You must, must, must run out and see 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.' From Moviefone—the NYT review was way too long—"the remarkable true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby (Mathieu Amalric), a successful and charismatic editor-in-chief of French Elle, who believes he is living his life to its absolute fullest when a sudden stroke leaves him in a life-altered state. While the physical challenges of Bauby's fate leave him with little hope for the future, he begins to discover how his life's passions, his rich memories and his newfound imagination can help him achieve a life without boundaries."

This movie, by renowned artist Julian Schnabel, is truly the most inspiring film I've seen in years. It has, in fact, inspired me to write. Starting tomorrow. Ten pages a day. No more excuses. If you have not seen this movie, go see it. No matter what you may be going through in your life, watching what Jean-Dominique Bauby overcame will make your obstacles seem surmountable. Christ, it made me feel like BC is as trivial as a cold. Not that I'm taking away from BC survivors in the least. But, it can always, always be worse.

Happy holidays to all. And now, a peek inside the 3 weeks (to the day) since my Cancer diagnosis. Please enjoy this smorgasbord of quotes from myself, my friends and family members.

D (iagnosis) Day, Dec. 4, 2007
I'm sitting at Tom's kitchen counter, receiving "the call," while someone is removing equipment from his house. I frantically phone mom, everything happening in fast-slow-motion. Come pick me up now I tell her, "And bring the Xanax. I cannot emphasize that enough."

Cut to an hour later, three Xanax having kicked in, making the whole "you have cancer" speech a little more bearable. I think I even said something like "Yeah, yeah, yeah doc, I'm on three Xanax, just spit it out."

Enter Dana, pregnant, hormonal and in shock. I'm reclining on the exam table, mom's crying and the doctor (ex-doctor, that is) is a wreck.

"What the fuck?" Dana questions all of us.

"Hiiiiiiiii. I have CANCER!"

I can still make her laugh and cry at the same time.

On the way home from that visit, in the car with Dana driving and mom in the backseat on the phone to someone:

"Yeah, she's doing amazingly well! Xanax is a wonderful drug."

Upon getting the runaround at Mount Sinai Cancer Center, despite the fact that I'd just received my cute little red "cancer card" that they give you for no apparent reason as it does nothing but get you free parking:

"Well Jesus fucking Christ, we still had to wait two hours. Clearly this card is not platinum!"

Upon hearing from the surgeon that one of my tits will be blue after some test:

"Oh gr-eeaaaaat, I'm not going to have sex for like two years!"

"Don't say that," the very handsome doctor says, "Smurfs have sex!"

Tom's email, after I told him about my bodacious blueboobs:

Subj: It's a Match!!!
My god I have found your future husband!

Upon hearing said doctor tell me that instead of getting implants I could have fat from my ass removed to make new tits (I know, eeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwwwwwww):

"What? Why? So I can have cellulite tits? I don't think so!"

On the way to the reconstructive surgeon's office with Dana and her mom Nancy. We're discussing the autism-vaccine relationship in children when Nancy bursts out:

"I think it's all the chicken eggs!"

"Huh?"

"CHICKEN EGGS!"

Waiting in the boob doctor's office, filming all the while, in front of several other patients. The three of us were cracking the fuck up. They finally called my name, and Dana, Nance and I were in hysterics; the other people were questioning our sanity.

"Pardon us," I said, "Humor is my coping mechanism."

"Clearly," Dana said. But the other women waiting laughed.

"Well?" I said to Dana, "How do you think the Jews would have persevered for thousands of years without their humor?"

A little random out of context I suppose, but when Woody Allen's Gallows humor is the main weapon in your arsenal, it's not such a far fetched concept. Ironically, that was my first doctor's appt. when I wasn't on Xanax. I'd forgot it.

Man, you should see the footage we have. CHICKEN EGGS!

FYI, CHICKEN EGGS! is the new MAJOR. If you don't know what major is, well, then you're like way too far gone to be helped, darlings.

Smurfs Have Sex Too . . .

I can't quite keep it all together, or document every nanosecond of my crazy life—having dinner with my fam and fam friends, godson and girlfriend's at a chi chi rest one minute and talking biz with hip hop friends on the way home—but let me tell you, there are some funny stories coming out of this whole cancer thing.

I think I've told you all that my bff Dana is videotaping most of our hospital visits documenting the Cancer Queens at their finest—from Neiman's to Mount Sinai. We already have enough material to pitch a show, we are all, collectively a hoot. As anyone who knows Lynn, Dana, Nance and I will attest to. Anywho, Monday I went to the Onky for a gabfest. Mom drove in and Dana was in tow. The camera was on. First I had to go to a radiologist in the same building—the mammoth Cancer Center at Mount Sinai. (Have I mentioned that every fucking time I am THE youngest patient in this cursed building???)

Christ, it's Friday and I can't even remember where I was going with the above. Basically, finally, bottom line—everyone I've consulted with is recommending a double mastectomy. That's right—I'm going to have to lop them off, then get implants. That's what they recommend when someone is (most likely) BRCA1 or BRCA2 positive.

BRCA1 and 2 are the genetic anomolies that make Ashkenazi Jewish women more susceptible to breast cancer. Now listen up ladies: 1 IN 4 ASHKENAZI WOMEN ARE POSITIVE FOR THESE GENES. THIS IS WHY IT'S SOOO IMPT TO HAVE GENETIC TESTING DONE TO SEE IF YOU HAVE THIS MUTATION. IT'S A SIMPLE BLOOD TEST. Compare that stat to 1 in 345 women in the general population.

Tres, tres freaky. So girls, get your genetic testing done, ESP if any member of your family has cancer that's not smoking-induced.

I have more funny cancer stories but I must go for therapy at Bal Harbour right now. Stat.

I am mentally and physically fine. And I want to thank all my friends and family friends SO much for all your support, encouragement and gifts. I think I'd better register before it's too late. Who knew? Cancer seems to equal another bat mitzvah!

Well, somehow we did it. Two performances in one night, shuttling from a private jet hangar to the museum of science, and a whole posse of us having to get from place to place on time. It could've had disaster written all over it, but thankfully it didn't.

Ok, so Tomas, almost got himself arrested at the airport party—it was a birthday fete for a prominent real estate developer—shooting pics of the bday boy. And there were lots of distractions. The party—in a huge hangar, with ice bars, gogo dancers, huge stage, beautiful people, performances by Prince and KC and the Sunshine Band. Toasting the bday boy were George Hamilton, James Caan and Brett Ratner. Anthony Michael Hall was making the rounds with literally 5 or 6 women in tow. Seeing Prince from 5 feet away is quite an experience. And we had three videographers to begin our experimental TV project. Let me tell you, if you think I'm a typhoon of drama in and of myself, you should see us all together.

Anywho, thanks to a great driver, a good team, lots of sweat and anxiety, we managed to make it to the hangar, back to the planetarium, and back to the hangar again without any major glitches. The planetarium show was fantastic; great crowd response and fabu debut. I, the erstwhile project manager/agent/publicist/Jewish mother to these guys, had to keep kicking hordes of people off the stage. Dawn, my friend who introduced me to Tom, was cracking up seeing me doing my thing with these guys, kicking people off stage and shit.

