Shana Tova, Jewtopia

I've said many times that I'm extremely blessed by amazing friends, family and family friends. Sometimes, these people even become "famous." One such person is Sam Wolfson, one-half of the creative team behind the hilarious, dead-on, mega-hit, off-Broadway play Jewtopia (Jewtopia Play). Sam and I go waaay back; our grandparents were dear friends and our extended families remain close in our hometown of Jacksonville. It was evident from an early age that Sam wasn't going to be your typical Jewish guy, and I mean that in the best possible way. In high school, he had long locks and fronted a rock band while the other kids in our social circle were, like, shopping or joining pseudo-fraternities. Even back then, he just had that stage presence that so many Hollywood types aim for but never achieve. You're either born with it or you aren't, and he had it from the womb. To this day my dad still talks about this skit that he performed at one of his parents' parties. When I moved to LA, he was doing the stand up comedy thing out there, and I caught a few of his shows when I could.

Those of us who all grew up together always knew he would make it, and with Jewtopia, I think it's safe to say he has. But the best part about watching those you know succeed, is seeing how it doesn't change the core of who they are. Sam is still that goofy, self-deprecating, effortlessly funny, nice, Jewish boy that any mother would be proud of.

And, with the publication of Jewtopia the book, (Jewtopia Book), apparently both his mother and that of his writing partner and costar, Bryan Fogel, have much to be proud of. Or perhaps wary of? Sam tells me that they've put their moms' home phone numbers on the back of all the books that Warners printed for people to call if they have any questions. Apparently, the bubbes have been ringing the moms and leaving their grandaughters' phone numbers! But what I want to know is where is the love, er, press? The play is a monster hit, but I had to find out about the book through my mom??? In an era where slutty bloggers, fake addicts and dog memoirs saturate the media, can't us nice Jewish girls read some stories about some nice, Jewish, hometown boys who've made good? Hello?—The Forward, Heeb, Page Six, The Sun, NYT, Bueller? Sam tells me that the book has gotten so little press, that "we've now sunk so low as to go to Barnes and Nobles throughout Manhattan and sold them to people in the bookstore right there at the new release table." So, see the play, buy the book; I promise you won't be disappointed. And oh, yeah, they're cute too boot.





Bryan on left and Sam on right.

Losing It

The pattern seems to be that lately when I travel, I lose a little something. And, I'm not speaking metaphorically here about my dignity, pride or hope or anything lofty like that. I am talking about things, specifically jewelry. Let it be said first, for those who don't know me that I am a major type-A personality and am meticulously organized. Therefore, it is not often that I lose possessions, especially treasured or valuable ones. So it's only recently that this jewelry-losing thing has become a problem. Last September in Bermuda, a small diamond just fell out of a tennis-type bracelet. Fine, easily replaced. Then in January, in Atlanta, I lost that antique gold-and-diamond brooch. Not so fine, as it was antique, from dead Roxy and not replaced so easily. Never found that. OK, so this time in NY, a few strange things happened on the jewelry and accessories front. And if you're one of those superstitious "God is punishing" us types, the series of events is kind of amusing. Or maybe not amusing in the least bit. But you insist on reading, so essentially you asked for it.

And maybe I was lying a little bit when I said I didn't lose any dignity. Let the record reflect the following:

Thursday night, big plans: dinner at Babbo to be followed by girls' night out with my treasured friends I haven't seen in months. Well, dinner was preceded by a glass of wine at Cru, which was preceded by a dose of antibiotics on an empty stomach. Three courses of food and several glasses of wine later, I'm not feeling so hot. And I'm not looking so hot either. In the words of my bro, I looked "white as a sheet."

I manage to text my friends after trying for about 10 minutes: "S7 drunk. Npt making it out." Done. I manage to make it out of the restaurant in a vertical position, but then there is this little step that seems to escape my attention. Down I go. Onto the pavement; on my knees. The bruises are still here. My parents then proceed to guide me, hands-under-my-armpits-style, into the street so we can get a cab.

My dad tries to hail a cab, and the guy won't stop. He actually sticks his head out the window and says, "No drunk lady in cab."

