Shoes, Glorious Shoes

Last night I had a dream that I went back to Israel and packed about 7 pairs of my best shoes. Somehow they got lost along the way and were substituted for someone else's more practical pairs. So I'm in Eilat wandering around the beach and the pool asking (yelling really) if anyone's seen my Manolos or Guccis.

Yes, I am sick, but this dream did not come out of nowhere. I'm moving Thursday, and the past couple of days I've focused on handbags and shoes, which I will take with me in my car. Behold the bags of shoes and handbags littering my floor. And these are just spring shoes and handbags. Can you say problem?

Testosterone Top 5

Again, this stolen from Jen. She doesn't care (I hope) that's how we roll.

Five qualities of a perfect man?
1. Handsome, but not too handsome. Slightly askew or odd, to balance out my extreme oddness.

2. Funny, sarcastic, wry, witty, appreciating Larry David, Arrested Development, Entourage, Woody Allen and Seinfeld.

3. Well-read and enjoys reading.

4. Highly intelligent and well-educated, coupled with extreme ambition.

5. Jewish, from a "good family" and appreciates Jewish women, with all our eccentricities.

Ladies?

Fw:

I am posting this for lack of anything more scintillating. It landed in my inbox thanks to Jen. Feel free to comment with your additions.

YOUR REAL NAME?
Stephanie Diane Green, nee Greenberg, pre-Ellis Island

YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (first 3 letters of real name plus izzle)
Ste-izzle (lame)

YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (fav color and fav animal)
Pink Dog

YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, and current street)
Diane Brickell

YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first
2 letters of your first name, first 3 letters of mom's maiden name)
Grestpav

YOUR SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd favorite color, favorite drink)
Blue Fuze

YOUR IRAQI NAME: (2nd letter of your first name, 3rd letter of your
last name, any letter of your middle name, 2nd letter of your moms
maiden name, 3rd letter of you dads middle name, 1st letter of a
siblings first name, last letter of your moms middle name)
Tedamme (heh)

YOUR WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mothers maiden last name and fathers
middle name)
Paver M.

YOUR GOTH NAME: (black, and the name of one your pet)
Black Wally

PORN STAR NAME (very first pet, very first street name...that
you can remember)
Corky Pickwick

And I have one more to add: FUTURE HUSBAND/WIFE'S NAME (first name of first person you kissed, last name of your most abiding celebrity crush)
Scott Jordan

The Annas, Big and Small

I am totally obsessed with the death of Anna Nicole Smith. Her life in the past year has been its own unscripted E! True Hollywood Story and now this? Sooo bizarre and tragic. And it happened here? That hotel is like 5 minutes from where I worked and I've stayed there before. Anyway, in her last interviews with ET + The Insider (What is with those two shows now anyway; two separate shows with the exact same content? Why don't they just create an hour-long entertainment news show?), Anna seemed even more unbalanced than ever. It's certainly left me wondering what exactly she was on aside from the Valium that the above story says was found in her room. And did you notice the horrible dark circles under her eyes? That coupled with the oddly plumped lips made her look even more unusual than ever in the days leading up to her death. Very very sad indeed, esp. for her little baby. I don't know about you, but I'm eagerly awaiting the press conference at 3 p.m. cause I'm so cool and have nothing better to do, aside from like packing and moving and stuff like that. But that can wait.

And speaking of Annas, the original, the best Anna—Wintour that is,—has, I'm afraid committed a major fashion faux pas. Sometimes she's the most fabulous thing on earth and sometimes, she just misses the mark completely. Today was one of the latter times: Fashionosophy: Fur Catastrophe.

Fashion Week

Please see Fashionosophy: Ode to Vogue.

My latest journalistic endeavor: Juli B February Picks. Now if only I could somehow turn this writing thing back into an actual career . . .

Superbowl wha?

So apparently this big football game was in town and everyone was, like, totally excited and spent all this money and clogged up traffic and then just like that it was over. Yawn. Why do they bother with this silliness every year? I'm glad the Bears didn't win though—ha.

I'm out of this cesspool of a city in a little more than a week. It's honestly the only city I've ever lived in that I didn't love aside from Jacksonville where I grew up, but I don't consider that to be a city. And it certainly wasn't my choice to grow up there. Anywho, I loved Atlanta, where I went to college. I loved Los Angeles where I moved after college. And, it goes without saying, that I love New York, which has always been my home even though I didn't grow up there.

So what to look forward to after the move? Well, I'll be reunited with my beloved Wally, first and foremost. And then we are going on a truly fabulous family vacation to Italy in early spring, to meet up with brother who will be joining us from India.

Believe it or not, we have never been on a European vacation as a family, and I think it's high time. We're doing two nights in Rome, three in Positano and three in Amalfi. I had a say in all the hotels—my first job out of college was as an editor at a travel magazine—so I'm super psyched for all the destinations and the amazing hotels. I love nice hotels, I mean, who doesn't—but I really love nice hotels. I'd gladly give up half my wardrobe to travel in style. Check 'em out: St. Regis Grand Hotel in Rome, Il San Pietro in Positano and Santa Caterina in Amalfi. Sigh. I'm so there already.

I haven't been to Europe since before Sept. 11, so thanks to momsy and popsicle for the vacay and thanks to brother for being his enlightened self and going to India and providing us with an excuse to leave the country. Now that I think about it, I bet I could bring Wally too . . .

Oh, Leandro, you are killing me and my parents too. Too funny.
My latest journalistic endeavor for Juli b has me visiting M-W for words such as "carnelian" and "chalcedony."

Today I actually wrote more pages of my second manuscript, of which there are like 5 different documents/versions. Then I looked at the master document to discover with horror that it's 485 pages long. And I keep adding, when what I need to do is subtract, cut, copy, paste, mold. No, I never suffer from writer's block, merely writer's disorganization. God, I used to be so organized. I need an editor, except wait, that's me and I can't seem to edit my way to the top of this one.

Another Day, Another Sale

On my way out of the gym last night—it's located in the Four Seasons Hotel and Residences, so there are various other businesses in the building—I picked up a brochure for this skin clinic I always pass on the way out to the parking garage.

The brochure reads: "30% off all injectables Thursday February 1." This, of course, includes Botox, for which I am due a touch up. I know, I know, you all think I'm crazy what with the Botox, Restylane etc. I may be crazy, but the Botox has no bearing on that. And the bottom line is I'm due.