The one guy I had to repeatedly kick off the stage . . .

It occurred to me this a.m.—er, make that this afternoon—that I am good at this whole managing thing precisely because of the one trait that has made me a resentful full-time employee at other, more rigid establishments. I like bossing people around. I like being the leader. I like having control over situations. Hell, I like being able to kick people off the stage and have me listen. I can see why Ari Gold is such an asshole. If you're not tough with everyone, nobody listens. So I finally get to be tough. It's cool.

Check out the planetarium photos from the lovely and talented Tomas Loewy. These couple of me are tres bizarre. I somehow manage to successfully mimic a squirrel in one of them.

At the planet-arium . . .

The cool photos are Tomas's; the bad ones are mine!

At the airport party . . .




The boys, United Content Providers DVDreams and DJ Tom Laroc at work. . .

Just the facts:
Stage 2, high-grade infiltrating breast cancer. Most likely I'm a carrier of that fucked-up gene that many Ashkenazis have. Waiting on DNA analysis. Waiting on MRI. Will have to have lymph node biopsy. OYYYYYYYYYYY. WILL MOST LIKELY HAVE TO HAVE CHEMO-FUCKING-THERAPY. Can you imagine how weird jewelry will look on a baldie?

Xanax has been a Godsend, as have my family, family friends and friends. I do not know how people go through this kind of stuff without a support network. Thanks to all of you who have reached out, written and called.

The upsides are that I get to milk this Big C thing until I kick it's cliched, sick little ass. And obv. I will have a second opinion at Sloan Kettering. Followed by retail therapy at Bergdorf's. Neiman Marcus, Apple, Bal Harbour and Merrick Park have already soothed me immensly. And working with crazy musicians is a fantastic distraction.

And I feel fine. My best friend has been filming everything—from me waking up after the surgery to driving to the oncology center for the diagnosis, wherein my mom, her best friend from PB, Dana and I took over. The footage is really hilarious and we're going to keep it going.

But I'm still out every night, proceeding normally, feeling good. You know, I've always lived by the philosophy of do what you want and love because life is short. Of course now it's more of the same, but I'm going balls out.

Cancer, Shmancer

The cherry on the sundae that is my life: My breasts are toxic. That's right folks, I, a 32-year-old perfectly healthy woman, have breast cancer.

A big shout out to the overwhelming support of my friends, family and family friends. We caught it early, it's encapsulated, I'm young, prognosis good, yada, yada, yada. In the words of my doc, "this is not a death sentence." Bottom line is I have to get radiation whether it's spread to the nodes or not. I will find out whether it's metastized or not in the next biopsy.

It's totally fucked up. Maybe I'm still in shock, but I'm proceeding as normal. Working, hanging out with friends, going out and partying. This little thing with a big C ain't gonna take this woman down. Fuck cancer. Cancer seems like a walk in the park frankly compared to what I've overcome throughout my life and esp the past five years. So I'm ready; I've got my dukes up; I've got the best doctors (or rather am in the process of securing them; bring it on you invasive, pervasive murderer of humankind.

Oh, and I seemingly have license to do whatever the fuck I want for as long as this shall last. That's a plus. And when all my fam friends call to see if I need anything, I say, "yes, PRESENTS!" Also, I will be throwing a big cancer party/breast cancer awareness event. I will be registered at Neiman's and no, I'm not kidding.
As if CANCER could change me.

Bedtime: 4:30 a.m.
Wake-up time: 8:30 a.m.
Snapples: 4
Items purchased at Neiman's outlet: 7
Xanax: 3
Blunts: 2

Por que?
Lumpectomy tomorrow, 9:30 a.m.

Bring on the drugs, sympathy, catering to and presents.

My new favorite thing: Cut Paper Fashion. Saw them at the Lincoln Road street fair Sunday. FAB.

The Manhattan Once-Over

Today my new partner/client/boss and his team met with a party planner for an event we may be doing. I sort of knew who the event planner was, as I'd written about her co. before. And, like any woman knows, we speak our own, nonverbal language.

Knowing that we were meeting in a family's airplane hangar with their ginormous jet, and knowing what I new about the woman, I told Tom that he needed me at this meeting to speak this woman's language.

So this is what I wore, which is completely relevant to the story—grandmother-vintage Pucci top, jeans, classic black Gucci pumps, classic black Chanel bag, Dior sunglasses and my usual day time jewelry.

Anywho, we did indeed speak the same language. In the car, Tom said something like, "Damn, she looked you up and down, like hardcore."

"Yeah, I told you. That's normal, that's what girls do."

"But she kept doing it."

"Yes, she was giving me what I like to call the Manhattan once-over. When you walk in Manhattan, especially on the Upper East Side, there's a ritual that most girls do in order to assess another girl's style. If someone was checking out my ensemble, her eyes would go from feet to handbag, up to the face, then down the entire body all the while checking out your jewelry, makeup, hair, body."

"So it's no big deal?" T asked.

"No, it's like how we judge each other at first glance. It's just what we do."

"She was being so rude, just staring."

"Nope. I did the same thing."

We get home. The blunts are lit. The Snapples are being drunk. United Content Providers, which consists of Tom and several other artists, are performing at the planetarium soon. They do video DJing that's too complicated for me to explain and if I describe it wrong, I won't hear the end of it from Tom.

Soo, I remembered that South Park did an episode about the "planet-arium."

"I have to get it, let's find it."

I Googled it and found it in the second season. The episode is called something like Rodger Ebert is fat.

Tom types Roger Ebert and then I tell him there's a "d" in Rodger.

He starts laughing. "I typed in the word Roger and corrected the word to reefer."

The Real Dream Job

I would make this a day-in-the-life entry, but each day has been quite distinct.

He tells me that I'm stereotypical in certain ways, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, as he's a stereotypical DJ.

He gets offered cameos in LL Cool J. videos and turns them down, albeit for work.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

A night at his house often means cooking, friends stopping in and out the revolving front door and lots of laughs.

He harassed me into taking the "Make a Donation" button down—I never even thought about it still being there—so I could "feng shui up" my blog.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

He is my new boss/partner/client/friend. And let me tell you, every day I spend working with him is a crazy fun, bizarro, alternate-universe kind of experience. He seriously needs his own reality show, for I can barely put pen to paper all his ridiculously funny lines.

Last weekend took us to Ingrid Casares' party at Karu and Y, and before me and the other guy knew what was up, Tom had commandeered the DJ booth and proceeded to play for a good hour or two. During the week I found myself at Mansion while it was closed, sitting on a couch that countless people have fucked on, watching T and his partner rehearse. Another night this week, he donned his chef's jacket at 11 p.m. to bring a dish to one of the owners of bar Love Hate. Did I mention that the jacket said "Love Hate?"

And then he smoked a blunt or two.
And then he drank a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

Jesus H. Now I have to go back to the dreaded mammo room to have the other boob done again. This craziness doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon. Social distractions and pseudo-work are really the only things keeping me sane right now.

