And I'm back. To the comforts of home. To the three barking dogs, the fully-stocked pantry and (three) fridges. The move was, as all moves are, completely draining, compounded by the fact that I got not one minute of sleep the night before. Thus I looked like the walking dead when the guys showed up at 8 a.m. Tuesday morning. They undid in three hours what it had taken me three weeks to do. Arrived in JAX last night, totally the worse for wear, and crashed for about 11 hours last night. Set up the Florida bank account and got the new cell phone today; totally loving the pink Razr. Pretty soon I predict that the big design houses will be making cell phones, why not? I will be the first on the Chanel waiting list. Anyway, more errands the rest of this week, then we head down to palm beach saturday to pick up the new car, which, no, we haven't test-driven.
When I mentioned this to mom, the test driving thing, she said, "Eh, but we got a good deal." A good deal trumps all, my friends. I'm sure it will drive fine. It didn't come with GPS, however, and I happen to be someone who can easily get lost in her own apartment. So we got a freestanding GPS thingy at BJ's tonight. BJ's, similar to Costco, is somewhere I can easily envision wasting hours and hours of time in the near future. It's really so scary how content I am shopping, even if it only entails home-goods or groceries. What the hell is wrong with me? Is consumerism an actual disease? Cause if it is, I'm damned sure infected. So Saturday we are off to Palm Beach for the weekend and then I'll be in Miami next week, relying on the generosity of friends until the furniture arrives later in the week. I have never so looked forward to just being in my own place; I've been living out of suitcases now for more than one month.
Unpacking and decorating however, dear readers, is about the most exciting my life is going to get in the next couple of weeks though I'm afraid. I certainly don't have the energy to date, and if there's one thing the past month has reinforced it's that all men are fucking nuts and just not worth wasting time on. Even the ones who come highly recommended are wackos, and if I want to spend time with a whackjob, I'll hang solo or go out with my delightfully eccentric friends. Enough is enough. Maybe I'll start my own reality show, Single in the Sunshine State. Though, trust me, it would be really, really dull and most likely would be set mostly at Neiman's and the beach.

good-bye to all that, part three

the bags, as they say, are packed and I'm ready to go. well, almost. still have one more marathon day of packing left tomorrow, one more "last supper" at shun lee, and a few loose ends to tie up. but the car has been bought (on ebay, nonetheless) the going away party has been thrown (thank you guys so much:) and the good-byes have been said. I'm still a little in shock, but very excited and thankfully the leg actually feels better. cannot wait to have daily access to a pool, as I'm def. suffering from exercise withdrawl. I'm posting a few pics, but as I abide by the "all of us must look fab" rule, the choices are few and far between given the level of alcohol consumption and debauchery of last night at BED.

on another note, even though I have indeed taken a hiatus from divesting too many personal details here, I am happy to report that I now have a little bit of closure with regards to the asshole, and even better, have further evidence that he is indeed quite literally certifiable. it feels good to be right.

A Series of Lasts, in Photos

It's now my official last Friday in NYC and I'm getting a little maudlin. Saturday night is going to be very hard saying good-bye to everyone, so I'm just going to have to drink my face off in order to cope. You guys are gonna have to peel me off the floor and make sure I get home OK. I'm feeling nostalgic, so I thought I would post some "last" pictures. Tomorrow night is another last dinner, then Saturday the big farewell fete, Sunday I have a dog-walking date with Mr. Devil and then Monday, my official last night in the city, I'll be dining at Shun Lee, my favorite restaurant ever. Not a bad way to go out, but sad all the same.






Last round of drinks at the Four Seasons, my fave Manhattan haunt





Last girls' dinner at Dos Caminos, another fave





Wally's last walk in the snow. Can't say I'll miss that too much...





Last Halloween in the city.





Last birthday at Pastis. For some reason I've ended up there on many birthdays. Brother is rocking the chest hair in this one.

Good-bye to all that, part deux

OK, so I have not been body-snatched, kidnaped or fallen into a drug-laden coma. I have, rather, drowned in a sea of brown boxes, suitcases and bubble wrap. I'm in the homestretch of packing, saying good-byes and getting my house in order. The movers come Tuesday a.m. and I leave that night for Florida. The past week has been spent negotiating the murky waters of packing, stretching, physical therapy and car shopping, the latter of which is an extremely arduous task. Who knew? Apparently, "find me a nice car," is not a sufficient command. Make, model, year, mileage—the fuck if I know. I'm pulling numbers, makes and models out of my ass, handing lumps of coal over to my dad's car dealer and hoping for diamonds. So far, this is not working too well and I am still sans automobile. This is when taxis really do come in handy. Yesterday I had to run some errands on Fifth Ave. and as I passed Bergdorf's I caught myself tearing up; yes, I know this is abnormal, but I can't help it. I have some bizarre, unhealthy emotional attachment to this retail establishment, and God damnit, I'm going to miss the hell out of New York shopping. However, this is what I will most miss about Manhattan, aside from my friends, therefore I know that it's a healthy decision to leave. I mean, if the retail establishments are what's keeping you somewhere, chances are this is not the right place for you. Anywho, my ITB is still raging, my stress levels are at a maximum, my patience has deserted me, and Wally is going utterly insane. I packed Wally's dog bed an the majority of his toys, so he sits here and yells and claws and cries at the foot of the box they are in. If I were Frank Costanza, I would be chanting the mantra, "Serenity Now."