30% off? Big discount; this stuff is expensive. Score—skincare sale!

And girls check out my SAG red carpet review on Fashionosophy.

Questions for you guys: Do any of you well-heeled travelers have hotel recs in Positano aside from Le Sirenuse and Il San Pietro?

And, excuse the ignorance from this Jew, but is the Vatican/Sistine Chapel open Easter weekend?

I have been to Rome several times without managing to see the Sistine Chapel (don't ask) and now it seems our visit there will coincide with Easter . . .

eBaying at the Moon

OK, the Marc Jacobs bag is now on eBay.

If it doesn't sell, I'll most likely return it, though we did just book our tix to Italy and how perfect would this bag be for the Amalfi Coast and Capri in the spring? Oh, decisions, decisions.

So excited to go to the Amalfi Coast for the first time and back to Capri and Rome. So much for my hiatus. This blog is like crack to me and I have an addictive personality.

The Last Good-bye

This will be my last post in a while, for myriad reasons, not the least of which is that this blog has become my primary journalistic outlet, which is unhealthy in terms of both finances and career-development. From today on, I will only post on Fashionosophy. I am leaving Miami on Feb. 15th for parts I am too ashamed to reveal. But thankfully I'll be on the Amalfi Coast by early April, so it's all relative.

I haven't thought a lot (or at all really) of what grave, life-changing lessons I would like to leave you with, so as usual I'm just going to shoot from the hip.

This blog started as a way for me to publicize my novel more than a year ago when it was still "out to publishers." And, sure, it garnered some mentions in Page Six, Gawker, etc. But the book remains unpublished, so I suppose a true self-promoter I am not.

What this blog turned into though is a journal of the twists and turns, fears and phobias, ups and downs of my life. Often this blog is a caricature of my life—for if you were to meet me in person, you would behold nothing more than a nice, down-to-earth, (of course impeccably turned out) Jewish girl—often, it's 100% true. Where is the line? I suppose only I know.

It also, I think, turned into a chronicle of one woman's (god, I hate the word 'woman,' I still think of myself as a 'girl') struggle with clinical depression, a serious mental illness. There is a big misconception in this country about clinical depression, in that everyone feels blue once in a while, but when that blue-ness turns into an every day state of being, or even a character trait, it's nothing to laugh at. Instead, it's something to be categorized in the DSM-IV and treated.

I have been clinically depressed since about the age of 17, which at this point, is almost half of my life. In my family, mental illness doesn't just run, it sprints. It wasn't until I was about 20 though and read Prozac Nation, that I was able to put a name to what I had always felt. In that regard, Prozac Nation was the book that most changed my life. Once I realized what was wrong with me, I began therapy coupled with SSRI medication (Prozac, Paxil, Lexapro). I have been "in treatment" for 11 years now. The past 7 years with the same therapist, who practices in Beverly Hills and I speak with on the phone a couple times a month.

Am I cured? Well, obviously not. I think that there is no cure for clinical depression as deep as mine. Depression, my own at least, is usually cyclical. Sure, if my life is going fabulously, I am "happy." If it's in the toilet, I'm suicidal. Literally. But here's the thing about my life—I've had only fleeting moments of happiness amid a steady stream of blackness. And for those of you who are yelling at their computer saying, "Oh, come on, just snap out of it! You have a great life!" I will say this—you could be the luckiest, most privileged, most loved, most successful person in the world, but if you are clinically depressed it matters not. You're still going to hate yourself and have suicidal ideations.

Anyway, if you think you may be clinically depressed and want to learn more about it, I would suggest reading both The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Sure you could go to the National Institute of Mental Health's depression web site, but reading someone's memoirs strikes home a bit more.

In conclusion, on depression, I will say that it's a complicated illness that has affected every aspect of my life—from career to relationships to family to social life.

OK, on a lighter note. Some thoughts and advice I will leave with you.

Never settle for anything less than what you consider the best—in a job, in a partner, an apartment, whatever. Life is too short.

Money and material possessions do not make you happy. Take it from someone who has never wanted for anything and is still unhappy.

Money does make life easier, so I don't think there is anything wrong with striving for more of it, as long as you realize that once you get it, it won't fulfill you completely.

Family is the most important thing in this life. So if you don't have a good relationship with yours, try to do something about it before it's too late. Because in the end, they may be all you are left with. Friends are important too, but it is your family's job to be there for you, remember that. Our parents brought us into this world willingly, and even if they don't agree with the way we live our lives, they created us and upon doing so agreed to love, nurture and support us unconditionally, no matter how hard a job it may be sometimes.

Always buy designer, preferably at a discount. You will thank me ten years from now when you are still wearing the item. But I can't afford designer you say? Then you haven't been reading carefully, darlings, for there is always, Century 21, Neiman Marcus Last Call, Off 5th Saks Fifth Avenue, Blue Fly, Filene's Basement, Loehmann's, etc. The list goes on, so you're out of excuses.

Go to Italy at least once in your life, even if you have to max out your credit cards. And if you're Jewish, go to Israel too.

Have fun at all costs.

Always have a sense of humor even in the most dire of times; you'd be surprised what it can get you through.

Get massages.

Treat yourself and your loved ones to nice things; you can't take it with you.

Go to the beach.

Get a dog.

Get Botox or Restylane or liposuction or whatever you want if it will make you look and feel better; screw what guys say, they don't understand.

Read books. I don't understand people who don't read books. Books are one of life's greatest pleasures. In fact, if I had to choose between giving up books or fashion, it would probably be a toss up. (!)

Enjoy yourself when you can and take pleasure in the little things.

In last night's Grey's Anatomy, Izzie, upon comforting George over the loss of his father said, "Life is short, George. Life is short, and it sucks a lot of the time. And if being with Callie makes you happy, then go be with Callie." Life is short; do what makes you truly happy.

In the inimitable words of Meryl Streep's character in The Devil Wears Prada: That's all.

Marc Jacobs, Going Once, Twice . . .

Wow, I guess you voters are all talk. As of tomorrow, this MJ number is moving over to eBay and I'm taking a blogging sabbatical.

OK girls, what I have here for you today is a lovely, classic Marc Jacobs leather bag in an eggshell color. It originally retailed for $950 and I'm selling it for $375. There is only one, so if you want it, click "buy now" and you will pay through PayPal. The first person to hit the button gets it, no bidding.