A primer on my daily routine, before I share the below story. Wake up round 10:30. Go to gym. Eat lunch. Start working in the afternoon. My friends know my routine, natch. Meaning, they know I'm nonexistent before about 10:30.

The following served as my introduction to my now "partner," business-wise. Wednesday I awoke to the sound of both my home phone and cell ringing continuously. I have a text from my friend Dawn that reads "I just pimped you out." Huh? I then had a follow up text from a number that I didn't know that read, "Awake?"

I think next I called Dawn and said "What the fuck is going on?" Well, her friend Tom, whom I've never met, had called her in a tizzy that a.m. He had to audition for the Food Network later in the afternoon, and was in desperate need of someone to go over to his house and help him out with typing up the application. By this time it was about 12 p.m. He begged Dawn to help him, but she was on her way to Boca. Nothing I can do, she told him, but I have a friend who works from home and is a writer and she'd be perfect. "But I guarantee she's at home sleeping right now." Hence the bombardment of phone calls. So I'm like, okay, whatevs, always up for an adventure.

Next Tom calls me, explains (barely) what is going on and asks if I can help. He lives a few blocks from me and says he's got to get the food cooked and the questionnaire done by about 2 p.m. "Tom it's after 12 p.m. and I just woke up."

"Brush your teeth, throw on some clothes and get over here. You can impress me another time."

"Oh-kay."

"Oh, and can you stop at Epicure to get me some heads of butter lettuce and some white vinegar?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

I know Epicure—similar to Gourmet Garage but even more upscale. They're not going to have Heinz white vinegar, I know this, but he's the foodie and assures me they will. I get in the car, race to Epicure, grab two heads of butter lettuce and search in vain for the damn vinegar. No dice. I race over to Wild Oats, find some white vinegar and race to Tom's pad.

This is the first thing I see when I walk in. And chronic is the first thing I smell.






What's with the clothing pyramid is my first question? (Clothes he's getting rid of.) Tom's in the kitchen amid a pile of food. We make brief intros and he sits me down at his computer. I type away while he dictates, he smokes and cooks, we hit it off like two old friends. When I'm done, I read the app and it says he needs two photos and a copy of his license.

"Okay, ready to print," I say.

"Yeah, that's the thing. I have no way to print."

"Uh, Tom why the hell did you wait till today to do this shit?"

"That's a whole other story," and natch, the chronic wafting through the apt. rendered my question moot anywho.

"I need you to go to a copy shop, print this, copy my license and print the pictures and meet me at the Hotel Astor."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Please Ms. Green, I'm begging you," he pleads, "I can't do this without you."

He offers me money and a bag. Take the bag, leave the money. Race out again to the closest copy shop. Closed. Call him in a panic—I think by this point I was more concerned than him—he tells me another shop to go to. I race into the shop; they don't do copies or print anything and can't help. They point me to another shop around the corner. I'm now running down Washington Ave. in SoBe, parked illegally. I tear into the shop, they do it for me, then I race to the Astor. I run into the lobby and Tom is nowhere to be found. I ask a guy sitting at the counter if he's seen Tom. No, he hasn't, he says, but he may be in the casting room already. I run upstairs and knock on the door of the casting room.

"Hi," I pant, "Has Tom arrived yet?"

"No, he's late and should be here any minute," CD says.

"Okay, I have his paperwork, he's on his way."

Go back to the lobby and wait. Even when I'm a complete mess, I'm always early.

By this point the CD is pacing in front of the door. Tom ambles in, shades on, chef jacket on. I run over to him and hand him everything.

"Thanks, assistant," he says.

"You're welcome." I make my exit.

While in his apt. earlier he had asked me if I'm organized—hello—and decided he needed someone like me to help him organize his career. Sure, I say, I work from home and have some time on my hands. Tom is a deejay, video artist and private chef. He needs a publicist, manager and assistant all in one.

Meanwhile, he'd promised to cook Dawn and me dinner that night. . . . To be continued, as we had another episode yesterday.

But his You Tube videos—especially the Marley one at the bottom—will give you some idea of this unique character who's entered my life.

I had the craziest day ever, which I will discuss later when I have time.

In the interim, when I spoke to brother yesterday, he told me that this well known psychic in India said "your sister needs to have her breasts looked at in the next few years," in so many words. Uh, brother could have told me this a little sooner, but weird nonetheless.

The psychic also said that I would marry someone very wealthy, with long hair and a substance abuse problem. As if I would marry someone with long hair.

Breastesses

I've been debating on whether to divulge this information to the public. And I've decided to only because I think it's important for women to know about. This is not a ploy for sympathy by any means. And I haven't even gotten any retail therapy out of it—ahem, mother.

A few months ago, I found a lump in my boob while in the shower. I had just had my annual exam the previous month and the biatch didn't find anything suspect. I kept putting off going to the doctor, but with the constant bombardment of BCA month stuff, I finally bit the bullet. It's a nasty old thing—mushy, moves around and right where the underwire of my bra hits. Instinctively I didn't think it was a big deal—it's not hard or round or stagnant. Whatever. Long story short, 2 klonopins and a best friend and godson in tow, I saw the doc. He did an ultrasound, found the "mass"—isn't that a comforting term?—and thought it looked okay. You know the doctors and malpractice, they really won't tell you anything definitive.

Yesterday I had to go for a diagnostic mammogram in the Mt. Sinai Cancer Center; I was not comforted by the fact that I was by far the youngest person in the entire building. I had a series of mammograms done; like six total I think. This time it was Xanax—I have major white coat syndrome and find it impossible to go to a doc sober without having a panic attack. So the radiologists read the thingys, and they say the same fucking thing as the first doctor. "Well, you definitely have a mass on your breast." No fucking shit, biatch, I can feel the damn thing. However, apparently ultrasounds and mammos must be done; the mammography was to rule out any other suspicious spots. There were no others.

Now the next step is a biopsy, wherein I will have the doc remove the cyst or whatever the fuck it is. They won't truly know whether it's CANCER until after the biopsy. But, shit, if I'm going under and there's a long recovery time, these girls are getting lifted too.

Here's the thing ladies, I have NO history of BC in my family. I am 32 years old. That BS you always hear about starting mammos at 40? Not true. You should have your first one at 35 and then yearly ones at 40. I don't think everyone knows that.

The main result of all of this is that I am not sleeping well and popping benzos like Tylenol. Oh, and I've also made my things to do before I die list. This a.m. I looked in the mirror and I have the most hideous, darkest bruise I have ever had on the side of my rib cage where they jammed my left tit into the damn machine.

When I was in the first doctor's office with Dana, completely fucked up, I made her do the medical Q&A while I interrupted the cute, single, Jewish doctor with vanity questions.

"If it's what I think it is, you can just leave it in there forever."

"Doc, I'm single. The last thing I want is some guy feeling me up and feeling that."

"You're going in for a biopsy, you're taking this nasty thing out. And can you do a lift while you're at it?

