brother downtown. Huge Woody Allen fan, but think this flick is terribly overrated. This guy is totally yummy though; I could stare at him for hours. And he's brilliant in the film; steals the show from the lead guy, who is just creepy.

Matthew Goode

Woody is getting a little stale and quite depressing. I mean, we all know he has fidelity issues and is sex-obsessed, but this is pushing it even for him. There is no humor to alleviate the pathos, so in the end, it's just a big downer of a film. Had dinner afterwards with brother and one of my girls, and I convinced brother and his friends actually to come out with us. We eventually ended up at Aspen, which is very cool decor-wise, but always seems to attract the worst of the worst B&T crowd/wannabe mafiosos. Retarded bouncers gave brother and his friends a problem getting in, and it was so smoky and the people so cheesy, that we split and headed to BED, where our friends were promoting a party. After climbing, literally, seven flights of stairs, we reached the roof of the club. Somehow, we'd missed the elevator.

And, for some reason, it's gotten to the point where we all know everyone at all of these clubs/lounges we end up at every week. Whether it's a matter of having met these people through friends, having seen these people's pictures on Friendster or somewhere else online, it just seems that it's almost impossible to meet people who are really new. And I didn't even grow up here, so I'm the anomaly of the group. My friends who grew up in the area, REALLY know everyone. My point with all of this, is that I'm kind of getting tired of the same old faces and places. After a while, every night out begins to blend together. So by 4 a.m., I was over BED, and we headed out of the club and into a blizzard. After getting an armchair psychology lesson from our cab driver, who was cheated on by his wife and is now threatening her with deportation—cab drivers are the bartenders of today—I finally reached my neighborhood. The snow was really coming down hard, and it was very windy, so much so that my umbrella was getting flipped inside-out. As I was walking down Second Avenue, the umbrella flipped inside-out and knocked one of my earrings out of my ear. The street was covered in snow, the earring went flying God knows how far, it was freezing, windy and dark, and it was nearly impossible to see. I looked for a little bit, then gave up. I've always had a knack for finding lost jewelry, but I went back today and yesterday and couldn't spot the earring.

And one of the reasons I was so upset after losing this earring, aside from the symbolism of it all, was that it was part of a matching set that went with a ring, both of which my mom had given me for either Valentine's Day or my birthday. Natch, though, as I was describing the earrings and ring to my mom on the phone yesterday, she couldn't even remember having given them to me. Anyway, losing a sentimental earring at 4 a.m. in the middle of a near-blizzard seems like a perfect, symbolic end to a really long, disappointing weekend and month.

Player Hating, The Devilish Dog-Walker

I was not going to post, but I am a sucker for flattery and suppose I need a good vent anyway. A brief chronology of this week's drama follows, the cumulative effect of which has me contemplating a move down to Miami to be around my childhood friends and live a lifestyle which is more conducive to happiness, ease and success. (Do you know, for example, that you can rent a large, 1 BR apartment down there with sweeping water views for a little more than $1,000 per month? Sick. Comparatively, for those non-Manhattanites reading this, nice, alcove studios in newly-built 1BRs up here start around $2,100 per month.)

And a disclaimer—if you're one of those anony-commenters who hate me because you don't think I have real problems, don't read the following. And piss off; I'm not asking for your sympathy and I'm not forcing you to read this.


Wednesday, January 11
I have, as I previously stated, been interviewing for a job at an organization I really respect for more than a month now. It's driving me in-fucking-sane. Tuesday I spent 2 1/2 hours there speaking with four different people. They informed me that I was one of two candidates left. No pressure. I would've liked to have been kept in the dark about that. I cannot bear coming in second place, and I know you guys are just trying to make me feel better by saying, "Well, at least you got that far," but please stop saying that. I take absolutely no consolation in that. Second-best was never good enough for me. I like to win, period. Anywho, given the snail's pace at which the people at this place move with regards to hiring practices, it will likely be spring by the time they get around to rejecting me. Enough about that.

