Wally Is Back

OK, first an update, dear readers. Tomorrow I will go into the details of my weekend and last week. I arrived home from Jax last night around 9:30 with a petrified Wally in tow. I smuggled him into and out of the building in his new Sherpa Tote Around Town bag (thanks for the rec, Mel).

He is a little skittish, but was playing with his toys last night and seems happy to be with me again. I have the bark collar on him today while I'm at work, because he tends to howl when I leave.

A hot topic of conversation among my parents' friends who read this blog was the anony-commenter who seems to have a slight crush on me, against his better judgement. My mom wants to know who he is and my mom's friends do as well.

I got to hang with Nancy P., my biggest fan amongst my parents set--it was great to see you too--and found out that indeed, my dad did leave the "Go girl," comment. Truly frightening. I also have some pre- and post- Botox pictures to share later when I upload this weekend's pics. Tomorrow I go back for some more in the forehead and Restylane around my frown lines.

Thanks to Lynn and Alan for being such great hosts in Palm Beach as always. And I do have some funny stories but I will wait until later for those. For now, I thought I'd amuse you with excerpts from my diary, circa 1985, when I was 9 years old. I don't remember exactly what I looked like at that age, but I'm pretty sure I was in a lovely awkward, fat phase. And in the throes of my first-ever true crush. This is verbatim, spelling and all:

April 23, 1985
Dear Diary,
Today wasn't too bad. Guess what? Bryan sat next to me at lunch. He talked to me without making fun of me. I guess I still like him. But I think he likes Jessica and Cecelia. I had piano today. I hate it! I'm not sure if I want to quit or not. Mabey Bryan does like me! Bye!

Same Day
We wrote limericks today in school, here's mine:
There once was a girl named Jane who knew she was a pain. She bumped her lip and cut her hip and from then on she used her brain.

Like it? I do. Bye!

April 24th or 25th [The dates seem to jump around a lot. I guess I wasn't as type-A at age 9.]
Today he was mean to me. I don't think I like him anymore. I hate my teacher. She's a pain in the rear end! Yesterday we got our report cards. I only got one C+ [probably in phys ed]. Want to hear my grades? B, B+, A, B, B+, A, B, B.

April 26
Dear Diary,
Someone died in our class. His name was Tarek John. He died of a blood vessel in his brain, it popped. He was Christi's boyfriend. He was nice to people. I am sad he died

Questions, Questions

There is one annoying, offensive, bothersome, anger-inducing question I am asked that seems to pop up repeatedly from all kinds of sources: Why is a cute/nice/smart/flattering adjective girl like you still single?

Why do people insist on asking this question of us singletons?

From now on, my answer is going to be, "Why not?"

It's always off-putting when someone slams you with this question in-person, for what are you supposed to say? That all the men you meet are creeps? That most of the good ones are taken and the ones who aren't are like you--single because they are not yet ready to settle down?

OK, so here are my answers, because I had my bimonthly phoner with my therapist last night and she asks me this damn question every time I talk to her. And I tell her the same things, over and over and over again.

1.) I refuse to settle.

2.) I have very a specific physical type to whom I am attracted: Dark hair, slightly Semitic looking, not short, decent body, full head of hair, handsome face.

That pretty much rules out a large part of the single, over-30, Jewish male population. And I'm not being a snob here and I'm not saying that I think I'm so good looking that I think I should be with a hottie or anything like that. What I'm saying is that I am simply not physically attracted to other types, and physical attraction is obviously an important factor in any relationship.

3.) I am actually quite chaste and do not sleep around. At all.

4.) I hate the process of dating. I would rather go to the dentist or dermatologist (esp. if Botox is involved;) than on a first date.

5.) I have been told that I can be slightly intimidating--with brains, good jewelry, designer clothing, a fabulous family, solid opinions, a good sense of humor and sophistication actually working against me.

6.) I don't cook, and I never will.

7.) I don't believe in the traditional male-female gender roles wherein the woman stays home and caters to the male's every need. That's not how it works in my family and any guy I fall for would have to be the type of guy who carries the burdens of a relationship equally, e.g. cooks, cleans, runs errands, tends to the kids, the dogs etc. as much as the woman. My dad is a case in point, and in my family, the roles were divided equally, period. My dad wants dinner? He cooks it himself. He wants his dry-cleaning picked up? He gets it himself. My mom works as hard as he does, so why should she have to go home after work and do more than he does? She shouldn't and she doesn't. Period. The end. This is a rarity in upper-middle-class Jewish culture, where many women do not work and instead go shopping all day and are completely dependent on their spouses. That's not how it works in my family and that's not what I want.

Sadly, I think most Jewish guys want a subservient woman, whether subconsciously or consciously. I am not her.

8.) I like my independence and a lot of the time, I like being alone with my thoughts. It would be nice to spend some quality time with a quality fellow a few nights a week, but I think that the other nights, I would just like my space.

9.) I am easily annoyed and like to be in control of my environment.

10.) I take up the entire bed and often talk in my sleep. Loudly.

11.) Guys suck. Girls are crazy. Stereotypes are true.

12.) I think I actually like being single, as much as I bitch and moan about the lack of decent men. Because the truth is that I think like a guy most of the time and have this "what if I could do better/the grass is always greener mentality."

13.) My parents are the perfect couple--looks, brains, success, kindness, love, respect the whole nine yards. And, as we all know, our parents are our primary role models in everything. And I don't think it's a coincidence that my younger brother, who is a perfect specimen of physical beauty and is also kind, cool and smart, is also still single. So until I find the perfect guy for me--perfect for me, not "perfect"--I shall be single, OK?

14.) And, oh yeah, I don't want kids. I'm not a baby person; I prefer dogs. Apparently this makes me some kind of freak of nature. I'd like to think it shows that I am self-actualized enough to recognize the fact that I would not be a good mother. If Roxy, my grandmother, had recognized this, she would have saved my mom and her sister a lot of grief. And a lot of money paying for hired help.

15.) I want someone smart, well-educated, funny and successful. At best, I think most guys I meet have three of the four. OK, so I only have three of the four at this point in my life too, so maybe that's part of the problem. Whatever. That's my bitch session for today.

New York Dreaming

I had a dream last night about a boy I worked with and had a brief, but fun tryst with for a while last year in NYC. Things ended poorly, for we both were using each other for our own reasons, none of which seem to matter anymore. Also, the saying "Don't shit where you eat," really is a wise one, because after things end, it's always bound to be awkward at best, humiliating at worst.

But given my past year of experiences with utter douchebags, drug addicts and, well, sociopaths, this particular fellow now seems rather sane and sweet. I watched The Break Up last night, which ends with Jen and Vince's characters having a pleasant random encounter on the street, despite the bitterness of their breakup. Time healing all wounds and all that.

My dream was very similar to this scenario, wherein I had an encounter with this boy and all was well. He looked cuter than ever, was kind, as was I, and I actually woke up smiling. It took me a couple of minutes to remember his role in my dream, but once I did, I suppose that what I thought was this: It actually is possible to meet someone nice, have some fun with them for a while, delight in one another's company while the relationship/affair/whatever lasts and then move on without bitterness or baggage.

I haven't thought about this boy in a very long time, but I do admit that in retrospect, I behaved badly toward him and am a little embarrassed by my actions. He entered my life at a particularly odd juncture—I was in the throes of my lawsuit and my anxiety was more than a little heightened. He also was around for the zenith of The Rodent Issue, and, let's face it, I was driven absolutely insane by that whole episode that summer. The Rodent Report

Anywho, today as I was editing my new book, rehashing the rodent stories and reading over my account of one crazy night we had at the Four Seasons, I remembered him fondly. And though we both, I think, treated each other at times with infantility, I wonder how he is doing and what he is up to. So if you're reading this, and I'm sure you'll know who you are, drop a line and let me know.

The Final Countdown

Eight days till the big Georgia-Florida football game and the even bigger annual Green party in honor of the Gators' victory.

Seven days till I am reunited with the love of my life, Wally, and my crazy-ass friends in Jacksonville, Crazy Fun Weekend.

Six days till I go to Palm Beach, one of my favorite locales and stay with Lynn and Alan, two of my favorite people. Haters and Lovers

Five days till I have at least 50 clean pages of my second book completed and edited.

Four days till the Botox fully kicks in. Already I have no more crow's feet and can barely scrunch my eyebrows together and that pleases me immensly. Alex Kuczynski be damned. My ass she's given up cosmetic dermatology. Her face doesn't move at all.

Which means 10 days until I can go back for more botulinum toxin in the hideous horizontal line that spans my forehead and get Restylane in my frown lines to boot.

And speaking of Wally, apparently, once he turned 11, his testosterone skyrocketed and he's been humping Stella and Tessie, of Tangled up in Tessie Lou Blue fame, like there is no tomorrow. Now I'm about to render him celibate again.

I got nothing else. I gotta go write.

Media Mongrels

One of the most loathsome qualities of the New York media is its obsession with schadenfreude. Members of the media, especially underlings or marginally successful people, take immense delight in the failures and foibles of their former coworkers or ex-compatriots.