It's in mint condition and is new with tags. The lining is suede and there are inside middle and side zippered pockets. The hardware on the bag is a brushed gold-ish, but not so gold that you couldn't wear it with white-gold or silver jewelry. The shoulder strap is adjustable so that you could use it as a shoulder bag or carry it on your forearm. It really is a classic, and if it sells, there are more available in green, pink and navy.



















If this sucker doesn't sell, I'm keeping it myself; it's just that adorable.

For the rest of my non-fashion-oriented audience, I promise to have a rather entertaining and humiliating pseudo-dating story for you tomorrow, as well as an update on what the hell I am doing with my life in the coming months.

Found someone out there a fab Marc Jacobs bag today that I will post for sale tomorrow on this site using paypal. The price will include shipping.

Ok, girls, now that I've conducted my own bit of ghetto-style market research regarding handbags, I'm off to score a bargain and then put it up for sale on this site later today or tomorrow, depending on where the day takes me.

Thanks to LeandroToro for her continued support and coverage (?) of me and my boring yet somehow blogworthy life. I love how she credits the photos of my dogs to them. How cute is that? Wally the rockstar . . .

If you guys haven't watched this yet, you must, but you have to turn the volume up to truly appreciate its humor:

Steve Irwin You Tube video

You girls are weak! Come on, is this what voting will look like when Hillary runs? After all the soul-bearing, gut-wrenching stories I've shared, you can't vote in a simple poll? Vote. NOW. Pretty please, I have shopping to do tomorrow! Maybe posting what I discovered at the outlets this weekend will entice you: Fashionosophy's Frugal Finds.

OK, guys, no more posting by your's truly until you answer yesterday's poll. 18 votes out of 100+ readers Monday? Weak. I need your input!

I am holding fast on my no posting policy until people vote. I need these answers by tomorrow people so I can go shop for you. And guys, per the comment, if this idea works, I would also do ties—Boss, Brioni, etc. So that is your option.

Handbags

I need to conduct some market research for this little business I want to run here, wherein I use my shopping expertise (and access to the best outlet stores) to bring you the most fabulous, new-with-tags designer bags hand selected by moi. So, ladies, or men shopping for ladies, please answer this poll, ASAP. Thanks!

OK guys you are not voting enough. Have some sympathy, I was up all night with what I can only assume is food poisoning. It seems the majority of you are only willing to spend $150-175 on a designer bag, which is a little unrealistic. So let me clarify which types of brands I'm talking about: Prada, Marc Jacobs, Chanel, Fendi, Luella, Gucci, etc. Does that change anything?

How much are you willing to spend on a new-with-tags premier designer handbag on this site?
	$150-$175
	$175-$275
	$275-$375
	$375-$475
	$475-$675
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Family Weekend

Sooooooooooo tired. Friday night, after spending all-day at the Neiman's and Saks outlets—I will post my fabulous finds on Fashionosophy—my parents and I dined with Dana and Jim at Americana at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach, which not only boasted delicious cuisine but an absolutely gorgeous atmosphere. I don't know why nobody goes here or seems to have discovered this gem. It was so empty. We dined outdoors, amid fires, open-aired tables, the Atlantic Ocean, white chaise lounges and a beautiful breeze. It reminded me of the Mandarin Oriental in Bermuda.

Dana, me at the Ritz:



Mom, me at the Ritz:



Mom, dad at the Ritz:



Dad, me at Nobu:



Atmosphere at the Ritz:






Saturday we bounced from lunch at Joe's Stone Crab with one of my dad's oldest friends, who, given his treatment there, it seems is the mayor of Miami Beach. Then mom and I sprinted to Bal Harbour. We only had less than two hours there, and I had the artist at the YSL Beaute counter at Saks do my makeup to save time, cause we had to rush back to my apt to change for dinner on Lincoln Road to meet dad and his friend. I really love the way she did my makeup though:




This week or next, I am going to launch a feature here (for you gals) wherein I scope out one fantastic fashion deal and offer it for sale, so stay tuned for that.

3 a.m. ramblings

Can one of my intelligent, medically inclined readers please explain to me why drinking wine always causes me to wake up in the middle of the night—wide awake. I know it has something to do with the sugar, but I would really like a scientific explanation and to know whether there is any way to combat this, as all I drink is wine. Mel? Seems like you might know something about this, I think you are fond of chemistry?.

Let's see, now that I am up at 3:52 a.m. after having three glasses of wine with dinner at Nobu with the dad and his friends, what to say? Well, Nobu uses too much sodium cause I am bloated and all I had were like 5 teeny-tiny vegetable rolls and a mushroom salad. On the plus side, I got to Shore Club a full 20 minutes before the rest of the party and table of men sent me over a glass of wine and one of them actually had the balls to come over and chat. That never happens to me; I'm telling you I never get approached by guys in bars. Soo anyway, that was nice.

But I missed Grey's, and truth be told, I would rather be watching Grey's than at Nobu.

I still haven't heard back from my landlord about postponing my move and he is showing the apartment today, so I think I will go clean a little before falling back to sleep. The fam is in town this weekend, which means lots of shopping, eating, guilt, tears, making up, drama, "where are you going with your life" speeches and the usual Jewish family histrionics.

Also, now, a plea for help: I need a real J-O-B. So if anyone has media (mag editorial, web, newspaper) contacts in NY or LA, please send them my way.

And I also read a fabulous, couldn't-put-it-down book this week called Twins by Marcy Dermansky; such an impressive debut.

Don't Bring Me Down

OK, so I know the world is not ending, my problems are minuscule and I should really just try to focus on the positive—my wardrobe (kidding), my friends, my family, my dog, my many blessings.

But I am still in a prolonged (perpetual?) state of limbo.

I am contemplating postponing my move for yet another month.

Why? Well, I am supposed to be out of here Jan. 31st and I have yet even to start calling movers. My landlord has only shown the apt. twice, so I know the market is soft and I'm hoping he wouldn't mind me staying till mid- or late-February, which will actually give me some time to job-hunt. I think a job-hunt would be more effective from here than from my parents' house in Hicksville.

Also, the thought of moving home to my parents house even for a month fills me with what Schuman refers to as "the pit of dread." Not that they aren't great, but it would do massive damage to my already fragile ego.

