Another 12-hours in the car, though worth it this time as I got the job. Freelance, and can do it from here, but still something more to fill the time with.

I'll be doing the event listings weekly for Social Miami. Now I have three jobs; none of which are quite enough to foster independence. But let me tell you, my Filofax is jam packed with assignments now.

As you all have probably realized, I have been holding of on dishing on my personal life as of late. I will continue to do that. However, recent events have conspired to form some conclusions in my head.

As was stated in When Harry Met Sally, men and women cannot be friends if there is some kind of attraction thing happening. This, if I may be so bold, is not women's fault. How many women do you know who are still friends with guys they may be in love with who don't feel the same? Tons. Men seem to think that just because there was or is something physical, the woman immediately falls into the we're in a relationship where's my ring, house and kid mode. Soooooo not the case guys, at least not in mine.

On the upside, due to the events of this weekend, I got to spend some quality going out time with my girls (holla Stace, Dawn and my new friend Lauren); got to see my best friend and Godson; got to soak up the sun; got to do some real shopping; and lastly reached some conclusions, henceforth:

1. I will no longer be friends or "friends with benefits" with men who do not show me the same respect and support that I do them.

2. I am now opening up the dating field to non-Jews and older men. Much older men. They know how to treat a lady.

When it rains, it hails apparently. Y'all know I've been itching to get out of town. And I have been sending out resumes. So I got a call this morning and have an interview down in Miami Monday morning. So I'm off again tomorrow (thank God). The only problem is making the 5-hour-drive by myself, as I hate driving and have been known to be maniacal and get a little road ragey.

But thank God for friends and their parents' second homes. And thank God I bought that cute little new dress last weekend! See, everything, even shopping, happens for a reason;)

Latest Juli B. feature. You Miamians should stop by the store Lola, and buy me a nice little present while you're at it;)

Things that I am obsessing over at this particular moment:

Jewelry by Indian designer Suhani Pittie.



This tote and polo tee from Skull and Bones by Jared Paul Stern.


Juvederm, supposedly better and longer lasting than Restylane.

When and how I am going to get to NYC to see Masato at Momotaro. I'm due for my bi-yearly touch up in June. Thank God for tax refunds.

My bad haircut. I don't care what mom says, nobody beats Blandi.

BORBA. Words cannot express how devoted I am to this product. If I were famous, I would be its spokeswoman.

And my obsessions aren't all superficial:

To wit, how the hell am I going to get out of this shithole with my sanity intact, money in my pocket and a legit job? Roxy had it written into her will that we are not allowed to sell her jewelry, and given that her ashes are scattered in our backyard—long story for another time—I am fully afraid of her ghost. So selling stuff is not an option. Though at this point I would sell my soul to get out of here.

I know you commenters keep saying just get any old job (sorry, can't do the temp thing; I've tried, not my bag), but how does one go about getting 'any old job'—details please, commenters.

OK, dear readers, I am willing to follow your advice for once. I will suck it up and try to get a job that is not my "dream" one, if such a thing exists anymore. I mean, once I realized I would never work at Vogue, the notion of my dream job evaporated anyway. Now it's just a reduced variation of a dream.

Anyway, for my Miami readers, if you have any leads for me in the fashion, jewelry, PR, media or entertainment fields, please, please, please email me.

I remember shortly before I left for my freshman year at Emory, my grandfather, who I thought the world of and was the coolest man ever, was very ill and on his protracted deathbed. Even though nobody in the family talked about it, I knew I would never see him again.

My grandparents, Stanley and Roxy, of the Sarasota Pavers, had very high hopes for me. They thought I would be famous, successful and accomplish feats beyond compare. They never hesitated to tell me this. And at the age of 17, I suppose I was naive enough to believe this. I was 17 and, like always, I had a plan. I would go to Emory, graduate, move to NYC, become a writer/editor and conquer society.