Tonight was the first in a series of farewell dinners. My going away fete will be this saturday at BED for those of you who I actually know. Feel free to email me and i'll add you to the list.

In response to the post about mediabistro: nice, very nice. I sent it to the HR people. Sadly, though, the pathetic fuckwit will continue to be employed there until they are hit with a sexual harassment lawsuit. Hopefully that's not too far off in the future.

Good-bye to all that, part one

When I am utterly overwhelmed and stressed to the max, I simply cannot fall asleep. In lieu of some Ambien, I've been compiling a mental list of things that I most assuredly will not miss about Manhattan. Of late, these things outweigh the elements I will miss, an occurrence I never could have previously predicted. So here goes; my laundry list of things I will not ever miss about living in this city.

That rancid smell that characterizes and permeates most bodegas and grocery stores—it smells like a horrid combination of burnt ham and fried bacon and it sticks to everything I purchase in the bodega; even to the plastic bags the wares come in. Where is all the pig-frying going on? Who knew that bodegas were such bastions of burning bacon? Or maybe it's actually the stench of rats being incinerated...

The Manhattan once-over. For those who do not know of this female phenomenon, I shall clarify. The Manhattan once-over is a time-honored tribal ritual practiced by Manhattan women of a certain class. The female's eyes travel from your shoes, dart to your handbag, run up the length of your body, stop on the face, taking in the ears and then run back down the length of your body. The duration of the once-over depends on the season. It's shorter in winter, obviously, because all the looker can really discern is your coat, shoes, handbag and maybe earrings. It's more extensive in the warmer climes, when she can fully take in your jewelry, pedicure, manicure, brand of jeans, etc. Think of it as the human, female equivalent of dogs sniffing one another's asses, except a lot less civilized.

The fucking subway. Tonight was my last subway ride ever. Mark my words; and tonight was probably my last time in Brooklyn, the fact that those two events coincided fills me with pride—I had not done either in months.

The "wildlife," which, in my estimation, includes rats, mice, roaches and that crazy crackhead woman who wanders around Fifth Avenue in a garbage bag.

Those signs posted everywhere with the drawing of a big rat and the blaring warning that says "poison" or "rodenticide" or whatever it says. Truth is I get so skeeved out by the rat illustration that I fail to digest what the sign actually says.

Spit and feces on the sidewalks.

Scooping Wally's poop with Gristede's bags and those bags from the bodega that reek of burnt ham. His shit smells better than the ham.

The subway.

Duane Fucking Reade and all the people who work there. Every last uneducated, slow-witted one of them.

Yorkies and their ridiculous sweaters. For that matter, all doggie sweaters/coats/boots. One of the little dogs in my building not only has a Vuitton collar, but an actual shearling coat.

The subway.

Grocery aisles too narrow for two people to pass one another without turning sideways.

Constant construction on every corner block at all hours of the night.

Mediocre, $50+ meals.

The bloodsport that we refer to as "dating."

Having to put on 30 lbs of clothing and accessories just to leave the house in this season.

What the winter does to the poor, delicate skin on my hands.

The subway.

Idiotic doormen and even dumber supers.

Parades for holidays I never even knew existed.

Taking Wally out at 4 a.m. in the bitter cold.

The smell of Chinatown.

The crush of bodies in Times Square.

The list seems to go on and on, so much so that I'm beginning to relate to those country bumpkins who refer to NYC as a concrete jungle and profess their hatred for this city. I certainly don't hate the city, but I certainly don't love it anymore either. I think of it now as most people probably do—a lovely place to visit, not the best place to live.

I have discovered eBay. Darling, where have you been all of my life? I have no explanation for why I'm so late to the game, but I'm now addicted. However, seeing as I leave a mere TWO WEEKS from today, I am vowing to step away from the computer and back into the NYC social swirl. I have only a handful of days to bid New York bye-bye and I've barely made a dent in my packing to boot. Need to put in some serious face time with friends; endure more physical therapy; pack; clean; visit those outer boroughs I'm always hearing so much about (I think they start with "Bs"); spend some serious quality time with Wally, who I am heartlessly abandoning; and generally just stay busy so that I don't get too maudlin about leaving Manhattan. I will be back soon enough though—after all, a girl's gotta have her hair cut and Japanese-straightened. And hit the Bergdorf's shoe sale, natch. And eat Chinese food; I don't think I'll be finding too much of that down South.

