You Can't Have Your Cake and Eat It Too

Another action packed weekend from which I am still recovering. I was out Weds to Sunday, so last night I took a much needed night off and relaxed with Entourage, which has finally righted itself after a disappointing opener. Friday night I dined at Red Fish Grill, which is in an exquisite setting on a private beach. Great date place. THE RED FISH GRILL

So my parents were in NYC this weekend with their best friends, without me:( Being that it was father's day, and also my dad's BFF's birthday, and given that I'd yet to buy dad anything and his BFF is like an uncle to me, I'd decided to make a grand gesture. My dad's favorite delicacy is the fudge cake from The Carnegie Carnegie Deli NYC.

I decided to have one of the cakes delivered to their hotel, as both a father's day and birthday gift to dad and his BFF. The delivery went off without a hitch, dad was pleasantly surprised, and I elicted promises from mom that they would bring the cake to one of their dinners. Well, they were doing serious dinners this trip, Friday night at Il Mulino Il Mulino and Saturday night at The River Cafe The River Cafe.

Mom SWORE she'd bring the cake, after the painstaking efforts I'd taken to ensure its delivery. I spoke to brother Sunday afternoon and said, "So, did mom bring the cake to dinner?"

He starts laughing and says, "Well, she's going to try to lie to you to tell you that she did, but really she didn't because they couldn't get it opened and it weighs like 15 pounds."

"Huh?"

"Dude, it came, like, wrapped in this industrial strength twine and shrink wrap, and dad couldn't cut through the rope. So she made me promise to lie to you and tell you that we all ate it at dinner, but really, they couldn't even get it open, so they took it home on the plane with them."

Oy vey. Only in my family, seriously. Dad's BFF calls later to thank me.

"The cake was delicious," he lies.

"David, you're so busted, I already spoke to Michael."

Laughing, "What did he say???"

"That there is a vast conspiracy to lie to me about the consumption of the Carnegie cake."

"Ha, ha, ha. I can't believe he told you!"

Later, I speak to mom, who is essentially so innocent she's unable to lie with a straight face, "Dinner was great and the cake was amazing!!"

I start laughing, "Um, I talked to Michael."

She starts giggling. "That stinker! We honestly couldn't get it open and it was just too heavy to carry to Brooklyn. But we took it home on the plane, I'm going to eat some tonight and then we'll freeze the rest for July 4th. Oh, wait here's dad..."

"Hi honey! The cake was great!!!"

"Dad, don't even try I spoke to Michael hours ago."

"Oh, damn!!"

"And, I spoke to David too. Your Carnegie conspiracy is shattered."

When I was telling the story to someone on the phone a couple of hours later, he said, "Wow. That really brings new meaning to the saying, 'You can't have your cake and eat it too.'"



Indeed. But at least this way, I'll get to have a slice over July 4th.

Pop Culture Roadkill

My friend and I had the best of intentions last night with regards to watching the Miami Heat game. OK, so deep down I knew that "watching" really meant sipping wine while filing nails, tidying up and gossiping, but still, you get the drift. But then we realized that an earthshaking, life-altering, mind-bending journalistic landmark was scheduled to air at the same time, and we simply had to partake in such a profound historical phenomenon. That's right, the Britney Spears/Matt Lauer interview.

A defiant Britney Spears takes on the tabloids - Dateline NBC - MSNBC.com

Now, as most of you know, I worked at this bastion of journalistic integrity that may or may not be this publication called The Star. I also wrote a little novel that revolved around the underhanded activities that a research editor witnessed while working at a famous American tabloid. After having toiled in the trenches of trash journalism, my appetite for celebrity culture was obliterated. After leaving said magazine, I have not purchased, read or even glanced at one single entertainment magazine. I have not followed Bradgelina, Lohan or Spears. I have, in short, become one of those people who couldn't give two shits about celebrities. Whereas before, I was a prime source of celebrity gossip.

Suffice it to say then that I haven't read or seen anything about Britney in ages. Didn't know she was preggers again, so was shocked to see her looking like a trailer park denizen chomping on gum whilst wearing false eyelashes and sporting enough cleavage to crush Matt's head. Appearances and ironies aside--"I don't understand why people call me white trash," chomp, chomp, smack--there was something very interesting about this interview.

She spent a large portion of the interview berating the paparazzi for stalking her in order to get pics to sell to the gossip rags. A fair argument, but one that no celebrity will ever win for the money at stake in publishing. But here's the brilliant irony. One of the show's producers was none other than the illustrious Michael Lewittes,
Michael Lewittes, Gawker who was a top editor at US Weekly and The Star, and who, was, in previous incarnations as a muckraker, perhaps responsible for many scurrilous items printed in such publications about fair Britney.

Just a little observation about the small, incestuous world of the media.

Hallejewya

Thank fucking god, but I do not need surgery. I don't have a nasty popliteal cyst or even a miniscus tear. Apparently I have nothing more than a severe, persistent case of tendonitis and hamstring inflammation. I don't need surgery, just a four week course of physical therapy. I am feeling so lazy due to my non-exercise regime of late, that I'm actually psyched to begin physical therapy. Plus, my docs are the team physicians for the Heat, Dolphins, Hurricanes etc., so I think there will be plenty of eye candy at my sessions. At least I am hoping. Natch I don't follow sports, so I was pretty clueless as to who the big brawny athletes were in the office with me yesterday. Anywho, I'm very relieved and super excited that I can start working out again. I'm free to bike, swim and do the elliptical again. What a weight off.

So now that I know there is nothing gravely wrong with me, I'm feeling much better. I'm a total believer in the whole psychosomatic thing.


I had a fun filled weekend, hanging out with lots of old and new friends in the area. Friday my leg was hurting and I was going to stay in, even though I had been invited to a fab party at this hotel, which is gorgeous and worth a peek, if not just for the stellar art collection, SAGAMORE HOTEL. But then my best friend, who is, by the way, 7 months preggers, said, "I really feel like going out, let's go to the party."

How sad is it when your PREGNANT friend has to drag your SINGLE ass out??? So me, BFF and hubby did dinner at Shoji Sushi, which is owned by the Prime 112 guys, Prime One Twelve, and then headed over to the Sagamore. It was a benefit for the Miami Performing Arts Center or some such operation, and, as the case seems to be down here, was a collection of the same people I've been meeting over the past couple of months.

So though I've only been down here for about two months, I'm already spotting many familiar faces on the social scene, which is quite nice, since it takes, oh about five years to do that in NYC. Saturday night my dad's old college buddy had an amazing party at his amazing house on one of the islands on the beach, so it was a casual but chic affair with lots of food, drink and fun. I simply must move to the beach though, the cabs are getting awfully expensive and my area is just really quiet, mostly couples and not too many singles roaming around.

It's official: I'm a cripple. Orthopod's verdict: popiteal cyst or menescus tear or both? In the knee. Went for the MRI yesterday, best friend held my hand, due to my severe case of "white coat syndrome." I am now officially hopped up on Darvocet, bed rest and sneakers. The Manolos are staying put in the closet for an indeterminate amount of time. Sadly, this is the worst part about this condition--the fact that I cannot wear good shoes and the fact that I cannot stand at length, making going out very difficult. Oh, and it basically hurts to sit upright. I am in agony right now typing, hence the no-posting.

Send me to Bermuda in a Body Bag Please

My brother just got his Bermuda pics developed from September. We went there for my 30th; It was spectacular and I'm wishing I were there right now. In addition to my knee injury, which, after being on my feet all weekend, has decided to flare up again in a major way, I have developed some kind of back/neck/shoulder mess. Basically I want an IV of Percacet, stat.

Happier times...

Attitudes and Platitudes

When a man walks into a date, and informs you, upon you asking what he did that day, that "Neiman's is having its pre-sale," you know it's going to be a doozy. Such was the case last week, when my good friend and I had a sort of double-blind outing with a set-up I'd been talking to and one of his friends who was in town visiting.

Making small-talk when they first arrived, I asked what they had done that day.

"I did some SERIOUS damage at Bal Harbour; at Tod's and Neiman's," my date said. Uh oh. Not a great first impression.

My friend, God love her, and whom I am forever grateful to for accompanying me and turning a potential disaster into a fun night out, looks at date deadpan and says, "What's Tod's?"

Critical shopper that I am, I a.) KNOW that Neiman's is having its Goddamned presale and b.) DON'T want to be informed of this fact from a supposedly hetero, single, Jewish man. It went slowly downhill from there wrt to the set-up. But the friend was much more down to earth and cool, so we all managed to have a good time. And the restaurant was fab; for those of you South Floridians reading, it's def. worth checking out. It's a total scene, NY style, and Bruce Weber even sauntered in clad in his identifiable bandana. Prime 112

People ask me why I am jaded when it comes to dating, and it is merely for reasons like this. I just hate the whole time-wasting element of it all. You talk for weeks or months or whatever the case may be, esp. if the two of you don't live near each other, then you meet in person and there is nothing. However, given that I'd seen this guy's pics in the society pages several times, I did have an inkling that there would be no attraction.

Anywho, the NYC girls and I had a lovely, low-key time in Miami, due to the fact that the hip-hoppers took over the beach last weekend, so it was not the normal scene over there. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but just not our scene. In fact, after sitting in about 30 minutes of traffic, witnessing this,



amongst other things, we got out of the cab in front of the Shore Club, in front of a cavalcade of cops.

