Style Arbitration

Natch, Wally and I have gotten into some minor beach-house snafus. Last evening was a particularly humbling experience when I locked us out of the back, oceanfront entrance. We're on the ground floor about six feet up, but as you can see there's a railing.


Wally had already conquered the balcony. Apparently, before I arrived, the spry little fucker actually leaped through the rails, onto the grass and bolted onto the beach towards my parents and Brother. I was horrified when they told me and have been monitoring his hip movements, which seem to be fine. But God, I would've paid to see him take a flying leap off the balcony. Almost as funny as him accidentally walking into my pool in Miami.

So, last night. Took him for a walk on the sand, locked the patio doors as well as the entrance to the balcony from the stairs, but I locked it from the inside. There are three keys and like five different entrances to the complex and the condo, not to mention all the patio doors and the screen doors. I'm not good with these old-fashioned condos. I'm used to fobs, valet, numeric codes and other such accouterments. I'd also had a glass of wine, natch. I fidgeted with the lock for a few minutes and resigned myself to finding another way in. I contemplated pulling a Spiderman and scaling the wall, but I was already sore from yoga. I went around the building crossing my fingers that there was a beach-to-parking-lot entry. The gates were locked. All of them, in all five connecting complexes. Of course, this is a good thing—Ponte Vedra Beach is an incredibly safe and private town. But not so much when your an idiot with a buzz and a key handicap. Thankfully, I saw a neighbor—a tweenage girl. She showed me the way through the garage, back in to the building. I was off to an Einstein-ish start to beach living.

This morning, I walked out into the lobby with Wally to find a sign that read something along the lines of "Fresh concrete keep off until Thursday." It was one of those situations where the pre-Starbucks synapses didn't connect until Wally had traipsed out the door and left his indelible impression on The Breakers front stoop. Jeez. My dad's going to kill me when and if he reads this—Jacksonville ladies keep your mouths' shut!—but I was cracking up.


I got a message this a.m. from a friend saying that the new issue of Aventura magazine is out. In which I'm profiled as one of South Florida's 15 "Arbiters of Style." Oh my, I'm getting heart palpitations waiting for my profile to load online. Oy vey I hate looking at photos of myself that I'm not in control of!! But woo-hoo I'm on the list with the legendary, original hair superstar Oribe. I'm not worthy.

Yikes, it's not my fave photo of the bunch, but I'm cool with it. Man, it's strange when you're the subject instead of the author! Thanks Lori! xoxo