Anywho, please forward this post to all your 30-ish friends and tell them to start getting mammos at 35; earlier if they have cancer in the family.

I will keep everyone posted. And seriously, don't feel sorry for me. I've done more in my 32 years than most people have in a lifetime.

Fabulously Awful

Tomorrow I will unveil my first ongoing feature series on Dishalicious: Retail Therapy

In the same way that NYC is the fashion capital of the world, Miami often can be the anti-fashion mecca. We've got the most major stores around every corner and designer duds at the ready, yet night after night fashion mishaps mar Miami's landscape.

We take the worst of the worst at the hottest haunts, dissect their sartorial slip-ups and, in the
process, provide you—and natch, them—with some much-needed retail therapy. Along with my friends Dawn and Durrett, we will be highlighting these design disasters on an as-needed basis. (That could potentially mean every night we go out here.) Check in for some rather amusing ensembles tomorrow.

In the meantime, I've been lazy with photo and beauty, luxury goods and features postings.

Rocking Halloween, raging hangover the next day and super busy with life.

I can't approve comments at the moment, but Paige, funny as ever and loved your latest 'clumsy' entry. And Anon, I don't think eating Uranus is the solution to my current state of affairs, but thanks for the suggestion.

As a grave, profound aside, is anyone else as obsessed with Gossip Girl as I am? It's like 90210 but better cause it's all about the 10021. This week, when S. and 'Lonely Boy' were making out at an intersection in Meatpacking, I realized that I had done the same in the same location a few years ago. Sigh. I am really missing NYC right about now. Yet I find myself relating to the parents in GG more than the kids, which is totally scary to say the least. Christ, I'm old. Whoever said your 30s are so much better than your 20s must have been smoking something serious.

I miss my 20s; at least then I could write off my stupidity, immaturity and recklessness to being young. Being an adult kind of sucks in my opinion, esp. when your adulthood turns out to be less than you hoped it would regarding your career, romantic situation and what not. Sure, you become more comfortable in your own skin, but that doesn't necessarily equal happiness. When I was 17, did I ever think I'd be sitting here blogging to lots of anonymous people as opposed to being some fabulous, successful magazine editor? Uh, no. If I had a crystal ball back then, surely I would have changed courses. But you know, the past is in the past and all that BS.

Mars and Pluto

I've been thinking. I know, dangerous right? It occurred to me before I got into the shower—probably because I was debating whether to shave or not—that it's really quite simple to boil down the whole dating thing. If you're single and 'looking,' chances are you are juggling a few sets of balls in the air, literally. I'm not a talented juggler. And frankly, I like to know before I get into the shower whether I need to shave for the night. Anywho, I was thinking, wouldn't the whole dating thing be a hell of a lot easier if men were like girlfriends? Meaning, what if the qualities I treasure in my girlfriends—humor, loyalty, fun, intelligence, integrity, generosity, practicality, boldness, excitement and tolerance—were abundant in the males whom I date?

Well, natch, if guys/dates/potential mates were as easy to figure out as women are, the whole scene would be simpler. They would tell me whether I should shave, what they want to do, what their issues are, what the latest gossip is. They would be fun, adventurous, great partners in crime, animated and well-rounded. They would return or make phone calls without preamble or strategy. They would treat me as an equal. They would put a smile on my face the whole night. I would know that if I'm with them, I'll have a good time, no matter the setting. Just like my girlfriends. We could be at McDonald's—not that we ever would be—and still have a fabulous time.

My beauxfriend highly recommends being gay. I think I'd just rather hang with Wally. And my girlfriends. And my gays. And my straight guy friends, with whom I can talk about anything, no holds barred.

I suppose my conclusion is that I'd rather have one person or no person at all. All these balls flying around just makes life more confusing, not to mention dangerous. If most men are from Mars and most women from Venus, then I'm from Pluto and the men I meet are from Uranus.

Let's see what's new here. Last Thursday I was hit on by an older lesbian who has, according to her, hooked up with both Madonna and Matt Damon. Don't know how the Matt Damon thing came to pass. Friday my friend and I drove to Jacksonville for my beloved Wally's 12th birthday. Also brother is finally home from India and he was there as well. The little booger—Wally I mean—is 84 in human years and acts like a puppy. I finally have him back in Miami and it's amazing what a difference having him here makes. He's very happy and so is mommy. My mom was in NYC for like the second time this month doing damage on 5th for her annual girls' shopping trip, to which I was not invited, ahem. One of their friends got pick-pocketed on 5th and the perpetrator made off with $600 in cash, not to mention her license and credit cards. Apparently, crime is back in Manhattan.

My godson has apparently taken on a new hobby. Saturday I talked to my BFF, who informed me that Kobi had gnawed off the entire side of his wooden crib like a dog. The little guy has 8 teeth and did some serious, doggy style damage. The irony of all this, which I only thought about yesterday, is that his mom Dana has had for years this completely random analogy that just manifested itself in her son. Dana always says, upon eating something she doesn't like, "This tastes like the wall." She's been saying this since we were kids, God knows what the fucking wall tastes like.

So after seeing the photos below, it occurred to me. "Oh my God," I told Dana, "Do you realize that your son now literally knows what the wall tastes like? Maybe he did it so when he grows up he can tell you!" How ironic. The little guy really did some major damage. . .

So last night I went to Ocean Drive's party for the signing of Patrick McMullan's tome Glamour Girls. In addition to Patrick, uber-it girl Tinsley Mortimer was in attendance, along with a bazillion photogs and camera crews. No idea what for. She's teeny-tiny in person, but had on a fab pink dress and dazzling drop earrings.
Mom also managed to send my the birthday photos from my dinner a few weeks ago. . .

I've been out 3 nights this week and have a full weekend ahead. I'm becoming a bad party girl again.

I have been negligent in my photo posting.

Girls, explain this to me if you can. Though I suppose you probably suffer the same problem. Why is it that hair conditioner bottles are so impossible to squeeze? I now have conditioner thumb in addition to Sidekick thumb. My thumb hurts just typing this. . .

Uh, I suppose it's nice to have fans and all but this person is simply republishing my posts verbatim. WTF?

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

A primer on the members of my tribe, if you will. Just like anxiety, guilt and curly hair are our birthrights as Jews, so it seems is the desire mothers and fathers have to fix the youngsters up. Not just their own children, mind you, but other people's children, no matter where one of the fixees lives.

Case in point: Over Yom Kippur weekend, the big buzz in the Jacksonville community was that there was a new, Jewish doctor (SINGLE!) in town. From my mom's friend trying to set me up (despite our geographic dislocation) to my parents' friends trying to set him up with their daughter who lives in California, the yentas were peeing their pants with anticipation.

My mom immediately calls her friend to get the scoop on the new guy.

"Nancy," her friend says, "He's not even Jewish!" His last name is Silverman. Honest mistake.

Holy heaven Batman. One of the biggest draws of my current digs is the bathroom. I think it's as big as my sleeping alcove was on the Upper East Side. I've got a fab shower with two shower heads, plus this amazing Whirlpool tub.

