Oh, yeah, here's my little contribution to society for today: Juli B June picks.

I'm sure great-grandfather would be oh so proud.

My dad wins an award for his volunteerism today, and I punch out stories about beauty and fashion. My dream assignments, don't get me wrong, but I must find a way to give back that doesn't actually cost any money. Cause I ain't got none to give. Only myself and a tiny bit of time.

And buy this sports book by one of my dear friends—hello, father's day! If it's as awesome as its authors then it's, well, awesome.

Family Facts

As I've said before, my family is not so great about keeping its history, but apparently some of its members are. Thank God, because my maternal family is fascinating. The following are things my mom learned at my uncle's funeral, fascinating stuff really. (Mich, you'll get a hell of a kick out of all this.)

• While still living on Long Island, my great-grandfather Martin—who worked his way up from taxi-driver living in the Bronx to real-estate magnate—owned the first gas station outside NYC, in Nassau County where you could buy fireworks.

• He then went on to create some kind of tire/rubber business and manufactured some kind of rubber part that helped during the war.

• While still in NY, due to his and my great-grandmother's (Millie) philanthropic endeavors, they befriended Eleanor Roosevelt. (!) She later stayed at their house when she visited Sarasota.

• Martin had a heart-attack at a young age and decided to retire. They took the boat down to Boca Grande, Florida, near Sarasota, and were going to settle there. Then they discovered Sarasota and Martin fell in love and decided to relocate there.

• Never having been in the building/construction business—and remember he moved there to retire—he was unhappy that the Sarasota marina did not have bathrooms. So he built them. And thus Paver Development Co. was born.

• They started with the residential development Paver Park, in which streets are named after my mom, aunt, grandparents etc. They went on to develop 6,700 residential homes in Sarasota county, and owned a utilities plant, a sewage plant and the land that is now the outlet mall there.

• They patented some kind of element in the pantry where you open the door and then there are multi-level shelves and called it the "Paver Pantry." Alas, the patent expired and people just copied them.

• They supposedly invented the "villa" type of housing, where you have two homes one lot.

• This is my favorite one, as it illustrates the wild streak that runs in my family: During the war Martin was arrested for rum-running. Millie had to go to the police and beg them to let him out, as he had children to take care of. Ha!

• Way back in the 40s, Martin built the first synagogue in Sarasota, Beth Shalom, as a gift of course. Later, when the synagogue moved to its new location, the firm gave them the land it now sits on and built the property for them at cost. When we were young, we would go into the Martin and Mildred Paver religious school, where there is a metal bust of great-grandpa, who we never knew, and rub his nose. He had quite a prominent nose.

• Millie's parents were from Vienna, where apparently they were the photographers for the royal family. And although when it was time for Millie to be born they were in the U.S., her mother wanted her to be born in Vienna. So she went there for Millie's birth and died in childbirth. Millie and her sibling were then sent back to the states to live with their dad.

• What else? So much more, they were such benevolent people to the Sarasota community, which is evident if you read the comments in the guest book of Uncle Paul's obituary.

And then there's me, who sits at her computer all day, typing drivel. I'm sure they would be so proud. I have to say, we have not lived up to the legacy of our forefathers.

I am breaking up with my therapist. It's the longest relationship I've ever had, six years.

How does one do that? The "it's not you it's me speech?" The Seinfeld episode where he breaks up with the friend?

Or how about: "I've been speaking with you for six years and last night you tell me you think I may have this mental illness instead of the one I've been being treated for?"

Are you kidding me?

Screw her, and in fact, screw therapy. It's obviously done a lot of good. Could've bought a freaking condo with all the money put in her pockets. I don't think I've ever felt so betrayed by someone who I came to trust with, literally, my life.