I found this out firsthand when I wrote Dishalicious, but I knew what I was getting into and didn't much care, because here is the truth: Most members of the print media are pathetic, schlumpy, bitter, jealous, untalented, mildly-retarded, dullards. I'm not speaking of the Conde Nasties, the Hearsties, the AmEx kids or the like. I'm speaking mainly of the Gawkettes, Gawker the tabloiders, the local paper people, etc.

One of my main themes in Dishalicious is that it's not as glamorous on the inside as you may think. In fact, it's decidedly pedestrian. You will meet smarter people at the DMV than you will in the bullpens of Us Weekly or In Touch.

But of course there are a few standouts, people who despite the amoral atmosphere, maintain an air of dignity and sophistication that seem to be a part of their character. One of these people, in my humble opinion, is Jared Paul Stern, Night & Day, who is a legendary New York media figure. Of late, he has had his troubles and been cast outside of the circles he was very much on the inside of for most of his New York career. Gawker's biased coverage.

Apparently, there was some sort of alleged "payola" scandal that arose while he was writing for Page Six, which he was an integral part of for years. Recently, he sold his book about the annals of gossipland, see yesterday's Observer article on his book deal. I didn't follow this Ron Burkle scandal closely, namely, because I'd worked with Jared at Star, and found him to be quite sweet, humble and upstanding, three qualities in short supply in tabloidland. So I think, to say the least, that he's gotten a bum rap of late. And I wish him well on his book deal and all things to come. And Gawker, which just seems to be getting bitchier by the day, should just lay the hell off people every once in a while.

It is horrifying that his wife has to work in a factory, hello. How would you like to work in a factory instead of blogging from your studio walk-up, Gawker editor??? And one day, all you Page Sixers and Gawkers with your ink-stained hands, shoddy wardrobes and limited vocabularies will be on the receiving end of your snarkiness, and trust me, it ain't pretty.

Addictions

I seem to have an addictive personality and this blog has become an addiction, whether healthy or unhealthy, I don't know. Dr. L. says, regarding the whole "blog thingamajig," as she calls it, "I just don't understand the benefit of people purging their lives into the void of cyberspace. But, whatever."

I think the benefit is just that; it's a purging of the soul for those of us who do not have other outlets. Sure, all bloggers, esp. formally trained journalists such as myself, would love to have a book deal or a column. But we don't, so we do this. And, in fact, some famous authors/columnists/journalists do actually have columns and/or book deals and still blog, so there must be something to it.

Anywho, last night while "baby-sitting"--as predicted, the extent of my contribution was walking the dog--Daryl commented how funny it was how my parents know every detail of my life. And if you're a regular reader, you know that my parents, in fact, do know almost every detail of my life and I have a very open, close relationship with them, which I think is healthy. My parents are very cool, and, in fact, are very close with lots of my friends and I'm very close with lots of their friends. That's just how we roll.

OK, so Daryl says, "You know when you were younger you were just the opposite; you never told your parents anything and you'd always get mad when they asked you personal questions."

A fair point, but most teens/adolescents go through that phase. Then he started cracking up and said, "I remember once that you were so mean to your parents that they made you wear a sign to the movies that said, 'I Love and Respect My Parents.'"

"What? They SO did not do that Daryl! I do NOT remember that at all--how old was I?"

Daryl and Dana have known me since birth. "You were like 13."

"Uh, uh. No way. I'd remember that."

"I swear, Dana told me and I remember cracking up for a week. You must have repressed it."

"Sweetie, I've been in therapy for 10 years--I repress nothing."

"Well, maybe it was just a threat then..."

"It had to be a threat. I would remember. And there is NO WAY mom and dad would let me go out in public looking like that."

Dana gets home and Daryl says, "Do you remember when Stephanie told her parents to fuck off or something and they made her wear..."

Dana completes his thought, "A sign that read, 'I Love and Respect My Parents!!!"

We all started cracking up, but I still contended that it must have been a mere threat by the 'rents, for I would definitely remember a humiliating experience like that.

I e-mailed mom this a.m. for a clarification, and as usual, my memory reigns supreme, fuckwads:

Nancy says, "Now about Dana and Daryl’s memories...That is one of the most absurd things I have ever heard!!! Actually, it is crazy. You don’t for a moment think we would have done something like that??? Very weird. What even brought that up????"

A Question for You, Reader

I've noticed that a great deal of you are entering my page through this post: Southern Style Smackdown? Bring it on.

Can one of you explain how/why? I'm not that Internet savvy, so please solve this mystery for me by commenting.

My hand hurts from typing; 27 pages of the second novel in 4 days.

My brother has bought a one-way ticket to India on Kuwaiti Air.

Wally's World

A big, fat happy birthday to my beloved Wally, who is 11 years old today. This is his first birthday I haven't been with him. And traditionally I have fed him a special dinner that included meat. For his 5th birthday in NYC, I got him a burger from Wollensky's. Who says I'm not nurturing?

However, since he's at home with mom and dad, and mom's a vegetarian and dad subsists solely on Lean Cuisine frozen dinners and odd, homemade soup concoctions, I don't think Wally will be having a carnivorous birthday this year:( I have instructed mom to give him the "meatiest tasting" faux-meat product they have.

Poor booger. Only two more weeks till we are reunited. Maybe he won't recognize me due to the Botox;)

I bit the Botox bullet yesterday, finally. It was utterly painless and I have no bruising whatsoever. My friends think I am crazy, because they are most certainly behind the beauty times, but it's all about preventative maintenance, darlings. If your muscles are paralyzed, no new lines can form, hellooo. I will post before and after pictures once the effects are optimal. You start to see results in a few days, but they max out in two weeks.

There is minimal recovery time; for four hours you cannot lie down, put makeup on the area or exercise. You are supposed to smile and frown often to circulate the toxins or engage the muscles or something. So I was talking on the phone, driving home, smiling and frowning like a maniac. God knows what my fellow drivers thought...

Dog Days Are Here Again

Meet Wally; the only man I will ever truly love limitlessly. He shall be back in my bed after I go home for the big Florida-Georgia party Halloween weekend. The Nazi regime that is my condo board can go shove their poles up their asses until they hit something solid as far as I'm concerned. Thanks to dad, a hissy fit that scared the wits out of my decrepit landlord and a legal loophole, I am out of my condo Dec. 31 at the latest. Now, girls, I need some suggestions for a chic, designer doggy tote that looks like a handbag so I can smuggle him in and out of the building undetected by the omnipresent cameras. I welcome your comments, please.

Double Happiness

I caught the sublime French movie Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain a few days ago for the second time. If you haven't seen this film, it's about a quirky young woman who, due to a childhood of solitude and isolation, has learned to find pleasure in the smallest of things. One of the funnest aspects of the subtitled film is that each character is introduced by the narrator in a voiceover listing his or her dislikes and likes:

"Amélie's mother, a school mistress from Grugeon, has always had shakey nerves.She dislikes puckered fingers in the bath, having her hands touched by strangers, and pillow marks on her cheek in the morning. Amandine Pouline likes figure skaters' coustumes on TV, polishing the parquet, emptying her handbag, cleanign it out, and putting everything back."

I don't know about you, but there are certain thematic elements in my life, and just before watching this movie, I'd had a discussion with Dr. L., who said, in more eloquent words, "Do what makes you happy; what fills you up and gives you pleasure. This is not so difficult."

So I had been thinking about what actually makes me happy, gives me genuine pleasure and fills me up spiritually. And then I watched this movie, which, in essence is about the same things. Amelie does what makes her happy and tries to do the same for the others in the movie. Really, it's harder than it sounds to just do what makes you happy, but anywho, here is my list, a la Amelie.

Dogs, dogs, and more dogs. All dogs--cute, ugly, mutts, but especially Wally.

The beach.

Art, both appreciating and doing it.

Fashion, clothes, jewelry and fashion magazines.

Being around my friends and family.

Traveling.

Reading.

Writing.

Partying like there is no tomorrow, because maybe there isn't.

Taxis.

New York.

Grooming and beauty products. Only girls can understand the pleasure of products, the brilliance of Sephora, the divinity that is a fabulous new moisturizer, mascara or lip gloss.

Laughter and a sarcastic since of humor, to wit: Larry David, Woody Allen, Seinfeld, Arrested Development, Entourage, Frasier, David Sedaris.

I can think of more, but I must go stretch. And I'm off to Chicago tonight in the pursuit of happiness in the form of friends, family, fabulous foods, art and architecture.

Day of Atonement

Yesterday was Yom Kippur, the "Day of Atonement," wherein Jews are supposed to repent for their sins and ask for forgiveness. I tried that last year; it didn't work. In fact, I'm pretty sure it backfired. Last year, I atoned for every single one of my sins, in writing no less, and the next 11 months proceeded to be even crappier. So fuck that.