Can you imagine the headline on Page Six? 31-Year-Old Failed Writer Forced to Move in with Parents! Book Still Hasn't Sold! Just Take the Entire Bottle of Klonopin Already Miss Dish!

Oy. I would lack some serious motivation were I to move back to the comforts of home. So that's my very rough plan at the moment. Ask for yet another extension on the lease, miraculously find a job I can stomach in a major market, pick up Wally and get my shit together.

On another note, I have now guilted the parents into including me on their family jaunt to foreign lands, but my dad seems to think that Europe is an equitable meeting point between India, where brother is, and the U.S. where we are. Don't quite see the logic there, but don't see the logic in passing up a trip to Europe. So I'm there.

A couple other things:

• Page Six the magazine is running a story/excerpt of Dishalicious in its next issue, which I think runs in February? The editor assures me that they are nicer than the daily version. (I'm holding you to that DM.)

• The Devil, has requested a new group blog, which will contain contributions from me, I Ended Up Here How?, Does Debbie and others TBD. I would also like to nominate Paige, if she's down, cause I know she knows Debbie.

And to end on a humorous note, I received a rather funny e-mail in reference to my posts about sleep-away camp and how I hated it sooo much that I wrote terrible, vitriolic letters home to my parents so they would come to save me. I mean, these letters were awful; in fact it's at sleep-away camp that I developed my potty mouth. I wish mom had saved them; they would have made for great material.

So this guy emails me and says how much he could relate to the whole letter-writing-campaign to the parental units; so much so that he used to write hate letters home and address them to "RESIDENT."

Absolutely priceless.

Golden Globes

I now have a new Hollywood crush: Sacha Baron Cohen. Was his acceptance speech not the funniest thing ever? Plus he's an MOT and British and went to Cambridge. And his fiancee is hot, but a non-Jew who's converting, but still.
Anywho, the fashion was kind of boring this year, no?

Best:
Sienna Miller in Marchesa. Though I'm usually not a fan of her BoHo style, last night she was luminous.




Penelope Cruz in Chanel ; I've always had a huge girl crush on her. She's simply divine.




Cate Blanchett chic in Alexander McQueen. Except the hair was awful.




Reese Witherspoon in Nina Ricci by Olivier Theyskens. Damn, the divorce has done her well; she's toned, glowing and trimmer than ever. Ryan must have really been a burden.



Emily Blunt vintage Herve Leger. Not many people can pull off Leger; Anna would be proud.




Ellen Pompeo in Versace. Love Grey's Anatomy. Love Versace. Love her.





Worst:
Hillary Swank. Ugh. That hairpin looked like it was about to eat her head.




Jennifer Love Hewitt. She looked like a copper factory vomited all over her and then someone brushed her in foil.



Meryl Streep. God love her, she's brilliant, but her outfit made her look twice the size she is. And when you're continually on Mr. Blackwell's Worst Dressed List, couldn't you just make a little effort? Steal something from the Prada set?






Beyonce. Ick. Can you say Scores? Can't she just once class it up a little?

Loving La La Land

Soo, now that my fate here in fugly Miami is all but sealed air-tight, I am thinking either L.A. or NYC. The whole L.A. thing opens up a whole other world of possibilities that NYC doesn't offer. And of course there's Fred Segal. . . .

And I know how New Yorkers love to diss L.A. but I lived there after college, and aside from the traffic (which is equally horrific here, even moreso since the other drivers curse at you in Espanol), there was nothing about L.A. I didn't like. It's beautiful, it's got a vibrant nightlife scene, there's art, music, fab shopping and culture (yes folks, there is culture). And did I mention its beauty? There's nothing like being on the top of a cliff in Malibu on a perfect balmy day.



So at the moment, I'm applying for jobs in both NYC and L.A., though I don't have a firm move date yet. My landlord can't seem to get a renter in this place. Perhaps it's because I take the potentials aside and surreptitiously tell them about my louder-than-elephants-stampeding neighbor?

If anyone has L.A. connections to send my way, please do so via e-mail.

I have to run, but ladies, check out Fashionosophy for my recommendations.

The Scoop on So. Florida "Journalists"

Soooo, I know I've been rather cryptic about my reason for staying in Miami after I quit my dreadful job for my uncle, but now I am finally able to reveal the truth. The second week of December, after I had hired the movers and done everything but pack, a family friend put me in touch with one of the managing editors of the online division of the largest (and only) paper in Miami.

He read my blog, loved it, loved my "voice," and suggested we do a "Sex and the City in Miami" type blog on this paper's web site. Well, hell, what writer doesn't dream of her own column for a huge paper? And this paper, although journalistically unfit to line you cat's litter box with—every day the front page headlines are either sports- or weather-related—has a huge circulation. This was a chance for me to establish this blog as a brand, basically.

Said managing editor gives the impression that this is a fabulous idea, a collaboration made in editorial heaven, and says he will speak to the right people, "get the ball rolling" and get back to me. I postpone my move based on his optimism and promises, for everyone agrees this is too good an opportunity to pass up.

Meanwhile, the holidays are approaching, so I know I won't hear anything definitively till after the new year. But, last we left it, it was, I would say a 90% done deal; semantics were all that had to be worked out. I came back from New York and had yet to hear from him. So I left the requisite "just checking in message." I get an e-mail back from him saying "this may not work due to budgetary constraints." (N.B. Managing editors are typically in charge of budgets, therefore he should have known about so-called budgetary constraints weeks ago.)

I write back saying the money isn't important—I'm willing to work within his budgetary constraints, and that given my knack for garnering national publicity, my blog would surely increase their traffic. No word back. I leave him another polite message on Monday. Finally by yesterday I'd had enough and e-mailed him (again, politely) saying that I needed an answer, because as he well knew, I'd put my moving plans on hold in the hopes of working with him.

So last night I received a nasty email from the festering asshole (Jenn's phrasing) declining my services. Natch, I, in kind, respond that I expect a certain amount of consideration from family friends, especially when I have been patient, persistent and professional. I thanked him for the false hope and the fabulous blogging material. I mean, this guy is like +50 and this is how he conducts business? I suspect initially he made it seem like he had more power than he does and his bosses nixed the idea, and he was too pussified to tell me. So instead he hid behind the veil of "budgetary constraints."

So there it is. Therefore, unless I can pull a rabbit out of a hat and land a gig at the one mag in this city, I'm definitely out of here for good.