Spying us, four decked out white Jewish chicks, one of the cops said, "You girls look lost. Are you sure you want to be here?"

What can I say? The PC movement has been slow to reach the South.

One more note: Hands-down the best restaurant I've eaten at down here, truly delicious. Run there. Now. Ortanique

My NYC girls arrive tomorrow for the weekend, so I'm sure I'll have some more entertaining stories come Tuesday. Apparently it's a huge hip-hop weekend down here, so it should be exciting, to say the least. My car will remain in the garage all weekend, as I'm very strict about drinking and driving and I plan on partying it up NYC style for old time's sake. After the cat incident, which occurred when I was completely sober, sister's a little scared to hit the road again. Have double-blind date tonight, so must go home and primp. Dressing is a whole different ball game down here girls, jeans, it seems are not appropriate for every occassion as they are in New York. Happy Memorial Day.

On a serious note, this is almost too scary for words. Iran is trying to pass a law that would require non-Muslims, including, of course Jews, but also Christians, to wear colored ribbons! For the Jews, it's yellow, for the Christians, red. ... Sound familiar? Iran's "National Uniform Law"

Killer Karma

I can now add a new title to my prestigious resume: murderess. Yes, I surely have some bad karma coming my way. I'm driving down the Venetian Causeway Thursday night on my way to meet my friends. I'm going 30 mph max, factually ensured, since I had just seen a cop and was uber-observant of the speed limit. It's turning from dusk to night, and the road is sort of a narrow, residential street. All of the sudden, and, in slow-mo, as most life-altering events seem to be, this intrepid cat-who-looked-like-a-raccoon-and-shall-henceforth-be-referred-to-as-raccoon-to-assuage-my-Jewish-guilt, darts out in front my car. It sort of froze in the glare of my headlights, and before either one of us had the time to react, I hit the poor little fucker. Yes, I slammed on my brakes, but it was not enough. I suspect that even if I was only going 10 mph, 2 tons of German steel would have still caused the feline's demise. The impact natch produced a most sickening noise. I know it was a cat, even though my friends tried to convince me it was a wild animal of some sort, but it had a strange striped tail like that of a raccoon. It didn't have a collar, so I am hoping it was a stray and not a family's pet, but do cats ever have collars? The neighborhoods on the Venetian causeway are VERY tony, so I cannot imagine these people having wild outdoor cats.

Now as you all know I am an animal lover, and the pure irony of this whole situation is that EXACTLY 24 hours before I commited man/animalslaughter, I was volunteering at the freaking Humane Society. Could it possibly get anymore absurd? I mean, come on! The fact that I actually did volunteer at the HS the night before is the only reason I'm not having some sort of karmic meltdown, though I still do feel awful about the accident and have been having cat/raccoon nightmares all weekend. I do truly apologize to whomever owned/cared for this cat, so I'm lobbing this feeble apology out into the karmic/cosmic void.

Low Society

One of my guiltiest pleasures is observing what is shamefully referred to as "high society." From the earliest age, I've devoured the society pages and followed the boldfaced names. Perhaps it was the influence of my grandmother, who was a diva of unparalleled proportions. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that I've always been imbued with an affinity for life's finer pleasures. Or perhaps it's just that I like "pretty things" in the words of Rufus Wainwright. I take society at face-value: Sure, it's shallow, pretentious, ridiculous and exclusionary. But, again, paying homage to Wainwright, "Oh, what a world." It's just great fun sometimes.

Now, I'm not reinventing the wheel here, but it bears being said that society has not always been so friendly to Jews. Of course, as American Jews moved out of the lower strata of society and into the upper echelons in terms of sheer wealth, society, surprise, surprise, embraced members of the tribe a little more. But it was always a wink, wink, nod, nod kind of thing. In New York society, Jews have earned and hold their rightful place, sure. Many of New York's most prominent society fixtures are members of the tribe (MOTs). However, journey down to Palm Beach, and you'll notice fewer Golds, Bergs and Steins on the guestlists. So be it. The Jews who are members of Palm Beach society, tend to fall into the nouveau category, and how vulgar is that? There are a few Jewish old money--but not true "old" money, Jewish old money, which still means recent immigration--types that are the creme de la creme of international society such as the Lauders. But these families are few and far between.

OK, so my point with all this is that I've been observing this world for some time now, from Florida to California--well, Hollywood really throws society a curve ball, but that's beside the point--to New York, the center of all things. And I attended my share of society functions in New York, which, are in and of themselves, perhaps the most comical, fascinating and bizarre petri dishes of human interaction and behavior in the world. Because in New York society, if you're not a DuPont, Phipps, Taft, Guest or Getty, you're simply nobody, dah-ling. Sad, but true. So you just laugh at it all. In true NY-Palm Beach society, either your ancestors came over on the Mayflower or you're nouveau riche, period. And then it's like, so the fuck what? Your family could give as much money, or probably more, because as we all know society type WASPS are often very stingy wrt charities, to charity than a social register type, but if you're last name isn't one of the old ones, you're nobody. That's just the way it works, and frankly, it's just absurd.

Because, in the end, who the hell cares what your last name is and where your ancestors came from? Are you a generous person? Do you pay it forward? Do you share the wealth? Do you try to leave a positive legacy on this earth? Do you contribute something worthwhile to "society?" If yes, then, as far as I'm concerned, you're right up there with the Phippses, DuPonts, etc. The Jews, see, we do it better. We don't care who the hell your great-great-great grandaddy was. We actually don't care whether you went to Andover or Choate or Harvard or Yale. We don't care if your diamonds came from Graff. (We do care if your diamonds are real, but, preferably, they should come from 47th Street.) What we do care about is whether you are a generous giver. We care about what charities you donate to and how much money you give back in proportion to your wealth. Whether you're new money or old money, if you're writing the checks to the charities, come on in.

This is a rather longwinded way of me saying that I went to my first "society" event in Miami last night, and what a breath of fresh air it was compared to my experiences at New York society events. The people were genuinely friendly, the music was phat, the mood was casual, people were wearing everything from Hermes to American Apparel, and you know what? A fabulous time was had by all. I was genuinely shocked at how open, friendly and warm everyone was. How welcoming and interested and receptive people were.
"Would you like to join our committee?"
"What do you mean? You don't need a DNA sample and a genealogy tree? Well, then, why, yes, I would be delighted to be more involved in the arts."

Oh, and can I just describe the setting for you? OK. There is this island here called Fisher.
FisherIsland
According to it's web site, "Originally built in the 1920's by William and Rosamund Vanderbilt as their splendid winter estate, Fisher Island has enjoyed a long, storied history of entertaining the luminaries of its time." Blah, blah, blah. The long and the short of it is that this is where Oprah and the Olsen twins have pads. You must take a boat to and fro, there is a heliport, the biggest yachts docked outside of Monte Carlo, and more security than the Pentagon. From the time you drive onto the car ferry to your approach at the person's front door, you are escorted by security guards. This apartment was utterly fab, owned by a single guy around my age, with a terrace that everyone I chatted with characterized by excaliming, "this is bigger than my whole apartment." The terrace--I have a thing for terraces--was at least 1,000 sq ft, with gorgeous views of the ocean and the golf course.

But the best part was the people, who were all, every last one of them, completely without attitude and pretense. They just cared about the arts, having fun and enjoying the beautiful surroundings. Really, who could ask for anything else? But this island, although extraordinarily pristine, would have its drawbacks in terms of living. Like, for instance, can you imagine getting shitfaced in South Beach and then having to sit on a slow-moving, vertigo-inducing boat flanked by serious security guards in order to stumble into your home? Or how about this, as one of the guys I was with observed, regarding our host:

"What the hell does he do if he hooks up with a girl? Calls her a taxi and sends her off on a two hour long walk of shame back to the mainland? Or makes her walk to the ferry? That would have to be the worst walk of shame ever...can you imagine him saying, 'Hey, baby, want to take the ferry back to my place? You'll get home in like two days.' Do they even have cabs on this island?"

Probably not, but I'm guessing that one of the golf-cart-driving security guards would gladly escort you back to the ferry if you asked them nicely. En Espanol.

uh oh

So yesterday I experienced my first true thunderstorm since moving here. For those of you unfamiliar with the myriad machinations of Florida weather, a primer. Beginning in the summer and continuing into the early fall, the skies open up and release torrential downpours every day at about 4 p.m. Yesterday however, the onslaught began at about 3 p.m. and did not stop all night. Fine. It's just rain. But, driving in the rain, oh what a tangled web. And, to set the scene, I'd woken up at 5 a.m., have a raging cold, and still have not fully orientated myself with my new car. Sure, I knew how to turn on the wipers, but did I know that they have some sort of censor and adjust their own speed? Nooooo, why the hell would I know that. Technology can be really scary sometimes.

I get home, after an hour long drive—it is usually 30 mins exactly—and look out onto my balcony. The furniture is literally swaying, and the floor is soaking wet. I dart outside and remove the cushions from the sette and the armchair and bring them inside, getting whipped by the water while only out there for two secs. It pours for the duration of the night. I sleep restlessly to begin with, then, suddenly, I am jolted wide awake by what sounds like bombs going off all around me at 5 a.m. In that twilight phase, between sleeping and waking up, I thought I was still living in California and it was earthquake time. The thunder was jarring, so tremendous I could've sworn it was shaking the apartment. I did fall back asleep, but after some palpitations. My first thought was, "God, I'm glad Wally is not here, he would be having a major panic attack." My second was, "Holy shit, how the HELL am I going to get through hurricane season????????"