Did drinks with Mr. Devil Wednesday at our local haunt. We live a few blocks from one another, coincidentally, though before we met I don't recall ever seeing him in the hood. We had a lovely time dissecting our personal lives over a couple of drinks. It's always fun getting a male's opinion. He informed me that I was crazy re. the fact that I am still talking/thinking about The Asshole, and I informed him that he was crazy for myriad other reasons. After drinks, he walked me back to my apartment and we walked my dog Wally up and down my street.

Wally actually took a liking to Mr. Devil, which is highly unusual—he usually hates anyone I bring into my apartment. He's jaded and cynical just like mommy. It occurred to me as Mr. Devil was walking Wally, that he was not only the first, male, non-family member to walk my dog in ages, but also the first, straight, male, non family member even to come up to my apartment in ages. Jeez.

Interestingly, Mr. Devil told me that there is a way to track the anony-commenters. I have not yet had time to install/research this, but haters beware. I kind of don't want to do this, for fear that all the nice commenters are either my mother or friends of my mother's. Anyway, my anxiety was pretty high to start with this week, given the job situation and the fact that I had a completely blind date scheduled, so it didn't take much for it to shoot through the roof. To wit ...

Thursday, January 12
Nobody really calls my home phone save for my family and close friends, and usually it doesn't ring during the day. So when I awoke to see my neighbor's name on my caller ID, a good friend who has a day job and lives 10 floors down from me, I knew instantly something was amiss. I live in a very nice, newly built, "luxury high-rise" on the UES. My building is, in fact, nicer in appearance than any of my friends' buildings, save for the trust-fund babies. Therefore, when I had what I refer to as a "rodent issue" over the summer, I really flipped out. I had moved to a newly-built building precisely to avoid this issue. I thought, idiotically, "Oh, it will take several years for them to borough their way into this building. And even more time to crawl up to the 15th floor." Eww. I am getting skeeved out just by thinking about it. Since I had "the issue" over the summer, I have been terrorized by thoughts of the little motherfuckers. There is steel wool in every nook and cranny in my apartment, no matter how minute. "The issue" is, in fact, one of the reasons I am never home. Men do not realize the extent to which this is bothersome, but girls do. Also, I am from Florida, and therefore have absolutely no qualms about roaches, spiders, etc. Mice and rats, Oh my God, kill me now.

When I first moved to Manhattan almost six years ago, I had to find an apt. in like a week. I had a broker, and at the time the real-estate market was sky-high. Having lived in Florida, Atlanta and Los Angeles for the better part of my life, mice and rats were not something I was on the lookout for. I'd spent a lot of time in the city growing up, but nobody I'd hung out with—mostly UES private school kids—spoke of this issue. I was thus under the (mistaken) impression that NYC rodents were the exclusive domain of, let's say, economically challenged domiciles. So, after having unpacked and settled into my first NYC apartment in Midtown, which I'd paid through the nose for, I was completely unprepared for a visitor of the Stuart Little variety. Wally was not yet in town. My 25th birthday was approaching and I was in the first couple of weeks of NYU grad school. I was actually on the phone with the operator from Pottery Barn, ordering furniture when the little motherfucker sauntered out into my living room. I shrieked, the mouse retreated, and the Pottery Barn operator nearly had a coronary, probably thinking I had a real "intruder."

I remember specifically the operator saying something like, "Eww, what kind of building do you live in?"

"Um, a nice, doorman building," I replied in shock.

I was so utterly freaked that I slept on top of my dining room table that night. I am not kidding. At all. I then had to go to class at NYU the next day and was forced to hire my own exterminator in order for "the issue" to be taken care of the next day. After the exterminator came, I hightailed it to the Royalton hotel for the weekend. Damned if I was going to sleep in a mouse-infested abode the weekend of my 25th birthday. I spent the next couple of weeks sealing every crevice in that shithole, but there was a perpetual problem in the building. And I was only on the second floor, facing an outdoor courtyard. It was to the point where, when I walked Wally at night, I would see them everywhere on the street. I had nightmares about the creatures the entire time I lived there. So it was with a very heavy heart that I encountered the same problem in this building, 15 floors up and like 50 years more recently built. (FYI, that old building was 333 East 49th Street. Avoid it like the plague. And all of 49th Street on the East Side, for that matter.)