Natch, I had yet to try the jacuzzi tub until yesterday. What the hell was I waiting for? This thing is like spa-quality. Forget men, forget massages—this tub is my new best friend/boyfriend all in one. Hello hot tub. . .

Birthday Day Round-Up

Receive legal letter from dad to proof—don't ask, can't tell. Get passionfruit facial, as skin is a mess thanks to stress. Have lunch with friend at Ritz (thanks J)! Meet friend at gym, shower there, go to dinner. Run into other friend on street walking back to car. Go back to apartment, hangout with friend and watch the brilliant Weeds. Slept like a log last night. Back to reality now, which is still a bit murky at the moment.

I was just walking across the street to 7-11 in my post-beach getup—flip-flops, sundress and bikini. This fellow outside says, "I was watching you cross the street; let me get the door. Girl, your toes are so sexy. Love those feet." Uh, okay. I guess foot fetishes are alive and well.

My birthday, which is tomorrow, natch has been a weekend-long celebration. I suppose "the season" for the locals has begun. It's still hot as sin and the Snowbirds won't arrive for another month or so, but the social season down here is swirling.

Living room



Bedroom


Boat


Satiated godson

Shana tova! Guys are still douches, I still can't find my diamond stud that is somewhere in my apartment and I seem to have neglected to make Rosh plans. On the plus side, I'm looking forward to a great bday dinner Friday with mom and my friends—sans the douchebag obv., but with all our common friends, ahem—a big symphony party Saturday and lots more retail therapy.

I have to say though, I'd love to run into Dr. Douchebag this weekend with mom and dad in tow. Dad would throttle him and mom would slap him with her Chanel bag. Now that would be FUN.

Thank God for Retail Therapy

FYI, major retail therapy was needed yesterday—my haul:

1 pair of strappy, sparkly Stuart Weitzman stilettos
1 pair of black Zanotti pumps with a silver-and-crystal embellishment at the toe
Diane von Furstenberg black, silk dress
Embroidered and embellished bronze Rebecca Taylor skirt
Cosabella night gown
Bailey 44 black capelet.

Hey, I was in a really bad mood. I haven't been dumped in a long fucking time.

How's this for the start of a week?

Lost job Friday, got unceremoniously dumped by guy on Sunday. And it's my birthday Monday. I am soo back to celibacy once again. I've covered every market—Jew, Goy, young, old, dark, light, creative, book smart, poor, wealthy—and you know what? They ALL suck. Thank God for retail therapy. And friends. But seriously, I'm now confident that all you guys are douchebags. Even the "nice" ones. So once again, I am done.

More TK on the job; let's just say it makes the Star saga seem boring.

The Psycho in St. John

I don't quite know where to start regarding this last "job" of mine. So let's just jump right in. Past "employees" have been coming out of the woodwork to swap stories with me about the publisher and her husband. Each one has a nickname for her better than the next: The Charlatan in Chanel; Abnorma; and mine, Luna, as in LUNATIC. That's just a primer.

Webster's defines nouveau riche as: "a person newly rich." Duh.

But its definition for parvenu is much more apt for Abnorma: "one that has recently or suddenly risen to an unaccustomed position of wealth or power and has not yet gained the prestige, dignity, or manner associated with it." Humph. That about sums her up.

Well, some people say new money is better than no money at all, which is entirely dependent on the possessor of said new money. Yet when a tacky, classless, evil couple use their new money as a means to the end of buying their way into "society,"—and treat their employees like cockroaches, flaunt their wealth as if others care—and engender such loathing within the very circles they have tried to infiltrate, what do we call these people? Social climbers, sure. Trash, no doubt.

But I like the good ol' fashioned term poseur best, such a great word, no? For, Abnorma and her hubby might as well have tattoos on their foreheads that read, "I am new money! Pay attention to ME!" And from what I've garnered recently, the new money is not that substantial. Natch, it's all an act. She buys her Pulitzers at Marshalls and demands substantial discounts from everyone.

The dumb wench did NOT have me sign a confid. agreement, but apparently after I left, she made EVERYONE sign them. Ha!

My Godson and me at his first birthday. How precious is he? He finally knows my name, therefore I shall reward him with a fabulous designer birthday present!

Hoo boy, when I have good gossip, it's hard not to reveal it, let me tell you. Rest assured when the time comes, I will share, natch.

Finally a relaxing, do-nothing, gym, friends and shopping filled weekend. Boat time tomorrow. Can't freaking wait.

How fun do you think it is for your AC to be broken in your apartment when it's 100 degrees outside and you have floor-to-ceiling, water-view, west-facing windows in your living room? Let me tell you, it ain't pretty folks. In fact, I've probably ruined my precious Yves Delorme linens with sweat.

Thankfully, after five days of house-hopping and sweating, it seems to be marginally better. Sleep has eluded me until last night, as has the gym, personal time, etc. Looking forward to a day of massages, the gym and dinner with friends. I have turned into one of those boring rat-race pod people.

When the hell is an enterprising doctor going to invent a cure for PMS, seriously? Personally I hate going batshit like clockwork every 28 days.

If someone could invent a pill to cure this thing, they would be a very wealthy person indeed. I suppose this is what Valium is for. I am stressed, exhausted, sleep deprived, gym deprived and the PMS is just the cherry on the cake of my day.

Ah, it looks like I've again made it into that bastion of journalistic excellence, The New York Post.

Once again, the Post—which originally ran a story that was actually the basis of AMI's lawsuit against me—mentioned my long-dead but oft-resurrected book. Thanks to the commenter who pointed me towards the story, as I have no time to eat or sleep anymore, let alone read the Post.

The skies have parted and after SIX WEEKS of searching I have a lease! Gorgeous building, amazing water views in SoBe, marble floors, California closets, wine refrigerator, subzero, the whole nine. Thank. Fucking. God. Oh, the best part—the bathroom is at least 150 square feet with a shower and a jacuzzi tub. And of course a bidet. Move in on Monday. No more sofa surfing for this chica.

Uh, I think hell has frozen over. I got--sit down, wait for it--a full-time job. I'm going to be (gasp) the editor in chief of a society magazine. Awww yeah. I start MONDAY. Mind you, I am still decamping at my BFF's in-laws winter house and have yet to find a permanent residence. Ha!

Well, no decisions were made today. My folks were underwhelmed and sticker-shocked at my favorites. It's hard to go back to Saks when you've been shopping at Neiman's and Bergdorf's your whole life.

Monday I'm off to a guest house in Coral Gables. After that, it's looking decidedly murky.

This article on Jewish humor involving Gawker is kind of interesting. Where would our tribe be without Seinfeld, David, Allen, Lewis et al.? Not that I am comparing the scribes at Gawker to the former—though you Gawkers are all v. v. sweet!

Condo Commandos

Tomorrow my folks are coming in for the day to look at condos with me. I've just learned that my friend will be back Monday, so it looks like I'm on the move once again. My realtor and I have it narrowed down to 3 buildings. We are using the Macy's to Neiman's analogy to explain the apartments to my folks. Of course I want Neiman's (and mom will too), but in this loony tunes market, sometimes the Macy's properties are as expensive as the Neiman's ones. The top two are Neiman's; the last one is Saks. And the Macy's one? Such a $500,000 craphole I didn't bother taking pictures.