Yesterday I went apartment hunting with my non-Jewish realtor. All of the sudden he looks at me and says in his adorable, gay, southern voice, "Wait a second, honey, aren't you supposed to be atoning for your sins?"

"I am," I cried. "I am atoning for the fact that I abandoned my dog for the wrong apartment, I'm begging forgiveness for doing so and I'm trying to rectify the situation!!"

What more could God ask for?

Hasta Lavista, Brickell

A big Allo to all my new Australian readers; I would love to visit your part of the world sometime soon.
Yesterday I gave my 30-day's notice to my landlord that I would be vacating the premises by midnight, Oct. 31. I'm coming home to collect Wally and moving to South Beach, where the young, Jewish and stylish roam free. My landlord has not responded to my phone calls, so I've gotten a real estate lawyer involved and consequently, am going to nail his old, decrepit, German ass to the poorly shod walls.

On another note, you simply must read what my "fan" Leandro has written about me. Particularly hilarious are the parts where she advises me to get a makeover so I can go from "pretty to beautiful" and the part where she tells me to get a subscriptiton to NetFlix. I wonder what kind of meds she is on? Freaking priceless. I love it. I am heading to Chicago on Friday and have a busy week of apartment hunting, so I don't know how much I will post. If you have any apartment leads on West Ave or Bay Dr., send them my way...
LeandroToro Juicy Gossip and Fun!
In her defense, I'm pretty sure she's Canadian. And in my defense, drugs are FUN.


Page 623 -- Bonnie Fuller, Stephanie Green, Dishing from Dishalicious
Filed Under: Bonnie Fuller

(source: www.cbc.ca)

PHENOMENALLY FOCUSED AND HARD-WORKING BONNIE FULLER, EDITORIAL DIRECTOR OF AMERICAN MEDIA, INC.

* * * * *



(source: www.dishalicious.blogspot.com)

STEPHANIE GREEN, FORMER RESEARCH ASSISTANT AT AMI, AUTHOR OF A FICTION NOVEL, DISHALICIOUS


Stephanie Green has replied to our posting about her on her website as follows:



Thursday, August 24, 2006

Wow, It's weird being written about by retards

Keep in mind that the book is fiction and I only stumbled upon this link through a function of my site tracker. This is pretty unbelievable dreck, but worth some shits and giggles. BTW, this "writer" takes offense at the fact that I use expletives in my writing. Um, OK, what can I say? I have the manners of a Miss Porter's graduate and the mouth of a sailor.




Our comments on her comments:

* * * * *

We stand by our position:

PROFESSIONALISM

We found Stephanic Green a compelling author based on the excerpt she published from her novel Dishalicious on her site. Wonderful!

Nonetheless, we still maintain that it is (temporary) career suicide for someone with two degrees in journalism to (a) attempt to publish a fictional book about a top editor; (b) publish material which has many four-letter words (perhaps it gives flavor to the story, what do we know); (c) publish what appears to be semi-autobiographical material that describes (mild but regular) illegal drug use by the author.

Is that professional? Is that the way to act to gain respect of peers? All the bloggers may love it, it's part of the "rough and tumble" of blogging (to paraphrase President Clinton talking about politics).

Ms. Green gives the impression she feels she is above glossy gossip tabloids. Nothing wrong with that.

But where is Ms. Green planning to work? If one were, say, seeking a position at Vogue, is this what one would present to Anna Wintour as part of a resume?

We take no offense with Ms. Green's comments -- we enjoyed her writing.

Moving on from that, as Ms. Green put her work (about a fictional life) on her site for viewing -- we are just commenting.

Do we work in the book/magazine/publishing industry? No. We're just guessing that this isn't the way to gain respect in the industry. (But again, what do we know,)

Do we ourselves have "bad manners" in commenting in this way? Perhaps.

Though Ms. Green emphasizes this is a work of fiction, the attraction of her work is that others simultaneously suggest it is thinly-veiled biographical material.

So we feel sad to see such an obviously intelligent and talented person commit (temporary) career suicide. (She's presently studying for a position in real estate.)

SELF-DEFEATING

What's the point of working to get a front-page-story by-line in Star magazine (OK it's all fiction) on a scoop re Brad and Angelina if one then does the above three things?

OUR ADVICE TO STEPHANIE:

Now we attempt to "make-up" for our possible bad manners, by giving possibly unwelcomed advice.

1. You are semi-famous. Look at the magazines and find the name of make-up artists. Throw yourself at the mercy of someone and beg him/her/them to re-do your look. You could go from pretty to beautiful (just as do many "stars" with the correct make-up person).

Then get a few photographers to take many photos of you and put the best ones on your website under "press kit" to provide potential interviewers and writers with access to good photographs of you.


2. Decide whether or not you really want to be famous, and how famous you want to be. You might want to do the following.

(a) Read Deborah Schoeneman's excellent book, "4% Famous." Do you want to get "so" famous your life will be investigated and you will be attacked? Or do you want to stay below the radar at 4% or less?

(b) Join Netflix (can't get a better bargain -- you can end up renting top movies for about $1 each) (and yes, we have its ads on our site). Then rent the movie "Spanglish" with Adam Sandler. Sandler plays a chef who wants to get a rating -- he doesn't want 4 stars -- that's the equivalent of "too famous." He wants, say, 3.4, so he's high, but not too high.

(c) Invest in Bonnie Fuller's "The Joys of Much Too Much" so you can keep going when getting famous is stressful.

(d) Read Paris Hilton interviews. See what how a super-famous individual handles the inevitable insults that come with being famous.

3. Think over your opinion of "super" agents, particularly, the idea that you need such.

The "right" agent could have gotten you a big "advance." What's that? An "advance"? Isn't that a loan against your future royalties? It would be great to get all that money up-front, but then how many years would you have to wait to sell enough books to cover that advance so you can start making more money?

And what about super-agent's percentage? What percentage of that advance and those future royalties would belong to super-agent?

And what percentage of the cover price is yours and what percentage of the cover price goes to the publisher?

4. Self-Publish

Dishalicious (in our opinion) is a great title -- ignore what everyone says -- keep it.

Bonnie Fuller is one of the hottest editors in the country. She's super-mom, super-achiever, super-advisor. She gets into what she's doing and gives it her best. That type of person is rare. People have gotten into game-playing power-struggles with her and left the scene in a rage. Everyone wants to read about Bonnie Fuller.

You have a gold mine in that book!

You are $30,000 in debt. Why? You fought a court case and WON.

You took those (temporary) career suicide risks. Now comes the time to reap the financial benefits, and keep doing so for a long, long time. You could write a second, a third, a fourth novel. Advice on how to succeed at Star magazine, etc., etc., etc.

Self-publish on Amazon. You'll begin making money immediately and keep making money. The percentage taken by Amazon can't come close to super-agent's percentage plua publisher's percentage..

We guess you'll be assigned a self-publishing specialist from www.Amazon.com who will advise you on the best price to choose, etc. and people who wish to read your book can simply go to Amazon.com, pay the price, and download and read it. You likely will not be required to invest any money "up-front" (our guess).

5. Publicize, publicize, publicize.

You've already shown you have a talent for getting publicity.

Supplement that with even more expertise. Look up on the Internet material on how to publicize your book, and keep working at publicizing it. Appear at bookstores. Go to book signings. Never mind if only a few people show up. Keep doing it. We do read from time to time of a best seller that was made by an author who believed in his/her book, that many best sellers have become best-sellers simply because the authors just kept working to publicize them. And your constant self-publicizing may also produce good job offers.

* * * * *

Click here to go to the Dishalicious web site.

* * * * *


(source: www.gawker.com)

BONNIE FULLER SPEAKING AT COLUMBIA'S GRADUATE SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM

The publication of the "fictitious" "tell-all" actually might help Star's sales.

What could be hurting the gossip glossies' sales is that people think it is "all "made-up."

Here is part of what was reported on Gawker.com when Bonnie Fuller spoke at Columbia's Graduate School of Journalism:


[Bonnie Fuller] claimed that her stories are legitimate and multi-sourced, and some of the "scoops" she gets, like the next day's Angelina cover, are obtained by sending out stringers to stalk celebrities, taking copious notes about their activities, and drawing conclusions from there.

For instance, when they reported on Jen and Brad's estrangement ("We were the first!"), it was a "scoop" because they were the only ones to stake out the two of them and write about how they were never together.

So they drew a conclusion from there. Brilliant.

So when the rest of the world was reporting their break-up, Star had already moved on to the Brad and Angelina affair.

...

...Bonnie told us what she does with famous people's assistants and friends and the like when they call and give them a big scoop. She polygraphs them.


Dishalicious' fictionalized portrayal of the fictional gossip glossy describes exactly that.

This can only make Star more believable and buyable (in our opinion)

Publicizing Dishalicious likely could increase interest in and therefore sales of Star magazine.

Click here to read the full Gawker article.

Click here to go the Star magazine website.

* * * * *

Ah ... giving advice... isn't it fun?