Update: Sooo, the "festering asshole" knew about this before he even approached me. I don't know if this makes him more repugnant or less, but perhaps he was looking for a replacement for her...Thanks, anon.

meme

I spent another three hours at the Spa V today. So that makes two people who have seen me naked and fondled me this week, alas they are chicks and they are getting paid for it. Still, can't say I'm not putting myself out there.

I've decided to start my own meme, since I'm doing nothing but pondering my nebulous future, I've been thinking about what else I could've done.

So here's the question: If you could be something else than what you are now in terms of your career, what would the top five or six choices be and why would you be good at these professions?

1. Litigator: I'm pugnacious, fond of debating and arguing, persuasive, passionate and studious. I wanted to be a lawyer until about age 13, just like dad. Then I grew up and realized how boring it would be to wear a suit every day. But I still think I could have made one hell of a trial attorney.

2. Jeweler. For the most obvious reasons; I love jewelry, I have a good eye for it and know a lot about it.

3. Clothing and accessories designer. I used to sketch clothing in high school, but it was all mainly Versace-inspired. This was around the time of his heydey, '92 or '93 and he was producing some brilliant, vibrant, magnificent couture and pret-a-porter.

4. Artist and gallery/shop owner. I love to draw, paint and make crafts. I've sold some in the past, but with me it's one creative side of the brain at a time. I'm either writing or creating art. And since the writing isn't getting me anywhere, maybe I should go back to creating functional art.

5. Manicurist. I've always done my own manis/pedis and I always get compliments, even from Miss Kim at the Delano who does all the celebs. Of course I am kidding about this one, but I am really skilled at this. It all comes from having steady hands I suppose. My own mani was better than Miss Kim's. And guess what the Delano charges for a mani? $60!!!!!!!!!!!!

6. Personal shopper. Somehow, I'm going to make this happen. What with all the free advice I dole out to my friends and family friends, not to mention the mistakes I've saved them from, I should be getting paid for this shit.

OK, I'm tagging Miss Squirrel, Miss Kafka, Mr. Devil and Miss Life Goes On...

Random Celeb Dirt

After viewing Dirt again, it's almost impossible to believe that the show's producers or writers did not have a mole inside American Media. I mean, the reality is just mind-boggling. And the irony of Bonnie's Page Six denial statement? It was given to a now-Page-Six reporter who was a Star intern at the time I worked there. Hmmm.

I spent all day at the Delano spa on assignment. I know, rough life. Massages make me soooo tired though that I am now ready for bed. My mani/pedi lady, a funny, older Vietnamese woman, shared some celeb tidbits with me, as the Delano definitely sees its fair share of celebrities.

She did Paris and Nicky Hilton on Christmas day, and reported that they were "nice and quiet."

She did Queen Latifah (LOVE her), and said that she was on two cell phones the whole entire time she was getting her nails and toes done.

"She was on the phones saying, 'Ooh girl, I'm gettin my nails done, my toenails done, I'm really getting treated like a queen,'" Kim, the manicurist, said.

"How did she not mess up her nails if she was on the phone the whole time?" I asked.

"She messed up her nails twice!" Kim exclaimed. "Finally I told her, 'Queen make me proud and don't mess up the third time.'"

"Hahahahaha." I giggled.

"You're cute, I like your laugh, your funny. Most people I do are boring. Anyway, Queen [she pronounced it Kwen] told the person on the phone, 'the lady doing my nails just told me to make her proud so I got to get off the phone.'"

She also did Matthew McConaughey (YUMMM) and regularly did J. Lo and P. Diddy (BLECH).

I have another "assignment" at Spa V at the Hotel Victor on Thursday. So I am actually working, if you can call this "work." It is but it isn't. I mean I'm reviewing these places, but I'm the one getting worked on. Anywho, nice way to pass the time.

I still have absolutely no idea what the next couple of months hold for me. Absofuckinglutely no idea. This is not a good thing for a type-A, control freak. The bottom line is if I can find a gig down here that I like, I will stay. But given that The Miami Herald and Ocean Drive are really the only two options, it's kind of a long shot. I do have good connections at both places, yet that has never helped me in the past. Beyond help? Probably.

On another completely random note, I watched The Last Kiss with Zach Braff, who is one of my few abiding celeb crushes. A.) Because he's a jew and B.) because I am still kicking myself for not taking the opportunity to meet him before he was famous. I used to date this guy I knew from college who grew up with Zach and is still good friends with him. At the time we were dating, Zach was in the city and it was like the spring/summer before Scrubs was set to debut. R. invited me to his going away party, where, like, the whole cast was, and I said no. Why? No idea. But I have declined so many fabulous events/opportunities that I'm beginning to wonder if I don't have some kind of social anxiety disorder. Or maybe I was just tired. Or maybe I'm just a complete moron with the worst sense of timing ever. Likely, a combo of all of the above. Anyway, I still love Braff, but the movie was quite depressing, though very relatable if you are in your late 20s, early 30s and all your friends (or you yourself) are getting married and having the whole "oh, God, what am I doing moment."

Anyway, where I'm sort of going with this is that I think my family friend Sam Wolfson, of Jewtopia semi-fame, could be the next Zach Braff, if only someone would cast him in the right pilot or movie. He's cuter too. And I'm off to bed.

So I caved and bought the Brookstone seat massager thingy. Best $100 I ever spent, as I am now sitting for countless hours at the computer, writing, editing and job-searching.

I am in as big a state of limbo right now as one can get—I have no idea what the immediate future holds for me in terms of career or living situation. It would be nice and proper if one of the people in whose hands my fate is being held would get back to me, ASAP.

The editing thing is for an excerpt of Dishalicious that a magazine plans to run. However, if my lawyers think this will open me up again to litigation, I probably won't do it. The prospect of being sued again is not a fun one.

Tagged, Too

Wow, I wrote this before I saw this item in Page Six. So I guess I'm not the only one noting the comparisons between Dirt on FX and the Star/National Enqiurer. Let's just say that Courteney Cox has plenty of reasons to seek revenge on Bonnie Fuller. You go, Courteney.

I can't find the damn dog, though I went back to Publix again. I'm going to rescue this dog if it's the last thing I do. In the interim, I will participate in Jen's game of tag, revealing five little-known personal facts about yours truly.

1. This is pretty much widely known by friends and family, but not readers.
I used to be fat and ugly. And if mom tries to comment to the contrary, I won't approve it, cause it's so true.