Paul Leonard Paver
Paver, Paul Leonard May 6, 1924 - May 26, 2007 Paul Leonard Paver, 83, Sarasota, formerly of Great Neck, N.Y., died May 26, 2007. Services will be at 11 a.m. today at Temple Beth Sholom in Sarasota. Toale Brothers Funeral Home handled arrangements. Saturday, May 26, 2007, saw the passing at the Siesta Key family home, of Paul Leonard Paver, a wonderfully beloved and preeminent Sarasota pioneer and philanthropist. Paul came to Sarasota in 1949 soon after his father, Martin, and mother, Mildred Paver, arrived in Sarasota. Together, along with his brother Stanley, the brothers formed Paver Construction Company. Over the next half century they built over 6,000 homes in Sarasota and developed numerous commercial properties. Paul was born in New York City and graduated from Great Neck North High School in Great Neck , N.Y. He attended Hofstra College before joining the Army. He was a veteran of World War II and served in both the European and Pacific theaters. Paul served in the Army's 480th Ordnance as staff sergeant and was in Paris on Victory in Europe Day. He so enjoyed being part of and contributing to the greater Sarasota community and was a member of the Sahib Shriners, Temple Beth Sholom, and the YMCA. He was a charter member of the Sarasota Power Squadron, and was a supporter of the Wellness Community and the New College Foundation. He served on the board of directors for SunTrust Bank. Paul was a board member and supporter of Temple Beth Sholom for 55 years. He and his brother Stanley founded the Martin and Mildred Paver Religious School at Temple Beth Sholom. He and his wife, Doris Morrow Paver, were married 54 years ago in Temple Beth Sholom. He is survived by his wife Doris, daughters: Randa Paver of Alexandria, Va., Andrea Paver Kaine of Sarasota, Pamela Paver Barton of Fort Lauderdale and Diana Paver of Sarasota. He also survived by his sister, Sydelle Paver and his grandchildren, Judith Kaine and Daniel Kaine. He will always be remembered by everyone who knew him as a wonderful gentleman and a kind and generous friend who loved life, people, travel, learning, and most of all - family. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the Martin and Mildred Paver Religious School at Temple Beth Sholom: 1050 S. Tuttle Ave, Sarasota FL 34237. Paul's brother, my grandpa Stanley. I don't have any photos of Uncle Paul. But who knew that nowadays you can sign online guest books for obituaries? What an amazing concept. I had no idea this web site existed, but I think this was our family's second residential development. The tribute is apparently the work of my cousins. Very cool, girls! The History of Kensington Park.

RIP

Lots of stuff to catch up on, but first I would like to take a moment to remember my Great Uncle Paul, my long-deceased grandfather Stanley's brother. Uncle Paul was a kind, generous, warmhearted, loving, charitable husband, father, brother and man. He will be greatly missed by his family.

Most of you know I've been wanting and meaning to go over to Sarasota, where he lived, knowing that he was ill, and that I would like to see him before he passed. Sadly though it happened too quick, which, I suppose is always the case unless you are like 106.

On the flip/yin-yang side, my uncle on the same side of the family, my mom's half brother, won the lottery on the same day that Paul passed. So perhaps in the same way that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, for every truly terrible thing that happens, there is a truly miraculous thing that occurs as well.

That it should occur in the same family is a bit mystical though, no? In that vein, my brother brought me a present from India to Italy; it's a small carving of the God (?) Ganesh, who Indians (Hindus) believe is both the placer and remover of obstacles. Somehow, Ganesh managed to fall the floor and break recently, but I glued him back together, as I need all the obstacle removal I can get.

Soooo, onto the party portion of the program, which I know is why you guys read anyway, as I have little to offer in guidance/wisdom. This weekend was the first time since moving here that I actually went out and had a fun time. Perhaps because Crazy-ass Nicole and I don't go out that much together, I really didn't think such a thing could be accomplished without being around all my old friends who are still here and have yet to (AHEM) get back in touch. But meeting new people is always fun.

And though the first part of my evening was tarnished by the news of my Uncle's death and a disturbing conversation with the Chicago asshat addict, who is once and for all finally out of my life, my phone book, etc., it was salvaged by crazy-ass Nicole, and her friends who I'd never hung out with before. We had a grand old time this weekend.

I learned more about Christianity than I think I ever have; I got way too much sun, which I made up for today with some lovely Botox and Restylane; I partied; I met some very nice people, who though extremely different from myself, were nonetheless absolutely fabulous to hang around. And, as is always the case with my crazy fun weekends, I lost a little something in the sartorial department. A friend of a friend accidentally stumbled into me and broke my favorite pair of Chanel sandals. Sigh. Lesson learned: bars and high fashion just don't mix.

Now, onto the asshat addict and my ongoing battle with celibacy. (If you are reading this asshat, I had previously chosen to spare you the poison pen, but frankly you've really pissed me off and you are deserving of every single word I am writing.) Though I suppose I should thank you, asshat, as you taught me a valuable lesson in the "don't-have-sex-unless-you-are-in-love" dept. It's just too difficult for women; once that wall is breached, our emotions are involved, period. No matter what we say.

I am once again re-dedicating myself to celibacy until I am actually in love. That, of course, means that I will most likely never have sex again. Ever. But you know, there are lots of other things that you can do, without actually having sex.