I do miss Wally terribly, and tomorrow is my first volunteer session at the Humane Society, so I'm sure being around all those other dogs will only make me miss him more. Who wants to take (make? I'm not a gambler) the over-under on whether I'll last a year without him? Pics of the apt and Wally and me in happier times.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Doggylicious

Ummm, I changed my posting thingamajig, and now all my comments have evaporated. I'm too over it to try to get them back, and what's the point anyway, but this new commenting apparatus seems to have actually posted an entry on my behalf. OK. Fab. Spent a sedate weekend with the family and the dog in northern Fla. Though I am loathe to admit it, Wally actually seems happier, or, shall I say, less neurotic/anxious/psychotic, while living with the folks. I guess that with two sprightly bitches to play with, he's considerably more relaxed and just generally more upbeat. He was less clingy, calmer and seemed less despondent when I made my exit. Ahhh, the good ol' days--when Wally was a crazed bat out of hell and mommy was a neurotic, rodent-phobic freak. Where does the time go?

Seriously though, it's nice to return home to a place without the, albeit perhaps slightly irrational, fear that critters will have invaded in one's absence. And the folks' home is now just a short flight away. I hopped on the 7 a.m. flight this morning and drove straight to work from the airport. Of course, I woke at 5 a.m., and, the last time I glimpsed those numbers on a clock I hadn't yet gone to bed, but I made it in one piece. And the Fort Lauderdale aiport has valet. Sweet.

Speaking of dogs, mental health, etc., In the Styles section of the NYT this weekend, there was a really funny piece. It seems that if I were still a Manhattanite and the Wally issue arose in a non-pet-friendly building, I could hire a lawyer and get him into the building by saying he was a "emotional support dog." Those of you who know me, know that I would surely not hesitate to do that. Anywho, the funniest part of this story is that the DOT apparently cannot discriminate against the mentally ill who insist, via doctor's letters, that their pets are "emotional support" pets. Sooooo, the airlines have their fair share of "emotional support" goats, monkeys, and the best--an "emotional support" duck whose owner dressed it in clothes! Can you imagine? Boarding a plane and seeing in the cabin a duck decked out to the nines? Yeah, sounds like that pet is doing A LOT to improve its owner's mental stability. The story is LOL funny though and worth a read:
Wagging the dog

Socialite Stories

I have to say that for the amount of "fake" bloggers/people/media creations out there, it's the bona fide people who are the most fascinating. Case in point, "socialite" Melissa C. Morris, nee Stanley,
Melissa C. Morris, who, recently married man about Manhattan "socialite" Chappy Morris. I've never related to the whole May-December thing, but, hey, whatever floats your yacht.

Slipping into Suburbia

Nothing too exciting to report on this end. I've become a housewife with no house and no husband. It seems most of the drama has faded; could it have been a New York thing? I've somehow slipped into a decidedly domestic routine down here, though I am sans significant other or even cuddly canine. And on that front, some bad news that I am only now digesting. Despite the fortuitous sighting of an old friend of dad's who resides in my Nazi-run building, it seems that smuggling Wally in is simply not an option. So I suppose I will have to make do with frequent visits to Jackassville and my upcoming volunteer sessions at the North Miami Beach Humane Society. I went there for an orientation session this weekend, and it's quite an impressive facility. Privately run, not a stench of urine or feces to be found. Of course I wanted to adopt each and every one of the barky boogers, but my condo restrictions prevented yet another impulse buy. Working, sleeping, eating--I think I am now like most other humans. Boring.

And I love it how I've gone from being intimidated by the whole driving thing, to being another crazy, bat out of hell on the road, blaring my horn at all the old grannies. I'd been driving around with a temporary plate, and since I got the car on eBay, yes, eBay people, the license plate that was mailed to me was without screws. Somehow I knew this would be a problem. I was perfectly content to let the metal plate rot in my trunk and cruise around with the paper one in my window—hey, the expiration date had rubbed off, so who would be the wiser? Surely a traffic cop would let me off. But uncle insisted I run to Pep Boys on my lunch hour to get the screws. It took, literally, an hour of me and this very kind Pep Boy's employee, opening up several packs of screws, making several trips out to the car, asking several people for screw specs for Mercedes, in order to find a measly two screws. When I returned to the office, I commented that it had actually taken me longer to find and secure license plate screws than it had to purchase the damned car. Oh, the joys of life in suburbia. Don't worry, once hurricane season begins I'm sure I'll have more exciting stories to regale you with.

A question: Do we think that if we could actually, legally and morally, buy husbands or wives of our own choosing, that the divorce rate would still be roughly 50%?

If you could buy your beau on eBay as easily as I did my car, would matters of the heart be easier or more straightforward? This train of thought is, of course, prompted by the below joke, not any other sort of malicious intentions.

And, in response to the peeps who will say that you can pretty much already do such a thing on JDate or Match.com, in my ideal spouse-buying world, material misrepresentation would not be an issue. There would be, like, fines and shit. I am clearly sleep deprived.

A Recurring Theme

As the saying goes, those who can't do teach. Or write about it. Or whatever. My good friend sent me this forward with regards to my recent theme of settling...it's pretty dead on. check out her blog, too:



Always Double Back/SquirrelFishin

The Husband Store Is Now Open!

A store that sells new husbands has just opened in New York City, where women may go to choose a husband. Among the instructions at the entrance is a description of how the store operates .

You may visit the store ONLY ONCE! There are six floors and the attributes of the men increase as the shopper ascends the flights. There is, however, a catch: you may choose any man from a particular floor, or you may choose to go up a floor, but you cannot go back down except to exit the building!

So, a woman goes to the Husband Store to find a husband.

On the first floor the sign on the door reads: Floor 1 - These men have jobs.

The second floor sign reads: Floor 2 - These men have jobs and love kids.

The third floor sign reads: Floor 3 - These men have jobs, love kids, and are extremely good looking.

"Wow," she thinks, but feels compelled to keep going.

She goes to the fourth floor and sign reads: Floor 4 - These men have
jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous and help with the housework.

"Oh, mercy me!" she exclaims, "I can hardly stand it!"

Still, she goes to the fifth floor and sign reads: Floor 5 - These men
have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous, help with the housework,
and have a strong romantic streak.

She is so tempted to stay, but she goes to the sixth floor and the
sign reads: Floor 6 - You are visitor 31,456,012 to this floor. There
are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women
are impossible to please. Thank you for shopping at the Husband Store.


A New Wives store opened across the street.

The first floor has wives that love sex.

The second floor has wives that love sex and have money.

The third through sixth floors have never been visited....

I miss my dog. Waaaaah. Mommy is going to visit him for mother's day though, which will probably be excruciating for both of us. I would soooo try to sneak the little booger into living here—I'm having perverse fantasies of just buying a Vuitton dog carrier that looks like a handbag and toting him around in that, after the fucking "board officers" have vacated the premises daily—but getting caught would mean eviction and the thought of moving again is a huge deterrant. If anyone reading this who knows me thinks of someone who resides in my Nazi-like condo building, please share.

Anywho, people continue to solicit my relationship advice for reasons unbenownst to me—hellooooo, single, perpetually?— and while giving a friend said advice about her latest beau, we were discussing how the pace of most relationships/dating scenarios we've encountered lately seems to be completely skewed.
In my experience, it's either too much too soon, e.g. calling every day or several times a day, wanting to see you/smother you all the time, or not enough, e.g. not calling for extended periods of time then popping back up and thinking everything is kosher. I think I'd prefer the too much too soon approach b/c then at least you can write them off for being stalkers, whereas the never-callers tend to have a way of worming themselves back into your life just when you think they are done with you or you are done with them.

And, oh yeah, I'm now a state-certified/licensed mortgage broker—how the hell did that happen? I'll bet those of you out there who know me well could have NEVER predicted this path...

Listen, I am probably the last rightful person to be doling out relationship advice, since it seems that I am the embodiment of the toxic bachelorette, but ask and ye shall receive anony-commenters.
I think that if you surmise that you are in a dead-end relationship, then you have probably answered your own question. What are we talking about here—you want to marry or move in and he doesn't? I just don't know if I buy into the whole commitment-phobe thing; I think that when you meet the "right" person, that so-called phobia probably evaporates. So if you want something and he's not giving it to you, then I guess you are at some sort of dead end. For, if you are not getting what you want or need out of a relationship or even a friendship, then really what is the point? I don't believe in ultimatums, because, who the hell wants to force someone's hand into marriage or commitment, but if you feel it's shit or get off the pot time, and he's not shitting, well, then time's a wasting and perhaps you should explore your options. Then again, as I've said before, I'd rather be alone than be with the wrong person. But I am the exception and I think that most humans are ensconced in relationships that are probably less than what they dreamed of, each for varying reasons. But take this advice with several salt grains, as it's emanating from someone who has maybe one decent date every six months and is destined for spinsterhood.
And also keep in mind that the grass is always greener; singlehood really isn't as much fun as it may look from the vantage point of someone who feels that they are "missing something" by being in a relationship. Trust me, you're not missing anything—it's a jungle out here.