Back to Thursday. Once I saw my friend's name on Caller ID and knew that she was home from work, my first thought was, "Oh, shit, rodents." My radar has been up because of the construction in the area, and I have been extra vigilant of late. Any food-like matter has been in my refigerator since the summer. This includes: Gum, vitamins, cold medicine, dog food and treats, cough drops, wine, alcohol, etc. etc. etc. I clean religiously and am a complete neat freak to begin with. I even contemplated getting a cat, but I do not like cats, so I decided against this in the end.

Back to my neighbor. Sure enough, she'd found droppings and was as terrorized as I was. We became friendly in the gym originally, so after speaking with her on the phone and telling her all the insane steps I'd taken to rodent-proofing my abode, I went down to the gym and we then kvetched for another hour-and-a-half about the absurdity and creepiness of it all. We know it's completely irrational and, as people love to say, "A part of the city," but still. Fuck that shit. It's disgusting and it's preposterous to think that these little spineless creatures can so terrorize us. But they do still. Every noise I hear freaks me out. And, I'm utterly convinced that they are in every, single building in the city, old and new. If you haven't seen 'em yet, you're just not looking hard enough. They're there. Plug your holes with steel wool, and for god's sake, keep all your food in the fridge.

To make matters worse, I had a blind date scheduled for that night. It was truly blind; I had not even seen a picture. I have never done that before. We all have our own tastes and mine is disturbingly specific: tall, dark hair and eyes, not too skinny, not too built. I can't help it; that's just my type. What turns my head on the street. So I completely understand men who have types, be they blonde, skinny, tall, huge knockers, tight ass, all of the above, whatever. I get it. Girls are no different--at least the honest ones. Frankly, there is just too much to worry about without having to fret about physical attraction. There should at least be that at the start. Anywho (and Mr. Devil, I did NOT steal that phrase from you, ahem), after discussing the "rodent issue" for so long with my neighbor, I was so drained and exhausted that I wasn't even nervous about the date.
Will pick up on Friday tomorrow. Must get to bed—the exterminator is supposed to come tomorrow morning.

Responding

In response to two recent comments. No, I definitely do NOT tell potential employers about my blog and hope that they do not have the time to Google me or ferret it out on their own. Since my name is so commonplace, I think that works in my favor in such instances. Additionally, I do not have my book on my resume, so unless they are very careful media-watchers, people I am interviewing with usually do not know who I am or what controversy I may have caused. At least, that's what I hope. Though, really, I suppose you never know what determines whether or not you get a job in the end. I am a little concerned about potential employers stumbling across this, but frankly, I don't know how to remove this from Google or whatever.

Secondly, Greg, thanks for the compliments. And, no, I really do not let other people's negativity impact my life. But I think that humans in general have an initial, gut response to insults or character assaults. So if someone insults, rejects or bashes me, then, yeah, my initial reaction is to put my dukes up. And since I am a writer, I guess that this vehicle is my first line of defense. I am definitely going to ignore these people from now on.

If you don't have anything nice to say ...

JT Leroy is a tiny, emaciated fake!

Freaking fascinating and yet another example of how asinine, gullible, naive and mindless most members of the media are. I mean, what, his lack of an Adam's apple didn't clue you in to the fact that he was a she? Unbelievable. Further evidence that the NYT is overrated and not to be trusted, as, according to the above-linked article, if there had there been factcheckers on the prior travel story written by "JT Leroy," they would have probably unearthed the myriad discrepancies in this person's identity. In light of Jayson Blair, it's simply incredible that each and every one of the stories in the NYT are not thoroughly vetted. There have probably been many Jayson Blairs over the years who have flown under the vaunted Gray Lady's radar.

This is what a lot of non-media people, who worship the NYT as if it were the printed, reincarnated version of Jesus Christ, do not realize: Most of what is written about in newspapers and many other publications is, technically, unverified. And, ironically, it is the scandal sheets that have better, more libel-proof fact-checking devices in place. It's virtually impossible to check facts when are you are working on daily deadlines at newspapers. It's easier, and more commonplace, to check facts for weekly or monthly publications. So, even though I am legally prohibited from writing about my experience working for Star magazine as a researcher, let it be said that tabloids have teams of people dedicated to fact-checking pursuits, whereas the NYT doesn't employ full-time researchers/fact-checkers.