Finally, a plea, a beg even directed at my friends and acquaintances new and old of the male variety, I really need a date this weekend for a rather big party that I can assure you will be filled with fabulous people, food and fun. And no strings; I just need an escort. I don't think I can handle another event where the main comment will be, "So are you dating anyone? You know, my 45-year-old son is available and single."

And now, for the photographic evidence. I will post the rest on Flickr, which you guys can access by clicking the link on the right of this page.

Nicole and me, when she was just her normal brand of crazy.


Yet, as the evening progressed, she was in full, crazy-ass Nicole mode.



The group.


The fabulous view from the bedroom of the house I stayed in this weekend.

Memorial Daze

Thank God for friends with beach houses, and thanks to Jared Paul Stern for my awesome, huge Skull & Bones tote that makes the perfect weekend bag in this casual town.



Happy Memorial Day. I'm checking out until Tuesday.

Well, this willing thing seems actually to work. I just landed another steady freelance job writing for a magazine (yay, magazines, how I've missed thee!), after nothing more than a phone interview.

LOVE the phone interviews.

Now let's try this one:

I will have a date—even a friend-date—to this big party I must attend next Saturday. If that works, I'll faint.

Willful Thinking

You know that book/movie The Secret that is today's Celestine Prophecy? Well, I bought it and didn't make it past page 20. But the gist of it, according to my hero Ellen DeGeneres, is that if you visualize things, they will come to pass. You know, "if you build it, they will come."

I have always believed this, yet my visualizations have, for the most part, yet to materialize.

But writing things down always helps, because then you are beholden to achieving these things; at least those of which are in your control.

So here goes:

I will meet an intelligent, humorous, smart, handsome, successful man who is not only un-intimidated by my intelligence, humor, talent, honesty, boldness and fearlessness, but who appreciates and admires these qualities in me.

I will run a fabulous magazine, even if it is from Miami. Or I will start my own. Probably I will do the former and then the latter.

I will get married before I am 34, because I do not want to imagine what I will look like when I am 35. I don't care if he's gay; I will have a Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman-style marriage. I will get the dress and the ring.

I will own a house on the water and a nice little Porsche to go along with it.

I will, someday, maybe in the very distant future, publish a book. Any old book.

I will be self-sufficient.

I will continue to age backwards.

I will own a share in a private jet.

I will cruise the Med in a yacht with at least four staterooms, with people I love.

I will continue to cherish my friends, family and dogs.

I will be true to myself and try not to be so hard on myself when I fail at any number of things, which I do, quite frequently.

I will learn to take things one moment at a time and not sweat the small stuff, like the fact that it's 2:44 a.m. and I'm wide awake with a deadline tomorrow.

I will remember to appreciate all the things I have—big and small—that most people don't.

I will recognize the fact that for all purposes, I have a rather good life.

I will go to bed now.

Prada Anyone?

So, I sold three out of the four bags I posted. I still think you guys are missing out on the Tod's—a preppy classic, which is probably why I never used it—the only one left. However, I found this never-been-used Prada clutch/case while rooting around. I got it in Italy, on a whim of course.

It's maroon, could be used as a clutch or a cosmetics case, gym case, whatevs. The black strap is NOT big enough to fit around your wrist, but if you wanted to make it a true clutch, you could tuck the strap in with the zipper.

Soooo, without further adieu, I'm listing it at $80.

And, girls, please comment, would you be interested in designer clothing through this site?

The Designer Dark Side

I would like to congratulate Jen for officially crossing over to the dark side. Mwah ha ha! I can't help but take a great measure of satisfaction in this, given that I inaugurated her to the joys of Bergdorf's and Choo.

Once you go designer, you never go back—I'm just warning you. Will better be prepared.

So, here's my latest for Juli B on that inch-losing body wrap that Ellen DeGeneres (my favorite person ever) did on her show. Yes, I did it, and I'm not ashamed. If you go here, you can find a location near you.

Louboutin for Dior

Well, snooze and lose ladies—the Louboutins have been snapped up by mom, in an even trade for this adiorable Dior she got me today at the outlet. Not that I need another bag, but she bought two, so what's a girl to do?


Also, the wonderful resort we stayed in in Bermuda (The Reefs) for my 30th birthday (I'm still 30, BTW, 1 and 1/2 years later) is on this month's cover of Travel & Leisure. I, however, (or rather my byline) am nowhere to be found, magazine-wise. Except for that ESPN thing, which may or may not still be on the stands. . .