Oh. My. God. Even in my inebriated state, I manage to be embarrassed. Next thing I know I am hugging the toilet. This almost always happens to me when I mix antibiotics and alcohol, and I know those warning labels are there for a reason. I really learned my lesson this time. I swear.

I am fine the next morning, go to the jeweler and Saks, then head to Spice Market for dinner with fam and friends, then see Wicked, then hit the Waldorf for nightcap.

Saturday: Rosh Hoshanna. The Good Jews are in synagogue. Mom and me? We're sleeping in and getting our hair cut in our hotel room while dad is at Emanu-El. Yeah, we're bad. So we finish with the cuts around the same time temple is letting out and we head to Barneys. The Good Jews are now eating lunch. We are getting another kind of sustenance. We are on the first floor of the store, in the Prada handbag nook. After lamenting the ridiculous cost of shoes and handbags and swearing we will not become victims of this punishing trend anymore, natch, we must scope out the dire state of accessories in our nation.

"I saw this one really cute pleated Prada that's not too heavy," I say to mom, pointing out the bag.

She bites, and picks it up. "Yeah, it's cute and not too heavy, but, it's like, $1,300, you know..."

"I know. Soooo ridiculous. Enough is enough. Let's go to clothes; no more handba—"

"OUCH!" Mom exclaims.

"What?"

"A bee just stung me! There is a bee on this bag!!! Look!"

The salesgirls rush over, horrified, as if a homeless person had just walked in and tried to pee on one of the $1,200 pieces of crap. Sure enough, there is a bee sitting on the top of the bag. The salesgirl swoops in and kills it, a look of utter distaste on her face.

Mom and I are giggling at the absurdity of it all. A bee? In Barneys? On a Prada bag? I give mom some Purell and we move on to jewelry.

"Jeez," she says, rubbing her bee sting, "Do you think God is paying us back for not going to services today?" she asks, giggling.

I ponder this for a moment and say, "No, I think if it were God he would have sent a snake or something."

That night, we meet a friend for a drink at the W in Union Square, then have a divine dinner at Gramercy Tavern, then head to my absolute favorite bar in the city, The Four Seasons, for one last drink. After Four Seasons, my family elects to walk back to the hotel, whereas I elect to take a taxi, as I am wearing my new shoes and my bruised knees are aching. I beat my family to the hotel room, and as I am washing my face, my diamond earring catches and down the sink it goes. I open the drain; it's long gone. Probably replacable, as it's from the jeweler, but I probably won't get around to it. Continuing the losing streak into the next day, I am walking to meet the girls I stood up on Thursday for brunch before I head back to Miami, when I glance down for the time.

I look at my Cartier Tank, which had been acting up for a while—losing time, trapping condensation—and notice that it looks a little odd. Oh, why's that? Because it seems that the entire glass cover has just vanished. Poof. It's gone. Miraculously, the damn thing was still ticking.

OK, so if there is a message inherent in all this, then it's one I'm already aware of and trying to work on: enough with the jewelry and the clothes and all that BS. We really weren't so bad this time. But I am eagerly awaiting a couple packages from Barneys and the jeweler.

Hey, Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, isn't until Monday. And trust me I'll be in services for that one...

I promise to post a verbal account of New York tomorrow, in the meantime some photos. It looks as if I'll be breaking the lease and busting Wally out of JVille by November if I have anything to say about it. The plan is to stick it to the landlord, legitimately, natch, head home for the big Florida-Georgia game and parties, and drive back up with Wally in tow. Mommy is coming home!

I'll Take Manhattan

Ahh. Good Ol' New York. I wish I could say it was nice to be back. But four days is never enough in a city you hold so dear.
I won't bore you with the shopping highlights--well, OK, just a few. Tomorrow I will share the amusing stories you've come to know, love and cringe at, of which there are many.

Just the facts for now:
Fabulous little silk Marc Jacobs dress on sale for $235 at Barneys, fits like a dream
Classic pair of black, kidskin, 2 inch Gucci pumps from Saks
Black Cashmere Shrug from Bendel's, which I hadn't been into for 10 years
Mucho jewelry repairs and refurbishments from Norman Landsberg: Priceless
And one en suite haircut by Oscar Blandi stylist Lauren Lavelle. Oscar Blandi and The Blandi Team
No more handbags; mom and I are boycotting the LUDICROUS prices to which these accessories have climbed and are sticking to the classics that litter our closets.