And, on a completely unrelated tangent, seriously, if you don't have anything nice to say, shut the hell up. Some anonymous fuckwad posted an incredibly vicious comment about me on someone else's site. The fact that he/she posted it on someone else's blog and not here, shows me that he/she doesn't even have the guts to insult me directly. And the vitriol with which he/she writes, leads me to think that he/she must actually know me and have some kind of personal animus towards me. Thus, it follows that:

He/she is an ex/spurned boyfriend or date with an incredibly small penis.

He/she is an ex-friend/frenemy with a major inferiority complex.

He/she is some weird, pathetic, unhappy ex-coworker of mine who harbors some resentment toward me for some reason I cannot, nor care to, imagine.

He/she is a member of the media, a notoriously snarky, jealous, resentful bunch.

He/she is a bitchy gay guy, as no hetero man writes in CAPS for emphasis, as far as I can tell.

He/she is a foreigner, for the word he/she uses doesn't exist in the English language.

I don't know why people think that I am fake. Furthermore, I don't know why it bothers me. Apparently, JT Leroy and James Frey are phonies, and they both have bestsellers. So perhaps it would behoove me to be fake. OK, you got me, I am fake. This is being written by a robot with a fabulous wardrobe and manicured nails. And, this retard accuses me not only of being fictional, but of lying about my age. I am Jewish, therefore, if I were lying about my age, I would not be 30, you moron. If I were lying about my age, I would shave off a couple of years, at least. My deceased grandmother turned 49 like five years in a row. I learned all the really profound life lessons early on.

Again, I am wasting too much time here. I have an interview tomorrow. Or, rather, "Stephanie Green" has an interview tomorrow. I'm sure the interviewers will be quite surprised when nothing/nobody shows up, because I do not exist.

People are so insane. Between Mr. Devil's stalker and these nasty, pitiable commenters, I'm just going to stop reading other people's blogs and comments. Thanks to all the positive commenters though, you guys are fab.

Life Lessons at 4 a.m.

OK, girls, I will not take a hiatus, as you have all insisted that I actually entertain you. So I must please my fans. Ha. And, yes, should I ever be on Oprah, you guys will def. be in the audience. I think you should all submit your own aliases for the second book, as I know Shartz ain't gonna cut it.

This is what I was thinking after getting home last night at 2:30 a.m., after yet another eventful night with the girls.

1. Bergdorf's during sale season, is definitely the happiest place on earth for a Jewish girl. The fact that I am thinking this at 2:30 a.m. is really twisted, but there it is... I never claimed not to be twisted.

2. Anything manufactured in Jacksonville, aside from the people I know and love, sucks ass. I go to watch a football game for the first time in years and that is what I get? Come on.

3. You can never have too many shoes, too many pairs of jeans, too many cell phone minutes, too many girlfriends, too much fun, too much sleep or too much time. You can, however, have too much to drink, too many guys named Scott, Jason, David, Ben, Mike, too many parties, too much to eat and too many bases/places to cover in one night.

4. The two worst smells in the city are cheap air freshener combined with a taxi driver's rampant BO and sulfur/eggs/farts in a bar or club or confined space.

5. All MOTs know eachoter in some way, shape or form. I'm still convinced we should start our own Friendster...Jewster? Jewography? Jewtastic? There's already a Jewhoo...

6. There is absolutely no reason, whatsoever, to go to a nightclub such as Pacha once you are over the age of 25. I repeat, no reason whatsoever. Blacklight? Hello? Oh. My. God. And girls dancing in showers? Oy vey, now I've seen everything. Thank God we didn't pay a cover! Doesn't this girl have a mother? And if so, does she know what her baby is doing? I just don't get it.



