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.

Anonymous Idiots

I received this interesting yet insulting e-mail in my inbox today:

Hi, I sometimes read your writings because my 34 year old son seems to be fascinated with your ramblings. For him, you're a typical example of what is out there and why it is so difficult to meet a decent woman. As far as I'm concerned, I have difficulty believing that you're not spoofing an imaginary life.

Now, if you are serious, you may want to stop thinking only of yourself and wonder how can you be helpful in some way. You would need a reality check. Even Prince William of England worked in construction in Latin America helping to build for the poor. Another positive example is Angelina Jolie. I don't think she sits around worrying about her latest wrinkle or fancy shoes. There are loads of places which could use volunteers and it could be very illuminating for you to try to helpful. Totally self-absorbed people are never happy and material purchases only bring a temporary thrill. You need to remember that one cannot be buried with money, but good deeds live on in others.

Jill Bauer is a very down to earth, unpretentious person who picks topics of general interest and writes well. She deserved to get the Herald job.

I wish you well.

Of course, I had to respond, even though I have no idea who this Jill Bauer person is.

Well,
Anonymous Judith. If you don't like me, don't read. FYI, I do contribute generously to charitable organizations.

Many people find my so-called ramblings helpful, as I deal not only with superficial issues of shopping, etc. but serious issues such as self-esteem issues, therapy and depression that affect millions of people.

And FYI, those who know the "real" me—for my blog is not an imaginary life, but a satirical artistic endeavor—would be the first to tell you that I am a loyal, generous, thoughtful, kind, funny and warm friend and family member.

So like I said, you don't like me, don't read me. Go read your friend's column in what is arguably the worst newspaper in any major metropolitan area. And your son would be lucky to have a smart, creative, sophisticated, well-educated, talented and generous woman such as myself. If he can't find the right woman at 34 years old, perhaps it's time for him to be "self-absorbed" and think about what he is doing wrong. And perhaps it's time for you to examine why you think you are the bigger person while simultaneously insulting someone you don't know.

Ta-da. What, Judith, you think a writer won't have the last word? And, Jesus, do I feel sorry for your son.

Christ, I am fucking TIRED. This new medication I am on, Lamictal, is taken in gradual doses. You start at 25 mgs a day and culminate at 100. I just started the 100s yesterday and it seems to be making me reeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy tired. I'm tired when I wake up; tired when I'm at the gym; tired after I've had my two Diet Snapples; tired, tired, tired.

Luckily I go to the head shrinker tomorrow, and he will be able to tell me if that is one of the side-effects. And then he can give me more drugs. Drugs are good; don't believe the hype.

I also get my Botox fill tomorrow, before I take off again for Miami. I am also having a glycolic peel, which I have never had before and I hear can hurt. But as I've said before, beauty is pain, my friends.

Have I mentioned how tired I am? I am getting in bed to read. Cause I'm. Fucking. Tired.

I think the asshat is now reading this blog, as my readership in Chicago has suddenly spiked.

Is that you asshat?

If so, I hope you are still on the wagon and on the road to recovery, even though you treated me like shit on a stick.

So even though I consider myself to be a complete failure in my career, most of my friends (who work) are indeed very successful.

And given that I was always the one pegged since birth to be famous, successful and independently wealthy by this age—and given that I'm sooooo not any of those things—you'd think I'd be jealous of their success. But I'm not. I'm very proud of my successful friends, most especially those who have chosen to follow their dreams and do what they love. Perhaps these friends can give me pointers on what I am doing wrong.

Anyway, here's another one of my friend's success stories. Really, he's my brother's friend, but mine too. He's got a fab restaurant in downtown Jacksonville that everyone raves about, and soon it will be open for dinner. It's called Chew, and for those of you local yokels, check it out.

Also, I've decided to start my own blog/web site about all the things I love—shopping, fashion, resorts, spas, beauty products, travel, parties etc. But I really don't want to do the whole Blogger thing.

So if there are any readers out there who also happen to know how to design web pages, hook a sister up and email me.

This is what my week consists of, and I have other non-boring stuff to write about, but I must protect the guilty. Let's just say it was another weekend of police-involvement, crazy ass Nicole, and waking up in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment because we were too stoned to drive home. I hadn't smoked in like a year, so cut me some slack.

Oh, and I did land myself a fall-back marriage partner. You know the whole, "If we're not married by age 40, we'll just do it," Friends thing.


Today I took my wretched, hateful, hated, hunk of Nazi steel in for a "service type B," which my dad insists on me getting even though it costs like $500. Have I told you how much I hate my car? Oh, yes, I believe I have. So to me, that $500 would be better spent on a pair of summer Choos.

Tomorrow I have three stories to write.

Thursday it's more Botox and a peel, which I've never had but am looking forward to. Then later in the day, it's head-shrinking time. Must get my meds before heading back to Miami.

Friday is my first gyno appt. in like two years. Hey, when you're practically celibate, there really is no reason to go there.

