Older Men, Younger Bitches

So, it holds true even in dogs.

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

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

Eww.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Nobody Does it Better . . .

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





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

New York State of Mind

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

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

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

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

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

More JDate Observations

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

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

Some advice for JDating men:

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

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

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

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

These are the "Flirt" choices:

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

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

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

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

All your imperfections are perfect for me.

I'm intrigued, feel free to email me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Googling JDate

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sororiety Somnambulations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still weird though, no?

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

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

Six Degrees of Depravity?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Price of Beauty

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

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

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



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

Please visit today's Fashionosophy.

Spaaaaahhhhhh

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

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

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

Hooray, I'm no longer a celibitch.

Housecleaning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well-heeled Travelers?

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

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

eBay round 2

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

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

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

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

PayPal is my New BFF

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for stopping by.

eBay This Book!

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Bat Mitzvah Brouhaha

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

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

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




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

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


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

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




And, the men in the sequined jackets?



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

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

Gawker Does it Again

Required Disclosure: I know suicide is not funny.

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