Knowing that I likely would never see Stanley again, I sat down at our old Mac and composed a farewell letter to him, expressing my love and gratitude to him and outlining my plans for the future. I wanted him to know that his beliefs in me were not mere projections; that I would live up to his dreams for me. He had always offered, as I was his first grandchild, to pay for my college education. I don't think my parents took him up on his offer, but I remember one poignant moment vividly. I was staying at the Shoneys in Atlanta, getting ready to go to college; grandpa was literally on his deathbed. I was coming down the stairs when mom came running up with tears in her eyes and an envelope in her hand. Grandpa, good ol' Stanley, had FedExed a check for $10,000 for my first semester. Less than a month later, I was heading to Sarasota for his funeral. And though I never got to say good-bye in person, I feel like my letter was the best I could've done at the time.

That was the last time I was in Sarasota, and this is one of the reasons I feel it so important to revisit Sarasota as an adult. Stan's older brother is now on his deathbed and I want to see him and glean as much information about my grandpa as I can, before yet another piece of my family history is lost.

God, I hate starting out the day crying.

What do you do when . . .

You hate where you are geographically.

You hate where you are career-wise.

You hate the fact that despite your best efforts, you are powerless to change either of the above, for without a new job, I can't rightfully move.

What to do people, what to do?

I need advice from real, live people and readers, as I think my psychiatrist is crazier than I am and my therapist has become nothing more than a very good friend with my best interests at heart.

As some of you may know, when someone uses Google to find my site, I can see the search terms they type in. Often, it's quite amusing. Jen and I have a running contest. I win today, squirrel:
Somebody (obviously very disturbed) Googled "tight jeans nice ass rino toe," and was led to my site.

Ummmmm, yeah, get yourself a shrink, dude.

To wit, the name of our guide in Italy was Rino; I often speak of jeans; I probably use the word ass a lot; though I don't recall speaking of toes.

Suddenly all my junk mail is in Chinese. Does anyone else with Gmail have this problem? I had another boring, relaxing weekend, which I suppose is appropriate given the fact that it's the first weekend I've been home in almost a month.

On another note, I am reading a truly divine book—I'll Let You Go, by Bruce Wagner, per the recommendation of the dapper JPS. After I finish this tome, I'm going to inhale the rest of Wagner's novels.

Right now I am listening to The View, about to begin my stretching in preparation for the gym. There is something seriously wrong with this picture, people.

Once again, it's time for Sephora. The Lauder family should be prosecuted at the Hague for inventing this place. It's like a crackhouse for women. It's just dangerous, period. You go in needing one thing and come out $150 poorer. Somebody needs to stop this madness.

I ask my girly-girls out there, have any of you ever gone into Sephora and just bought one thing? It's like Lay's Potato Chips, nobody can buy just one thing.

Moving On

As I've stated this week in no uncertain terms, I am BORED as hell here. One can only go to the beach, the gym, Sephora etc. so many times in one week. And I've only been here like four days in the past month! And now that I have no vacations or major events in my Filofax to look forward to, it's time for some planning.

To that end, I've actually begun applying for jobs. In Miami/South Florida. That's right folks, NYC, my spiritual and geographic home for so long is no longer singing its siren song to me. A lot of this has to do with the rodents, rodents, rodents and more rodents, which you longtime readers and friends are well aware of my myriad issues with.

To those of you with no rodent phobias, I am sure it seems like a silly issue, surely not one big enough to keep someone away from a city they love. But for me, mice in one's home is not a mere nuisance; especially when you are paying upwards of $2,000 a month to cohabitate with them.

And though I always, always—from the time I was 13 years old—thought I would live and die in Manhattan, I truly don't much miss living there. Perhaps part of this "I must live in Manhattan or I am nobody" mentality had to do with grandmom Roxy, who grew up there, and mom, who wanted to grow up and live there.