2. I hated sleepaway camp and was forced to go for six years in a row. Related to the above, all the little, bitchy Japs made fun of me cause I was fat and ugly. I used to write the most vitriolic, curse-filled letters home to mom and dad begging them to let me come home, so miserable did these girls make me.

3. In grade five or six (whenever it was chronologically appropriate) I absolutely insisted on wearing only ESPRIT clothing. And somehow I got away with it. Now, my parents wonder why I'm so spoiled—gee, I wonder.

4. I have been shopping almost exclusively in New York since my junior year of high school. Though that does not mean that I was always a fabulous dresser. I have made some horrible, mortifying fashion faux pas.

5. My mom's mother Roxy, long deceased, she of the legendary fashion and jewelry collection, once offered me money to lose weight. I think we were in a Larry's Subs sandwich shop at the time (I had probably just ordered a yummy, disgusting, artery-clogging, meatball sub) and I believe she offered me $100 a pound. My response was something like, "Why would I do that? Grandpa will just give me the money for doing nothing."

So now, dear readers, perhaps this will offer you insight into my obsession with my own image. Once you're that fat, ugly girl, you always see yourself that way, no matter who is looking back at you back in the mirror now.

The summer after mom practically forced me to go on Weight Watchers and I lost all the baby fat, I went back to camp. The bitchy girls stared at me in disbelief and stopped making fun of me. The boys noticed me for the first time, telling me what "nice eyes" I had while ogling my breasts. I see these same boys and girls out and about in Miami now. And guess what? Many of them are fat, ugly and bald. It doesn't make me feel any better.

Dog Day Night

Update: On my way to engaging in some retail therapy and freelance research at Neiman's, I saw the dog at the gas station. She then pranced over to the CVS. I was going to get her, bring her into CVS and buy her some food. Alas, by the time the damn light changed, she was MIA again. So now, on my way home from Neiman's I bought a box of Milk Bones to keep in the car. I am going to stalk the Publix parking lot tonight. How exciting is my life? Sooooo very.

And Leandro, I have no idea who you are, but God bless ya' for the steady stream of free publicity. You hiring?

I cannot even believe this happened last night, but it is even further proof that people suck, 2007 is not going to be any better than 2006, and my timing is just God-awful.

I take off for Blockbuster to console myself with The Last Kiss. Naturally, they are out of it. On my way out, I see a Boxer-type dog, with no collar, looking lost and with those droopy teats that seem to indicate a recent birth.

As you may know, I am the doggiest dog-person of them all—big, small, smelly, ugly, cute—bring them on. And all dogs love me, they can sense dog-lovers. So I'm not shy about approaching strays. This poor, big, brindle-coated canine looked so sad and lost, I almost started crying, both for what I'd apparently lost (more on this later) and for what/whom she had lost.

"Come here, sweetie," I cooed, and started making kissing noises. She came right up to me, licked my hand and let me rub her ears. She did not appear to be malnourished or dirty. I pet her for a few minutes and looked around for a potential owner. She kept pacing in front of Blockbuster and looking in as if her idiotic (no collar, no leash) owner would emerge any minute.

Blockbuster is right next to the Publix (supermarket) I frequent. There is a cop, whose beat apparently is to sit outside on the bench outside Publix all-day, every day. Usually it's a certain cop who is very nice to me. Not last night though. I didn't know what to do; my cell phone was at home or I would have called the Humane Society, where I am a volunteer. But the cop was sitting right there, so I thought he might actually help.

I made kissing noises for the doggy to follow me and then I called to the cop, who actually sighed and rolled his eyes for having to get his lazy ass up off the bench. Jesus H.

"Sir, this dog doesn't have a collar and looks lost," I say.

The cop starts yelling at the dog and telling it to "SHOO!" I am horrified, I try to get the dog to come back.

"What are you doing?" I screamed at the cop. "Why don't you call animal control? I didn't want you to run him off!"

The dog scurries off into the packed parking lot and nearly gets hit by a car backing out. Then she hightails it out of the parking lot into the black void of the night.

"Why couldn't you have just called animal control?" I yelled at the cop. "She nearly just got run over!"

"Lady," he barks in his barely understandable English, "That's not my job."

"Well, you could have at least tried!"

"It's not my job lady, if you're so worried you take him home with you!" he yells, then returns to the bench.

I am fuming by this point. I would have taken her home but we all know the condo nazis policy on dogs in my bldg. Now this poor dog is probably dead thanks to me and the hapless cop. I walk back over to the cop, staring into the parking lot, sitting complacently on the bench.

"You know karma's going to come back and get you when that dog gets killed by a car cause you ran him off," I hissed.

"You think I give a shit, lady?"

"Well, you should!"

"I'm doing my job, thas' it."

"Yeah, I can see you have a real tough beat, sitting outside Publix all day." I fume and walk away. Today I'm going back and getting his badge # and lodging a complaint. I circled the dark lot a few times looking for the poor dog but could not find her.

And this left me yet again thinking that people are just the worst; even those whose job it is to help, really just suck.

Dirt

Nothing to see here today folks, so move on over to Fashionosophy, girls.

Oh, there is this: If you missed the season premiere of Courteney Cox's new show Dirt on FX, find a way to see it, if you are the type who wants to know what it's really like to work at a fictional tabloid. It's so close to home it's almost a documentary.

And We're Off . . .

Can you even believe it's 2007? Jeez, I'm getting old. So far, though, the year is off to a promising start.

I'm a little superstitious, a little optimistic, a little bit hopeful that 2007 will be better than 2006. I mean, in 2006:

I had my heart shattered, stomped upon and cut up. (Ahem, Asshole.)

My book was summarily rejected by everyone who mattered.

I left NYC; the city I love more than any other in the world.

I was jobless.

Basically, everything but my friends and family sucked ass in 06.

Seven is a lucky number in my family, so let's hope its luck holds true. Anywho, NYC was great as ever, despite the fact that upon my arrival, I walked into my parents' suite at The Regency to find a king bed and a military-style cot. Needless to say, the last time I slept on a bed that small was at camp. I promptly switched our rooms and then we were off to Del Posto, which, despite the mixed things I've heard, I thought was quite yummy. And the decor is flawless. Worth checking out.

After dinner I got to see almost all the girls, and we had a blast doing the usual: sipping cocktails, discussing men (or, in my case, the lack thereof), life in general, careers, our futures and the theory of relativity. (Deb, I have no idea what that spot on your shoulder is and I couldn't get rid of it.)