This is where I want to live; a 24th floor junior penthouse with unobstructed ocean views from every room. (The Dog Building.) And check out the bathroom.






This is the second-runner up, but more $$$ and not as close to the ocean and the beach.








This is the third-runner up—not as super high-end as the other two buildings, but the apartment is nice and the owner did a great renovation.

My God, all I want to do is shop, shop, shop and I have no dough. Neiman's and Saks and Bergdorf's—sale time. I don't even tempt myself by going to Bal Harbour. In fact I have cosmetics I need to return to Saks and I'm putting it off so as not to be tempted.

It's quite stormy here but my schedule has eased up a bit, so this week is a bit of a breather. Mom and dad are flying in for the day Saturday to help me look at condos, because as of the 2nd week in August I am like totally homeless. Who the hell would have thought that I would be 31 and sans an abode? Nobody, honestly.

I can't remember if I wrote this already, but I saw Hairspray and loved, loved, loved it. I'm sure theater snobs won't, but screw them, I—and about 300 gay guys—had a smile on my face during the whole entire movie.

Ugh, I went to the Mondrian today and was literally salivating. This condo-hotel is going to be phenomenally gorgeous. The sales office alone is stunning. Two problems, both equal issues: No dogs are allowed. The prices are astronomical. New York prices—$711,000 for a studio that is less than 600 square feet and has no alcove area. On the other hand, a corner-unit, one-bedroom with great views is $746,000. However, if I had the money and pets were allowed, I would live there in a heartbeat. On site bars, Agua Spa, Asia de Cuba, fully appointed units with huge plasmas and designed by Marcel Wanders. It's going to be fabulous. Though the no dogs thing is bizarre, as I could swear I've seen dogs in The Mondrian in L.A. and other Morgans Group hotels. . . This was going to be my week of doing nothing except looking for apartments. Now I suddenly have a serious interview tomorrow morning. I barely remember applying for the job, as it was in May.

Soooo not in interview mode right now.

The best Google search ever directing someone to my site: "Urinators in Russia."

In no way does that phrase appear in my blog. I don't even think the word Russia has been written here.

Jen, whatchu got?

1. I am soo happy that the NYC explosion wasn't terrorist related. I hope you guys are not plunged back into post-911 traumatic stress syndrome. I know I would be popping Xannies left and right if I heard/felt/saw that explosion. Especially since it came on the heels of the whole Bin Laden using Iraqi operatives in the U.S. thing. Seriously, someone needs to murder that motherfucker already.

2. My word of the day is fuckwit. I am surrounded by fuckwits.

3. I am glad to be living in a building again where I have friends.

4. Next, I want to live here: Mondrian South Beach These units come fully furnished with Plasma TVs, the whole 9 yards. Plus, privileges at the Delano. Hellooo.

5. I'm sorry, but Kimora Lee Simmons and Djimon Hounsu? WTFWTF? She is such a ghastly, ostentatious, money-grubbing, no talent ho. And he, oh bestill my beating heart. I have been in love with him since Amistad. He is just pure perfection. He, in fact, has supplanted my Michael Jordan obsession, and those of you longtime friends reading this know that is serious shit. Take a gander at Djimon's new campaign for Calvin Klein (I think it's Calvin) and you'll see what I mean. Scrumptious.

6. JDate is now officially the scariest site online. Seriously. I love to look, but the guys who check me out in return are either 25 or 55 and soo not cute. It really amazes me to no end that people I know have gotten married off this site. These people are freaking scary. Shirtless, incoherent, stupid, cocky or just plain bizarre. I must stop looking. There is enough eye candy in this building that I may as well just roam the halls.

Whew. I can finally breathe. Today was the first day since moving here that I've had the time to do what I came here to do—hangout and lay by the pool. With the bulk of my work done for the week, I've earned some much-needed time off.

But I'll only have this luxury for a couple of days, as now it's time to start condo shopping. And then more work due next week. There are many great things about freelancing—the fringe benefits, especially if you write about fashion and beauty, the ability to work from home and set your own hours. But the drawbacks outweigh the benefits, unless you are uber-successful and have several contracts with national magazines. Not me. I'm the freelancer who lives hand to mouth, waits two months after I've turned in stories to get paid even though I worked myself ragged. It's not an easy way to live, though on the flip side, I'm doing what I have always dreamed of doing—though I always dreamed it would be on a larger scale and in NYC.

Okay, so maybe I'm not living the dream here. Maybe I'm just another underpaid, overqualified, struggling artist living hand-to-mouth and beyond her means. I am, it seems, average. This is like death for me. I was not bred to be average. My family and ancestors were far beyond average. I had all the trappings needed to overcome mediocrity. And yet here I am, the very definition of failure and mediocrity.

My high school yearbook quote was by Todd Oldham, who in 1993 was just hitting his stride. It went something like this: "I've never aspired to be in the middle of anything. I want to live my life in extremes."

My former shrink would likely say he is bipolar. But that's exactly the way I think. I think often, too often, about how hard I've worked over the past many years—I started publishing when I was 20 years old—wasting more than a year at NYU getting my master's in journalism, which was a totally useless endeavor, and the whole, traumatic, expensive book ordeal. These thoughts leave me empty, sad and feeling like a complete failure. Yes, I put too much pressure on myself. But, I am 31 years old and should be much further along in my career. Instead, I am a piecemeal freelancer, a housewife with no husband and addicted to accoutrements I simply can't afford.

People often ask themselves, "Where did I go wrong?" Well, I know exactly where I went wrong at every turn. Problem is, you can't go back. You can only move forward. And that's what I'm trying to do.

BFD— women's magazines retouch photos! Stop the presses. In this day and age, you're an idiot if you don't retouch. It's virtual Botox and Restylane. Why wouldn't you? I make everyone look better in the pictures I post. Why? A. I choose to and B. my friends and relatives bitch if they look bad.

Yes, I am losing it. I am working 24/7, sleeping fitfully and barely have time even to go to the gym. This is my five-minute break.

And for some reason my beauty picks are truncated this month. Maybe I did something BAD. Oy, I am such a freaking mess.

Ya'll know I usually go gaga for dogs over babies; in fact I had a dream last night about all the four legged creatures I've met this week in the hall, the mall and even in an art gallery last night. Obviously I seriously miss my furry friends.

However, I saw my godson for the first time in a few months last night and boy is he cute. Their pug, in fact, seems extremely jealous and greeted me like the long-lost leader of the canines.

Now I am going to lay out at my friends' parents' house on the water. I've earned a much needed respite from the computer this week.

Hahahahaha. The funniest Google search of late that pointed someone toward this page: "how to get even with a catty nosey person."

Jen, you got anything even close to that?

Wagging the Dog

These pics are from the balcony of my friend's apt. I am subletting this month.

