On Beauty

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

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

Leaving Las Vegas and, oh yeah, Miami

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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




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



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

Thanks

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving and safe travels!

Savvy Sales Shopping

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

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

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

Are Rock Bottoms Solid/The Circle of Celebrity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you like Miami?"

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

"So what are you going to do?"

Good question.

Mercedes; The Ultimate Twatwaffle

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

Stephanie's Reasons Why Not

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

1. Spanish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awanta?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Condo Commandos Catch Clandestine Canine!

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

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

"I hear someone singing

Reunited and it feels so good

This breakup we had

Has left me lonely and sad

But we’re reunited, hey hey"

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

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

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

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

Sitemeter

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

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

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

Leave it to Me

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

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

Dog Day Afternoon

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

The Bitch Must Die

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

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

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

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




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

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

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

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

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

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

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

Twatwaffle, Tee-Hee-Hee

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

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

Singles Versus the World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Total Cost, Engagement Party: $1,075

3. Bachelorette Party:

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

Total Cost, Bachelorette Party: $600

Shower:

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

4. Wardrobe:

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

Let's lowball it at $150.

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

Total cost, my wardrobe: $950

5. The Actual Wedding:

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

Total Cost: Wedding: $1,690

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fashionably Late

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


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

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

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

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

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

Reader Response Required

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

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

1. fashionabulous

2. fashionosophy

3. fashionfesto

4. fashtastic

Things That Make Me Go Grrrr

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

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

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

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

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Nothing Special

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

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

Restylane before and after photos

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

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

Ashton Allen on MySpace