* * * * *

P.S. Fact-checking detail: Re Dishalicious' heroine's "hideous working-class Canadian accent" -- there's no such thing as a "working-class Canadian accent."


MY COMMENTS TO HER: (The girl just can't help herself)
OK, Leandro, I just stumbled across this post about me again. A few corrections: 1) I am not $30,000 "in debt" that was merely the cost of my legal counsel. 2.) It is my understanding that people who grow up in Canada of a certain lower income class, are branded with a particularly annoying accent like Ms. Fuller's. 3.) I have ABSOLUTELY no desire to be famous and I am not 'semi-famous.' 4. People who shop exclusively at Bergdorf Goodman, Barneys, Neiman Marcus and on Madison and Fifth Avenues are not the ones in need of makeovers. The ones in need of makeovers are the ones who've never heard of these locales. But thanks for reading. You certainly have some interesting opinions!

Shana Tova, Jewtopia

I've said many times that I'm extremely blessed by amazing friends, family and family friends. Sometimes, these people even become "famous." One such person is Sam Wolfson, one-half of the creative team behind the hilarious, dead-on, mega-hit, off-Broadway play Jewtopia (Jewtopia Play). Sam and I go waaay back; our grandparents were dear friends and our extended families remain close in our hometown of Jacksonville. It was evident from an early age that Sam wasn't going to be your typical Jewish guy, and I mean that in the best possible way. In high school, he had long locks and fronted a rock band while the other kids in our social circle were, like, shopping or joining pseudo-fraternities. Even back then, he just had that stage presence that so many Hollywood types aim for but never achieve. You're either born with it or you aren't, and he had it from the womb. To this day my dad still talks about this skit that he performed at one of his parents' parties. When I moved to LA, he was doing the stand up comedy thing out there, and I caught a few of his shows when I could.

Those of us who all grew up together always knew he would make it, and with Jewtopia, I think it's safe to say he has. But the best part about watching those you know succeed, is seeing how it doesn't change the core of who they are. Sam is still that goofy, self-deprecating, effortlessly funny, nice, Jewish boy that any mother would be proud of.

And, with the publication of Jewtopia the book, (Jewtopia Book), apparently both his mother and that of his writing partner and costar, Bryan Fogel, have much to be proud of. Or perhaps wary of? Sam tells me that they've put their moms' home phone numbers on the back of all the books that Warners printed for people to call if they have any questions. Apparently, the bubbes have been ringing the moms and leaving their grandaughters' phone numbers! But what I want to know is where is the love, er, press? The play is a monster hit, but I had to find out about the book through my mom??? In an era where slutty bloggers, fake addicts and dog memoirs saturate the media, can't us nice Jewish girls read some stories about some nice, Jewish, hometown boys who've made good? Hello?—The Forward, Heeb, Page Six, The Sun, NYT, Bueller? Sam tells me that the book has gotten so little press, that "we've now sunk so low as to go to Barnes and Nobles throughout Manhattan and sold them to people in the bookstore right there at the new release table." So, see the play, buy the book; I promise you won't be disappointed. And oh, yeah, they're cute too boot.





Bryan on left and Sam on right.

Losing It

The pattern seems to be that lately when I travel, I lose a little something. And, I'm not speaking metaphorically here about my dignity, pride or hope or anything lofty like that. I am talking about things, specifically jewelry. Let it be said first, for those who don't know me that I am a major type-A personality and am meticulously organized. Therefore, it is not often that I lose possessions, especially treasured or valuable ones. So it's only recently that this jewelry-losing thing has become a problem. Last September in Bermuda, a small diamond just fell out of a tennis-type bracelet. Fine, easily replaced. Then in January, in Atlanta, I lost that antique gold-and-diamond brooch. Not so fine, as it was antique, from dead Roxy and not replaced so easily. Never found that. OK, so this time in NY, a few strange things happened on the jewelry and accessories front. And if you're one of those superstitious "God is punishing" us types, the series of events is kind of amusing. Or maybe not amusing in the least bit. But you insist on reading, so essentially you asked for it.

And maybe I was lying a little bit when I said I didn't lose any dignity. Let the record reflect the following:

Thursday night, big plans: dinner at Babbo to be followed by girls' night out with my treasured friends I haven't seen in months. Well, dinner was preceded by a glass of wine at Cru, which was preceded by a dose of antibiotics on an empty stomach. Three courses of food and several glasses of wine later, I'm not feeling so hot. And I'm not looking so hot either. In the words of my bro, I looked "white as a sheet."

I manage to text my friends after trying for about 10 minutes: "S7 drunk. Npt making it out." Done. I manage to make it out of the restaurant in a vertical position, but then there is this little step that seems to escape my attention. Down I go. Onto the pavement; on my knees. The bruises are still here. My parents then proceed to guide me, hands-under-my-armpits-style, into the street so we can get a cab.

My dad tries to hail a cab, and the guy won't stop. He actually sticks his head out the window and says, "No drunk lady in cab."

Oh. My. God. Even in my inebriated state, I manage to be embarrassed. Next thing I know I am hugging the toilet. This almost always happens to me when I mix antibiotics and alcohol, and I know those warning labels are there for a reason. I really learned my lesson this time. I swear.

I am fine the next morning, go to the jeweler and Saks, then head to Spice Market for dinner with fam and friends, then see Wicked, then hit the Waldorf for nightcap.

Saturday: Rosh Hoshanna. The Good Jews are in synagogue. Mom and me? We're sleeping in and getting our hair cut in our hotel room while dad is at Emanu-El. Yeah, we're bad. So we finish with the cuts around the same time temple is letting out and we head to Barneys. The Good Jews are now eating lunch. We are getting another kind of sustenance. We are on the first floor of the store, in the Prada handbag nook. After lamenting the ridiculous cost of shoes and handbags and swearing we will not become victims of this punishing trend anymore, natch, we must scope out the dire state of accessories in our nation.

"I saw this one really cute pleated Prada that's not too heavy," I say to mom, pointing out the bag.

She bites, and picks it up. "Yeah, it's cute and not too heavy, but, it's like, $1,300, you know..."

"I know. Soooo ridiculous. Enough is enough. Let's go to clothes; no more handba—"

"OUCH!" Mom exclaims.

"What?"

"A bee just stung me! There is a bee on this bag!!! Look!"

The salesgirls rush over, horrified, as if a homeless person had just walked in and tried to pee on one of the $1,200 pieces of crap. Sure enough, there is a bee sitting on the top of the bag. The salesgirl swoops in and kills it, a look of utter distaste on her face.

Mom and I are giggling at the absurdity of it all. A bee? In Barneys? On a Prada bag? I give mom some Purell and we move on to jewelry.

"Jeez," she says, rubbing her bee sting, "Do you think God is paying us back for not going to services today?" she asks, giggling.

I ponder this for a moment and say, "No, I think if it were God he would have sent a snake or something."

That night, we meet a friend for a drink at the W in Union Square, then have a divine dinner at Gramercy Tavern, then head to my absolute favorite bar in the city, The Four Seasons, for one last drink. After Four Seasons, my family elects to walk back to the hotel, whereas I elect to take a taxi, as I am wearing my new shoes and my bruised knees are aching. I beat my family to the hotel room, and as I am washing my face, my diamond earring catches and down the sink it goes. I open the drain; it's long gone. Probably replacable, as it's from the jeweler, but I probably won't get around to it. Continuing the losing streak into the next day, I am walking to meet the girls I stood up on Thursday for brunch before I head back to Miami, when I glance down for the time.

I look at my Cartier Tank, which had been acting up for a while—losing time, trapping condensation—and notice that it looks a little odd. Oh, why's that? Because it seems that the entire glass cover has just vanished. Poof. It's gone. Miraculously, the damn thing was still ticking.

OK, so if there is a message inherent in all this, then it's one I'm already aware of and trying to work on: enough with the jewelry and the clothes and all that BS. We really weren't so bad this time. But I am eagerly awaiting a couple packages from Barneys and the jeweler.

Hey, Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, isn't until Monday. And trust me I'll be in services for that one...

I promise to post a verbal account of New York tomorrow, in the meantime some photos. It looks as if I'll be breaking the lease and busting Wally out of JVille by November if I have anything to say about it. The plan is to stick it to the landlord, legitimately, natch, head home for the big Florida-Georgia game and parties, and drive back up with Wally in tow. Mommy is coming home!

I'll Take Manhattan

Ahh. Good Ol' New York. I wish I could say it was nice to be back. But four days is never enough in a city you hold so dear.
I won't bore you with the shopping highlights--well, OK, just a few. Tomorrow I will share the amusing stories you've come to know, love and cringe at, of which there are many.

Just the facts for now:
Fabulous little silk Marc Jacobs dress on sale for $235 at Barneys, fits like a dream
Classic pair of black, kidskin, 2 inch Gucci pumps from Saks
Black Cashmere Shrug from Bendel's, which I hadn't been into for 10 years
Mucho jewelry repairs and refurbishments from Norman Landsberg: Priceless
And one en suite haircut by Oscar Blandi stylist Lauren Lavelle. Oscar Blandi and The Blandi Team
No more handbags; mom and I are boycotting the LUDICROUS prices to which these accessories have climbed and are sticking to the classics that litter our closets.