I plan to go to Sarasota soon, where mom grew up and grandparents resided, to exorcise old demons, and to really see the place where I had so many formative adolescent experiences through an adults' eyes.


Even the mere mention of St. Armand's Circle/Lido Beach where Roxy lived, below, triggers so many mixed emotions.

The last time I was there was for grandpa's funeral, nearly 14 years ago. I think it would be both an emotional and interesting experience to go back there on my own and sort of excavate old memories and my family's history. Because not only are my memories of my grandparents there, but their physical legacies are there as well since grandpa's family are real estate developers and many of their projects bear their name. (Below, where grandpa lived.)


Anyway, I have always said that the perfect existence to me would be an apartment in the city and a place on the beach in Florida.

So last night when my mom received a brochure for a timeshare at the St. Regis in NYC and was musing aloud about that and another one on the UWS she's been pondering for years, I had to curb my enthusiasm. For I hope that mom will one day bite the bullet (aka follow her dream, despite my dad's divergent opinions) and invest in something at least marginally permanent in the city; and hopefully I will permanently be on the beach somewhere down here. And through the beauty of familial synergy, then maybe we can all have the best of both worlds, no?

Well, a girl can (and does) dream. I suppose I am feeling nostalgic today, perhaps because of all the deaths that have surrounded me this past week.

Three of my parents' contemporaries have died within the past week, all of whom (I think) were under the age of 60. Such events merely reinforce my life-is-short-do-what-makes-you-happy philosophy.

Life is fucking short people. Seriously. So what are you all doing out there in those cubes reading my blog? Get out there and do what you've always dreamed of doing cause you never know when your dreams are going to come to an abrupt end.

Not much doing here, so check out my favorite find from Miami Fashion Week on Fashionosophy.

Manhattan Mammaries

Wow, this boobalicious Jane mag story has the Gawkers gawking. Myself included.

It's interesting, looking at other women's boobies. I'd never be courageous enough to be a part of this story, but voyeuristically, it's made me very secure in the boob-arm fat/side-cleavage department. That is all I will reveal regarding my own breasteses.

Christ almighty I am SO BORED here that I'm thinking of going back to Miami this weekend for the final soiree of the symphony committee I am on.

But surely one's life cannot revolve around events and parties and travel, or can it? I suppose it can if technically, it's kind of my job to cover such occasions.

I need like a life coach or some such person. Therapy is great and all that, but it certainly can't help you vis-a-vis what the hell you are going to do with the rest of your life and where the hell you are going to do it. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.

I forgot to post this pic yesterday, but due to the heat, the long walk to the dog path and the utter craziness of my friend Nicole, this is how her dog Hailey was transported to and fro her "walks" outside in Miami. Oh, what we do for our dogs.

I returned from Italy Monday and left for Miami Thursday in Nicole's huge SUV with her 75-pound, 9-year-old, adorable, smelly, panting, snoring, burping and farting English Bulldog in tow. Seven hours and fifty pee-stops later, I was back in the city I left only two months ago.

Did I miss it? Kind of, yeah; the beaches though, not Brickell.

Fun, action-packed weekend filled with good food—at the divine Il Mulino
and the utterly frustrating, no-reservations-allowed Joe's—good friends, good spas—Rik Rak Beauty Bungalow at the Sagamore Hotel—and fashion shows. Now back to life with the 'rents and the dogs. But it's hard to complain when you have smiling, furry faces to return to.

At the fashion show . . .



Nicole on the red carpet at the show . . .


The girls — Wally is seriously camera phobic. It's bizarre.

Amazing Amalfi

After our experience in Positano—fab hotel, two massages, delicious food and a near-comatose state of relaxation, I didn't think it could get any better.

Then we arrived at Hotel Santa Caterina in Amalfi. And it was better. In fact, it was pure heaven—white tile floors hand-painted with bright floral motifs, fluffy white sofas, views from here to eternity.