Xanax and Barnes & Noble

For about a year after I realized my book wasn't going to be published, I dared not enter a bookstore, because if I did, I would start crying like a crazy chick. I sometimes even teared up merely passing the window displays of bookstores. I would stand there and think, "Jesus, look at all this crap people sell, and I can't even sell my crap, which I know is better than their crap."

And of course the book's course of events led to the downward spiral that caused me to leave New York, forsake writing, publishing and magazines, and move to Miami to get a "real job." Which of course made me realize how I was literally soulless without my writing, and having a boring "real job" made me more positive than ever that this is what I was meant to do. (Save your catty comments, I know I'm not Virginia Woolf. I'm not trying to be.)

It was only after I left NYC that I could enter a Barnes & Noble without the fear of crying. But then when I was in Miami, and I began venturing back into bookstores, I had these weird visceral reactions. I would get dizzy, lighthearted and short of breath. I would be unsteady on my feet. I felt the need to race through there and get to my car, ASAP.

It wasn't until a few months later that I realized I was having anxiety attacks each and every time I entered a bookstore. These pretty, colorful tomes were taunting me, screaming, "We got published and you didn't, and look at how crappy our book is! Ha, you total loser."

Well, I read several books a week and don't have the patience to order online, so bookstores are unavoidable. Today I was out of books; had to trek to B&N. And before I knew it, there was the nausea, the unsteadiness, the utter sadness, the pit of dread. And when I pulled into my garage and looked at the B&N bag, I just started crying. I couldn't help it.

I am trying to live in the moment here and focus on my future and my freelance career that is keeping me very busy, but for me, the non-publication of my book is like the death of a boyfriend or a lover—the insurmountable loss of something that you poured your heart, soul, time and money into all for naught. Or, more appropriately, it is the death of my dreams.

And upon reflection, I still can't say for sure that writing it was a mistake, because some good things did come out of it. But I do think that this rejection, especially since it was on a Page-Six-level public scale, is one that I may never get over.

Or maybe I will, when I write another one, or edit the 500 pages I have into something coherent. My July respite in South Beach may be just the place to do that. Because even though I can be a whiny, sensitive girly-girl, I'm also a tough chick, unafraid to kick ass, who can conquer pretty much anything. So perhaps there's hope for my dreams yet.

Charity

Per my do-gooder brother, please read the following. And if you feel so inclined to donate, please do so.

There is this kid named Sanjay who is trying to help polio (can you even believe brother is vacationing where there is still polio?) people in India.

Read about him here.

In my brother's words: "He is trying to buy a hemoglobin machine for the village. He gives free
health care to polio patients and rural villagers on the weekends. It would
be the equivalent of driving to Orlando [a two hour drive from where I am] every Sunday on dirt roads even though you have a full-time job and 2 kids. He's made children walk again
for the first time and its the only healthcare these people have. Here's my
experience with him.

Here is the link for Palms (I'm guessing that's his charity). . Click on "Special Projects."

They're trying to raise only $3,000 to send a woman to Tanzania to work with
crippled orphans, and she can't go unless they raise that amount.

I'm going to be charitable and donate; I need all the good karma I can get right now. And you cheap bastards donate too. A dollar or two makes a huge difference in India. They can like live on that for a day.

Oh and check out my brother's amazing pictures and please comment and encourage him to take this up professionally; natch he won't listen to his sister or his parents. But he very well may listen to strangers.

Best Quote Ever

You all know how much I love The Ellen DeGeneres Show, and she has this recurring feature where she calls up this 80-something-year-old woman in Austin, Texas named Gladys.

The first time she called Gladys, Gladys revealed the best. quote. ever.
She said, in response to a completely unrelated question by Ellen, "Listen, I'll be honest with you I love Jesus, but I drink a little."

Watch the video here.

And I'm OUT

Thank God, Ganesh, Buddha, hell, even Jesus Christ. I am finally out of this podunk town.

As it turns out, my very good friend with an amazing apartment in South Beach is going to Bali for the month of July. Her apartment would be sitting empty. I need a sublet. Connect the dots, and you'll find me back in Miami Beach in July, looking for a more permanent housing situation.

Hallelujah. Full-time job or not, this girl is just not meant for a town where only one place sells La Mer and not even one shop carries Manolos.

Dish's Dream Comes True

What a day/trip New York turned out to be. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Tuesday, was in the city by 10 a.m.; at Norman Landsberg by 12; and eating lunch at Bergdorf's by 1:30. Then it was dinner with the girls at Dos Caminos, where we had a grand old time as usual.

It was a fabulous New York day that was made oh so much better with the knowledge that I—after dreaming about this moment for almost 16 years—had an appointment at Conde Nast the following day.

I have been a Conde junkie for more than half of my life; it was Vogue and Allure that inspired me to want to write for magazines. My first clip was a letter to the editor in Vogue when I was 16; my cake at my high school graduation party was a mock-up Vogue cover, replete with headlines I wrote. Yes, I'm a total magazine geek.

For those of you outside the media, 4 Times Square—the Conde building—is Mecca for most aspiring magazine journalists. It's Jerusalem to me. And Wednesday I sat outside the offices of Vanity Fair, just breathing it in, wondering how the hell I got there after all these years. Sixteen years of dreaming about that very moment and six years of living in New York and not getting even a toe into the company's door, and there I was. Finally.