7. There is absolutely no way to avoid the subject of JDate when you are speaking to a Jewish single.

We may as well all have our profile numbers tattooed on our persons somewhere. (Speaking of which, you should all go see my friend's play, Jewtopia, if you haven't already; it tackles the subject admirably and it's quite funny. And as far as I know he's single! And Jewish! And successful! Well, you get the point. Actually, I have no idea if he's still single. But check it out, nonetheless. Jacksonville boy makes good; yada, yada, yada.

And to illustrate my above point about us all knowing one another, the opening page of the play's site is a riff on MasterCard's "Priceless" ad campaign. A family friend is chief in-house counsel for MC, and last I saw him, he was saying how one of his primary duties is to prosecute people who rip off those ads. Ah, the circle of conectedness. Discuss amongst yourselves.

8. This blog has caused to me to elevate the art of proscrastination to an art form; before I started doing this and before any of my friends were reading this, I was getting quite a bit of my novel written. Now I am doing this. This is a part of my second novel, but now it's becoming a larger part than I anticipated, as writing this truth is easier than writing a cohesive, fictional narrative. Though I'm still a firm believer in the fact that our single lives in Manhattan are really much more colorful than what I could make up, cause, we rock. Like, totally.

9. There are myriad benefits to being single, namely, not having to shave anything but the pits. You'd be amazed how much time that shaves off the showering routine. No pun intended.

10. My dog is extremely. Fucking. Annoying. Especially at 3 a.m. when it's freezing and I have to walk him.

11. Related: The third worst smell in Manhattan is my dog's breath. I can now smell it from ten feet away. I have tried everything; but his halitosis persists. I wonder what would happen if I gave him some gum. I'm guessing the result would be amusing, but would probably require veterinary assistance.

12. Apparently, it is medically possible for "post-nasal drip" to last for the duration of winter. I simply do not understand how in this day and age we can combat AIDS, certain types of cancer, depression, schizophrenia, etc. and cannot cure the cold. What the fucking fuck is up with that. Those God damned humidifiers don't do a God damn thing, either, so don't waste your money.

13. There are, as evidenced by our recent meals at Wollensky's and Angelo and Maxie's, apparently lots of nice, cute, well-educated Jewish boys toiling as waiters. Who knew and what is the origin of this phenomenon? Anyone?

14. I do not, and probably never will, understand people who don't drink, don't go out, don't shop, wake up early for no reason, don't worry, don't feel guilty or don't feel down, though I would very much like to be one of them.

15. Hilary Duff should be shot merely for existing, and I should be doused in lighter fluid and inflamed for ordering "The Perfect Man," on OnDemand at 3 a.m. OnDemand is the drunk-dialing equivalent of cable TV. It is pure evil.

16. Sex is like food—the less your body becomes accustomed to, the less it needs. Or perhaps that's just me. Either way, I think there could be parallels drawn between celibacy and anorexia, at least regarding women.

17. There simply are no female comedic equivalents to Larry David, Woody Allen or Albert Brooks. I think the closest we have are Tracey Ullman, Jennifer Saunders and perhaps Ellen DeGeneres. And they are, respectively, British and lesbian. Sad, really.

18. I wonder how our social lives would be different without the Internet and cell phone technology? It's simply unfathomable; I am sooo dependent on e-mail and the Internet. I know one thing, I'd get a lot more work done, but then again, I would have less material, as many of my friendships and funny stories are Internet-related.

19. The wage gap/disparity in income of women versus men simply doesn't make sense when you take into account how much more money it costs to be a woman, what with beauty products, clothes etc. and time spent maintaining our physical appearances.

Soon—I've been saying this for years now—I am going to calculate the monthly cost of what I spend in "product." My mom once counted the number of products she used before leaving the house and it was something staggering like 20 or 30 different things she used while getting ready. Whenever she's up here and we stock up on products at Saks or Bergdorf's, the bill can—"Don't tell dad!"—climb up toward the $500 or $600 mark. That's probably a per-month estimate, or perhaps a two-month estimate. And we don't even use La Mer or any of that overpriced crap. Another lovely thing about being a woman.