Seriously, it is not okay that a nice handbag now will cost you at least $1,200-$2,000, forgetting about Hermes entirely. Please. And the shoes are just as out of control now too. I am not paying $700 for the masochist Manolo to line his pockets. Enough is enough, ladies. This is why God created outlet malls.

And the meals, oh, Lordy. Babbo is truly divine Babbo Restaurant. You must go there. Beats Il Mulino, hand's down. And Gramercy Tavern, ooh la la Gramercy Tavern. Now I see what all the fuss is about. Truly exquisite, both of them. Not overrated at all, a rarity for a famous NYC restaurant.

Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

OK, this is my last post before I leave for NYC, but I have to say that I actually really like Kelly Cutrone. In a sea of sycophantic flacks, she's always stood out. And she was super-cool to me when I was a total nobody (not that I'm a 'somebody' now) working my first job in L.A. She always hooked me up and was always sans-attitude. So, step off Gawker. Go back to picking on things and people that absolutely nobody outside of a four-block radius in Manhattan cares about. Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

Stream of Spittle

Here's what I'm thinking at the moment, in no particular order of lucidity.
Flying with no liquids. God damned terrorists. Must get Purell cloths.

Shopping. Jewelry. Had a dream that the jeweler was closed for Rosh Hoshanna, quell nightmare. Haircut, finally, Oscar Blandi stylist making hotel call for mom and me. Sweet. Madison and Fifth. Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's.

Iran dude paying visit to the UN for my birthday. Our hotel, a few blocks from UN.

Must find Wally-friendly apartment or just smuggle him into my pad, to hell with the condo Nazis. Fuck 'em. Let them evict me and I'll invoke the "quiet enjoyment/hellacious-stiletto-wearing-at-all-hours-of-the-night neighbor."

What to pack for NYC--daytime clothes, evening clothes, jewelry, shoes, handbags and no liquids/makeup in the carry-on, therefore mucho grande cosmetic bags.

So many people to see, stores to frequent, so little time.

Fabulous restaurants, Babbo, Gramercy Tavern, Spice Market. Yum.

Cars. I. Hate. Driving. Driving and cars are to Miami what mice are to NYC for me; I hate them, am scared of them and they could very well force me out of this city.

Taxis, yay.

Semi-cool weather.

Friends and family. I'm scared that someone will have to drag me from NYC by my stilettos.

And on that note, I'm glad my credit limit is not high enough for a down payment on a condo, cause otherwise I would have someone swipe the platinum.

And to my NYC peeps--Helfman, I'm talking to you! esp;)--who I haven't made firm plans with yet, give me a buzz, I'll be there Thursday afternoon.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Oh, goody. I've totalled my car. I pulled in too close to the curb thingy this a.m., and when trying to leave for lunch, I heard this awful scraping, tearing, screeching sound. Lo and behold, my bumper had been wrenched off it's cheap German attachments and was now on the ground of the parking lot. Yummy. The curb had a rusty old nail in it that ripped the entire front bumper off. Now I've got to go get a rental and this couldn't have come at a better time, the week of my birthday and three days before I leave for New York. Who loves me?

happy birthday to ME

Dateline--One Year Ago:
Skinny dipping in Bermuda with a bunch of harmless but rowdy Canadians, forcing overwrought and nervous mom to contact Bermudian police to locate my 30 year old ass. (For the record, I was the only non-naked one; I'm a nice Jewish girl, I don't do that.) All was fine and fun; Natalie Holloway I was not. I made it home in one piece, escorted by security at 7 a.m. the next day. I was literally the talk of the town. Awwwwwwwwwww Yeeeah.



Cut to yesterday. Treated myself to a phat Tuleh dress from Neiman's Last Call ($1,650 to $350), punished myself at the gym and then attended a classical symphony and after party with good friends. Bermuda/South Beach? I have to say Bermuda. Though I am loving this dress.

Karma's a Bitch

My bad, it turns out that my beloved shrink had recently had hip replacement surgery and is now suffering from nerve damage. Jeez. It's pretty fucking bad when the doctor is in worse shape than you.

The Shrink is On the Mend

I feel a little bad about Tuesday's post, because as it turns out, the shrink had a hip replacement surgery recently and has literally been immobilized as a result of some nerve damage caused by post-surgical trauma. Oy, Dr. L., I feel for you. She sounds okay, but had to shutter her practice for many months, doing only phone sessions, so in the end, my case is not so unusual after all! It was good to talk to her again, get some fires lit under my ass, and I will def. be speaking to her more regularly now.

On a completely unrelated tangent, can someone please explain to me who Genevieve Jones is with regards to legacy/breeding? Is she related to Quincy Jones or some other African American star? And if not, why is she all of the sudden the token African-American society princess? Who is her family? Anyone? Bueller?

Shalosh Degrees of Separation

So my blog buddy Not Chosen, Just Posin' reviewed my real family friend's new book today on his blog. Jewtopia was first a play and is now a book. I haven't read the book yet, but the play will provide you with some giggles. Another Jacksonville boy makes good. Jewtopia.com

The Shrink Is In

I have been in therapy, off and on, for about ten years now. My personal philosophy is that everyone should be in therapy at some point in their lives in order to get to know themselves better and to facilitate a deeper understanding of the subconscious. It may not be for everyone, but it certainly can't hurt, right?

The key to successful therapy is finding someone you trust, relate to, respect and can confide in. I've chewed up and spit out many a PhD. The one who has stood the test of time, however, is Dr. L. After college, I lived in Los Angeles, and was referred to Dr. L. by a friend. Dr. L. practices in Beverly Hills, is smart, insightful and reminded me instantly of of the archetypal Jewish mother that I'd grown up around. It was a perfect therapeutic fit from the beginning; I was the slightly fucked-up-but-not-hopeless-Jewish daughter she never had, she was my second, nonjudgemental, Jewish mother on the West Coast. I grew extremely close to her, and she helped me through some major life events: my first real boyfriend, my first earthquake, my first job, my decision to move to New York and go to graduate school.

So when I left L.A. for New York, the thought of abandoning therapy with Dr. L. was just not an option. And seeing how she was used to the whole celebrity client thing, being jetted out to Vegas on private planes for a single session, the notion of phone therapy was not unusual. And so it went that I came to be strictly a "phone therapy" person for the past seven years. Jeez. Seven years. Our frequency of sessions varies with time and circumstance, but over the past seven years, from New York to Florida, Dr. L. and I have remained in steady contact. She knows my family, she knows my friends, my fears, my dreams, she knows Wally. There is very little she doesn't know.

But I digress. Our relationship has always been slightly unorthodox, a little more friendly than doctor-patient. In between sessions, it's not unusual for her to call my cell to check in. Or e-mail. Or, if she hasn't heard from me in a while, it's not surprising when she calls my parents to make sure everything is okay. And, over the years, as her hourly rate has increased with inflation, the cost of gas and the sticker prices of Beverly Hills Bentleys, she grandfathered me in at her 2000 rate, a substantial discount.

Since I moved to Miami, however, I've been negligent in keeping in touch, mainly because I'm working now and am just too damn tired at the end of my day to delve into the inner workings of my rotten brain. But also because therapy is only so helpful; it's effective for a couple of hours, maybe a couple of days, but then it kind of wears off, and you're just stuck with yourself again. Wherever you go, there you are.

Usually I'd call to check in every couple of weeks, but these past couple of months, I'd been a ghost. First, she called my parents and left a message for them at home, inquiring about me and my brother. I heard the message, then e-mailed her to say "I'm fine," and that I'd be in touch. Kept putting her on my to-do list, along with the dry-cleaning, returning phone calls, getting car checked out, etc. But before I crossed her off my list, she called to check in. Left me a message about Sept. 11 and my birthday coming up. Finally, we spoke last night and scheduled a session for this week, but she wasn't letting me off the hook that easy.

"I think, Stephanie, the time has come for me to start charging your parents, or perhaps you, if you are now paying, the full hourly rate."

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, eh?

"Oh, sure, of course."

I've never been one to haggle; the Bergdorf's shoe sale and Woodbury Commons are the only discounts I like receiving. So I took it in stride, for I think we should pay the normal rate; I'm not that fucked-up, and given the infrequency of our sessions, there's no real reason for her to give me a discount. But still, after all these years, I can't help but wonder the subconscious motivations behind this step, because, after all, therapists are people too. And they are not above being human. That's what makes them good.


The pic is unrelated, but I'm digging it, snapped by a photog at an IDF event Saturday night in Aventura. Go Israel.

Remembering Sept. 11

It sneaks up on us each year, but it's here again: September 11th. And as all these people are on TV and the radio sharing their experiences of that day, I can't help but reflect and remember. It's our generation's JFK-shooting--we will all remember where we were when we heard the news. It's the event that when I think about still makes my heart race and brings tears to my eyes, even five years later. I don't know if this is true of all Americans, or just for New Yorkers or only for people who witnessed it or knew people whose lives were lost.