In other news . . . I joined the force of labor today and as a consequence am very tired. I am still enjoying Miami and the weather, but the wind on the key is absolutely out of control, my poor, sad, little plant is getting whiplash. Also, I looked up the sale price of the condo I am renting today in the real estate thingy and realized that the landlord is making a pretty penny of my rent. The value of this little place has doubled over the past ten or so years, so I can certainly see why so many people buy down here.
Though that is one area where I can claim to be commitment phobic—real estate. How can one commit to living in a place for longer than one year? THAT scares me, not relationships...

How humorous is it that in light of the recent posts and controversy this settling subject has stirred up, my mom comments to ask what I bought at Neiman's? The apple falls very close, my friends. I have one more point with this whole not settling thing though—it seems highly probable that those of us who don't settle will end up alone. And I think that must be weighed against everything else I suppose. I've sort of made my peace with this because I am the type of person who just can't even kiss or be really intimate with someone I'm not gaga over. Hence my near celibacy and my tendency not to date a lot. Different city, same issues it would seem.

settlement issues

Okay, so we're not in Gaza therefore the issue of settlements is a litttle less grave, but I think this post has certainly stirred up some strong emotions. In regards to the anony-commenters, a couple of points. When I proclaim that I won't settle for anything less than ideal, I am most certainly NOT referring to a "good on paper" brand of quality. I'm absolutely not on the hunt—nor do I advocate others to be—for a wealthy, Ivy League provider. I have learned through experience that good on paper rarely translates to good in the flesh. By not settling, I mean not settling for anything less than nice, sweet, loyal, devoted, funny, kindhearted, generous, moral and down-to-earth. Money, alma mater, car brand, height and hotness have very little to do with what or whom I am looking for. Any of my friends will attest to the fact that I am the last one to date someone simply because they take me to nice places. If I want a dinner at Daniel—or now, I suppose, Joe's Stone Crab—I'll buy it myself. Period. So please do not misinterpret me. When I refer to my friends who are settlling, what I mean, precisely, is this. They are with men who do one or more of the following: play around, belittle them, tell them they are fat, treat them like housekeepers, disrespect them or fail to recognize their beauty, strength or character.

I've said it before and I'll most likely have to shout it from the mountaintops until the day of my demise: just because I like nice things and shopping, does not mean I am without character, morality, integrity or intelligence. If anything, that is my message inherent in this blog. I am a firm, FIRM believer in a woman providing for herself. I have become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, therefore I plan on keeping myself in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Hence the change of careers to a more lucrative field. When I hear women discuss men in terms of their bank accounts or wallet size or car, I shudder, because, let me tell you, these things mean almost nothing at the end of the day. Again, I am wasting too much time here, I must go paint.

The Neiman's outlet, I fear, has turned into my Ben & Jerry's. Yes, it's a lot less caloric, but a lot more expensive. This is my last week before rejoining the working world again. After a nearly year-long hiatus from such a mileu, it should be interesting.

Last night while out at a local haunt, I ran into a guy I met at a society thing in NY way back in September, so, it seems, the world is just as small down here as up there. He lives two buildings away from me here. Weird. I did two very foolish things today, my jaunt to Neiman's notwithstanding—hey, cut a girl some slack they were having a handbag and shoe "event," I'm supposed to say no to that?—neither of which I feel comfortable disclosing here, but the perpetual question is: Why, oh why, does romance make such fools out of us, no matter the age or circumstance? WHY???????? I'm chalking today's behavior up to the paint fumes I've been inhaling all day.

Settling

I have noticed a disturbing and highly pervasive trend that is spreading amongst my friends from Miami to New York and in between. This trend affects both males and females, but in general, I think it falls more squarely on women's shoulders. The issue? Settling in the romance department. I think we all have those friends whose husbands/spouses/significant others we don't care for. "They could have done sooo much better than him/her/it," we say when talking about them. "What is she thinking?" we ask.


It's really quite simple when you boil it down. Personally, I think that women settle due to low self-esteem and/or fear of being alone—esp if you are over 30—and men settle out of pure boredom and/or laziness. One thing characterizes both sexes' attitudes when it comes to settling though, and that, my friends, is a sense of resignation. "Eh, I may not be able to do any better, so why not take this schlub?" Or, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one your with?" Right?

Um, NOOOOO. I cannot imagine anything under our control more dreadful than settling. For a person, a job, a lifestyle, an apartment, but most especially a lover. Sure, we all must settle sometimes: Prada over Hermes, Bermuda instead of St. Bart's, Mercedes over Bentley. I'm kidding, but not to such a drastic degree. Personally, I can honestly say that I'm a person very reluctant to settle, and when I find myself tempted to do so, I tend to snap myself out of it and remind myself that you only live once, so you may as well give yourself everything that you truly deserve. Because you know what? Nobody else is going to. I don't know if my unwillingness to settle for a significant other is due to my unhealthy level of perfectionism, my parents' almost disgustingly perfect marriage or what. All I know is that if I had settled, like so many of my friends, I would most certainly be divorced by now.

And, I know, I know, breaking up is hard to do and being alone is hard too, but divorce, my friends, is exponentially harder. Trust me, daddy is a divorce attorney. And while I am sure he would be pleased to take referrals, I would not relish proffering them. I'm here to tell you all, esp the girls, that yes, sometimes it's a big, scary world out there and clutching onto someone sub-par feels better than being in the water without a life vest, but, actually that's a recipe for disaster. Do you really want to be 40 or 50 and look at the person next to you and think, "Gee, I'll bet I could've done better." I don't think so. At least I hope not.

This is precisely why I would rather be single than attached just for the sake of being attached. And why in answer to that uncouth question that most Jewish parents seem to think is appropriate, "Why aren't you married?" I can always confidently answer, "I just haven't me the right person." Single doesn't = leper. And on that note, I am pleased to report that after a six-month-long bad date/no date drought, I've had a rather lovely one, simply because I refused to settle for any more lousy ones.

paradise found

If there ever was a doubt about moving to Miami, it was squelched today, for I have discovered, a mere 14 miles from my lovely new apartment, the holy land: Neiman Marcus Last Call and Off 5th. That's right folks, a short drive away there exists the Prada promised land. I am home. I'm loving this city more and more each day. There is certainly not the uber-drama of singlehood down here, as my nights out since my move have mostly consisted of dinners and tame activities, but I'm rather enjoying the sedation after so many years on the merry go round. The final bit of furniture was delivered today, the apt. is almost perfectly turned out, I haven't gotten seriously lost or carjacked yet, and the leg is feeling better. I face a wall of water from both my bed and my couches and have acquired some very comfy patio furniture. So all in all, life is good. Then again, my seasoned South Florida friends tell me that hurricane season starts in a little more than two months, so I guess the shit will hit the fan again fairly soon. I'm fortunate though, that my condo came with "hurricane shutters," which are these industrial strength, intimidating-looking shutters that protect windows and doors. Apparently these things are like thousands of dollars to install, so it's a real boon that my apt. came with them. And though I am certainly missing Wally, I have to admit that it's really nice to come home and not have to walk the little booger. Tomorrow I start my mortgage broker's class, which will consist of 24 hours of classes in three days and next week I take the state licensing exam. Boring, boring, boring I know, but I'm laying off the personal stuff at the moment. Though I do have a couple set ups I am actually looking forward to. I'm done, once and for all, with JDate. Seriously. I mean it this time.

The eighth great wonder of the world: why do our parents, substantially older and more war-torn than ourselves, have more energy than us? Between Passover, the family visiting, friends and apartment stuff, the time is already flying fast. I can't believe that April is almost over and before I know it I'll be joining the force of labor. Spent all week and weekend getting the apartment together but was able to spend all day Saturday on dad's friend's boat, cruising around Miami in style. There are simply so many areas of this city that are really quite fabulous and beautiful. We saw all the major islands, many of which are well-known celebrity lairs such as Fisher and Star Island, but some of the lesser known areas are just as breathtaking. And strangely enough, I saw more celebs by sea than I saw all season in NYC. We cruised past Shaq's $29 million abode, and spotted him chilling in the backyard throwing one of his kids a party. We also saw Hulk Hogan scoping out his new ultra-modern digs with his family, adjacent to some big music producer pulling up on his 100-foot behemoth yacht. The interesting thing about the celebrity lifestyle down here is that they have absolutely no privacy. The ones who live on the water have completely exposed backyards, because if they were to erect high hedges, as they do in LA, they would block out the spectacular views. It's a catch 22 for them, and apparently the reason Shaq is looking to sell. Also saw lots of other Heat players on the water and at dinner, but I don't know their names. Honestly I didn't even know that Shaq was with the Heat now; not exactly up on the sports. Anywho, it was awesome to spend the better part of yesterday seaborn, and to take a boat to lunch as opposed to a car or train. Now I must make a friend my own age with some sea wheels.

And in another interesting twist, characteristic of the close degree of separation that is life in the South, as we were getting on the elevator in my new building Friday night, my dad ran into an old frat brother of his who lives on the 10th floor of said new building. Natch, I'm wondering if this has any consequences that may prove to be favorable to Wally...More TK on this subject. Next weekend I have my cram course for my mortgage broker's exam for the new biz, so it's back to school for me. That should be interesting.