A corner of the lobby bar:



And then there were the rooms. Once again, dad pulled a Clark Griswold, though in his defense it wasn't entirely his fault. Upon arrival, only one of the rooms was ready and it was the one with the king bed. We "ooh-ed" and "ahh-ed" over its sumptuousness and spaciousness, its yellow, paisley-printed tiled floors and the view from the balcony. Surely the room Michael and I would get couldn't be better than this?

We went into the town of Amalfi, which is so quaint, adorable and filled with good shopping, that it puts Positano to shame.

I bonded with this little guy, bought him a sandwich of ham and cheese and fed him. For such a germaphobe, I will let pretty much any dog touch me. Is he not the cutest thing?






Anyway, we returned to the hotel and our room was ready. Not only was it prettier—in pink!—but again, the bathroom was twice the size of mom and dad's. We had a shower and a tub; they only had a tub. Plus we had a separate room for the toilet with another sink, not to mention two TVs. Dad was not happy, but it was so comical at that point that we just laughed it off.

Our gorgeous room—the view from the foyer.

The bedroom area:

The view from the balcony:

And the real view from the balcony:
Sigh. I need to learn to speak Italian, find a job over there and just do it. Now I'm off to pack again, this time for Miami Fashion Week.

I will post some trip highlights later and my fashion finds on Fashionosophy:Moda Mania. In the interim: Juli B Beauty Picks for April.

Okay, some of you may be wondering about the whole Vacation/Griswold theme. Typically our family vacays have been characterized by at least one of the following: hotel booked for wrong week, lost luggage, missed flights, dad sticking foot in mouth and offending a local, me not taking my meds and being a general bitch, dad peeing in public while sober.

But the past two family trips have been seamless, perhaps because I planned them. I was a travel editor in a former life, so I do have some expertise in this area.

For my 30th birthday last year, I planned our hotel and travel arrangements for a week in Bermuda. Aside from the minor incident where I stayed out all-night with a bunch of rowdy Canadians and mom took it upon herself to call in the Bermudan police, all was well.

For Italy, my parents relied on my expertise again, due to my knowledge of the area, the fact that I have more time than them and because they'd only been to Italy for cruise pitstops, while I've spent a great deal of time there.

And I have to say that all went well. Our driver/guide, Rino, a 34-year-old Italian Buddhist from Sorrento, was great; our hotels were amazing; our food was fabulous; the shopping was good; the weather was good and a fab time was had by all.

Though dad did have a consistently Griswoldian experience at every single hotel that was quite amusing and could have been prevented had he been just a wee bit more patient.

I had thought that Positano would be my favorite place; from what I'd read and heard, it was a glorious town and area. Originally, I did want to stay at Le Sirenuse, as Mel questioned, but we opted for the magnificent Il San Pietro instead, where every standard room has a balcony and sea view. Not so at Sirenuse. Plus San Pietro is about five minutes outside the very touristy center of the town of Positano and higher up the cliff with outstanding views. Rino also informed me that he'd driven Robert DeNiro there, but that Clint Eastwood—much friendlier than DeNiro—was deposited at someone's very nice yacht docked on the coast.

Anyhoo, enter the Griswoldian beginnings. We arrive on our first day at San Pietro, and the concierge proceeds to show us to both of our rooms. The first room she shows us is great, with a nice view and tasteful decor. The next room has a larger balcony.

Immediately Clark, I mean, Mark, says, "We'll take this one!"

Michael and I get back to our room and I look at the bathroom, which is nearly as big as the room. I call mom to see if she's looked in the bathroom yet, she says no and then I proceed to describe ours to her. "Damn!" she says. Or in mom parlance, probably something more along the lines of, "Darn it all."

Check out our bathroom:



I'll continue the saga tomorrow; now it's time for some fashion updates.

Photos

Ok, you can now view all the Italy photos here. I will post more details later.

