Positano

Damn, it took me forever to load these photos so I hope you appreciate them! We are now off to Amalfi . . . These are all Positano and our lovely hotel Il San Pietro.

Mom and me on the terrace.


Our balcony during the day.

The lobby of Il San Pietro.


Another view from the terrace of the hotel.

Betty the boxer, the hotel owner's dog. What a lovely place to sunbathe, eh?


Our guide/driver, Rino, greeting the Greens, aka the Griswolds at Fumincino Airport.


The view of the back of Il San Pietro at twilight.



Another terrace picture.

Ciao!

So, I am in Positano at the simply mind-boggingly beautiful Il San Pietro. We all agree that this is hands-down, the most perfect hotel we have ever stayed at. Charging camera now and will post pics later.

Mom almost had a heart attack when on our drive from Rome to here, our driver informed us, after the fact, that we had just passed a Prada outlet. Stay tuned.

Hag Sameach, Happy Easter and Ciao! I am off to the lovely land of Italy. Stay tuned for pics and maybe even an adventure or two.

Chicago readers, please email me, I need your assistance.

Suddenly Slim

Ladies, if you listen to one thing I say, hear this: That slim wrap thing actually works. Click here to watch the hilarious video of Ellen doing it. It's like the riddle of the Sphinx, but after I was marked, measured, mummified, mineralized and did 45 mins of very light cardio, the results were staggering.

I lost, in less than two hours, 9.5 inches all over my body and two pounds. And I'm a size 2/4, so they say those are great results for someone small.

Here's what happens. You get weighed, strip down to your skivvies and bra and are measured on 12 different parts of your bod. You tell them what your problem areas are and then they will wrap tighter on those areas to increase the losses there. You are then sprayed with all different kinds of minerals and fat burning stuff, then wrapped head-to-toe in ace bandages soaked in other mineralized substances. You literally look like a mummy and damned if I didn't bring my camera.

Then you're sprayed again with anti cellulite, mineral stuff, bags are placed on your hands and feet to catch the toxin-filled water that comes out of you, and you begin the cardio. The baggies keep having to be emptied, so you can see the water and the toxins coming out of you.

I am the most skeptical of all the skeptics, but when I came out of there and saw my chart, put on my tight jeans and realized they weren't so tight, I was a convert. Today I get my free Botox and tomorrow I'm off to Italy via JFK.

And oh yeah, did I mention I actually have a date tonight with a nice, funny, well-educated, older Jewish man who grew up on the same street as me?

Keep your restaurant guesses coming on yesterday's post; unfortunately I had to kill the story, so this is the only place you'll read about it. Chicago readers: e-mail me (click on the email me link to the right), I'll tell you the name of the restaurant and you can go be my researcher and help me break this story.

I also realized that brother has his laptop Mac with him, and it's all wireless and shit, so I will bring my camera cord and photoblog from Italy just to make you all salivate. Ciao!

In Dreams and Power

Fucking Ambien CR does not work. Don't waste your $120. Now I am awake before 10 a.m. and hating it.

I often have psychic dreams; nothing major, but prescient nonetheless and always relating to my life. Last night I had a dream that is perhaps worth sharing in light of the crazy, muckraking week I've had.

First, my week.

On Monday, I received a tip from a reliable source about shady goings on at a satellite branch of a very famous, very good, legendary NYC eatery. I had to investigate, for I love this restaurant and the allegations are disturbing. (Not in the spit in your soup sense, but troublesome nonetheless.)

I went through the usual PR channels at first, then remembered that a close family friend knew one of the partners. Within minutes of me emailing my friend, who then forwarded my e-mail to the owner of all the restaurants (they are expanding, Spago-style, too much too fast in my opinion), I received a call on my cell.

It was the owner of all the restaurants, "the main partner," as this mogul in his own mind referred to himself. He kept me on the phone, nude, having just gotten out of the shower and trying to race to my new shrink appt., for like 15 minutes, nearly shouting at me in his rapid-fire New-York-power voice. He was alternating between shaking in his boots that a (said with real disdain) blogger could bring down his precious business—if not to its knees then at least it's thighs—and pulling attitude out of his ass trying to intimidate me into not writing the story. The story is not for my little blog, but a massive, widely-read New York one, that has indeed brought down many powerful people and places.

As most of you have gleaned, I'm rarely if ever, intimidated by so-called powerful people. People of power are my natural milieu—nobody's intimidated by what they've always known and been surrounded by. And if this person thinks that intimidation and degradation directed at moi are going to make me want to ease off the story, well, he's going to be eating his own words off the page.