Anyway, here's my Sept. 11th story, which I will never forget, and I know I've written about longhand somewhere, but god knows where that notebook went. And not that my story is special, it's not, but it's a valid memory, because, if nothing else, it's history.

I had been in the city for about a year, but I'd been visiting New York yearly since about the age of 10, and was always a New Yorker at heart; was living in midtown; attending NYU grad school in journalism in the Village; dating an Israeli who lived in Haifa; had returned from visiting him in Israel about a month and a half prior to the attacks. In general, life was pretty good. I was "in love," had a big apt., was with Wally, was going to NYU, which I'd always dreamed of, and was living in the place that I loved better than anywhere in the world.

My mom and two of her girlfriends were staying with me for their annual "girl's shopping trip." I had my only early class that morning, and, ironically, it was a "journalism ethics" class, taught by 'renowned' ethicist Todd Gitlin. Everyone talks about the weather that day and it seems silly, but it's true that on days like that, you remember every detail, salient or not. So as I left my apt. a little before 9 a.m., I remember looking up at the sky and thinking what a nice day it was, no clouds, no awful August humidity. I hopped in a cab, just as I noticed that Second Ave. was rife with fire trucks and ambulances. No big deal, a common sight. As we proceeded downtown, the ambulances and fire trucks grew in number, and the cabbie and I began to wonder, so we turned on the radio.

At that point, the world was still in shock, and was talking about the 'commuter plane' that had most likely hit the Trade Center. Details were still sketchy at that point, but we proceeded downtown, both of us, similar to the entire city and nation, in a state of shock. By the time we reached the Village, the second plane had hit, and we were just confused, I mean, terrorism just didn't happen in our country, what were any of us supposed to think until we saw? Until we saw. Because while most people saw it on TV, for me it didn't sink in until I got out of the cab near Washington Square Park and saw both towers aflame. Then, and only then, it sunk in. From that point on, I was plunged into that same surreal, dreamlike, post-traumatic haze that most New Yorkers found themselves in for several days, if not weeks or months. I walked to the corner where clusters of people just stood staring up at the towers. Some were openly crying or looked horrified; most just stood there staring, mouths agape. It really was like a scene out of an Independence Day -type movie. Everything else stood still. I think I must have tried to call my mom and the girls, but cells were probably down. I knew I would never make it back uptown, and was in shock, so I moved robotically into the school's building and went into class.

And though it was an "ethics" class, and though many of the students in it lived near Wall Street and hadn't shown up yet, and though we were journalists who should be out literally witnessing history and trying to get the story, our professor kept us in class the whole two hours without TVs, radios, phones, and forced us to debate the 'ethical' elements of jumping to the conclusion that this was indeed a terrorist attack being perpetrated by Arabs/Muslims/Islamic extremists. Perhaps he was in shock to and the mantra, "just carry on normally" was propelling him. I had just returned from Israel, so I remember the shock finally wearing off and my rage beginning to kick in, and getting into a heated argument with an Egyptian student, wherein I blamed this on the Arabs and she defended them saying it could be anyone doing this.

We finally got out of class and emerged from our time-warp bubble, and learned that both towers had gone down. In those two hours, the sky had fallen. No, it couldn't be, I thought. There's just no way, my brain rationalized, those towers? It had looked like two small fires when I'd gone into class, relative to the largesse of those buildings. But sure enough, I walked out to the corner where I'd watched them on fire earlier and the skyline was flat. Gone. Now, New York City was a quiet ghost town except there were hordes of people walking slowly, stoically. Just walking like zombies, standing in line for payphones, eerily calm. No traffic, just on foot. No transportation anywhere, save for emergency vehicles, but I don't remember hearing any sirens, any noise at all save for radios with news. Nobody yelling, no street noise, the most disturbing thing in New York City--a lack of noise. I walked all the way from the Village to my apartment; walked amid a crowd stunned silent for probably the first time in their lives. I tried to call mom repeatedly, but eventually gave up. I lived near the UN, and kept thinking that that would be the terrorists' next target, so I kept popping into shops and asking if anything else had been hit, because the fire trucks never stopped going downtown.

I wondered where my mom and her friends had gone, but knew that they probably hadn't left the house before the news was out, so I wasn't worried. The horrifying thing is that they had been at the store Century 21, which was leveled by the attack, the morning before.

I got home and they weren't there, so then I started to panic, no communication, an empty apartment, with a Wally who just knew something was up. I think I just fell on to the couch and sat there, mesmerized by the footage on TV. It was as if I were in a drug-induced haze, which you really can't describe accurately, but if you've ever witnessed a horrible accident or crime, you can most likely relate to. Mom and friends eventually returned home, having walked over to 57th street to see what it was like outside. Like I said, when in shock, you just go by rote, do what you know. Head into class, teach class, go to work, go shopping.

Eventually, maybe two days later, mom and co. rented a car and drove home to Florida. Damned if they were getting on a plane. Damned if I was, not for a year or so I think. And though I didn't lose anyone that day and wasn't connected to anyone in those buildings, the event itself had such an impact if you were living in New York, whether you were able to admit it or not. For me, it meant that each time I saw a plane outside the window of my new 15th floor apartment heading past the Con Ed towers in Queens, each and every time for a couple years after, my first, instinctual thought was, that plane is going to hit that tower; it meant that I didn't take the subway for a couple of years; it meant that I looked at cab drivers appraisingly and unconsciously eavesdropped on their foreign conversations; it meant that I didn't feel safe in my own apt., my own city, for many, many years. It meant living in fear for a great while, thinking how easy it had been for them to do it once, surely they would strike again.

And still, I'm kind of amazed that nothing else has happened in our country because, really, we're no safer now, are we? Soon, surely, the sky will fall again.

Nothing much new here; just working, trying to sleep and attempting to edit my second manuscript. Tonight I start my career as one of those "junior comittee" members, though not in the stuffy, New York-ish society type of way. Not that there's anything wrong with that. My good friend from college runs the events and fundraising depts over at the New World Symphony, and I've recently been appointed to her executive committee. She throws the grooviest parties in South Beach, so I'm looking forward to being a part of that. (And, natch, supporting the arts.)

Otherwise, just gearing up for New York in two weeks--my hair needs a good cut, I need some quality time with my NYC girlfriends and I need my Bergdorf's fix, stat. It will be the first time visiting the city since moving away, and I'm guessing that it's a whole different experience being a tourist in a place you used to call home. I don't know quite what to expect or what my reaction will be, but I've always been kind of funny about visiting places where I used to live ...

Has Hell Frozen Over?

Because I am a Godmother, lord help this baby. It was my first bris, and though I asked the mohel (the snipper) for the easiest job, he flatly refused and assigned me the task of holding the bottle filled with good ol' Manishewitz and Pedialyte in the baby's mouth while he was snipped.

Breathe in, breathe out, focus on staying vertical. I am terrible with medical stuff and doctors; was sleep deprived; a little hungover; sore; exhausted; and shocked that I'd be responsible for dispensing the meds. But as my friend, who is also a Godmother and had performed the same task, pointed out, it's appropriate that we are giving the kid his first drink. L'Chaim! My mom said I looked like I was having difficulty, um, breathing. Hell, I'd never even been to a bris, let alone bottle-fed a baby, and now I was doing it in front of 30 or so family, friends and strangers. Some serious retail therapy was needed and had after that, let me tell you.

So now, I'm completely spent. The parents, the family friends, and my crazy ass friend were all in town in addition to all the baby stuff. And last night I couldn't sleep at all, so I'm a total zombie...

I'm off to the airport to pick up my crazy ass friends, then it's food, fun and fashion with the fam and family friends. Happy Labor Day to all.

Another Day, Another BS Story

I love how other "writers" just pick up on stories, reword some things and then craft little more than the original story. It seems this has been done a lot with the Page Six scoop.

There's this odd little place called Celebrity Cafe, which penned this story. Star magazine editor may star in former employee's tell all book It's actually better than the one in Page Six.

Anywho. My spirits have lifted, as the Lexapro has kicked in (evidenced by very bizarre, vivid, memorable dreams, constant dry mouth, and the fact that I don't want to kill everyone anymore), my family is coming in town tomorrow, which means fabulous shopping, great restaurants and wine and a fun time in general. I'm also playing host to my crazy-ass friend Nicole, she of the Crazy Fun Weekend fame.

But what I am most excited about is the fact that I finally joined the BEST GYM IN THE WORLD, The Sports Club LA. To call Sports Club LA a gym is such a misnomer; it's really a day spa with some gym equipment thrown in. And this one happens to be inside the Four Seasons. Ahhh. And, being a former member of the NY eastside one, I get such an amazing discount: Initiation fee: $113 Monthly dues: $110 Knowing that I'm paying about the same price as those of you sweating it out at those nasty New York Sports Clubs: Priceless.