Seriously, it is not okay that a nice handbag now will cost you at least $1,200-$2,000, forgetting about Hermes entirely. Please. And the shoes are just as out of control now too. I am not paying $700 for the masochist Manolo to line his pockets. Enough is enough, ladies. This is why God created outlet malls.

And the meals, oh, Lordy. Babbo is truly divine Babbo Restaurant. You must go there. Beats Il Mulino, hand's down. And Gramercy Tavern, ooh la la Gramercy Tavern. Now I see what all the fuss is about. Truly exquisite, both of them. Not overrated at all, a rarity for a famous NYC restaurant.

Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

OK, this is my last post before I leave for NYC, but I have to say that I actually really like Kelly Cutrone. In a sea of sycophantic flacks, she's always stood out. And she was super-cool to me when I was a total nobody (not that I'm a 'somebody' now) working my first job in L.A. She always hooked me up and was always sans-attitude. So, step off Gawker. Go back to picking on things and people that absolutely nobody outside of a four-block radius in Manhattan cares about. Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

Stream of Spittle

Here's what I'm thinking at the moment, in no particular order of lucidity.
Flying with no liquids. God damned terrorists. Must get Purell cloths.

Shopping. Jewelry. Had a dream that the jeweler was closed for Rosh Hoshanna, quell nightmare. Haircut, finally, Oscar Blandi stylist making hotel call for mom and me. Sweet. Madison and Fifth. Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's.

Iran dude paying visit to the UN for my birthday. Our hotel, a few blocks from UN.

Must find Wally-friendly apartment or just smuggle him into my pad, to hell with the condo Nazis. Fuck 'em. Let them evict me and I'll invoke the "quiet enjoyment/hellacious-stiletto-wearing-at-all-hours-of-the-night neighbor."

What to pack for NYC--daytime clothes, evening clothes, jewelry, shoes, handbags and no liquids/makeup in the carry-on, therefore mucho grande cosmetic bags.

So many people to see, stores to frequent, so little time.

Fabulous restaurants, Babbo, Gramercy Tavern, Spice Market. Yum.

Cars. I. Hate. Driving. Driving and cars are to Miami what mice are to NYC for me; I hate them, am scared of them and they could very well force me out of this city.

Taxis, yay.

Semi-cool weather.

Friends and family. I'm scared that someone will have to drag me from NYC by my stilettos.

And on that note, I'm glad my credit limit is not high enough for a down payment on a condo, cause otherwise I would have someone swipe the platinum.

And to my NYC peeps--Helfman, I'm talking to you! esp;)--who I haven't made firm plans with yet, give me a buzz, I'll be there Thursday afternoon.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Oh, goody. I've totalled my car. I pulled in too close to the curb thingy this a.m., and when trying to leave for lunch, I heard this awful scraping, tearing, screeching sound. Lo and behold, my bumper had been wrenched off it's cheap German attachments and was now on the ground of the parking lot. Yummy. The curb had a rusty old nail in it that ripped the entire front bumper off. Now I've got to go get a rental and this couldn't have come at a better time, the week of my birthday and three days before I leave for New York. Who loves me?

happy birthday to ME

Dateline--One Year Ago:
Skinny dipping in Bermuda with a bunch of harmless but rowdy Canadians, forcing overwrought and nervous mom to contact Bermudian police to locate my 30 year old ass. (For the record, I was the only non-naked one; I'm a nice Jewish girl, I don't do that.) All was fine and fun; Natalie Holloway I was not. I made it home in one piece, escorted by security at 7 a.m. the next day. I was literally the talk of the town. Awwwwwwwwwww Yeeeah.



Cut to yesterday. Treated myself to a phat Tuleh dress from Neiman's Last Call ($1,650 to $350), punished myself at the gym and then attended a classical symphony and after party with good friends. Bermuda/South Beach? I have to say Bermuda. Though I am loving this dress.

Karma's a Bitch

My bad, it turns out that my beloved shrink had recently had hip replacement surgery and is now suffering from nerve damage. Jeez. It's pretty fucking bad when the doctor is in worse shape than you.