One of the most infuriating aspects of Manhattan life is a little store called Duane Reade. It's the most ubiquitous drugstore in the city, and is like Starbucks in that you can find one on almost every corner block. Sure, there are the random Eckerd's, CVSs etc., but Duane Reade is just more convenient because they are literally everywhere. I try to avoid this place at all costs, but usually end up there once a week to stock up on the necessities. Not only are the cashiers slower-moving than any 90-year-old yenta, but they are usually thick as posts and seem to like to keep people waiting. Also, their favorite sentence is, "Do you have a club card?" Yes, I fucking have a goddamned club card, but is it worth me taking off my gloves, sifting through my purse and presenting it to you in the hopes that I MAY save $.10 on an item that is specially discounted? I don't think so. Anywho, each time I go into Duane Reade, not only do I spend more money than I need to be spending on toothpaste, deordorant, etc. but I always end up waiting on line for at least 10 minutes, and usually, I am laden with shopping bags from other stores that I have hit before DR. So I'm always standing there in line, under the unforgiving flourescent lights, feeling woozy and about to pass out from the combination of heat, the weight of my shopping bags and the general level of annoyance that a trip to Duane Reade engenders. By the time I get up to the register, I'm just ready to pay and be on my merry way. I do not, therefore, wish to chit chat with the cashier. So yesterday, weighed down with bags from Gourmet Garage, leg hurting, in a hurry to get home, I'm unprepared for the cashier's question. I step up to the register with various sundries, among them, a bag of hard cat food and a container of soft dog food. Yes, Wally is now enjoying the mix of high and low cultures.

"So how do your dog and your cat get along?" the cashier asks me innocently.

It takes a moment for her question to register, a long, protacted moment during which I am looking at her like she's ET's long , lost, stoned cousin. Oh, right, I think. The Duane Reade cashier is not privy to my fucked-up brand of rodent repelling. She actually thinks I'm sane and have two different species of pet, as opposed to one, very confused dog with cat breath.

"Oh, good," I reply. "They get along well." I flush crimson and bolt the hell out of there. Relating the story later to my neighbor Heather, we're cracking up, as the very same thing happened to her in Gristede's. Except that she was busted buying a huge bag of cat food by an old friend who knew that she had only a dog. "Oh," the friend had remarked, "did you get a cat?"

"Oh, yes, I got a cat. Siamese, she's very sweet. Nice seeing you..."

Less than three weeks left in the big apple. The days will be filled with physical therapy, eating, drinking, packing, talking on the phone, saying tearful good-byes and generally sucking as much marrow out of the city as I can whilst hobbling around like a cripple, wearing, thank you very much, Mizuno sneakers. Apparently, I not only have "soft tissue" damage, but tendonitis and iliotibial band syndrome (ITB) or "runner's knee." Looooovely. The prescription? Twice weekly physical therapy plus two hours of prescribed stretching per day. Oh, yeah, sexy.

Update

Well, I've gotten the approval of the mysterious, all-powerful board, so I'm good to go. The movers are booked, the plane ticket is set and the going away party is planned.

(For those of you I actually know, you are invited to BED on March 25th to bid me farewell and buy me mass quantities of alcohol.)

Yes, I am sad to leave NYC and my fab friends, but I'm also ready to redecorate, rest, relax, enjoy the sun and start an actual career. Regarding Wally, whom I will dearly miss and feel much guilt for having forsaken, I've decided that I will visit him monthly. It's only an hour flight home to where he will be and my office is very close to the FLL airport. The "To Do" list keeps expanding daily, and now I must add "buy car" to it, which is no easy proposition. In fact, I am completely clueless as to how to do this. When I first discovered that I would need to buy a car, I actually Googled "Cars." I've been here for six years and prior to that had been the recipient of cars from my folks, so what the hell do I know about buying cars? This is a man's job as far as I am concerned, so a big part of me just wants someone to do it for me and then I will just hop in and drive away. Though the chances of this actually happening are slim to none, it's a nice, escapist fantasy. Then again, it's been done this way twice before, so the third times a charm, right? Dad? He's chortling in outrage as he reads this.

But I've said this before and I will say it again: Cars are to Miami women (and L.A. for that matter) what shoes and handbags are to New York women. Meaning that, you have a much better chance of meeting a hot guy if you are driving a hot car. Period. Sad, superficial, shallow, stereotypical, yes, but sooooooooo true. And any guy or girl who argues with this fact is just in denial. I have hard evidence: I get scoped out MUCH more often cruising in dad's Lexus than in brother's Toyota.

