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

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

And other random notes:

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

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

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