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.