Sooo in the midst of all this work craziness, I am looking at condos with my realtor. Today, after seeing an amazing condo in a building on the beach, we had this utterly mystifying experience. And I wouldn't be wasting my literally precious time right now, but I need input on this scenario. You all know my obsession with dogs; my realtor is also a dog-lover and owner.

After we exit this amazing PH we spent about 15 minutes looking at, we go out into the hall and see this chow
dog wandering around looking agitated. No other people are in the hallway. The dog goes up to the double-door PH that is clearly where he lives, and starts barking and scratching at the door.

We knock on the door to no avail, then agree we can't leave the dog out in the hall, as he is clearly distressed and neither one of us could bear to just leave him. So I stay with the dog and comfort him while my realtor goes down to the front desk to tell them what's going on. As time goes by the dog is getting more and more distressed, crying and barking. I'm knocking on the doors, the neighbors' doors, and trying to soothe the dog, all fruitless efforts. Finally, I try the handle—the freaking penthouse is open. The dog waltzes in. I open the door about a foot wide and call out. I can hear the dog lapping water from his bowl, but cannot see him.

What I do see is the tenant/owner's wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. Something is clearly not right. I'm thinking the owner had some kind of medical emergency, but once the dog is inside, he doesn't bark or try to get my attention again. The real mystery is: How the hell does a dog end up in the hallway on the 33rd floor without its owner? Where the hell is the owner? Dead? Passed out? High off his gourd?

Anyway, my realtor returns with a member of the building's security, a man less puzzled or troubled by this scenario than one the other day in which someone was so high he left a wad of cash and his ID at the pool.

So as we stand there freaked out about this dog and wondering whether the owner is alive or dead, the security guard is nonchalantly gossiping about the crazy shit he's seen owners do. That's all well and good, we're thinking, but leaving money at the pool ranks a little bit lower than a freaking dog roaming the hallways, and an open door to a penthouse with a wallet and keys on the counter.

Well, we did all we could do and then left in the hands of building security. But we spent the whole ride home trying to solve this riddle: How did a dog end up in the hallway without his owner realizing it and where is the owner?

This is how busy and frazzled I am—I didn't even realize that my column came out a week ago. Juli B July Picks

Okay, back to work.

Oh, I spotted Mark Badgley and James Mischka, aka Badgley Mischka, lunching at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach while I was doing the same this afternoon—hey it was business. It's Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week here now (swimwear), but I'm so busy I can't cover it. Frankly I didn't have any clue that Badgley Mischka was even doing swimwear. Some fashionista I am. . .

Holy Exhaustion, Batman

Just today I stopped living out of a suitcase. But that was only after spending Thursday through Sunday at Acqualina. The resort is truly divine, like all Rosewood
properties.

When I was a travel mag editor in L.A. I had the privilege of staying atLas Ventanas al Paraiso, and overall, that remains the most staggeringly perfect resort I've ever been to.

I am thoroughly spent and the work just keeps coming, which I am not complaining about, but I'm gettting to the point where I don't know how I am going to accomplish everything on my plate. I've got countless assignments, meetings, pitches etc. due, and I've got to find a more permanent place to live.

My to-do list is endless; my computer useless until I get some damn obsolete chip that probably won't even work anyway; my world is spinning. And for a type A control freak, this is not a good thing. I am relieved to have a space that is my own, at least for a month, but since I'm so regimented, I'm suffering from like organizational withdrawl or something.

In Jackassville, my life was boring but I had my routine downpat. I had a nice little workspace, didn't have to do much by way of cleaning and housekeeping, and got to work with our three little pooches twittering at my feet. Now I'm on my friend's laptop that I am a complete moron at using and my organized, borderline-OCD world is just gone. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it; that's the beautiful irony—I'm totally out of control of being in control.

That's just the way life is.

No Rest for the Weary

So you all are aware of my sleeping problems—earplugs, eye mask, pitch black, the whole nine. And it wasn't until late in the day that I realized that my friend didn't have blinds in her bedroom. Then, as I made the bed, I realized it was a water bed. Uh, oh. However I slept surprisingly well; until noon actually, as I'd been up since three a.m. getting settled.

Then a trip to the Apple store today revealed that they don't even make the wireless card for my G4 anymore—it's about 5 years old—so thank God Stace left her laptop. Slight problem though; all my work docs are on my desktop. So I have no e-mail access to my work docs and the wireless card that I ordered won't get here for about a week. So basically, I'm fucked.

Oh well, guess that means it's vacation time. Either that or I will have to call one of my computer savvy friends and bribe him to come over and do some magic.

Tomorrow I am off to the resort and the beach, though right now I'm looking at the water and it's lightening, thundering and pouring rain. It's hurricane season after all, bienvenidos a miami.

I am FINALLY settled in South Beach by way of Palm Beach. The good news? I can bring Wally and he can stay with me here at my friend's pad and at Acqualina (for a mere $100). The bad news? My shoes, handbags and clothes do not yet have a home. I might have to make a trip to BBB and buy some kind of cheap contraption for them. . .I am exhausted. More TK when I am unpacked and social.

Ciao to the South

Well, it's my last official day in Jackassville. Thank God. How did I spend it? Loading up on a month's worth of supplies at BJ's. Dad went for the new printer but no so much for the Chopard watch.

Tonight we'll dine at Ruth's Chris in Ponte Vedra Beach; meet some friends afterwards and then call it a night. Tomorrow I'll drive to Palm Beach, spend the night there and then hit South Beach in the morning to move into my friend's swanky digs while she's in Bali. I'd rather be in Bali too. . . . The next time you hear from me, hopefully there will be something exciting to report.

Huh?

I had a tres bizarre dream last night.

I awoke to find Naomi Campbell in my bathroom, eating the emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds out of one of my pendants. Instead of asking the pugnacious supermodel what the hell she was doing there, I asked her a question with real gravitas:

"Naomi what are you doing? How many calories are in those?"

"Oh, practically none, you know, because you can't chew them," she replied.

Leave it to this journo to ask the really important questions. I'm sure this dream was prompted by the fact that I packed my jewelry last night, but no idea why Naomi entered the picture.


On another note, I just finished a really funny, genuinely enjoyable chick-lit/beach book by the girl who wrote Legally Blonde. It's called School of Fortune; it's in paperback and it's laugh-out-loud funny.

Married to the Marsupials

CJ, I think you make such a valid point in your comment that it's worth a post. This is a subject that I've often pondered and is perhaps the one reason I am thankful to be single.

I look at my married friends who are popping out babies, taking care of them all day, doing their husband's laundry and then cooking them dinner. I feel sorry for them, and it almost breaks my heart to see so many of them settling for lives that are straight out of Leave it to Beaver. However, most of my married girlfriends do not work. So I think the men feel even more entitled to expect exactly what you are speaking of, and they think that because they earn the money, they are entitled to virtually enslave their wives.

It's like feminism has completely been obliterated. At least when you work, you have some sense of independence. My advice to you, if you are a working mommy, is to sit your husband down and say, "Look, I work twice as hard as you, so pick up some of the slack, buster." Or at the very least, get him to hire you some damned help. That's the least you deserve.