I got to spend the next two days at Bergdorf's, my happiest place on earth, Barneys and a little bit of Saks, though Saks was a madhouse, so we hightailed it back to the serenity of Bergdorf's. And I got the hair straightened at Momotaro, for half the price and twice the quality of the place in Miami.

Saturday night the family and the fam friends and their kids, also friends of mine, dined at Shun Lee, my fave restaurant in the city, and then had the misfortune of seeing Grey Gardens on Broadway. Ugh. Could've bought another shirt at Bergdorf's for the price of that ticket.

Sunday night we had drinks at the Four Seasons Hotel bar, my fave bar in the city, before our meal at Il Cantinori. That's me below at the Four Seasons, with my new 'do. (Above pics are before straightening; below are after.) I can't tuck the hair behind the ears, wet it, or pull it back until tomorrow afternoon, hence the whole hair in the face thing in the following pics.



Our New Year's Eve meal at Il Cantinori (below, with the folks) was delish, festive and fun.
Our waiter was more wasted than any of us. My ex-neighbors were seated directly behind us (weird) and in the front of the house was Eli Manning, whom everyone was bothering. Apparently he is engaged in some sort of athletic endeavor, of which I know nothing about. But my parents and their friends were quite taken with him. For those of you who care, he was dining with a willowy blonde, not all that cute.


And we ended 2006 back at the bar at the Regency, watching the ball drop on TV like most other Americans. I would've donned the hat, I swear, but you know, the hair.


You guys can view the rest of my photos from the holidays by clicking on my flickr link on the right side of this page. Ok, so the best beginning to 2007? I gave up my seat from LGA to JAX (I was booked on separate ticket from JAX to FLL) to fly first class on a direct flight to FLL. Got me in an hour earlier and with substantially less back pain and more leg room. The bad news? My luggage went to JAX. Delta says they are shipping it to me in Miami, but I'm a little nervous. Luckily, I always pack all my valuables in my carry-on.

I have some funny stories for you all, but they're mainly fashion-related so I'll post them tomorrow over on Fashionosophy. But the best news of 2007? Michael Jordan, my longtime crush, is finally cutting Cookie loose. Okay, so he's been cheating on her for years and may have a notorious gambling problem, but he's still my baby. MJ here I come. I know, I know, he's not Jewish, but he's the one I'd break the rule for.

OK, now for the requisite update and then I'm off to bed. As some of you know, I've quit my job working for a family member and have once again decided to write and edit, as it's my true passion, aside from fashion. I was planning on moving back to NYC, with a brief pit stop in Jax. to get my shit together, at the end of December. Welllllll, as is always the case in my life, fate intervened and I've extended my lease another month. I may have stumbled into an absolutely amazing career opportunity (hello dream job), and should it pan out, this girl's stilettos are staying firmly planted in the sand of South Beach.

Happy and healthy new year to everyone. And to all my family friends and family of friends who are ill—may 2007 bring you much better health and maybe even a couple of miracles.

Older Men, Younger Bitches

So, it holds true even in dogs.

I regret ever teaching mom how to text message, for this is what I received Monday night while walking along Collins Ave. with Schwartz:

"Tessie is no longer a virgin. I think she is now Wally's wife."

Eww.

For those of you non-dog owners, when they, um, make love, somehow in the process of doing it doggie-style, they manage to turn themselves around and get stuck together. It's pretty gross to witness, but as I've had dogs all my life, and as the beloved, dear, departed Betsy was mated with my aunt and uncle's dog, I'd seen this biological phenomenon before.

My parents (don't ask why) have chosen not to spay either Tessie (left) or Stella (right).

Now, Tessie is 1 1/2 years old; Stella is 5. They both go in and out of heat. Wally is 11; that's 77 years old in human years people, which should mean he's hit Viagra time.

But nooo. Apparently, he's still going strong. Tessie (below) is in full-fledged heat.


And Wally has been going after her like Hef to a Bunny. But, here's the thing. Stella (below) too, has been in and out of heat for years now.

But Wally clearly prefers Tessie. Why? My theory? Natch, you know I have one: Even in the animal kingdom, men go after looks and youth. Perhaps it really is a biological imperative. Wally sure seems to prove this theory.

Now, prepare yourselves, for if you are not a dog person, you may not want to observe the below pictures of Wally and Tessie, ahem, caught in the act.

Wally got a little bashful/guilty around mama, while Tessie rather seemed to be enjoying the action.

Nobody Does it Better . . .

Than my NYC girls. I loved having you all in town and partying like rockstars again. You guys rock and I miss and love you! I will see some of you next weekend. Manch, I cropped you out of the group pic cause your eyes were closed:( (But you're here in spirit.)





And I'm not sure quite what to make of this, but I guess it's always good to have a fan.

New York State of Mind

I'm a little curious as to why someone from the ACLU was reading my blog for 35 minutes today. Want to take up my case? Cause my lawyers are extremely brilliant but uber-expensive. Big fan of the ACLU.

Yay, I'm booked at Momotaro for my thermal reconditioning/"Japanese straightening" with Masato. I cannot tell you how excited this makes me. So excited it's pathetic. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Momotaro is the best. $500; $450 if you pay cash. Three-and-a-half to four hours, max. It's in the same building as Jimmy Choo and across the street from Saks, so after you are done and looking fab, you can glide through the stores knowing your hair is as stick-straight as any Shiksa's.

My plans are thus over the next week or so. Tomorrow my NYC girls arrive and Schwartz is here till Tuesday, when she flies back to NYC and I fly back to Jax. Then I am in NYC from Dec. 29th through Jan. 1st. So NYC peeps get in touch if you are around New Year's weekend. I'm doing the low-key family and family-friends thing for New Year's Eve.

I'm also psyched to dine at Del Posto, another Mario Batali venture, but I can assure you there will not be another Babbo-esque escapade this time. Probably won't be posting much in the upcoming days, but I got an awesome new digicam so will try to post some pictures.

Right now I am in PR hell trying to get stories lined up for next month's Juli B column, so I am off.

More JDate Observations

So apparently I made the presses again today without my knowledge, this time via Radar. So not cool. And FYI, the book is NOT on eBay, I am only selling directly on this site. Ahem.