As Nancy P. so diligently pointed out, I had to update my profile to say Miami; thanks Nance. It feels weird to call another place home after being a New Yorker for so long. Anyway Happy Pesach to everyone. The fam is coming to town this weekend so I'll be on another hiatus, but I'm sure I'll returned armed with lots of ammo as we are going apt. shopping this weekend. Alas, no Bergdorf's to be found here, but Bal Harbour is singing its siren song to me.

No Habla Espanol—but Oy seems to translate

This Spanish thing is going to be a problem, as it's not most of the worker's second language, but their first. Neither the cable guy or the carpet cleaner guy spoke English. Did some damage at Whole Foods today and I'm still getting used to having actual food outside the fridge, without the fear of little critters getting into it. I'm going to have to unlearn being an ultra-paranoid neat freak because by now it's by rote that I vacuum daily, clean obsessively after every meal and keep everything, including salt, pepper, coffee etc. in the fridge. It's bizarre not having to worry about common NY problems. But there are now others, like the fact that right now the winds are about 20 miles an hour and when I open the patio door my nic nacs are instantly strewn about, not to mention the temporary furniture that is being lifted off the ground. Gee I can't wait for hurricane season.

I am living in an unusual area called Brickell Key, which is a private island off of downtown. It's a really cool place, with lots of residential buildings, a couple of restaurants, a market, bank, florist, dry cleaner etc. You can actually walk to the marketplace, so it's a little bit cosmopolitan, which appeals to expats like me. The Mandarin Oriental is also on the Key and there's a cool bar and some fab restaurants in there as well. One amazing thing about the island, that I simply cannot fully take advantage of because I am sans Wally, and still scared to run for fear of worsening my fucking ITB, is that there is a walking path that spans the perimeter of the island, where there are dogs, joggers and walkers galore. You can see it in one of the above pics from my balcony, which, yes, I am completely obsessed with, you can see both the bay and the river and the port of Miami, hence the cruise ships. Today I got lost on my way home from Ft. Lauderdale and ended up in a lovely area called Crandon Park (I think). Ironically I missed my exit and ended up on a toll road; thankfully I had exactly $1.25 on me for the toll. I wonder what would have happened if I'd cruised up in my "luxury" automobile and professed to have no money? Do the toll booths take AmEx? I'm sure that this happens to people a lot down here....

I'm Baaaaaaaaack

A long overdue recap, for my cable internet has just been installed. In the past two weeks I have:

Become the new owner of a peppy little German (ugh) automobile, replete with cute little portable GPS thingy, for I happen to have the worst sense of direction ever. Seriously. I have gotten lost in people's houses before.

Slept on an air mattress, for the first (and hopefully last) time ever

Had a religious experience at Target. Twice. Whoever invented this superstore deserves no less than the Nobel prize for shopping.

Abandoned my loving, codependent, needy, 10-year-old dog, not without a hefty amount of Jewish guilt. I have also pondered ways to Anne Frank him into condo living, but alas, have come up with no feasible options that wouldn't result in my eviction.

Moved into my new condo, which, given that it is a one-bedroom and not in New York, has ample room, central air conditioning, fans, overhead lighting, a washer and dryer, a large kitchen and the fattest balcony ever, with sweeping views of the Miami River (who knew?) and Biscayne Bay.

Put up my first Mezuzah ever, though it's probably against the condo rules.


Employed my veeeeeeeeery rusty college-level Spanish. It's an absolute necessity down here, so I really must brush up.

Gotten back onto the elliptical machine, because, fuck it, my ITB bullshit wasn't getting better by not exercising. So I'm finally sweating again and it feels fucking great.

Sworn off shoe and handbag shopping once again, because even though I am now proudly in possession an actual walk in closet, there is STILL not enough room for the damn bags and shoes.

Perfected my tan.

Gone grocery shopping and bought more than just one day's worth of food.

Left the house in flip-flops, tank tops and exercise pants.

Left the house with wet hair.

Pumped some $3-a-gallon gas; you guys should have seen me at the gas station trying to figure out where the gas tank release button was. Ten minutes of sitting in the car pressing every button, then calling mom.

"How the fuck do I open the gas tank? I've pressed every button."

"Well in my car (another German make) you just press on the actual tank and that opens it."

This NEVER would have occurred to me; I was about to give up trying, but alas, mom to the rescue once again.

Gone back on that ghastly Jewish dating web site that all MOT belong to much to their own dismay. However, the first chap I've conversed with over the BellSouth (or is it AT&T now) wires, was flagrantly, flamingly GAY with a capital G. He said like about 50 more times than I do. Sigh. I don't think it's happening for me on JDate. I just cannot, for the life of me, envision myself at my wedding toasting to that fabulous cyber-bastion of head shots and "about me"s. call me crazy, but I'd like to meet someone the old fashioned way—through pushy Jewish mothers and friends—or not at all.

Anywho, I am now fully set up in my new pad, sitting here with my desk positioned so that I can look at the water while I type. There's a constant stream of boats gliding by, sunsets, dolphins, manatees, all visible from both my living room and bedroom. And after all the stress of moving finally subsided, cruising in my new car on Saturday, with the sunroof open, CD blaring, sun shining, and wind blowing my Japanese-straightened-therefore-always-perfect-even-in-the-blazing-humidity hair, I thought, "Why the hell did I wait so long to do this?" Is it cold in New York? That's what I thought. Pics are on my balcony, from my first Friday night in my new home.

And I'm back. To the comforts of home. To the three barking dogs, the fully-stocked pantry and (three) fridges. The move was, as all moves are, completely draining, compounded by the fact that I got not one minute of sleep the night before. Thus I looked like the walking dead when the guys showed up at 8 a.m. Tuesday morning. They undid in three hours what it had taken me three weeks to do. Arrived in JAX last night, totally the worse for wear, and crashed for about 11 hours last night. Set up the Florida bank account and got the new cell phone today; totally loving the pink Razr. Pretty soon I predict that the big design houses will be making cell phones, why not? I will be the first on the Chanel waiting list. Anyway, more errands the rest of this week, then we head down to palm beach saturday to pick up the new car, which, no, we haven't test-driven.
When I mentioned this to mom, the test driving thing, she said, "Eh, but we got a good deal." A good deal trumps all, my friends. I'm sure it will drive fine. It didn't come with GPS, however, and I happen to be someone who can easily get lost in her own apartment. So we got a freestanding GPS thingy at BJ's tonight. BJ's, similar to Costco, is somewhere I can easily envision wasting hours and hours of time in the near future. It's really so scary how content I am shopping, even if it only entails home-goods or groceries. What the hell is wrong with me? Is consumerism an actual disease? Cause if it is, I'm damned sure infected. So Saturday we are off to Palm Beach for the weekend and then I'll be in Miami next week, relying on the generosity of friends until the furniture arrives later in the week. I have never so looked forward to just being in my own place; I've been living out of suitcases now for more than one month.
Unpacking and decorating however, dear readers, is about the most exciting my life is going to get in the next couple of weeks though I'm afraid. I certainly don't have the energy to date, and if there's one thing the past month has reinforced it's that all men are fucking nuts and just not worth wasting time on. Even the ones who come highly recommended are wackos, and if I want to spend time with a whackjob, I'll hang solo or go out with my delightfully eccentric friends. Enough is enough. Maybe I'll start my own reality show, Single in the Sunshine State. Though, trust me, it would be really, really dull and most likely would be set mostly at Neiman's and the beach.

good-bye to all that, part three

the bags, as they say, are packed and I'm ready to go. well, almost. still have one more marathon day of packing left tomorrow, one more "last supper" at shun lee, and a few loose ends to tie up. but the car has been bought (on ebay, nonetheless) the going away party has been thrown (thank you guys so much:) and the good-byes have been said. I'm still a little in shock, but very excited and thankfully the leg actually feels better. cannot wait to have daily access to a pool, as I'm def. suffering from exercise withdrawl. I'm posting a few pics, but as I abide by the "all of us must look fab" rule, the choices are few and far between given the level of alcohol consumption and debauchery of last night at BED.

on another note, even though I have indeed taken a hiatus from divesting too many personal details here, I am happy to report that I now have a little bit of closure with regards to the asshole, and even better, have further evidence that he is indeed quite literally certifiable. it feels good to be right.

A Series of Lasts, in Photos

It's now my official last Friday in NYC and I'm getting a little maudlin. Saturday night is going to be very hard saying good-bye to everyone, so I'm just going to have to drink my face off in order to cope. You guys are gonna have to peel me off the floor and make sure I get home OK. I'm feeling nostalgic, so I thought I would post some "last" pictures. Tomorrow night is another last dinner, then Saturday the big farewell fete, Sunday I have a dog-walking date with Mr. Devil and then Monday, my official last night in the city, I'll be dining at Shun Lee, my favorite restaurant ever. Not a bad way to go out, but sad all the same.






Last round of drinks at the Four Seasons, my fave Manhattan haunt





Last girls' dinner at Dos Caminos, another fave





Wally's last walk in the snow. Can't say I'll miss that too much...





Last Halloween in the city.





Last birthday at Pastis. For some reason I've ended up there on many birthdays. Brother is rocking the chest hair in this one.