The Shrink is On the Mend

I feel a little bad about Tuesday's post, because as it turns out, the shrink had a hip replacement surgery recently and has literally been immobilized as a result of some nerve damage caused by post-surgical trauma. Oy, Dr. L., I feel for you. She sounds okay, but had to shutter her practice for many months, doing only phone sessions, so in the end, my case is not so unusual after all! It was good to talk to her again, get some fires lit under my ass, and I will def. be speaking to her more regularly now.

On a completely unrelated tangent, can someone please explain to me who Genevieve Jones is with regards to legacy/breeding? Is she related to Quincy Jones or some other African American star? And if not, why is she all of the sudden the token African-American society princess? Who is her family? Anyone? Bueller?

Shalosh Degrees of Separation

So my blog buddy Not Chosen, Just Posin' reviewed my real family friend's new book today on his blog. Jewtopia was first a play and is now a book. I haven't read the book yet, but the play will provide you with some giggles. Another Jacksonville boy makes good. Jewtopia.com

The Shrink Is In

I have been in therapy, off and on, for about ten years now. My personal philosophy is that everyone should be in therapy at some point in their lives in order to get to know themselves better and to facilitate a deeper understanding of the subconscious. It may not be for everyone, but it certainly can't hurt, right?

The key to successful therapy is finding someone you trust, relate to, respect and can confide in. I've chewed up and spit out many a PhD. The one who has stood the test of time, however, is Dr. L. After college, I lived in Los Angeles, and was referred to Dr. L. by a friend. Dr. L. practices in Beverly Hills, is smart, insightful and reminded me instantly of of the archetypal Jewish mother that I'd grown up around. It was a perfect therapeutic fit from the beginning; I was the slightly fucked-up-but-not-hopeless-Jewish daughter she never had, she was my second, nonjudgemental, Jewish mother on the West Coast. I grew extremely close to her, and she helped me through some major life events: my first real boyfriend, my first earthquake, my first job, my decision to move to New York and go to graduate school.

So when I left L.A. for New York, the thought of abandoning therapy with Dr. L. was just not an option. And seeing how she was used to the whole celebrity client thing, being jetted out to Vegas on private planes for a single session, the notion of phone therapy was not unusual. And so it went that I came to be strictly a "phone therapy" person for the past seven years. Jeez. Seven years. Our frequency of sessions varies with time and circumstance, but over the past seven years, from New York to Florida, Dr. L. and I have remained in steady contact. She knows my family, she knows my friends, my fears, my dreams, she knows Wally. There is very little she doesn't know.

But I digress. Our relationship has always been slightly unorthodox, a little more friendly than doctor-patient. In between sessions, it's not unusual for her to call my cell to check in. Or e-mail. Or, if she hasn't heard from me in a while, it's not surprising when she calls my parents to make sure everything is okay. And, over the years, as her hourly rate has increased with inflation, the cost of gas and the sticker prices of Beverly Hills Bentleys, she grandfathered me in at her 2000 rate, a substantial discount.

Since I moved to Miami, however, I've been negligent in keeping in touch, mainly because I'm working now and am just too damn tired at the end of my day to delve into the inner workings of my rotten brain. But also because therapy is only so helpful; it's effective for a couple of hours, maybe a couple of days, but then it kind of wears off, and you're just stuck with yourself again. Wherever you go, there you are.

Usually I'd call to check in every couple of weeks, but these past couple of months, I'd been a ghost. First, she called my parents and left a message for them at home, inquiring about me and my brother. I heard the message, then e-mailed her to say "I'm fine," and that I'd be in touch. Kept putting her on my to-do list, along with the dry-cleaning, returning phone calls, getting car checked out, etc. But before I crossed her off my list, she called to check in. Left me a message about Sept. 11 and my birthday coming up. Finally, we spoke last night and scheduled a session for this week, but she wasn't letting me off the hook that easy.

"I think, Stephanie, the time has come for me to start charging your parents, or perhaps you, if you are now paying, the full hourly rate."

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, eh?

"Oh, sure, of course."

I've never been one to haggle; the Bergdorf's shoe sale and Woodbury Commons are the only discounts I like receiving. So I took it in stride, for I think we should pay the normal rate; I'm not that fucked-up, and given the infrequency of our sessions, there's no real reason for her to give me a discount. But still, after all these years, I can't help but wonder the subconscious motivations behind this step, because, after all, therapists are people too. And they are not above being human. That's what makes them good.