Coming back to reality after a really amazing vacation is like coming down off an ecstacy high, especially if the place you come back to completely sucks ass. If my life could be one long vacation, it would be a European one.

Now I am back to the drudgery of living with my parents, going on blind dates with guys who do not yet realize they are gay, going to the gym, watching TV, writing dreck and generally pretending that there is an actual reason to go on living this absolutely meaningless life, despite all evidence to the contrary.

There were stray dogs everywhere in Italy, but they were surprisingly well-fed and friendly. Of course I had to bond with each and every one of them. These are the dogs of Pompeii. The rest of the photos should be uploaded to Flickr by later tonight.

I am back, sadly. I will post details later, as I need bed now, but a few pics to tide you over. I should have all the rolls combined on Flickr tomorrow.

Positano

Sunrise on the balcony of our room in Il San Pietro in Positano.



The impeccable patio of Il San Pietro.



Mom, dad and Michael at the top of the town of Positano.



The view from the hotel, above the infamous tennis court that I didn't play on cause of my bruised tailbone.



The view from where the lift takes you down to the tennis court and the heliport at Il San Pietro.



Looking south toward the town of Priano, towards Amalfi, from Il San Pietro.

I am sitting next to obnoxious New Yorkers at the St. Regis in Rome, they are talking of Bleecker Street, real estate closings on 50 Lexington Ave. and Britney in rehab again (?). There is nothing more annoying than JAPpy New York girls. Thank God I am from Fla.

Wherever you go, there you are.

And for those of you ignorant readers who have not noticed--I have comment moderation and therefore do not approve negative/bitter comments.

So, to Ryan, whom I suspect is this little weasly, stalkery motherfucker I used to work with: Yes, I can afford a vacation in Italy and fat wraps. And, yes, I am still accepting donations for my trade. Would you be a waiter-cum-male huster for free? I think not, sweetie darling. Soo kindly go fuck yourself.

Tomorrow I will be among Michaelangelo and on Via Condotti. Then back to Jackassville, then off to Miami.

And, yes, I actually do write for a living. And get paid for it. Imagine that.

Remember when I said it couldn't get any better than Positano? Well, boy was I wrong. Our hotel in Amalfi is simply to die for, and the town itself is so quaint, so adorable and so good for shopping. Many bargains to be had, despite the Euro. Seriously, I need to meet a nice Italian Jew with a summer home in Amalfi and then just stay. It's that beautiful. I can't upload pics until I get home. But, suffice it to say that if I could dream up the ideal decor of a beach house, this hotel would embody it. And our rooms are huge, with fab balconies overlooking the Mediterranean. Sigh.

Unfortunately, we are leaving tomorrow for Rome, which I've spent a great deal of time in and find to be a bit overwhelming. But the Good Friday celebration should be interesting. And our guide has promised to take us to the outlets tomorrow on our way from Pompeii to Rome.

But kids, especially honeymooners, you must visit this hotel.

And I have no way to moderate comments from here, so to the reader who asked about the slim wrap, follow my links in previous posts and you should be able to get a location near you. . .

Positano

Damn, it took me forever to load these photos so I hope you appreciate them! We are now off to Amalfi . . . These are all Positano and our lovely hotel Il San Pietro.

Mom and me on the terrace.


Our balcony during the day.

The lobby of Il San Pietro.


Another view from the terrace of the hotel.

Betty the boxer, the hotel owner's dog. What a lovely place to sunbathe, eh?


Our guide/driver, Rino, greeting the Greens, aka the Griswolds at Fumincino Airport.


The view of the back of Il San Pietro at twilight.



Another terrace picture.

Ciao!

So, I am in Positano at the simply mind-boggingly beautiful Il San Pietro. We all agree that this is hands-down, the most perfect hotel we have ever stayed at. Charging camera now and will post pics later.

Mom almost had a heart attack when on our drive from Rome to here, our driver informed us, after the fact, that we had just passed a Prada outlet. Stay tuned.