Good-bye to all that, part deux

OK, so I have not been body-snatched, kidnaped or fallen into a drug-laden coma. I have, rather, drowned in a sea of brown boxes, suitcases and bubble wrap. I'm in the homestretch of packing, saying good-byes and getting my house in order. The movers come Tuesday a.m. and I leave that night for Florida. The past week has been spent negotiating the murky waters of packing, stretching, physical therapy and car shopping, the latter of which is an extremely arduous task. Who knew? Apparently, "find me a nice car," is not a sufficient command. Make, model, year, mileage—the fuck if I know. I'm pulling numbers, makes and models out of my ass, handing lumps of coal over to my dad's car dealer and hoping for diamonds. So far, this is not working too well and I am still sans automobile. This is when taxis really do come in handy. Yesterday I had to run some errands on Fifth Ave. and as I passed Bergdorf's I caught myself tearing up; yes, I know this is abnormal, but I can't help it. I have some bizarre, unhealthy emotional attachment to this retail establishment, and God damnit, I'm going to miss the hell out of New York shopping. However, this is what I will most miss about Manhattan, aside from my friends, therefore I know that it's a healthy decision to leave. I mean, if the retail establishments are what's keeping you somewhere, chances are this is not the right place for you. Anywho, my ITB is still raging, my stress levels are at a maximum, my patience has deserted me, and Wally is going utterly insane. I packed Wally's dog bed an the majority of his toys, so he sits here and yells and claws and cries at the foot of the box they are in. If I were Frank Costanza, I would be chanting the mantra, "Serenity Now."

Tonight was the first in a series of farewell dinners. My going away fete will be this saturday at BED for those of you who I actually know. Feel free to email me and i'll add you to the list.

In response to the post about mediabistro: nice, very nice. I sent it to the HR people. Sadly, though, the pathetic fuckwit will continue to be employed there until they are hit with a sexual harassment lawsuit. Hopefully that's not too far off in the future.

Good-bye to all that, part one

When I am utterly overwhelmed and stressed to the max, I simply cannot fall asleep. In lieu of some Ambien, I've been compiling a mental list of things that I most assuredly will not miss about Manhattan. Of late, these things outweigh the elements I will miss, an occurrence I never could have previously predicted. So here goes; my laundry list of things I will not ever miss about living in this city.

That rancid smell that characterizes and permeates most bodegas and grocery stores—it smells like a horrid combination of burnt ham and fried bacon and it sticks to everything I purchase in the bodega; even to the plastic bags the wares come in. Where is all the pig-frying going on? Who knew that bodegas were such bastions of burning bacon? Or maybe it's actually the stench of rats being incinerated...

The Manhattan once-over. For those who do not know of this female phenomenon, I shall clarify. The Manhattan once-over is a time-honored tribal ritual practiced by Manhattan women of a certain class. The female's eyes travel from your shoes, dart to your handbag, run up the length of your body, stop on the face, taking in the ears and then run back down the length of your body. The duration of the once-over depends on the season. It's shorter in winter, obviously, because all the looker can really discern is your coat, shoes, handbag and maybe earrings. It's more extensive in the warmer climes, when she can fully take in your jewelry, pedicure, manicure, brand of jeans, etc. Think of it as the human, female equivalent of dogs sniffing one another's asses, except a lot less civilized.

The fucking subway. Tonight was my last subway ride ever. Mark my words; and tonight was probably my last time in Brooklyn, the fact that those two events coincided fills me with pride—I had not done either in months.

The "wildlife," which, in my estimation, includes rats, mice, roaches and that crazy crackhead woman who wanders around Fifth Avenue in a garbage bag.

Those signs posted everywhere with the drawing of a big rat and the blaring warning that says "poison" or "rodenticide" or whatever it says. Truth is I get so skeeved out by the rat illustration that I fail to digest what the sign actually says.

Spit and feces on the sidewalks.

Scooping Wally's poop with Gristede's bags and those bags from the bodega that reek of burnt ham. His shit smells better than the ham.

The subway.

Duane Fucking Reade and all the people who work there. Every last uneducated, slow-witted one of them.

Yorkies and their ridiculous sweaters. For that matter, all doggie sweaters/coats/boots. One of the little dogs in my building not only has a Vuitton collar, but an actual shearling coat.

The subway.

Grocery aisles too narrow for two people to pass one another without turning sideways.

Constant construction on every corner block at all hours of the night.

Mediocre, $50+ meals.

The bloodsport that we refer to as "dating."

Having to put on 30 lbs of clothing and accessories just to leave the house in this season.

What the winter does to the poor, delicate skin on my hands.

The subway.

Idiotic doormen and even dumber supers.

Parades for holidays I never even knew existed.

Taking Wally out at 4 a.m. in the bitter cold.

The smell of Chinatown.

The crush of bodies in Times Square.

The list seems to go on and on, so much so that I'm beginning to relate to those country bumpkins who refer to NYC as a concrete jungle and profess their hatred for this city. I certainly don't hate the city, but I certainly don't love it anymore either. I think of it now as most people probably do—a lovely place to visit, not the best place to live.

I have discovered eBay. Darling, where have you been all of my life? I have no explanation for why I'm so late to the game, but I'm now addicted. However, seeing as I leave a mere TWO WEEKS from today, I am vowing to step away from the computer and back into the NYC social swirl. I have only a handful of days to bid New York bye-bye and I've barely made a dent in my packing to boot. Need to put in some serious face time with friends; endure more physical therapy; pack; clean; visit those outer boroughs I'm always hearing so much about (I think they start with "Bs"); spend some serious quality time with Wally, who I am heartlessly abandoning; and generally just stay busy so that I don't get too maudlin about leaving Manhattan. I will be back soon enough though—after all, a girl's gotta have her hair cut and Japanese-straightened. And hit the Bergdorf's shoe sale, natch. And eat Chinese food; I don't think I'll be finding too much of that down South.

One of the most infuriating aspects of Manhattan life is a little store called Duane Reade. It's the most ubiquitous drugstore in the city, and is like Starbucks in that you can find one on almost every corner block. Sure, there are the random Eckerd's, CVSs etc., but Duane Reade is just more convenient because they are literally everywhere. I try to avoid this place at all costs, but usually end up there once a week to stock up on the necessities. Not only are the cashiers slower-moving than any 90-year-old yenta, but they are usually thick as posts and seem to like to keep people waiting. Also, their favorite sentence is, "Do you have a club card?" Yes, I fucking have a goddamned club card, but is it worth me taking off my gloves, sifting through my purse and presenting it to you in the hopes that I MAY save $.10 on an item that is specially discounted? I don't think so. Anywho, each time I go into Duane Reade, not only do I spend more money than I need to be spending on toothpaste, deordorant, etc. but I always end up waiting on line for at least 10 minutes, and usually, I am laden with shopping bags from other stores that I have hit before DR. So I'm always standing there in line, under the unforgiving flourescent lights, feeling woozy and about to pass out from the combination of heat, the weight of my shopping bags and the general level of annoyance that a trip to Duane Reade engenders. By the time I get up to the register, I'm just ready to pay and be on my merry way. I do not, therefore, wish to chit chat with the cashier. So yesterday, weighed down with bags from Gourmet Garage, leg hurting, in a hurry to get home, I'm unprepared for the cashier's question. I step up to the register with various sundries, among them, a bag of hard cat food and a container of soft dog food. Yes, Wally is now enjoying the mix of high and low cultures.

"So how do your dog and your cat get along?" the cashier asks me innocently.

It takes a moment for her question to register, a long, protacted moment during which I am looking at her like she's ET's long , lost, stoned cousin. Oh, right, I think. The Duane Reade cashier is not privy to my fucked-up brand of rodent repelling. She actually thinks I'm sane and have two different species of pet, as opposed to one, very confused dog with cat breath.

"Oh, good," I reply. "They get along well." I flush crimson and bolt the hell out of there. Relating the story later to my neighbor Heather, we're cracking up, as the very same thing happened to her in Gristede's. Except that she was busted buying a huge bag of cat food by an old friend who knew that she had only a dog. "Oh," the friend had remarked, "did you get a cat?"

"Oh, yes, I got a cat. Siamese, she's very sweet. Nice seeing you..."

Less than three weeks left in the big apple. The days will be filled with physical therapy, eating, drinking, packing, talking on the phone, saying tearful good-byes and generally sucking as much marrow out of the city as I can whilst hobbling around like a cripple, wearing, thank you very much, Mizuno sneakers. Apparently, I not only have "soft tissue" damage, but tendonitis and iliotibial band syndrome (ITB) or "runner's knee." Looooovely. The prescription? Twice weekly physical therapy plus two hours of prescribed stretching per day. Oh, yeah, sexy.

Update

Well, I've gotten the approval of the mysterious, all-powerful board, so I'm good to go. The movers are booked, the plane ticket is set and the going away party is planned.

(For those of you I actually know, you are invited to BED on March 25th to bid me farewell and buy me mass quantities of alcohol.)

Yes, I am sad to leave NYC and my fab friends, but I'm also ready to redecorate, rest, relax, enjoy the sun and start an actual career. Regarding Wally, whom I will dearly miss and feel much guilt for having forsaken, I've decided that I will visit him monthly. It's only an hour flight home to where he will be and my office is very close to the FLL airport. The "To Do" list keeps expanding daily, and now I must add "buy car" to it, which is no easy proposition. In fact, I am completely clueless as to how to do this. When I first discovered that I would need to buy a car, I actually Googled "Cars." I've been here for six years and prior to that had been the recipient of cars from my folks, so what the hell do I know about buying cars? This is a man's job as far as I am concerned, so a big part of me just wants someone to do it for me and then I will just hop in and drive away. Though the chances of this actually happening are slim to none, it's a nice, escapist fantasy. Then again, it's been done this way twice before, so the third times a charm, right? Dad? He's chortling in outrage as he reads this.