Anyway, I took the high road and assured mini-mogul that I would hold off on the story until I got his side and his team had a chance to investigate the allegations. 20 minutes later, he called me back and informed me that he was flying a manager to the out-of-state location the next morning to investigate.

The saying the power of the pen is not meaningless, not now and not ever.

This is why I became a journalist: to bring the truth to light, in the tradition of the great muckrakers: Jacob Riis, Upton Sinclair. Albeit I'm digging up the dirt in the worlds of fashion, entertainment and dining, it's still a service. People always ask me how I can be so honest on my blog and in my writing. And I always think, what is life without honesty?

Now the dream. I hurt my hand and needed to go to the emergency room of a public hospital. They had me waiting in the disgusting lobby with all the derelicts, and I threw a hissy fit at the cop who was patrolling the room.

Somehow my hissy fit devolved into a threat: "I know Dr. so and so and I know his secret." Dr. So and So was, apparently gay but married. This got the cop's attention and I was ushered in.

Again, having information few people have is a powerful tool. The doctor—who did he look like??
Barak Obama.

All I'm saying is that if Barak comes out, you heard it here first. When I worked at Star, they had "gay" files thicker than the Church of Scientology's (think of their most vocal male stars) on many of Hollywood's most powerful stars, and this is how they wielded power over them; that vault on Dirt? Not so off-base.

So the dream, natch ties into little ol' me having this power of this restaurant mogul, and just chomping at the bit to get his side of the story before I leave Saturday. Mr. mini mogul, if you're reading, call me today cause this story will go to print with the comments you already gave me or it can go to print with more well-thought out, less abrasive and condescending comments. FYI.

Any commenter who guesses which restaurant I'm digging into gets a free copy of my manuscript. But you must include your email in your comment, as I won't confirm or deny the name until the story breaks.

Erin this one is for you

So in keeping with my "blogging for donations theme," Erin is the lovely patron of today's post. I've actually sold two copies of Dishalicious in two days. Um, yay? Erin is a friend of yesterday's patron, and they seem to have a rowdy, fun bunch of girls down in Macon, GA. They have kindly invited me to be the guest of honor at one of their "nooner," drinking fests. Hell, I may just take them up on it one of these days. So thanks girls, for the support and the invite!

In other news my tailbone is feeling a bit better, but I am still going for my deep-tissue massage, and I have a feeling if that doesn't help I won't be able to play on that dreamy, surreal tennis court in Positano. I also have a facial and the slim wrap tomorrow. Big beauty day; let's hope the results are worth it. Friday I go for my Botox touch-up on the crow's feet that will be free thanks to a barter—I'm helping them rewrite their web site.

Bartering is one of the best reasons to be a freelance writer, in case you haven't figured that out already.

I leave Saturday for Italy and am back the following Sunday. Then I'm off again Thursday to cover Miami Fashion Week (hopefully it's not an oxymoron), the FedEx World Polo Cup and a beauty treatment at the new RikRak Beauty Bungalow at the fabulous Sagamore Hotel.

I know, tough life. But the only way to handle living in hicksville with your parents is being able to escape, frequently.

I've received my first donation (for the book) so now I can write. How it came about is funny: I received a random email from a woman who said:

"I just realized I spent a long flight home from Jackson Hole next to a very high-maintenance women who was no other than Bonnie Fuller. I am an avid reader and gossip whore and I found your blog while researching today. I love what is on your site about your book..How can I get it?"

Ask and ye shall receive. Another, hopefully satisfied, reader.
Soo, you all know what a huge Ellen DeGeneres fan I am. Not only do I find her hilarious, intelligent, courageous and generous, but she's an incredible role model and the charity work she has done for her hometown of New Orleans is nothing short of staggering. Natch, you all must also have gleaned what a type-A, control freak I am when it comes to my appearance, beauty regimes, exercise rituals and eating habits.

And of course I wanted to be in stellar shape for my rapidly approaching holiday to Italy. (Think of all the pictures I will have to see for years to come. Sister needs to look her most fabulous.) When the pounds weren't shedding as quickly as I wanted them to, despite 6 days a week of 60-minute cardio sessions, twice weekly tennis lessons and 3-4 days of weight training (not to mention an hour of stretching every single day), I decided to try something rather drastic, a la Ellen.

Before the Oscars, Ellen endured this as a last-ditch effort to shed those unwanted inches. And from her mouth to my ears, what she says is the gospel to me. She said that this actually worked and that the inches actually stayed off! Why is this not the hottest thing out there? Tyra Banks has also admitted to doing it. As Anna Nicole's autopsy proves, those diet drugs will kill ya. So I'm booked for Thursday. And if it really works on me, as it did on Ellen, then I will definitely spread the word far and wide. What else?