But let's back up and start at 10 a.m. that morning, when I had my hair Japanese-straightened at Momotaro. My dress, heels and makeup were in my Bergdorf's shopping bag. (Thankfully, I had found out about the appointment as soon as I arrived in NYC, so I had time to buy a dress.) After I finished with the hair, changed and did my makeup in their bathroom, it was early. So I went to Saks for lunch.

On my way out, on my way to Mecca, er, Jerusalem, Ted Koppel got into the elevator. Holy shit, I thought. And merely by his presence, my pre-interview nerves were settled. You all know how I believe in karma and coincidences. So there I was, on my way to the journalistic pinnacle that I had always strived to reach and one of America's most legendary journalists was literally standing in front of me. If that's not a sign, then, hell, I don't know what is.

He held the door for me on the way out. I said, "Thank you sir. You do great work, and I am a big admirer."

"Thank you," Mr. Koppel replied.

And then I hailed a cab to 4 Times Square. It was a true Mary Tyler Moore moment. If I wasn't wearing four inch heels, I think I would have jumped for joy. Moments of pure happiness like that are so rare.

Now it's back to reality; sitting at my desk, punching out assignments while my parents are leaving for their friends' home in the Bahamas on a private jet tomorrow.

I get the distinct pleasure of watching the mutts and the house in this craptastic town while they get to sun themselves in the Bahamas.

Then again, they didn't get to go to Mecca, and to breathe the same air that Anna Wintour breathes, so I guess it all evens out.

It appears that my brother may have finally lost his shit in India. If you thought you and your sibling were polar opposites; compare and contrast my brother and me.

He's been there since December, so it's only natural that he'd lose his marbles at least once, what with the malaria, diarrhea, poverty, bad water, monsoons, etc.

On an even more shocking note, it appears that I actually can have fun in this ass-backwards, podunk town. Last night went to dinner with a fun group of girls—holla—at Ruth's Chris out at Ponte Vedra Beach and then onto a cheesy bar, where we danced to cheesy music. And I ran into an old high school crush in line.

He recognized me right away, which is a little offensive, since I like to think I am a lot better looking now. Then again, in the inimitable words of Elaine Benes, it's entirely possible that I'm not as attractive as I think I am.

Oh well. I try my best.

I will write up my NYC adventures when I feel it's safe to do so, which, if there is a God out there should be soon. I. Really. Freaking. Hope. So. Really. My life is completely in limbo right now and it would be nice to stop swinging.

Diamonds

Hey, I actually posted on Fashionosophy! Hail Mary. Or Ruth. Or whomever this Jewess is supposed to hail.

You know, God damn. Whoever said "the waiting is the hardest part" sure knew what the hell they were talking about.

Anyway, go get yourself a tanning butler or a facial: Juli B Beauty Picks.

World Weary

Note to self: Do not ever, ever again take a night flight from LaGuardia. What the hell was I thinking? After six years of traveling this route, this gal should've known better. Oy jet lag.

Anywho, I will write up my experience when it is safe to do so. . .I think I need to keep things on the DL for now.

I got to see most of the girls though, most of whom are now single again. Figures, when I move away they are all coupled up; when I go back to visit they are all single.



In the meantime, amuse yourselves with this Juli B Swimwear story. And I cannot remember whether I already linked to this, so whatevs, I will do so again: Juli B June Picks.

Leaving for NYC tomorrow at 5 a.m. (don't ask) to see friends and get my hair fix. Back late Wednesday night and then another deadline. Eventually, I'll find some time to do something.

Surprise!

As per usual, my parents' friends threw a great party, this one for my dad's best friend (and 2nd father to me) David's upcoming 60th birthday party. David, who prides himself on never being one-upped, was truly, utterly shocked.

I have posted all the photos on Flickr. But below are some of the highlights.

Uncle David, making his entrance, utterly stupefied.

Me, at home pre-party, as I promised Suhani I would take a pic of me dolled up donning her fabu necklace.

Me and loyal reader and suddenly slimmer Nancy P.

Me and David's youngest, Leah.

Me and David's older daughter Lindsay.

The girls and a very happy, anonymous (as requested) captain of industry. And how fab is Debbie's Missoni dress? Also ordered off the Internet, sight unseen!

Mom, Lynn (my Palm Beach mom and fashion/jewelry partner in crime and one of mom's best friends) and me pre-party. Mom is in Armani, and Lynn may be too, but I'm sure she will correct me if I'm wrong.

Me, mom and Uncle David.


Dad and me.

David and his 85-year-old mom, Kosher Kate, who is not only sharp as a tack but is always dancing on stage with the rest of us!

And for my fashionista readers, my ensemble: the dress, some designer I've never heard of, bought sight unseen off eluxury; the necklace by the fabulous suhani pittie; the earrings antiques from great-grandmother on my dad's side; the purse Marc Jacobs; the watch Roxy's much coveted and borrowed vintage Chopard; and the shoes, which you probably can't see anywhere, Manolo, natch.