20. I have, once again, wasted entirely too much time on this blog. I am now going to write in my book. I think I may have come up with an ending—thanks for your input, Manch—and it's not happy. It's not sad, either, it's just real. And reality is not a bowl of cherries. (Where did that expression come from? Why not a bowl of ice cream? Much yummier.)

Fuck that chick-lit bullshit formula; I think that's why the first book sucks ass. I listened to my agent's advice about following a bullshit "formula" that all chick lit books have to adhere to, and in turn, lost my voice. You always have to follow your gut, even if it may get you into serious trouble. At least, then, in retrospect, you can say you did it your way and you'll have nobody to blame but yourself. If there's one thing I don't want, it's to regret, at the end of my life, that I didn't follow my dreams or my instincts. I would much rather be creative and fucked-up than conservative, boring, successful and sheep-like. At least I think; I really have no basis for comparison.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary?

I've not posted about crazy mary in ages. and as far as I know she's not internet savvy. besides, truth is stranger than fiction, always. and as long as you guys don't tell her about this blog—I have an inkling who you are anyway, as not many people, except those men who have, ahem, been intimate with her would jump to her defense—ignorance is bliss. This blog is taking up way too much of my time. I need a break from myself, I have real, actual work to do, so I don't think I'm going to post for a while.

Clarifications

For the record people, as my trusty friend J. pointed out in response to yet another snarky comment, The Asshole is not a college flame. It was only a few months ago, so the way I see it, I still have some time to get over him. Jeez.

I find it incredibly disturbing that the god damn miners are the main story everywhere when Ariel Sharon is near death. As much as I think Sharon is too hawkish and has aliented both Palestinians and Israelis, I find his demise troubling. I miss Netanyahu, I always found him very sexy. Maybe he'll run again, I don't know whether they have term limits over there.

I think this other blog is pretty funny: Gawker linked to it today.

Trophy Wives Anonymous

Real, faux? Inquiring minds....

Aliases, Libel, Speaking Ill of the Living

Mr. Devil made a good point the other night when he said that he never writes negatively of people on his blog, though he definitely goes into more personal details than I do. So I told him that I only speak ill of people who have done wrong by me or my friends. And if that's the case, they have it coming in my opinion. I'm a huge believer in karma, hence The Asshole entries and the obituaries. Yes, dating, living, working is hard; but that is no excuse to treat people poorly. Or to be just plain crazy. So if you're a raving lunatic, a pseudo-sociopath, or just an old-fashioned asshole who shits on people, and one of those people happens to be me, then, yeah, chances are you'll end up on my PC, whether on this site or in my book. As long as you treat me right though, you have nothing to worry about. I can assure you of that. Shit on me, however, and you'll get diarrheaed upon. That's all but guaranteed. I love that word; it's so descriptive.

And I'm definitely using aliases from now on, which I think I've been doing well with, but I can't be too sure. And, for the record, I'm not speaking of mere dating rituals, e.g. not calling, breaking up etc. That's all par for the course and doesn't even merit writing about or register high on my radar. You have to do something really grievous to inspire my wrath, if that's any consolation to anyone. And The Asshole is the only person in recent years who qualifies for such characterization. And he didn't even know what a blog was until his grandfather told him. Cool he would not be described as, so the chances of him reading this dribble are pretty slim. I suspect that had he read this, I would've been served with papers in yet another lawsuit already, so I think I'm out of the woods on that front. Though I don't remember signing a confidentialty agreement with him, so there. I'm going to quit wasting space on him. Make that another resolution.

Oh, yes, I thought of another resolution. I must go to bed earlier than 4 a.m. Someone in the medical profession told me today that the best way to do that is to shave off a half hour each night so that in one week you will have shaved off I guess 3 1/2 hours? Sounds a lot like the formula for weaning yourself off of pills without suffering from withdrawl. Not that I'd have firsthand knowledge of that or anything.

Resolutions, Revolutions, Closet Solutions

I'm not so big on New Year's resolutions, as what I set out to do, I usually do, regardless of the season. That is, everything that I can control, I do. Natch, I want certain things that are beyond my control, namely a job, a book deal, career success etc. But all the other variables in my life, I am quite content with. Aside from being unemployed, I consider myself extremely fortunate and there are very few things I would change. A date that isn't excruciatingly painful would be lovely, but, hey, I'm not holding my breath.