Haters and Lovers

Haters
Though I give no credence to the haters, for we have all been guilty of it at times, I have one message for them, specifically 'reality check': stop reading. I mean, honestly, if you hate me, why the hell are you wasting your time reading me? Get a life, or get your own blog, or scurry back into your rathole. Enough said. Didn't your mom tell you that bitterness and jealousy cause wrinkles?

Lovers
I thought I'd post some of the comments that my friends and family made in response to this dreck: Stephanie Green's Remnants of a Bonnie Fuller Tell-All / Jossip
Good friends always have your back. If only Page Six accepted comments. Love you guys!:

Fourth time's a charm (by which I mean, your comment boards suck):
Average looking? Damn, you guys must be getting some seriously fine ass to think this girl is only average. And if so, where are you going to be hanging out this Friday? said: Not Chosen on August 22, 2006 10:44 AM

This had to happen so that when you are on Oprah talking about your "fabulous life" as a published author, the audience will have sympathy for all of your struggles.
GOOD KARMA WILL PREVAIL!
said: Stacey on August 22, 2006 3:27 PM

As most educated people know, whether a book is published or not has nothing to do with the quality of the writing. Case in point: Confederacy of Dunces and Memoirs of a Geisha, rejected by nearly 50 publishers before becoming international bestsellers.
said: nancy on August 22, 2006 7:23 PM

This blog is a load of CRAP!!!!!!! Have you met Stephanie Green? She is talented writer. Also she is beautiful, interesting company and is usually dead on with her observations. SHE WILL BE PUBLISHED.(No, I am not her mother...just someone who knows Stephanie and realizes that this blog is a load of CRAP)
said: Lynn on August 22, 2006 10:33 PM

As an observer, I am quite impressed with Ms. Green and her observations. This puts Devil and Bergdorf Blondes to shame. Let us not forget that this is a few years old. If there was never a lawsuit, than I am convinced these critics would be shining Ms. Green's shoes. Well Done Ms. Green..I look forward to Dishalicious 2...
said: F on August 24, 2006 4:44 PM

Anyone who has read Anything Stephanie has written knows that She Will Absolutely be published! You obviously don't know her if you think anything will stop her from achieving her goal. And she actually HAS the talent to get that accomplished! Her Style and looks will make her bookcover Fabulous! Get Ready!
Can't wait Stephanie! Lynn C.
said: Lynn C. on August 29, 2006 9:30 PM

Are you nuts? Have you ever read a decent book in your entire life? Why don't you post a picture of your mug up here and let us comment. Boy, did you miss the mark on this one.
said: Lee Ann on August 30, 2006 12:17 AM

Hunkering Down, In More Ways Than One

Hurricane Update: (OK, tropical storm, but still.) Shiiiiit. I've never been through one despite growing up in Fla. So now I am trapped in my apartment, loaded up on food, water, wine, flashlights, books, books on CD, batteries and 250 pages of my manuscript to edit by candle or flashlight. My condo is shuttered, which is quite good because most people down here do not have hurricane shutters—these things that look like accordians for windows. But the winds are a blowin' and the shutters make this creepy noise. Thank God for Klonopin


I live in Miami, right on the water, and since there is an actual hurricane coming, I have limited time for damage control today. But, before I go out and buy food, water, alcohol, and DVDs, a few things.

Thanks to all the new readers and passersby who have offered encouragement. I truly appreciate it, especially from other writers, and people like "Gary Worth," whom I greatly admire and respect and know will prevail;)

Page Six blindsided me, as is its style, for a few reasons: 1. I left the NY media willingly about a year ago. 2. I won the lawsuit last April. I guess in gossip there is no old news. 3. I did not publish the excerpt of Dishalicious for publicity, rather I published it b/c I am a nice, Jewish girl who wanted to get her nice, Jewish, friends, relatives and family friends off her back and make them stop asking me, "When can I read the book?"

This time of year, perhaps because it's near my birthday, has always been when everything always hits the fan. It was around this time two years ago that I first made Page Six, Women's Wear Daily, Gawker etc. It was around this time two years ago that fugly Sara Nelson wrote her fiction about me in the biz section of the Post, which later got me sued. And, it was around this time two years ago that I was served by AMI.

For those of you non-NY media types, a few facts: There is nothing a media grunt likes more than delighting in the downfall of his/her peers. If you were chained to a desk for 12 hours a day, doing work that was essentially without merit, wouldn't you be resentful, jealous, wondering whether the grass was greener?

Working like a slave was never for me. I'm a strong personality; I'm spoiled; I'm opinionated; I'm used to getting what I want, when I want it, and not being at the mercy of tactless bosses; and I have morals made of steel, thanks to being raised by parents who are paragons of strength and virtue and sheer coolness. So, I admit it—I never had what it took to claw my way to the top of the magazine heap. 70 hour weeks are not for me. I like doing things at my own pace and believe that life is waaaaaaaaaaay too short to work for other people if you don't like or respect those people. So I said good-bye to all that.

And now? Now, as a non-member of the snarkiest club in the land, I don't give two shits about what Page Six, Gawker, Mediabistro thinks of me. I do what I want when I want. I work from 9-4. I have a fabulous apartment with a balcony on the bay, and I spot dolphins and manatees daily. I have great friends and family nearby. I go to the beach whenever I want. And I write whenever I want. I still have the "fabulous" life—the closet full of designer duds, more Manolos than I can possibly wear, more jewelry than any 30-year-old deserves. So go ahead and hate, for I probably would too, if I were still chained to a desk, working for nasty, marginally talented people with no hopes of earning a sustainable living. But ask yourself this, Conde Nasties, Wenners, Hearsties, in the end, is it worth it? I didn't think so.

I think these are the things in life that matter, that upon your deathbed you shall review and smile about—family, friends, truth, integrity, fond memories of fun, living a life that is true to what you want. Below are the people who matter to me, cause it does come down to people, not print, either black or white or green.

I will always write; I always have. I have been writing stories since the sixth grade. I published letters to the editor in Vogue and Interview when I was 16. I started publishing in national magazines at 19. I've written (a lot) for free. Because it's not about the money or the fame or the book deal or Page Six. It's the fact that writing is like oxygen to me, like cooking for a chef, like painting for an artist; it nourishes me. And whether you like it or not, well, frankly my dears, I just don't give a damn.

Now I'm going to buy food, water, batteries and close the hurricane shutters and bring the furniture inside. Here are some pictures of the calm before the storm. Wish me luck...

Back in the Six Six Six Saddle Again

Shit. I am always the last to know and only realized I'd made Page Six again when I saw the site traffic triple. Oh well. Media Bistro picked up on it too. Ah, the sublime cruelty. Let's take comment bets on whether AMI tries to sue again...Anyone? Bueller? In light of all the new readers, I guess it can't hurt to shamelessly self-promote. My agent: JENNY BENT, TRIDENT MEDIA GROUP

My attorneys: Law Firm of Cowan, DeBaets, Abrahams & Sheppard (David Wolf)

And, I've been Gawked again, first inaccurately, but then they were kind enough to correct it. Thanks, guys.

• Former US WeeklyStar writerresearcher wins right to finally write book no one wants to read. (Sorry, our bad. Still, we feel the heart of the joke was in the right place.) [Page Six]

Gawker

Page Six, Round 2

From Page Six:
HOLLOW VICTORY
By RICHARD JOHNSON with PAULA FROELICH, CHRIS WILSON and BILL HOFFMANN

August 28, 2006 -- FORMER Star magazine scribe Stephanie Green has won her court case to publish a book a la "The Devil Wears Prada" - overturning a confidentiality agreement she signed - but no one's interested. Green spent more than $30,000 winning her case, but no publisher is jumping to sign a deal, much to the relief of Bonnie Fuller and Star editor Joe Dolce - who come off pretty badly in the excerpts of the "fiction" we read on Green's blog, Dishalicious. It could be that, with the exception of "Prada," no one's interested in tales that excoriate former bosses or co-workers.



From Mediabistro:
No Takers For Another Prada Book (Page Six)
Former Star magazine scribe Stephanie Green has won her court case to publish a book a la The Devil Wears Prada — overturning a confidentiality agreement she signed — but no one's interested. Green spent more than $30,000 winning her case, but no publisher is jumping to sign a deal, much to the relief of Bonnie Fuller and Star editor Joe Dolce — who come off pretty badly in the excerpts of the "fiction" on Green's blog, Dishalicious.
mediabistro.com: jobs, classes, community and news for media professionals

More JDate Sociopaths

Um, the blog is getting a little too personal as of late, now that more than just friends and family are reading. And it's kind of creeping me out again. So I will just continue with my pithy observations about human nature in general and mercilessly mock the deserving dimwits. Onto JDate.

This dude had this picture posted—from like high school or his bar mitzvah, riiiiiiight???













And he emailed me, and though I had no interest, I had to ask about the picture. So I wrote:

Subject:
RE: hello

Message:
OK, I have to ask, is that first picture a bar mitzvah or high school pic? It looks awfully old...