In a middle-of-the-night-pee-break haze Sunday, I stumbled into my bathroom, fell into the tub and landed on my tailbone. Swear to god, I was thisclose to cracking my head open. Not only am I the world's biggest klutz, but I somehow managed to basically fall like this: back of calves hit side front of tub, ass falls on top, back bends at odd angle, I topple over backwards and land on tailbone. Crash. It took me a minute to recover and I am still sore. I think my unbelievable flexibility helped me in this situation. The silver lining? Deep tissue massage Thursday.

In other news, hmm, not much. I'm off to Italy Saturday, with a 7-hour-layover at JFK. Soo if any of my fabulous friends with cars want to come say hi, put it in your day books.

I have a blind date this week with an older man. Older men are where it's at for me now.

I had a dream that the maid ruined my La Mer.

My tennis game is improving, though not so much so that dad won't whoop my ass in Positano. My pro sent me home today because the first swivel motion I made caused me to wince in pain in light of the tailbone.

I need good, fiction, paperback recs for my trip, so please comment if you've read anything great lately.

Oh, and a pic of my godson and me, just so you don't accuse me of being inhuman. Us high-maintenance, tough-talking fashionistas have soft sides too.

That's all.

I have been doing some serious muckraking today kids, and it feels gooooood. Give me some Loro Piana gloves and I'll get down in the trenches with the best of them.

Fashionosophy: A Writer's Revenge

I know you all thought I was talking smack when I said I'm not writing anymore unless I receive donations, but I wasn't. Henceforth, this blog will consist only of photos with captions and links. Until someone actually ponies up some dough. Diamonds and Djimon

Buon Giorno Balenciaga

What to pack when you're a princess pressed for space.

Photoblogging

Il San Pietro di Positano—10 day countdown begins.

Hotel exterior:





Sun deck:


Room:


Restaurant:

Amalfi Hotel, Santa Caterina:

Private gardens:



Room:




Exterior view:

Okay Folks

I know I'm going to get a lot of flack for this, but tough shit.

I am henceforth blogging on a per-donation basis. It can be $1 (the cost of a newspaper) $4 (the cost of a magazine), what have you.

My theory is this: Time is money. I'm trying to launch a legitimate freelance career and this blog and its stories take time away from those efforts.

Writers get paid to write just like lawyers get paid to counsel. (On that note, I had a dream that my atty daddy charged $1,850/hour last night. As if. Then I'd definitely have that trust fund.)

Anyway, I'm not just some schmo off the street who started blogging to vent her feelings. For those of you who don't know my history, I have a bachelor's in journalism from the University of Florida and a master's in journalism from NYU. I have written and edited for magazines and the web for more than 11 years.

I started this blog as a way to promote my long-dead novel, and since that is no longer the purpose or the effect of this place, well, then it should have some purpose. I am a goal-oriented person.

And here on blogspot, there is no other way to make money off blogs but by accepting donations.

So please, save the "greedy," "shame on you," "you have a lot of nerve" comments.

If you like to read me, donate a dollar or two. The first donation I receive will get the honor of prompting my first post after this. If you don't like me, then now's the perfect opportunity to stop reading. It's that simple darlings.

The donation button, through PayPal is at the top right of the page.

Now that I've turned in my article for the magazine, I'm off to the beach.

Me and My MJ

I had the most delightful dream last night—hence the early awakening.

For those of you who know me well, you know that since my hormones kicked in around age 13, I have had an inexplicable, abiding, curious crush on the one, the only Michael Jordan. Still do, 14 years later. The perfect specimen of human beauty in my opinion.

If Michaelangelo were alive today, he would cast MJ in marble and tourists the world over would gawk. When I was 13 and above I was obsessed. I remember us going around in Hebrew (or was it Sunday school) one time when our parents were present. The rabbi asked us who our heroes were. Everyone in the circle, without fail, said their parents. (Shameless nice Jewish kids.) I said, "Michael Jordan," then when I noticed the horrified faces around me hastily added, "and my parents."

I had the T-shirts, I had the posters adorning every inch of my wall space, I had the Spike Lee Mars Blackman 6-foot-tall, black-and-white poster plastered to the outside of my door. This was not normal, but I couldn't help myself. I was obsessed with the Bulls, the Flight logo, McDonald's commercials, anything and everything MJ. I bought his cologne and wore it. I bought his book. I stopped short of buying a pair of Air Jordans, but that's about it.