But I've said this before and I will say it again: Cars are to Miami women (and L.A. for that matter) what shoes and handbags are to New York women. Meaning that, you have a much better chance of meeting a hot guy if you are driving a hot car. Period. Sad, superficial, shallow, stereotypical, yes, but sooooooooo true. And any guy or girl who argues with this fact is just in denial. I have hard evidence: I get scoped out MUCH more often cruising in dad's Lexus than in brother's Toyota.

Anyway, a list of things I must do before I leave this fair isle, in no particular order. For my own clarification and I'm taking reservations for partners (from friends, not random readers, obv).

Eat at Shun Lee Palace, on the East Side. If you've never been, run there. Now.

Drink at the Mandarin Oriental and the Four Seasons hotel bars.

Take Wally to Central Park.

Do one last marathon lap around Bergdorf's and Barneys.

Visit the Met.

Go to Columbus Ave. flea market.

Visit brother's apartment and friends in Brooklyn. (Brother this is scheduled for Friday the 17th I've decided today.)

Go to the Bronx Zoo. Maybe. Probably won't happen unless accompanied by male. I'm still scared of the Bronx and Harlem, what can I say?

That's about all I can think of at the moment, but I'm sure I will come up with some other things, hopefully less superficial ones.

Farewell to Fifth

Farewell to Fifth
Today was a tragic, momentous, historical day for the Green girls. Today was the penultimate episode of a six-year-long running series. Today will forever be mourned in the hearts of women from New York to Palm Beach to Miami to Jacksonville. For today was the last day moms and I shopped on Madison and Fifth while your's truly resides here. I have long been saying that what I will most miss about Manhattan is Bergdorf's, but I was exaggerating a little. I will also terribly miss Barneys, Madison Ave., Fifth Ave., The Four Seasons bar, The Metropolitan Museum, Park Avenue, the park, the Plaza, looking at life go by through the window of a taxicab, and I may just even miss Saks too. Not that they don't have great shopping in Miami, in fact, save for Bergdorf's, they have all the same stores. But there's something about shopping in New York that is just so intoxicating, on an almost narcotic level. I wonder, does shopping produce the same amount of endorphins as exercising? Or is it just those heroin injections? Kidding.
Anyway, we went out in true comical fashion. Dad was here too, which means we didn't get to do as much damage as sans papa. And there wasn't much time, so we actually only hit the big three, Bergdorf's, Barneys and Saks. And we did the Columbus Ave. flea market this a.m., and the stores didn't open till 11 a.m. today. Sooo, after we had lunch with the rest of the fam, mom and I had A HALF HOUR before her plane left. Now, most normal people would spend this half-hour packing, chilling, getting coffee, whatevs. Mom and I, however, jump in a cab, head to Saks, and spend 30 minutes sucking in the shoe and handbag departments like junkies in a methadone clinic. She takes down the name and style number of a Prada bag; I try on some Louboutins in record speed. I'm practically yelling "STAT" to the poor shoe salesman. Alas, the time constraints were such that both of us left empty-handed. We're so sick; we should really be studied by the fashion doctors.

OK, regarding the previous post's comments: A.) There simply are NO guys here I even have the desire to makeout with; that's the problem. B.) Do they even have hockey in Miami? I'm not much of a sports person unless there is a sky box involved. C.) Mom, for the love of God, step away from the fucking computer. It takes you five hours to figure out how to upload photos but you can comment on a blog no problem? I've created a monster. Pics of the balcony of the new pad, which technically isn't even mine until I get board approval, but I am so in love with the view and the balcony, I simply must share. $500+ less a month, people!

The first two are the balcony, which stretches from the living room to the bedroom. (I don't think BFF is touching herself; I think I caught her mid-gesture.) The second pic is of the pool, with the sister building (and BFF's building) visible behind it. (There are 3 buildings in this group.) And the final picture is of the lobby. If it's possible to be in love or lust with a piece of real estate, then I'm definitely crushing big-time.

And other random notes:

Wally's breath, after having actually been fed dog food for more than two weeks, is on the mend.

Heather, my fab friend and neighbor, was on rodent-patrol while I was away, so, dear friend that she is, went into my apartment every two days and stomped around with her dog to scare the little motherfuckers away.

Due to some miscommunication with moms (I still maintain that I heard you say, "I've got your coat.") I arrived at the JAX airport yesterday, wearing a tee shirt, jeans and sneaks, only to realize that neither my mom nor I had taken my coat or my gloves. Since I was heading back to NYC, which was apparently enduring a cold snap, this was slightly problematic. Therefore, I had to go into the restroom and trade clothes with my mom. Now, mom is quite chic, and ordinarily I'm happy to borrow her clothing. But it just so happened that yesterday she was in a rather conservative suit. So I emerged from the bathroom clad in a baggy pink turtleneck, an oversized pin-striped blazer, blaring white sneakers and glasses, paired with trendy jeans and a trendy handbag. I looked like a "What Not to Wear Victim." It was not pretty. Mom found it so amusing that she snapped some digi pics; you will not be seeing them here. I looked like a 40 year old. I looked like a secretary straight out of "Working Girl." I looked, in short, like I actually belonged in Jacksonville. God help me.

Movin' On Up

So I have finally arrived back at my parents' place after 10 days in Miami. It actually took that long to get things settled down there, but it was a fruitful journey--in that amount of time down there, I managed to find an apartment that I adore and a new, promising job. Two things that I've never been able to accomplish over my six years in New York. Things, as they say, are falling into place seamlessly in South Florida. My new pad--fingers crossed I get "board approval" by that elusive entity known as the condo board--rocks. Huge balcony with sweeping bay views, fabulous condo building on a private island, granite kitchen, washer and dryer in the unit, on the same floor as the gym and the pool, 1 and 1/2 marble bathrooms (with, God knows why, a bidet), dining room, walk in closets, and hurricane shutters, which I am told is quite a boon. The best part is that the building is literally right nextdoor to my best friend's building. The worst part? No Wally. That's right, Wally is not welcome. By the time the "board" alerted me to this fact--that renters are not allowed dogs, only owners--I was too in love with the apartment to give it up. So Wally will be residing with the 'rents and their two dogs until I decide I miss him too much.

This is precisely why I know I shouldn't procreate; I'm willing to give up my 10-year-old baby in lieu of a fat pad. I barely gave it a second thought, actually, as I was prepared for this scenario, and frankly, could use a break from the incessant barking and squeaky-toy noises.

So now all that's left, essentially, is to hire the movers, get a car and say good-bye to my NYC peeps. I'm not going to do the whole big going away party thing, as I think it would be too emotional. I move in April 4th and will be out of Manhattan by March 29th. And I have to admit that while I was in Florida for the past two weeks, I have not missed Manhattan at all. Not in the least bit, actually, because while you guys were donning 30 pounds of clothing just to walk the dog or go to the bodega, I was chilling in my bikini at the pool, looking at the water and reading a book. I was walking around in flip-flops, tank tops, jeans, sandals and the like, even at night, even at Neiman's. It's quite liberating.

Oh, and did I mention that my new place, with the most awesome balcony and view EVER is more than $500 less a month than my rodent-infested, shoebox studio on the Upper East Side? And that the rent includes cable TV? And that I never spent more than $40 out at night when I was there, including food?

I am a little worried about the men down there, though. My single friends keep telling me how much the guys there suck, but, what the hell? It's not like I've met any good ones in New York. I am back tomorrow in Manhattan, pretty much just tying up loose ends until it's time for the move. Cannot. Fucking. Wait.

Killing me Softly

After two flights, the second of which I made with seconds to spare after they held the plane in Charlotte due to the previous day's blizzard, a 6-hour drive down to Miami, approximately 50,000 muscle spasms, 200 yoga poses, 20 packs of ice, 30 Naproxens, and, as of today--thanks to an interstate call from my Park Ave. general practitioner to the CVS pharmacy nextdoor to the family biz in South Florida--four painkillers, the Dish has officially landed in Dade County.

It's been a crazy, combustible, stressful, hazy week of family, pain, doctors, dogs and work, yes, that's right, work, but things are finally falling into place. Spent the past two days observing the family biz and plan to start work down here in April sometime. Going to scout pads tomorrow in Miami, with the intention of signing a lease by April 1. All the buildings in the area I am looking in are condos, which means even to rent one needs board approval. So we'll see; on the plus side, you don't have to pay broker's commissions down here.

The leg/soft-tissue damage/sciatica/fuck-if-I-know condition is fucking killing me, and the driving doesn't help. And I'm now safely ensconced at my BFF's pad in Miami, but she is preggers with indigestion, heartburn, nauseau and the like, and I'm limping around like a gimp, so the two of us make quite a pair. 13 years ago we were raising hell, turning our parents' hair prematurely gray. Now, we are turning in at 11:30 p.m. and quite content with that. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Popped two painkillers when I got the scrip today, promptly got double vision and woozy so had to hitch a ride to meet BFF in Aventura, leave the car at the aunt and uncle's and limp into BFF's condo. Hoping a good night's rest + two more painkillers will do my leg and nerves some good. Otherwise, this here 30-cum-80-year old will literally be wheeled back to NYC.

