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.