Years later, I came to know people who knew MJ. Our good family friend, whose own family is prominent in the restaurant business, advised MJ on opening his steakhouse in Grand Central. He played golf with him, he talked on the phone with him, he gambled with him, he dined with him. And I berated his wife for not taking a napkin he'd wiped his mouth on, gotten me a souvenir, something. Sick.

I also came to know another insider who told me, upon finding out about my obsession, that MJ ain't such a peach after all. Gambling addictions, adultery, etc. As if I cared. My crush continued. When I found out he and Juanita were divorcing? Happy, happy, joy, joy. I mean the woman looked like a pancake. I've encountered many celebrities in my life and frankly, yawn. He is the one (plus Anna Wintour) in whose presence I might actually be rendered speechless. One night, while I was living in LA and my friends and I were drinking in the bar of the Peninsula Beverly Hills, they decided to have some fun.

I'd just gone to the ladies' room and passed Ben Affleck on the way there. He was the bee's knees at that time. I got back to our table, bragged about my sighting, and they hatched a plan. An hour later, Dana went to the bathroom, came back to our table, harnessed all her acting skills and said, "I just saw Michael Jordan walk outside the hotel!!!"

I was up and out of my seat like the space shuttle upon liftoff. I ran outside, looking this way and that. Asking the valets, "Donde es Michael Jordan? Donde? Donde?!"

"No, no Michael Jordan," they replied, eyeing me like a common crackhead. Then it dawned on me. I marched right back into the bar and was fuming; wouldn't speak to them for the rest of the night.

Anyway, to this day, my crush abides. I worship him; would take up golf for him; would be at his beck and call, day or night. Well, maybe just nights.

So my dream: I was at a star-studded SoBe party when someone introduced me to MJ. He was sitting alone at a table. We started chatting and he was complaining of back pain. Natch I offered my assistance. Then, again natch, as I was massaging his rippled, long and lean back, I started rattling off the best places for him to get a massage in the area. After all, I would know, before I left I was up to about a massage or two a week thanks to my freelancing.

And that's about all I remember. But all I know is I woke up with a smile.

Also, some fashion picks for spring, were my budget unlimited instead of severly restricted: Fashionosophy

Must, Must, Must-have

Okay peeps. I must have this bag. I am now dreaming about it, which in the truly fucked-up language of my family, means it was meant to be mine.

I am now going to do something I have never, ever done before: accept donations.

Just think of all the hours (and through my site meter, I know it has literally been hours for some of you) of entertainment, laughter, sadness, empathy, amusement and diversion I have provided for you. And then pull out your AmEx. The amount is up to you, but this (now bona fide) writer needs to get paid;)

Okay, Art Couture is finally functional, though in a totally ghetto way. I have three stories due this week, myriad doctors appointments, tennis lessons and preparations for Italy, so not much to say really. . .but please check out the new blog and buy if you like what you see.

Mentor Mania/Fateful Encounters

I have always been fortunate enough to have magnificent mentors. My first mentor was my high school yearbook teacher, Jill Johnson, who inspired me to be creative, write what I felt and essentially taught me how to edit a book. Because yearbooks, when you think about it, are just really bad, big magazines in a way.

Miss J., as we called her, was one of those teachers that would've had a movie written about her if we went to an inner-city high school. She inspired all her students, some more than others. But this student never forgot her, and I credit her for not only instilling in me a passion for editing, but also for pursuing magazines as a career.

Anyway, I hadn't seen Miss J in 14 years. And when I went to NYU grad school to get my master's in journalism, I found another mentor in a man I'll call GB, cause he's humble like that. A top editor at the magazine where I just landed a freelance story, GB again always inspired me, nurtured my talent, put me in touch with his editorial contacts and was (is) a great friend, person and editor. He's always believed in my talent, even when the chips were down. I love him as a person and as a teacher and am so thankful that I had him as a professor. I often tell people that he is the only good thing that came out of my stint at NYU. In short, he was worth that $100,000 in tuition. He is that good.

Yesterday, I went out to buy a copy of GB's magazine at B&N so I could see what section I would be writing for. In front of me in line, I heard a voice I had not heard in 14 years, but recognized instantly.

"Miss J?" I said, in a stupor.

She didn't turn around.

"Jill?" I said louder.

This time, she turned around. I looked at her open-mouthed. "Do you remember me?" I asked.

"Stephanie Green! Of course!"

We hugged, chatted, caught up on the last 14 years in 10 minutes. I told her how she continued to inspire me and how I always thought of her as my mentor, but that the really strange thing was that I was there buying the magazine that I was writing for thanks to my current mentor.