I am actually busy between cleaning house for house guests, preparing for vacay and doing actual journalistic stuff, so I don't know why I'm bothering with this post, but as usual I feel the need to vent.

Some advice for JDating men:

1. Do not, under any circumstance, pose with your car.

2. Do not, unless it is an action shot—surfing, water skiing, boating, whatever—pose topless. If you have a hot bod, we can actually discern that through your clothing.

3. Do not read my profile and then send me bitter, mean e-mails. I have the courage to be myself in my profile, do you?

4. Do not use the "Flirt" option. JDate has these prefabricated e-mail lines that users can choose from instead of taking the time to actually write something personal. This is a bad idea and I rule out anyone who uses the "Flirt" option. I'm a writer; I want to know that you can actually express yourself via the written word.

These are the "Flirt" choices:

We seem to have so much in common, let me know if you agree.

I'm looking for a serious relationship, are you?

I'd like to start-up a conversation, can I write you sometime?

We've already "clicked", so why stop now?

All your imperfections are perfect for me.

I'm intrigued, feel free to email me.

I mean, how hard is it to type an e-mail?

5. Please check your spelling and grammar before hitting "send." I'm not the grammar police, but when you misspell even the most basic of words, frankly I don't think that bodes well for you.

6. Do not lie about your height; seriously, why do you guys do that? We know you're short, you're an MOT. So if you're 5'8 instead of 5'9 or 5'10, dude, just own up to it. I have heard from my boys that most women on Jdate post old pictures of themselves when they were thinner, but I do not. I always post pics within the past few months.

7. If someone doesn't e-mail you back after one shot, do not e-stalk her. You just give all other JDaters a bad name.

8. Keep it brief. I don't want to read an introductory e-mail that is 5 grafs long.

9. Do play Jewish geography; it will instantly put the girl at ease. If you know people in common, chances are you are not a freak.

10. On a totally related note that disproves #9, I've recently discovered that my first promising blind date I was set up on down here is, in fact, in rehab. I found out after we went out that he was a notorious cokehead, and I only found this out after the fact, even though our families have known each other for generations.

Googling JDate

So I have this theory about men and women and dating in this day and age. It goes something like this: I'm of the opinion that smart, uber-successful, attractive, Jewish men in their 30s are not looking for smart, successful, attractive, brassy, opinionated Jewish women (in their 30s, but age is irrelevant here). Meaning, I think most men under 40 are incredibly intimidated by an attractive, well-educated, strong, sophisticated woman who dares to speak her mind. Why get a gal who can string a sentence, let alone a book, together when they can just have a beautiful, not-so-smart babe who will do and say what they want? Translation: The men I'm interested in, the aforementioned smart, successful, attractive, Jewish ones in their 30s, aren't interested in me for the above (and below) reasons.

I'm not docile; I'm not domesticated; I'm not subservient; I'm not going to cook your dinner, run your errands or clean up after you; I'll be your arm candy (because we all know I love to get beautified and baubled), but I won't be silent while doing so.

To wit, I've conducted an experiment using JDate as my conduit. I have always taken myself on and off JDate every few months, because although it's a great time-waster, I have, in the past, not actually gone on many dates with JDaters. I always chicken out due to the serial-killer (or just plain old weirdo) factor, because an experience I had in New York was so traumatic, it put me off the process for a good long while. Plus, not so much down here, but certainly in New York, there is a stigma factor: I always think, would I really be able to stand up at my wedding and thank JDate?

But anywho, I put myself back on last night. Typically, when putting myself back on, I receive close to 40 e-mails within the first day or so. This time I decided to flirt with disaster. I included in my profile a hint that would enable guys to Google the name of this blog and arrive here. And in my profile I stated: You'll get the truest picture of who I really am by reading my blog. And they have read, in droves actually.

However, my point has been proved, because while I'm guesstimating that about 40-50 guys actually Googled "Dishalicious" and read my divine drivel, I've received a mere 18 e-mails. A record low for me. How interesting is that? Just proves my theory correct, and God knows I love being right.

JDaters who've Googled me and arrived here, please feel free to comment.

Sororiety Somnambulations

We've already established that I have very, very bizarre and memorable dreams. Largely a function of medications I am on.

However, I keep having this incredibly disturbing and unanalyzable dream about sororities. I was not in a sorority in college. I know shocker. But despite my many superficial fixations, I've always been a bit of a noncomformist, which, yes, in the Jewish world translates to: not joining a sorority, not becoming a doctor or lawyer, and remaining single well into your thirties.

So this dream. In it, I am invited over to this weekly sorority meeting in which grievances are aired and food is passed around. Perpetually, I am in charge of bringing over the salad, and it's always a wreck. (I don't, nor can I, cook.) Last night, the lettuce was wilted and there were chocolate chips in the salad. WTFuckingFuck? It was also in this huge, bright orange Tupperware bowl that I had apparently stolen from mom's house.

So I get to the meeting and my "sisters" are berating and belittling my "cooking" skills. And I seem to have been quite dressed up in jewels and stilettos and a dress as opposed to one of those T-shirts with the Greek letters on them. But the weirdest part(s)? I keep having the same damn dream with slight variations. Last night's twist was a beaute.

Ashton Kutcher was there. And he was asking me—referring to himself in third person, as if he were in fact not Ashton Kutcher and raather was some other regular college dude—what he thought he and Demi's chances were. I was the expert, cause, you know I worked at Star, and he seemed to know this. I told him I didn't see it lasting more than a few months. So you see, even in my dreams, I am completely wrong.

I know what prompted the dream, but I don't know what it all means to be quite honest. And I always think there are life-lessons to be gleaned from dreams.

1. Friday night at Hanukkah dinner, Dana, Faye, Daryl and I were discussing the fact that I was not a D Phi E at UF.

2. We were also discussing Ali Jablon, from last season's Apprentice, whom I grew up with and who was a cheerleader at UF.

3. I know this girl who went to college with Ashton Kutcher

4. The excerpt that Page Six magazine plans to run of my book, may or may not contain a character loosely based on Ashton.

Still weird though, no?

In other news, I was a bad, bad girl this weekend and made my first in a very long time treck to Neiman Marcus Last Call yesterday. I will post my findings tomorrow on Fashionosophy.

On a completely unrelated note. I am obsessed with Nip/Tuck and am dying to know what song it was that all the characters were lip-synching to at the end of the season finale last Tuesday. Any ideas?