Shoes, Glorious Shoes

OK, beach girls, PB girls, prepsters and Louboutin-lovers, here you go.

These Stephen Bonannos have never been worn and they are the ones with the heel. You can see a better picture and description here. Their price (plus a 3-week production time) is $95 with the heel; mine is $80 including shipping. Size 7.

These Stephen Bonannos have been worn once or twice, but are still in pristine condition (and I've Purelled them). See a better picture here, mine are also with the heel. You can see a better pic and description here. Their price is $85, with the heel; mine is $65 with shipping. Size 7.

Steph's Sample Sale

It's spring-cleaning time, so I'm offering up some handbags for sale that I simply have no use for. Payments made through PayPal; just click the "Make a Donation" button.

Trust me, they are all like new and have barely, if ever been used. Shipping included in all prices (if you are in the U.S.). These are all steals and there will be no refunds or exchanges. But if you've learned one thing from me over all these months, it's that I'm brutally honest, so you can trust me when I say these are all in primo condition. And I think that it goes without saying that they are all real; as if I would have anything less.

Ladies, start your engines.

Congrats to Jen, who has purchased the Fendi Baguette and to PJ who bought the brown Tod's. Mary got the Gucci; so only one left! I think I may have stumbled upon a second career.

JP Tod's long shoulder bag in black deerskin with silver accents. Probably $700-$800 originally. My price, $140.

The picture of the inside label of this one didn't come out.

If this goes well, it's onto shoes, which have never been worn. . . .

You guys should really get a hobby; it's Saturday and the weather is loverly. I would be at the beach again if my ass didn't look like a pomegranate.

I need a date for a party the first weekend in June. I am taking applications/volunteers from those I know (ahem) who are reading this. Yes, you would have to come to Jackassville, but it would be a good time. And most of you owe me anyway. . .at least the ones I am speaking to.

Beach Bitch

Today I am calling it a day and heading to the beach club, where the ocean will be my valium, my supple skin will soak up the sun thus forcing me to break down and set my next Botox and Juvederm appointments, and my iPod will be my sole companion. The beach club is the one place in this God-forsaken town where I can feel like the luxury lover I truly am. Thank God for the ocean and for private clubs.



Never mind the fact that we used to own a house about 1 mile south of the club with 100 feet on the ocean. If I had a dollar-for-dollar compensation for every former piece of real estate that my parents prematurely (and stupidly, oh so stupidly) sold, I would be a bona fide heiress instead of just a spoiled, no good brat.

The pit of dread continues to multiply. Today my day consists of going to Lexus for an estimate of the damage done in Miami, going to the gym, working on assignments and then hunkering down to watch the Grey's finale.
Ain't life grand?

I am enduring what my friend Schuman so eloquently (and appropriately) refers to as "the pit of dread." You know it. It's that feeling in your soul you have when you know that absolutely everything in your life is absolutely wrong, and there's really nothing you can do about it except what you are doing.

You wake up with it; you go to sleep with it; you have dreams that are allegories representing the causes of it. You try to overcome it and find that you can only do so much—that we are all connected and sometimes other people are responsible for making you feel like shit.

May Beauty Picks for Juli B. The 29 cosmetics and the Bliss tan in a can products are fab. The tanning spray TOTALLY works and looks amazing! And this coming from a true, real tan devotee!

Don't Know Why

But I can't seem to stop thinking about exes lately. Ex-lovers, ex-quasi-boyfriends, ex-one-sided crushes. When I date someone and it ends, I'm usually over it like that. I've never gotten back together with an ex of longevity; sure I've reconnected with ex-crushes or ex-hookup-hiccups, but never with an ex-boyfriend.

Recently, a friend described to me how "love at first sight" had resulted in a bitter divorce for someone he knew. And so that got me thinking, because, being the skeptic I am—especially in the romance department—I never believed in such a thing.

And then, one night, I honestly—moronically, regretfully, shamefully—believed it had happened to me. The affair was brief, intense and short-lived. But before I met him, I had never experienced that unbelievable rush of emotions that was a melange of lust, comfort, curiosity, excitement, giddiness and desire. When we were together, it was as if I was on drugs, literally. I still have never met someone I've melted into in the way that we did. And though he turned out to be (I suspect) a borderline sociopath who is probably reading this and thinking that I'm the sociopath, and though it's been almost two years and I still get depressed thinking about him, and though the pain and anxiety he caused me was nearly unbearable—I want that again. But I want it in the guise of a sane man.