The pic is unrelated, but I'm digging it, snapped by a photog at an IDF event Saturday night in Aventura. Go Israel.

Remembering Sept. 11

It sneaks up on us each year, but it's here again: September 11th. And as all these people are on TV and the radio sharing their experiences of that day, I can't help but reflect and remember. It's our generation's JFK-shooting--we will all remember where we were when we heard the news. It's the event that when I think about still makes my heart race and brings tears to my eyes, even five years later. I don't know if this is true of all Americans, or just for New Yorkers or only for people who witnessed it or knew people whose lives were lost.

Anyway, here's my Sept. 11th story, which I will never forget, and I know I've written about longhand somewhere, but god knows where that notebook went. And not that my story is special, it's not, but it's a valid memory, because, if nothing else, it's history.

I had been in the city for about a year, but I'd been visiting New York yearly since about the age of 10, and was always a New Yorker at heart; was living in midtown; attending NYU grad school in journalism in the Village; dating an Israeli who lived in Haifa; had returned from visiting him in Israel about a month and a half prior to the attacks. In general, life was pretty good. I was "in love," had a big apt., was with Wally, was going to NYU, which I'd always dreamed of, and was living in the place that I loved better than anywhere in the world.

My mom and two of her girlfriends were staying with me for their annual "girl's shopping trip." I had my only early class that morning, and, ironically, it was a "journalism ethics" class, taught by 'renowned' ethicist Todd Gitlin. Everyone talks about the weather that day and it seems silly, but it's true that on days like that, you remember every detail, salient or not. So as I left my apt. a little before 9 a.m., I remember looking up at the sky and thinking what a nice day it was, no clouds, no awful August humidity. I hopped in a cab, just as I noticed that Second Ave. was rife with fire trucks and ambulances. No big deal, a common sight. As we proceeded downtown, the ambulances and fire trucks grew in number, and the cabbie and I began to wonder, so we turned on the radio.

At that point, the world was still in shock, and was talking about the 'commuter plane' that had most likely hit the Trade Center. Details were still sketchy at that point, but we proceeded downtown, both of us, similar to the entire city and nation, in a state of shock. By the time we reached the Village, the second plane had hit, and we were just confused, I mean, terrorism just didn't happen in our country, what were any of us supposed to think until we saw? Until we saw. Because while most people saw it on TV, for me it didn't sink in until I got out of the cab near Washington Square Park and saw both towers aflame. Then, and only then, it sunk in. From that point on, I was plunged into that same surreal, dreamlike, post-traumatic haze that most New Yorkers found themselves in for several days, if not weeks or months. I walked to the corner where clusters of people just stood staring up at the towers. Some were openly crying or looked horrified; most just stood there staring, mouths agape. It really was like a scene out of an Independence Day -type movie. Everything else stood still. I think I must have tried to call my mom and the girls, but cells were probably down. I knew I would never make it back uptown, and was in shock, so I moved robotically into the school's building and went into class.

And though it was an "ethics" class, and though many of the students in it lived near Wall Street and hadn't shown up yet, and though we were journalists who should be out literally witnessing history and trying to get the story, our professor kept us in class the whole two hours without TVs, radios, phones, and forced us to debate the 'ethical' elements of jumping to the conclusion that this was indeed a terrorist attack being perpetrated by Arabs/Muslims/Islamic extremists. Perhaps he was in shock to and the mantra, "just carry on normally" was propelling him. I had just returned from Israel, so I remember the shock finally wearing off and my rage beginning to kick in, and getting into a heated argument with an Egyptian student, wherein I blamed this on the Arabs and she defended them saying it could be anyone doing this.