All of my parents friends worked and raised children. I watch these young couples today, my friends exhausted after a day of baby-manning, the husband expecting a home-cooked meal as soon as he walks in the door, and think to myself, maybe being single isn't so bad after all.

You are right, my parents set great examples, they both work and were always on equal footing. My mom and dad share the chores, finances and social calendars equally. Mom doesn't cook; dad doesn't mind. Dad shops for groceries and picks up his own dry-cleaning. And brings home a bouquet of roses from the farmer's market every Friday. Mom does what she wants, when she wants and so does dad. And they are completely in love after 36 years. They are, in short, the perfect couple, impossible to live up to, so I have pretty much given up trying to live up to them in that dept.

Therefore, it's nearly impossible to find a man who would treat me the same way my dad treats my mom. And I don't want kids, am "too much" for guys my age to handle, and expect a lot from a partner, all of which leads me to believe I need an older man. Now if only I could find one who wasn't off-limits. . . .

Ahh, I see that someone at the lovely Miami Herald is reading the blog again. What your own paper is boring you? What a shocker! Perhaps you should think of bringing your coverage into the 21st century . . . there actually is unique, fun stuff happening in that city of yours. Too bad you have nobody to cover it.

The only things in my life that are not a complete frazzled mess right now are: my shoes, which are now all Ziploc-ed and ready to go (they fit perfectly—okay barely—in my large Skull and Bones tote, JPS;) my handbags, ditto; my car, sparkling like the top of the Chrysler building; my desk and work materials, which are already in my car. Now onto the hard parts—jewelry, toiletries, linens and clothes. And oh yeah, my love life is absolutely 100% clean cause I ain't got one. So that's pretty cut and dry.

Guys and low-maint girls don't understand this, but packing is extremely traumatic especially when it's for a month. And especially when you don't know what exactly the month will hold. Casual nights? Black-tie affairs? Fashion shows? Anything is possible and like a good Girl Scout, I must be prepared for all situations.

Today is my parents' 36th wedding anniversary.

As a gift, my dad had our jeweler ship him 5 dazzling diamond bracelets and then this morning, he left the boxes and cards by the coffeemaker for my mom—telling her to choose the one she liked best—so that she would see them first thing in the morning.

What I don't understand is how a generation of men like my dad—men with generosity, morals, taste, humor, success, humility and kindness—have given way to a generation of douchebags. Douchebags and asshats who think women are expendable or worthless or albatrosses. Where have the good old days gone. I often think I was born into the wrong generation. Sure, my potty mouth may have gotten me into trouble, but I'd be much more comfortable in the days of garden parties, African-American nannies, drivers and yachts.

Does such romanticism exist for people my age? Not that I've heard of. Christ, my parents will be lucky to live long enough to see me get married, let alone celebrate a substantial anniversary.

The Final Four

Lordy, I am tired. I'm leaving Sunday a.m. for South Beach, stopping in Palm Beach for a visit, and then commencing my month-long sublet. No idea where this crazy-ass adventure called life will take me after that.

Yet I've not begun to pack. Anything. And I am so anal about packing that this represents a serious form of procrastination/self-sabotage. The most preparation I have done is cleaned my car, and I scrubbed that sucker from top to bottom. You could operate in it thanks to the amount of antibacterial wipes I employed.

So I get to MIA Sunday, move into my friend's pad Monday and then Wednesday momsy, popsicle and their friends are coming down for their annual 4th of July TEP-fest. We are staying at the divine Acqualina; so I'm not complaining. But I think I will actually have work to do that week, so I haven't quite figured out how that will come to pass. I suppose I need a laptop.

BTW, has anyone been tuning into HBO's John from Cincinnati? I'm so addicted; it's like Six Feet Under at the beach with a twist of mysticism. Rad.

Girls and Boys

Brother please don't read this post, for your own good.

So here's a little story I've got to tell about, well, about my previous two posts. This is what went down. This new friend T. and I go out with some of my old-school friends Friday night—and we're talking about guys I've known for 25 years. I'd confessed to her that I'd always had a crush on one of the boys, P., but that nothing had ever happened.

Cut to about five hours later; we're at a club at the beach where P. has brought in Biz Markie to DJ. My guy friend K. who drove us out there, decides that instead of driving back downtown from the beach—about 30 minutes—we'll go crash at this hotel where P. rented a bunch of rooms. Girlfriend T. voices no objections. Several joints later, K. ends up getting T. and me a hotel room of our own. Next thing we know P., my crush, is lying in bed between us just shooting the shit. Eventually, I got tired and had my head turned away from them, trying to sleep, but I couldn't sleep because I could hear the two of them hooking up beside me.

T. who, earlier at dinner with my parents, told them she'd never even seen cocaine, proceeds to do it all-night with K. She wakes me up the next morning, jacked, and says, "We need to get out of here now."

Oh-kay, I think, this isn't exactly NYC we're talking about here. K. says wait for the others to wake up and we'll drive you. But no she needs to go, now. So she calls about four cabs as if the hotel is on fire. On the way home, I confronted her about the coke lie and said, "So did P. put the moves on you?"

"Oh, yeah, she says casually, but I just wasn't having it."

Bullshit, I thought, and got the pit of dread. So later in the day, I called our mutual friend who introduced us, told her the story and said, "Is T. the type of girl who would do something like that? I mean, that's like the cardinal rule of girl-friendship!"

Yeah, the friend says, she would totally do that. That's her MO. So I confronted T. the next day, she claimed she didn't remember anything, which is exactly what our mutual friend said she would say, and then called my friends "vile."

Now, it's one thing to hook-up with your friend's crush, lie about doing drugs, lie to you about hooking up with said crush, but now she turns it around on my friends. My friends who I've known basically my entire life?

I don't think so, honey. Keep your friends close and your frenemies closer. Oh, and I neglected to mention that this ex-friend has a notorious reputation for sleeping around, dating men twice her age and just generally whoring herself out.

I have enough friends whom I trust with my life. I don't need one I can't even trust in the most mundane situations.

And in case you didn't already realize this, I'm not someone you want to cross in general. But most especially, if you are a lawyer in the same town as my dad, who's been practicing here for more than 30 years, knows every judge and lawyer in town, and doesn't take well to people fucking with his daughter.

The answer to yesterday's quandary is: Go with your gut, and trust the people who you've known your life as opposed to those who you've known less than a month.

In the wise words of Oprah, "Once somebody shows you their true colors, pay attention." Or something like that.

The cardinal rule of girl-friendship: Not hooking up with a guy you've admitted to crushing on, no? I don't care how much alcohol is involved.

The question is, can you trust this person again, especially when they deny that it happened.

Personally, I like to be able to trust my friends in any type of situation. What to do? Especially if you really like the girlfriend?

You know, if it's not the asshat reading my blog in Chicago, then I think I have a serious e-stalker. Who reads someone's blog for 2 hours? Christ, I didn't even realize I had 30 pages to view.

Honestly, Chicago person, I am really not that interesting. You should try reading a book.