But the question is, does lightning strike twice? Should there even be lightning? Or is that a recipe for divorce and disaster?

I don't know; maybe you all do. All I know is I've been dating and hanging out with guys more in the past few months than in the past year, and I've yet to feel that electricity. So I've begun to give up again.

What an interesting story in today's NYT about the book publishing industry. It's guesswork? Oh, really? And the best part is the disclaimer at the bottom of the story. As usual, the Times is about ten years behind the news angle, but it still made me think.

For example, if a really savvy Fobes-List type with a marketing or sales background bought himself or herself a publishing house or started his or her own, he or she could make a killing. And then based on market research, he or she would have to buy my book. I think Oprah would be the perfect person to do this. I can just see it now O. Books. That's actually not a bad idea. Maybe I'll write her a letter. Or maybe I'll just continue to be lazy and resign myself from book-writing. I'll probably take the latter route.

It's actually astounding the minimal amount of market research that goes into whether or not a book gets published. The industry, like the newspaper one, is still living in the 20s. It's time to step into the 00s people.

Oh, I neglected to mention two things about my time at Equinox:

1. I had another Elsa Benitez encounter. My first was on a Milan-to-Miami flight about 7 years ago. She hasn't aged a bit, but it looks like she's had her nose done. Absolutely stunning; working out with a personal trainer doing weights.

2. The key to maximizing your weight-training/toning time ladies, is to do weights while your heart rate is up. Meaning, do your weight training after your cardio so that you burn the maximum amount of calories and fat.

Golf Girl

Sometimes I do really asinine things and I don't know why. Case in point: Me insisting on dad getting VIP passes to today's TPC game (Round? Rounds? Match? See, I don't even know the right word!)

Let's look at the facts here:
• I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in golf, save for the fact that I know that any guy I date most likely will play a lot of it.

• I just got back from Miami Thursday night and am exhausted already.

• It's hot as balls today.

• The only golfers' names I know are Tiger Woods, Jack Nicklaus and Vijay Singh, and I only know of the latter two because they are friends of friends.

Anywho, why did I want to go? Well, because, the TPC is perhaps the biggest event of the year in this sleepy, ass-backwards, redneck hellhole. And I thought it would be a nice, civilized, chic way to spend the day—somewhere to bust out the white capris, the canvas LV tote and the cute Clergeries. Look, a girl needs a place to wear all her clothes, OK?

But then I get there and it's, like, packed with, like, rednecks in their Gator gear, smoking their cigarettes and exposing too much flesh and too many bad manis and pedis. Even the VIP areas were packed with hoi polloi, and this little diva was bored after watching Tiger take one stroke. Because the crowds are soo thick and the greens soo far away, you can't really see where the ball lands. So, yawn.

Oh, and did I mention it was really, really hot? Like, really, really, really fucking hot.

Then I came home and a strange thing happened—the tourney was still on the telly and I found myself actually watching it. Voluntarily. And periodically emitting "Ohs!" and "Ooohs!" when a player made a good or bad shot. So the lesson here I suppose is: It's much better on TV. Or something like that.

On a completely unrelated note, I have yet another interview Monday, my third in as many weeks. Thank God this one is a phoner, because the mere thought of one more 6-hour-long car ride puts my back in traction. Here's the odd thing though, I'm three-for-three in terms of sending out my resume and getting an interview in return.

In NYC, I averaged about one-in-twenty, if that. Big fish small pond phenom I suppose; but I also think that editorial outlets in Miami like people with New York experience and New York sensibilities.

After a week of spa treatments and fitness fiascos, I'm once again exhausted.

Let's see, the highlights of this week?

• A two-hour, kick-my-ass personal training session at Equinox with Antwon, who assures me that using his techniques I can finally rid myself of those pesky last five (okay, 6.5) pounds. I had always thought that for women it's best to use low weights, high reps to tone and not bulk up. Not so, according to Antwon (sp) someone my size would have to be lifting about 25 pounds on each arm to "bulk up." So the reason I still have a novices triceps and biceps? Too few pounds on those weights. He increased the poundage and now I'm sore in a good way. I love being sore. Like I've said: Beauty is pain.

• A divine facial at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach, one of my favorite Miami hotels. If you are looking for a fabulous place to stay in the middle of South Beach but removed from all the icky tourists and nightclubbers, this is your place.

• An unusual Hammam ritual at the uber-cool, underground Spa V at the Hotel Victor, another hotspot.