We finally got out of class and emerged from our time-warp bubble, and learned that both towers had gone down. In those two hours, the sky had fallen. No, it couldn't be, I thought. There's just no way, my brain rationalized, those towers? It had looked like two small fires when I'd gone into class, relative to the largesse of those buildings. But sure enough, I walked out to the corner where I'd watched them on fire earlier and the skyline was flat. Gone. Now, New York City was a quiet ghost town except there were hordes of people walking slowly, stoically. Just walking like zombies, standing in line for payphones, eerily calm. No traffic, just on foot. No transportation anywhere, save for emergency vehicles, but I don't remember hearing any sirens, any noise at all save for radios with news. Nobody yelling, no street noise, the most disturbing thing in New York City--a lack of noise. I walked all the way from the Village to my apartment; walked amid a crowd stunned silent for probably the first time in their lives. I tried to call mom repeatedly, but eventually gave up. I lived near the UN, and kept thinking that that would be the terrorists' next target, so I kept popping into shops and asking if anything else had been hit, because the fire trucks never stopped going downtown.

I wondered where my mom and her friends had gone, but knew that they probably hadn't left the house before the news was out, so I wasn't worried. The horrifying thing is that they had been at the store Century 21, which was leveled by the attack, the morning before.

I got home and they weren't there, so then I started to panic, no communication, an empty apartment, with a Wally who just knew something was up. I think I just fell on to the couch and sat there, mesmerized by the footage on TV. It was as if I were in a drug-induced haze, which you really can't describe accurately, but if you've ever witnessed a horrible accident or crime, you can most likely relate to. Mom and friends eventually returned home, having walked over to 57th street to see what it was like outside. Like I said, when in shock, you just go by rote, do what you know. Head into class, teach class, go to work, go shopping.

Eventually, maybe two days later, mom and co. rented a car and drove home to Florida. Damned if they were getting on a plane. Damned if I was, not for a year or so I think. And though I didn't lose anyone that day and wasn't connected to anyone in those buildings, the event itself had such an impact if you were living in New York, whether you were able to admit it or not. For me, it meant that each time I saw a plane outside the window of my new 15th floor apartment heading past the Con Ed towers in Queens, each and every time for a couple years after, my first, instinctual thought was, that plane is going to hit that tower; it meant that I didn't take the subway for a couple of years; it meant that I looked at cab drivers appraisingly and unconsciously eavesdropped on their foreign conversations; it meant that I didn't feel safe in my own apt., my own city, for many, many years. It meant living in fear for a great while, thinking how easy it had been for them to do it once, surely they would strike again.

And still, I'm kind of amazed that nothing else has happened in our country because, really, we're no safer now, are we? Soon, surely, the sky will fall again.

Nothing much new here; just working, trying to sleep and attempting to edit my second manuscript. Tonight I start my career as one of those "junior comittee" members, though not in the stuffy, New York-ish society type of way. Not that there's anything wrong with that. My good friend from college runs the events and fundraising depts over at the New World Symphony, and I've recently been appointed to her executive committee. She throws the grooviest parties in South Beach, so I'm looking forward to being a part of that. (And, natch, supporting the arts.)

Otherwise, just gearing up for New York in two weeks--my hair needs a good cut, I need some quality time with my NYC girlfriends and I need my Bergdorf's fix, stat. It will be the first time visiting the city since moving away, and I'm guessing that it's a whole different experience being a tourist in a place you used to call home. I don't know quite what to expect or what my reaction will be, but I've always been kind of funny about visiting places where I used to live ...

Has Hell Frozen Over?

Because I am a Godmother, lord help this baby. It was my first bris, and though I asked the mohel (the snipper) for the easiest job, he flatly refused and assigned me the task of holding the bottle filled with good ol' Manishewitz and Pedialyte in the baby's mouth while he was snipped.

Breathe in, breathe out, focus on staying vertical. I am terrible with medical stuff and doctors; was sleep deprived; a little hungover; sore; exhausted; and shocked that I'd be responsible for dispensing the meds. But as my friend, who is also a Godmother and had performed the same task, pointed out, it's appropriate that we are giving the kid his first drink. L'Chaim! My mom said I looked like I was having difficulty, um, breathing. Hell, I'd never even been to a bris, let alone bottle-fed a baby, and now I was doing it in front of 30 or so family, friends and strangers. Some serious retail therapy was needed and had after that, let me tell you.

So now, I'm completely spent. The parents, the family friends, and my crazy ass friend were all in town in addition to all the baby stuff. And last night I couldn't sleep at all, so I'm a total zombie...

I'm off to the airport to pick up my crazy ass friends, then it's food, fun and fashion with the fam and family friends. Happy Labor Day to all.