On the positive side, did I mention that the hours of the family biz are roughly 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.? And that it's like 75 and gorgeous here right now? And that there is no state or city income tax in Florida? And that my new apartment will most likely be at least 1,000 square feet with a balcony, water view, tennis court, gym and valet parking? And that I have not seen even on rodent? Even in as much pain as I am in, life is so much sunnier down here. Girls, what are you waiting for? The men aren't so bad either. And don't even get me started on closet space...

From the Blizzard to the Beach

And people wonder why I am leaving? How appropriate I am heading for the hills the day after the first big blizzard of the year; here's hoping the airports reopen by tomorrow. The view from my apartment and evidence that even Wally has had enough of this fair city. Imagine trying to take a dump in the snow...

MIA/DOA/COD

Someone is going to have to wheel my old, decrepit, sore ass home to Fla. on Monday. I know it's been a while since writing, for myriad reasons: A.) I am in severe pain, due to what my ghetto Park Ave. GP calls "soft-tissue" muscle damage that stemmed from, surprise fucking surprise, the wrong running shoes. Don't get me started on the $100 running shoes versus the $20 ones, the former of which caused my entire left side to pulsate with pain, and the latter of which never gave me ONE problem, ever. His prescription? Anti-inflammatories (BFD), physical therapy, massage, yoga, rest, stretching. Oh, yeah. Let the fun begin. B.) I am busy trying to get my shit together for Florida. C.) I had the Japanese straightening on Tuesday, which required me not to put my hair up, behind my ears or get it wet. It's quite difficult to type/read/sit at the computer with your hair in your face. And, D.) I really don't see the point of writing this anymore, because, while I am happy to entertain my loyal readers/e-stalkers/friends/random passersby, this is just an exercise in futility and it actually hurts to type right now.

Until my "soft-tissue" damage heels, I must refrain from: exercising aerobically, wearing high heels, staying on my feet for long periods of time; e.g. living, going out, dressing up, having fun. Fucking kill me now. Not to mention the fact that I am set to leave for Florida on Monday, and next week have a whirlwind of activities scheduled, from flying into Jax., driving down to Miami, visiting the family business, finding an apartment with the assitance of local realtors and seeing friends and family. Not to mention the blind dates, which, if my health is any indication, I will have to cancel. What, I'm going to show up in sneakers or orthodics, all hunched over and shit???????? Very appealing, I am sure. I suppose I will now fit right in in South Florida with all the old, complaining yentas. Maybe I will start a canasta league. I must spend this weekend icing and heating the leg, packing, cleaning, etc. in preparation for being gone for a week and a half.

The one upside of all this: I have a legitimate, medical excuse to get massages. That is the only possible silver lining I can identify, because, doctor didn't even prescribe good drugs. The inside of my apartment now resembles a Duane Reade pharmacy or orthopedic care center. It's not a pretty picture and neither am I. The big event tonight will be doing a yoga DVD. Life is grand.

Oh, and the doctor, when he suggested massage, actually said something along the lines of, "I don't know if you have a husband or significant other, but now would be a good time to put him to use massaging your buttocks. Hardy, har, har."

Um, yeah. I think I actually laughed at him, but sadly, this is the first time in ages I wish I did have a boyfriend, if only so I could put him "to use." Better yet, I have a professional masseur booked for Valentine's Day, no strings attached.

The Melodramatic Manhattan Merry-Go-Round

Yes, I am still moving. No, I have not yet told everyone properly. No, I don't know whether I will still write, though I suspect so because I think I am now addicted to blogging. It's a convenient way to keep a diary without having to write things out longhand.

I'm still utterly shocked and a little bit spooked when people approach me and ask me, "Are you Dish?!" Er, yes, I suppose so. How the hell have I gotten myself into this? I got called out on the blog a few times last night, and I find it hilarious that the women who read and introduce themselves or comment to my friends, talk almost exclusively about the handbag entry. We're all the same; I feel sorry for you guys. Even the most self-described low-maint girls have clandestine handbag and shoe fetishes, I'm convinced. I heard a really funny quote on TV the other night, must have been Law & Order since that's my new TV obsession. One of the detectives said, "Shoes are like crack to women." Soooo fucking true; esp. New York women, I think.

Anyway, spent some of the weekend with old Florida peeps, yeaaaaaaa Gordons, I'm giving you the much-requested shout out. Natch, the more time I spend with Miami peeps, the more attractive the destination becomes. OK, I have a point here, but it may take a while to get to. Was out last night at one of Mr. Devil's friend's parties at Nikki Beach, and of course, given the small circles that we all travel in, there were several intersecting social groups. We all recognized each other from either JDate, Friendster or one of the blogs. It's truly disturbing. And, as there were several JDaters or Friendsters there whom I'd blown off by never calling or writing back, it's a little awkward. We recognize them, so it would follow that they recognize us as well. Several people wished me well on my move, even though I'd never met them. Bizarre, though I def. appreciate the sentiments.

There is something incredibly disconcerting to me about "recognizing" people from online. Friendster and the blogs are one thing, but it totally creeps me out to see JDate people out and about, I don't know why. I've been off the site for several months now, for the mere reason that I found the whole experience dreadful and all we've all dated one another. How the hell is this possible in a city so large?

Maybe it's just that I expect to know everyone in the South, where the Jewish community is much more contained and tight-knit, but up here it freaks me out because I didn't grow up here and never did the summer-share thing, yet I still seem to recognize everyone, everywhere we go. It will be like that in Miami, where, instead of Binghamton it will be UF, and instead of Camp Starlight or wherever the hell you NY people went, it will be Blue Star.

We hung out with (I am giving you a pseudonym, since you gave me shit for not mentioning your name) Rich last night, who made an appearance in an earlier entry (Monday, January 16, 2006, "Continued, AKA Reasons to Head South for the Season") because his brother's GF lives in my building and I wanted to talk to her about The Rodent Issue. He told me the most disgusting mouse story I have every been privy to. Thanks A LOT, Rich; I cleaned for four freaking hours today. I could probably qualify to be an exterminator by this point, and I may as well have bought stock in the company that manufactures Fancy Feast. Have spent the past two hours alternately icing my leg and thumbing through the phone-book thick Ocean Drive tearing out apartment ads, whilst trying to avoid some big football game that all the boys seem to be talking about. The amount of new construction down there is staggering; and yes, I am fully equipped to deal with the cockroaches, palmetto bugs and hurricanes. Bring it on. Well, hold the cockroaches. And the palmetto bugs.

Eeeuuuuuuuwwwwwwwww

Oh. My. God. An argument for plastic surgery if I have ever seen one. Tomorrow I'm calling the derm and scheduling Botox, Restylane and whatever else I can squeeze in while in Florida. Preventative maintenance, because heaven forbid this:



Since I no longer feel comfortable writing about the personal stuff, of which there is just too much drama even to cover in convos with friends, let alone in writing, the apartment/doorman chronicles continue. Diego the doorman wins the dunce award, hands-down. (My fellow residents will agree, I am sure.)

In the gym again today with the MOU from my previous post. The electronic, fingerprint thing has been broken for well over a week now. God fucking forbid they should fix something in this ludicrously overpriced pile of rubble. What this means is that we have to go ask the doormen for a key each time we want to gain access to the gym. There are TWO keys for the entire building and like 25 floors; I don't know how many residents.

"Can I have the key for the gym please, Diego?"

"Uh, Miss Stephanie, 11A, he is in there already, can you knock so he let you in?"

Fine. Whatever. I don't really want to interrupt whoever 11A is while he is working out, but I don't feel like getting into a 20-minute, circuitous discussion with Diego.

I go down to the gym and, magically, the key thing works. I walk in and tell the MOU that Diego wouldn't give me the key because he was in there already. The key is some kind of precious commodity in my building, apparently. The MOU, he of the Staples package fame, rolls his eyes.

"I have a great Diego story for you," he says, turning down the TV. I think the residents could write a book on Diego's blunders.

"So I'm waiting for my new cell phone to be delivered for, like, weeks. I keep asking him, 'Has anything come from AT&T?' He keeps saying 'no, no.' For weeks, he keeps saying, 'No, nothing for AT&T.' Finally, he hands me a package one day, weeks later. I look at him and say, 'This is like a week old? What happened? I asked you if anything had come from AT&T?' He looked at me blankly and said, 'No, no, I told you nothing for 18D."

"Hahahaha."

"The whole time he thought I was saying 18D not AT&T."

"Hilarious. But you've lived here for like 3 years and he's been here the whole time! I can't believe he didn't know your apartment number."

"That's why I can't believe he just told you 11A. I'm surprised he didn't still think I lived in 'AT&T.'"

Diego has got to be related to the super or the owner of the building or something. There is simply no other explanation. I've walked in on him literally sleeping at the front desk. Unfuckingbelievable. He probably earns a higher salary than a teacher.

I think one of the things I will most miss about Manhattan, aside from my friends and the shopping, natch, is the sheer diversity of what you witness merely by walking down the street. Tonight, walking down First Ave. on my way to dinner I see this couple staring into the window of a Lexus. I follow their gaze, and there is a uniformed driver blowing on a clarinet. I then pass a homeless guy who is about to bump into me, and he says, "Excuse me."