• An utterly fantastic modified Thai massage at the Equinox Spa. Jose, you rock. I was so completely relaxed that I actually passed out, only the second time that's happened in my lifetime of spa-going.

The lowlights:
• I was so slammed with work that I did not get to see a single non-publicist friend.

• My dad's precious Lexus was wrecked somewhere between the Hotel Victor and the guest house I was staying at. I did not realize it until I pulled into Palm Beach to meet Lynn yesterday. Daddy once again not happy with daughter

• My utterly fruitless search from Miami to Palm Beach to Jacksonville to the New York ofices for the apparently elusive-in-the-South ESPN magazine with my piece in it. It comes out on Wednesdays; in New York I am sure you can get it on Wednesday.
In the South, you cannot get it until Friday or Monday. Hello? FedEx??????????

• My piece in ESPN. What started at 270 words ended up at oh about 100. But I got a byline, and sadly, that's the most important part.

Not much to look forward to now except the big golf thing the TPC tomorrow, which I've got VIP passes for, but apparently those get me no closer to Tiger, so what the hell's the point of being a VIP? Oh yeah, free booze.

And NYC in early June for the bi-yearly straightening ritual. But that's about it in the future plans department. Now I must go pay bills.

Also What Not to Get Mom in Juli B.

The Big Reveal

OK, big for me anyway. I have a story coming out in ESPN the magazine tomorrow, so get your copies quickly as it's only a weekly.
ESPN? You say? What has happened to our fashionista? Well, first of all, it's a footwear story. And second of all, ESPN is the Vogue of sports magazines.
Belsky, you can quote me on that.

My coverage of Miami Fashion week way back on April 13th.

Juli B Muy Caliente

Jeez Louise. I am off to Miami again on Saturday for a Tuesday interview. Thank God for Dana's in-law's guest house and thank God for books on CD. Dad's letting me take his old-man Lexus, which, while an old-man car, has the most comfy seats ever.

Very psyched for this interview; full-time position at luxury magazine launching in the fall. Now, what to wear? Keep in mind it's in a casual setting, during the day and in South Beach, so think dresses, skirts, etc. Pants are out of the question. It's sweltering.

Suggestions, please? I just got a very yummy, aqua Cacharel dress that looks great with these fab, tie-around, white, Walter Steiger cork heels I've got.

It's pouring again, work wise.

I am swamped with freelance assignments, my article in the major magazine is finally coming out next week (big yay!). Natch, I will reveal the name of the magazine once it hits the stands; then and only then will I believe it, as stories get killed at the 11th hour all the time. And I may have yet another interview in Miami for a big, serious, full-time job—in my field nonetheless.

Maybe I'll get the hell out of here after all with only a few minor scars.

And so it follows that if it's pouring in my professional life, it shall remain dry in my personal one. And that is fine. I will go to Sarasota by myself, as soon as I figure out whether I have to go back down to Miami for this interview. I will stay at the lovely Ritz-Carlton, visit old haunts, revel in old memories and spend some quality alone time.

I will say this though: I am sick to death of driving. If I do get a swanky full-time job, my first indulgence will be a car with comfortable seats.

Juli B monthly picks.

South Beach Seediness at the Sagamore

Players are nothing new. And for those of us living in New York, L.A. and Miami, we've seen the worst of the worst. But Saturday night at the Sagamore, I think my girlfriends and I witnessed a new low. I have to say that I'll take a New York player over a Miami one any day. I mean, it's New York, you're merely cool by association.

But Miami guys are by far, the worst.

"I'll give you $100 for the first guy I see not in a white button down shirt and jeans," I said to my friend. Still have the $100.

It's like Player Numero Uno announced from atop the mountain, "Thou shalt wear only a white shirt and jeans every time you go out at night," and all the mini-players heeded his call. Ridic.

So my friend S. is talking to some guy X, when my friend D. grabs L. and me as we're going outside.

"Oh, God, that guy is such an asshole," D. says. "I cannot believe she is talking to him!"

"What? Why?" we asked.

"S. once asked him what type of girl he liked, and he said starving," D. said.

"Nooo!" I shouted.

"Nooo!" L. shouted.

"YES." D. said. "Can you even believe?"

"Jesus H. I have heard some bad things in my time but I think that takes the cake. I think, in fact, it is blogworthy. Especially since he isn't in such good shape himself, is not cute and has male pattern baldness."

Needless to say, we were appalled.

But on the way out, D. who works in fashion and has dressed the asshole before, got revenge.

"You know," she said, "you should really come see me, you're not looking so hot. What's with this outfit?"