On that note, I've taken myself off JDate for good, as I'm convinced most of the men on there are unbalanced or defective in some way. (Present readers and friends excluded of course. You guys are just mentally ill, and I can live with that.)

Since getting back into town, I've resolved to clean out and organize my closets, as I've actually lost track of what I own. I have a wedding party to attend at the end of the month, and while shopping with mom, I just kept thinking, "I know I must have perfectly fine things to wear hanging in my closet that I've forgotten about." It's not that I'm so overloaded with clothes, it's just that due to the lack of closet space that characterizes a New York apartment, one often forgets or overlooks what one has. At least I do. And it's also that each time I go home, I pilfer mom's closet, and return home laden with goodies. Free goodies too, the best kind. Soo, I added some screws to my closet so that I could view all my handbags. My handbag collection has gotten rather sickening, even to me. I've been saying this for some time, yet it was not until I reorganized everything that I truly realized how out of control the situation has gotten. The shoes, too. I only have room in my bedroom closet for two racks of shoes, so the rest are in the hall closet. Thus I often forget what kind of shoes I own, too. Anywho, one of my foremost resolutions is to Stop. Fucking. Buying. Shoes and Handbags. I mean, enough is enough already.

My name is Stephanie Green and I am an accessories addict. If some Jewess somewhere, preferably Manhattan, were to start a secular version of AA that was called "Accessories Addicts," it would be sooo successful. I think my friends and I—or perhaps my mom, her friends and I—could fill out the inaugural class.

And so it was with amusement that my BFF in Miami, who rarely does the e-mail thing, sent me this link yesterday after I'd organized my handbags. She knows me better than anyone and knows my fashion addictions, so I think it's quite funny that she thought I wouldn't know about Bag Borrow or Steal It's a genius idea, but I think I could start my own, similar site. I really should start my own version, as I end up wearing the same things over and over again. So I sent her this photo in response to her e-mail. The really sick part is that this is just one closet. I need serious sartorial help.



I do have other, more profound things on my mind, but as I've said before, the more complicated my life gets, the more relief I find in superficial diversions. The past couple of days my time has been spent on this editing test for a job I'm in the running for, but like I told one of my friends last night, "Job prospects for me are like men: I never get my hopes up." Sad, but very, very true. Especially in editorial, the interviewing process is incredibly time consuming because there are always tests involved. I have probably wasted at least a couple months of my life doing editing tests for jobs I haven't gotten. I'm so sick of it. Often, before I bother with the editing or writing tests, I have this overwhelming urge to say to the interviewer, "Look, level with me, are you seriously considering me for this position, because if not, I don't really feel like wasting my time on your damn test." I never have the balls to do that, but since I've only had one legitimate, full-time job since moving here, I can't see how it would hurt. I'll be rid of the test tomorrow and then it's back to pounding the pavement.

So that's my main resolution: Stop buying accessories. I really have more than enough to last a lifetime. I can recognize this. And you know what they say, admitting you have a problem is the first step. And, ironically, as I am writing this, they are talking about the Hermes Birkin bag on Gilmore Girls. Heh.

Editor's Note: Please do not take this post so seriously. It's not. I do have real problems, but those are for me and my shrink, not public consumption.

And to my NYC girls who are reading this, you're all more than welcome to bag, borrow or steal from me;)

New Year's Dishes

Waaay too hungover to write, so I'm posting pics of my girls and I from New Year's Eve. And we're all single—imagine that.

I will say that I overdid it a little bit on the wine last night; I suspect the plastic cups threw off my perception of how much I was drinking, but by 1:30 I had the spins and headed home. Also, I had a true Carrie Bradshaw moment for the first time—no, no meeting of a Mr. Big—the heel of my stiletto boot actually broke off as we were leaving our friends' party. Insane. (See last photo.) And, since the heel was, oh, about 4-inches high, I was limping like a gimp out of K's building. Given my blood alchohol level and impaired gait, it was time to call it a night.