And he responded, within a couple of hours THREE SEPARATE TIMES:

The first:
Subject:
RE: RE: hello

Message:
SG19:

Bar Mitzavh to match yuor Bat Mitvah pic...how about you come see me and find out for yourself?

We can start with your tel #.

(This makes no sense, as I clearly look my age in my pics; they are all within the past six months.)

The second:
Subject:
RE: RE: hello - reply #2

Message:
I just purchased a large piece of Wild Salmon. Now I just talekd to a chef and I must go back and get Sesame oil, Wasabi Powder, Garlic, Ginger, Tereaki Suace, Lime/lemmon and honey mustard. If yo9u want you can come over for dinner. Do you like that? What else do you like? I will get it if you say yes.

(Jesus H. What the hell?)

The third:
Subject:
RE: RE: hello - reply #3

Message:
19:

Better yet, as I will prob not be back to the computer -- call me at if you have the daring to do so.
Jonathan
please introduce yourself as SG19 so I know who you are.


And to that last one, because he was just a LITTLE too fucking psycho, I responded:

Subject:
RE: RE: RE: hello

Message:
you have serious issues.

I HONESTLY cannot believe that people meet their mates on this site. These guys are total nutjobs.

It's official: I'm an insomniac again and I'm an auntie. No, catch your breath, not Michael. My BFF has spawned a son. I will post Silver-approved pics of me and the little booger later.

And in case you're wondering, which, obv. you are since you are all still reading my gibberish:

I'm finally running again, albeit slowly and carefully.
I have been discharged from physical therapy, which means I will now have to pay for massages by the masterful Mike.

And finally, I have a couple new, interesting, writerly projects in the works. So, Daryl, if you're reading, hop to it and get me that info. And if anyone has friends/contacts at The Miami Herald, send 'em my way. That paper is in desperate need of fresh voices.

I will be back in NYC Sept. 21-24th to do some liver and wardrobe damage and to see family and friends. And, miraculously, I have secured reservations at Babbo and Gramercy Tavern, neither of which, shockingly, I've ever been to. Girls, check your schedules and check in with me...

Oh, and in the dept. of the narcissicistic: It seems that those bitches over at Jossip Jossiped again just can't get enough of me. Though I don't understand the inchoherent ramblings of this post, I'm honored to be lumped in with Toby Young, whose memoir How to Lose Friends and Alienate People is freaking brilliant, and Jeff Bercovici, who is a sweetheart who penned the WWD Women's Wear Dailystories about me and now works at Radar Radar.

More Minor Musings

I've got a long-distance crush, and though I'm sure nothing will ever come of it, it's worth exploring right? I have the perfect geographic excuse to meet mom in the city that he just happens to reside in, sooo, should I stay or should I go?

The second book I've written, and I use the term book loosely, because it's essentially 400 pages of a very stream-of-consciousness first draft, is a memoir of what happened before and after I worked at Star. Lawyers? Can it be a memoir, or must I claim it as fiction?

My new hair looks FAB. And I can't wait to have my stylist in NY do her magic in September. For those NYers out there looking for a good stylist, go see Lauren at Oscar Blandi. Oscar Blandi
She rocks. Though she's only there on Tuesdays, she will come to your apt. hotel, whatever.

I really miss my NY friends and am anticipating a very emotional visit in September. Though I'm not considering moving back, I do so wish I could be a younger-than-average snowbird.

My BFF Dana, appears to be going into labor as I write this, something about a mucus plug. Blech. I am SO not a baby person, but I suspect I may be doing some time at Mt. Sinai this weekend. Maybe I can cop some Valium from a friendly doc or nurse?

Wow, It's weird being written about by retards

Keep in mind that the book is fiction and I only stumbled upon this link through a function of my site tracker. This is pretty unbelievable dreck, but worth some shits and giggles. BTW, this "writer" takes offense at the fact that I use expletives in my writing. Um, OK, what can I say? I have the manners of a Miss Porter's graduate and the mouth of a sailor.

Some random girl's regurgitated crap
BONNIE FULLER'S THE JOYS OF MUCH TOO MUCH -- INSPIRING IN SO MANY WAYS


* * * * *


Here comes bits of a story about a former research assistant at AMI who has attempted to sell a "tell-all" book about how difficult it is to work for Bonnie Fuller.


But this former employee giave a six-week notice when she left AMI.


How difficult could it be to work there, if you give a six-week notice?


And how bad can it be if they let you give a six-week notice?


In many places, upon giving any notice you immediately might be "out the door."


The author mentions that near the end of her eight-month tenure, she brought information to further substantiate the Jennifer-Brad-Angelina rumours to Bonnie Fuller -- who appeared not to recognize who she was (one of her employees who works as a research assistant).


If the person about whom you are writing a "tell-all" doesn't even recognize you, how much actual first-hand information could you have about this person?


* * * * *


And yet, Stephanie Green did work in some way in the same firm as the great editor, and the book "The Devil Wears Prada" was a big hit, and it would be reasonable to wish to write a similar best-seller,


From the New York Daily News on 5-7-05, "Green, who worked at Star from Nov. 17, 2003, to June 18, 2004, ... earned $40,000 a year, according to court papers....


* * * * *


Wonder how Stephanie would feel if a co-worker wrote a "tell-all" book about her? (Note from author: I would lurve it!)


* * * * *



(source: www.starmagazine.com)



THE SEDUCTIVENESS OF GOSSIP


Of course we would read this supposed "tell-all" book avidly, who wouldn't? Yet we are tempted to say -- another whiny employee "writes" a book about a female boss, this time, our favorite editorial director, hard-working, risk-taking Bonnie Fuller?


We did read "The Devil Wears Prada," but found it slightly annoying. Someone attempted to lend us the book in CD form. We picked a CD at random, and listened for a bit, but it was just too annoying -- worse than the book.


This is like being trapped with that hostile person who is always full of poisonous gossip about other people -- you want to hear the gossip, yet at the same time, you wish they'd just go away, but it can't happen because you're in a situation -- school, work, whatever -- where you are required to "get along."


And yet, it is about Bonnie Fuller -- let's face it, the good gossip part is irresistible.


* * * * *



THE DOUBLE STANDARD ISSUE


Would this book even be written if Bonnie Fuller, acting exactly the same as she acts as a "boss," were a man?


Bonnie Fuller writes about (in other contexts) "The Double Standard and Other Unfortunate Realities" in "The Joys of Much Too Much," and how she deals with it (page 112 on).


* * * * *


Here's how it feels from the boss' point of view:


In her book, Bonnie Fuller compares some gossipers to the creator of a black hole -- someone who sucks all the joy out of a place and brings other people into the "black hole."


It must be difficult trying to get a job done, to meet goals, and have some angry underminer around. It's almost impossible to avoid. If the gossiper is a truly malicious person, and you're the boss with all the boss' pressures, it could be hell.


* * * * *



The background:


The following is from www.jossip.com:

(You've already read this part.)


Here are Dishalicious author Stephanie Green's comments from her web site "www.Dishalicious.blogspot.com":


* * * * *


A "tell-all" is usually a "tell only negative things."


This interesting excerpt is compelling reading, and is actually about how Stephanie Green got one of the scoops (and a cover-story by-line) about Brad and Angelia.


But what's the advantage of obtaining such a cover by-line, if shortly after this you will be shopping a "tell-all" book about a famous, succesful editor who was your boss? How is that byline going to advance (what's left of) your career?


In the original text, Stephanie Green uses so-called four-letter words, and mentions using illegal drugs.


Also, although people nowadays can use four-letter words with impunity, how wise is it to include such in your book? And also, to include information about illegal drug use? Surely that can't be good for one's career?


* * * * *


In addition to other experience, Bonnie Fuller was chosen and trained by famed Cosmopolitan editor Helen Gurley Brown, so she has a solid background. She went on to distinguish herself, took risks to increase circulation.


For all this we admire her (and we love her book "The Joys of Much Too Much").


But now -- after reading Stephanie Green's "roman a clef" or whatever it is, we are in total awe of Bonnie Fuller.


WHAT a tough and high-stress job she has! Working late into the night. Struggling to get gossip.


And the deadlines are weekly, in real time, not monthly, in advance.


For her to take on this job -- what inner strength she must have!


Wow!


* * * * *


* * * * *

JDate Freaks

I am on JDate for the same reason as Friendster; boredom. I haven't actually been on a Jdate in three years, as the last guy was a burn victim crossed with The Swamp Thing and it scarred me for years to come. This is by far the most bizarre email I've received lately and the picture is the kicker.
Date:
08/18/2006 03:58 PM

Subject:
Hi

Message:
Hi, I like your profile and picture

I think we have allot in common.

So what are you doing tonight tomorrow and in the next 50 years?

Would you like to meet for a date?
How about a prefect first date?
I will love to cook for us a romantic dinner with red wine? (I am good cook)


Your future husband...
Ronny
P.S
What make and color was your first car? Do you remember?
Please send me your number and i will call