If You Try Sometimes . . .

You get what you need. Like financial independence? Check. Ten years of therapy it took, that's it. Now I must run the new 'plan' by Dr. Laura. Love how my family uses her as psychological guru and personal financial advisor to their non-financially-sensible daughter.

So now—if you're gonna hate, do it internally I won't approve your comments—for the first time in my 33 years I must learn to manage money. I'm like a kept housewife whose husband has controlled everything from writing the checks to paying the electric bill and then due to death or divorce, she realizes she has no idea how to control the finances.

I can balance my check book; I know how to pay bills and, uh, something else. Oh yes, I know how to spend money. I know how to do that really well. But I know how to cut back too. I'm sure you've read—and cringed at—how well-to-do people are skimping these days. It's those little things that add up to hundreds of dollars a month for high-maint women like myself.

Swap Sephora for Walgreens. Shop at Forever 21 for sundresses instead of Neiman's Last Call. Don't go to Starbucks. Eat at home. Steal Splenda from restaurants. Raid your parents' houses for alcohol. Use your car sparingly. Stay with friends when you go out of town. (Or, find a Marshall's that has Korres shower gel for $4 (retail $20), and body cremes ($29) and buy five bottles like I did. And Fekkai prods for $12.99, (retail $29) which I bought two of. Hey, that's a lot of savings over the next few months. (If any of my Miami friends need prods, call me today. I mean text me; you all know I don't answer the phone.)

I've ticked off #1, #3, #4, #5 and #6. I won't have to go to Starbucks when I return to my espresso maker in MIA tomorrow.

Today's the last day at the beach. It's been amazing. The dogs love it. But after a month of vacay, I suppose I'm ready to go back to Miami. (Not really though.) Off to the gym, then ceramist, then dentist, then back to beach, tan my bum and boobies, hang out with Al and head back tomorrow. Miami bitches don't expect me to go out though. Don't want my teeth to fall out in my martini.

Okay enough of that. I wish I could write about my personal love-sex life, but I need some material in the book. And unfortunately I feel compelled to protect the identities of my friends who do bad by me. But that's my main issue now I suppose. I'm healthy. I've been doing nothing but cardio, yoga and pilates here. My tan is banging. My hair long—and soon to be to-die-for once Oribe gets his golden hands on it. And I'm being set up by the yentas with rumored-to-be gay men. (But he's Jewish!!!! "You nevah knooow!") Typical Steph stuff.

But have I mentioned I'm the new Abe Lincoln? Yeah, it's hot—my teeth are falling out. Let me elaborate. I went in for a chipped tooth and because I grind SO bad, day and night, despite Klon, Xanax and all the other anti-anxieties you can name. A simple chip repair wasn't possible. So we decided on two more porcelain veneers on two front teeth, which would match the other on one of my two center front teeth. Basically, I was at the dentist for four hours the other day and walked out with three temporary laminates/crowns. Two in the front of my upper row and one on the bottom in the back. Temporaries fall off easily—I'm sipping everything through straws and eating a liquid and soft food diet. When I woke up Friday, I didn't realize one of the temps had fallen off thanks to my fucking night-grinding and restless sleep. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the trailer-park-looking stub and the laminate was on my bed chilling. Back to dentist, laminate re-secured. Yesterday sipping water through straw on beach with Lindsay, feel it wiggling.

So, today I have to go see the ceramist so he can color-match the permanent porcelain ones to the color of my other teeth. Now, the perma laminate will take two weeks to make.

Meaning, look out for a toothless wonder walking around South Beach for the next two weeks. Thankfully, Melnick's wife is a dentist who agreed to have the laminates shipped to her and put them on for me. Ilan may get a four a.m. text from me in the next couple of weeks if it falls out again and I look like one of the Klampets (sp).

Oh yes, I am a true style arbiter. Haven't you heard? Missing teeth are the new black, just like missing eyebrows that the fashion sheep are literally removing or bleaching to match the runway trends. So there are crazier women out there than me.