Anyway, a list of things I must do before I leave this fair isle, in no particular order. For my own clarification and I'm taking reservations for partners (from friends, not random readers, obv).

Eat at Shun Lee Palace, on the East Side. If you've never been, run there. Now.

Drink at the Mandarin Oriental and the Four Seasons hotel bars.

Take Wally to Central Park.

Do one last marathon lap around Bergdorf's and Barneys.

Visit the Met.

Go to Columbus Ave. flea market.

Visit brother's apartment and friends in Brooklyn. (Brother this is scheduled for Friday the 17th I've decided today.)

Go to the Bronx Zoo. Maybe. Probably won't happen unless accompanied by male. I'm still scared of the Bronx and Harlem, what can I say?

That's about all I can think of at the moment, but I'm sure I will come up with some other things, hopefully less superficial ones.

Farewell to Fifth

Farewell to Fifth
Today was a tragic, momentous, historical day for the Green girls. Today was the penultimate episode of a six-year-long running series. Today will forever be mourned in the hearts of women from New York to Palm Beach to Miami to Jacksonville. For today was the last day moms and I shopped on Madison and Fifth while your's truly resides here. I have long been saying that what I will most miss about Manhattan is Bergdorf's, but I was exaggerating a little. I will also terribly miss Barneys, Madison Ave., Fifth Ave., The Four Seasons bar, The Metropolitan Museum, Park Avenue, the park, the Plaza, looking at life go by through the window of a taxicab, and I may just even miss Saks too. Not that they don't have great shopping in Miami, in fact, save for Bergdorf's, they have all the same stores. But there's something about shopping in New York that is just so intoxicating, on an almost narcotic level. I wonder, does shopping produce the same amount of endorphins as exercising? Or is it just those heroin injections? Kidding.
Anyway, we went out in true comical fashion. Dad was here too, which means we didn't get to do as much damage as sans papa. And there wasn't much time, so we actually only hit the big three, Bergdorf's, Barneys and Saks. And we did the Columbus Ave. flea market this a.m., and the stores didn't open till 11 a.m. today. Sooo, after we had lunch with the rest of the fam, mom and I had A HALF HOUR before her plane left. Now, most normal people would spend this half-hour packing, chilling, getting coffee, whatevs. Mom and I, however, jump in a cab, head to Saks, and spend 30 minutes sucking in the shoe and handbag departments like junkies in a methadone clinic. She takes down the name and style number of a Prada bag; I try on some Louboutins in record speed. I'm practically yelling "STAT" to the poor shoe salesman. Alas, the time constraints were such that both of us left empty-handed. We're so sick; we should really be studied by the fashion doctors.

OK, regarding the previous post's comments: A.) There simply are NO guys here I even have the desire to makeout with; that's the problem. B.) Do they even have hockey in Miami? I'm not much of a sports person unless there is a sky box involved. C.) Mom, for the love of God, step away from the fucking computer. It takes you five hours to figure out how to upload photos but you can comment on a blog no problem? I've created a monster. Pics of the balcony of the new pad, which technically isn't even mine until I get board approval, but I am so in love with the view and the balcony, I simply must share. $500+ less a month, people!

The first two are the balcony, which stretches from the living room to the bedroom. (I don't think BFF is touching herself; I think I caught her mid-gesture.) The second pic is of the pool, with the sister building (and BFF's building) visible behind it. (There are 3 buildings in this group.) And the final picture is of the lobby. If it's possible to be in love or lust with a piece of real estate, then I'm definitely crushing big-time.

And other random notes:

Wally's breath, after having actually been fed dog food for more than two weeks, is on the mend.

Heather, my fab friend and neighbor, was on rodent-patrol while I was away, so, dear friend that she is, went into my apartment every two days and stomped around with her dog to scare the little motherfuckers away.

Due to some miscommunication with moms (I still maintain that I heard you say, "I've got your coat.") I arrived at the JAX airport yesterday, wearing a tee shirt, jeans and sneaks, only to realize that neither my mom nor I had taken my coat or my gloves. Since I was heading back to NYC, which was apparently enduring a cold snap, this was slightly problematic. Therefore, I had to go into the restroom and trade clothes with my mom. Now, mom is quite chic, and ordinarily I'm happy to borrow her clothing. But it just so happened that yesterday she was in a rather conservative suit. So I emerged from the bathroom clad in a baggy pink turtleneck, an oversized pin-striped blazer, blaring white sneakers and glasses, paired with trendy jeans and a trendy handbag. I looked like a "What Not to Wear Victim." It was not pretty. Mom found it so amusing that she snapped some digi pics; you will not be seeing them here. I looked like a 40 year old. I looked like a secretary straight out of "Working Girl." I looked, in short, like I actually belonged in Jacksonville. God help me.