Now if that's not fate, I don't know what the hell is. If I had browsed through the new books for one more minute; if I hadn't stopped in the driveway on the way out to talk to dad who was pulling in; if I'd been off by mere seconds, I wouldn't have made contact with good ol' Miss J.

Yet I did. Like I've said before, I don't believe in God, but I believe in the god of fates.

Halleluja!

Today, my friends, has turned out to be the best day I've had all year. What can I say? It's been a rough year. No, I didn't get a surprise in the form of the coveted Tods silver bag.

What I got was invaluable to me—a b-12-like boost of self-esteem, self-confidence and a bit of vindication in the form of a freelance article for a major, awesome, widely read national magazine. I am so grateful for this opportunity and plan to kick some major ass. This will be the first time in like 3 years that I've written for a national publication instead of being written about. Seriously, I'm over the moon, because now I'm officially a freelance magazine writer again.

See? It doesn't take much to make this high-maintenance girl happy.

Juli B Beauty Picks for March.

This was in my gmail spam folder this morning: "RE: Your penis looks too spongy? Make it beautiful with Penis Enlarge Patch."

God, I've heard of shrinkage, but sponginess?

In the inimitable word's of Elaine Benes, "I don't know how you guys walk around with those things."

I'm off to the beach club. It's 80 and clear. Just wanted to make you Northeasterners jealous . . .

My point of view today. Just love those private beaches. . . .

It's not you, it's me

It occurred to me this a.m. as I was woken up before my usual time of 11 a.m., that I have a serious issue with men. Natch, this realization is nothing new; I've been in therapy for 10 years.

But, it dawned on me that I have yet another issue to add to the list, and that is this: I'm one of those people who has no internal radar that picks up on whether or not a person feels the same way about me as I do them. Translation: You know those guys who hit on you, pursue you or stalk you because they genuinely think you like them, when in truth you have no feelings for them? That's me, sans the stalking.

Perhaps it's that my celibacy is at a year-and-a-half and all the dates I've had in-between have been comically tragic. Or perhaps it's my myriad Freudian issues. Or perhaps it's the old saying that you can't expect others to love you if you don't love yourself. Or perhaps it's my looks. Or perhaps it's the fact that I'm just a little too brash and opinionated for any man under the age of 40. Whatever it is, when I thought recently that I had an actual, muli-faceted connection with someone, once again, boy was I mistaken. That's all.

In other news, I've been doing lots of artsy stuff, most of which I would like to sell. So my friend Nicole and I and hopefully my friend Kim who is a bona fide, genius, uber-talented artist, have set up a selling blog.

It's called Art Couture, and there's nothing there yet, but maybe by the end of the week. So keep checking back.

Nostalgia is a Bitch

Nature or nurture?

A happy childhood doesn't necessarily guarantee a happy or carefree adulthood. Where are my yachting excursions, my barbecues, my husband, my house, my tight-knit community of neighbors who bring by baked goods? Well, you get the picture.

I guess when you are living in the home you grew up in, nostalgia is a natural emotional experience. So I began rifling through old photo albums, had some put on a CD and uploaded them to Flickr, which you can access by clicking there or on the link with the photos to the right of this page.

Of course, while at home I'm worrying about the big things—jobs, future, failure, utter patheticism—but also the small things. Like how I simply need this silver bag for spring and my Italy trip. Must have this bag.
So if there are any secret (or not so secret admirers out there), the way to this girl's heart is through her accessories addiction.

Tennis Anyone?

So, the complete moron at Dick's who sold me my "court shoes," well, he's a complete moron. (Do not go to Dick's; their salespeople are about as smart as the ones at Duane Reade.)

My feet were hurting in the days after wearing them. Given my year of knee/hamstring injuries, I'm hyper-aware of the importance of the right sneakers. I went to Dick's to return the shoes with dad, a stellar, lifelong tennis player. As we're trying on shoes, a knowledgeable saleswoman stops by and informs us that the original Mizunos the complete moron sold me were volleyball shoes. In fact, she said, half the shoes in the "court" section were not tennis shoes. She helped us discern the ones for tennis, and I ended up with some Adidas. I'm off to my third lesson now; my first in proper shoes.

And remember that tennis court in Positano at our hotel that I was so psyched about playing on? Well, I finally found a picture of it; check it out:


Are you drooling yet? Cause I sure as hell am. Cannot. Fucking. Wait.

My name is Stephanie Green and I am a cosmetics crackhead. Do they have 12-steps for that?

Depression's Celebs

I want to discuss this: famous people with some form of depression, in light of Rosie's announcement.

So here's a list of brilliant, famous, successful people also afflicted by this horrible, incurable illness. It's no coincidence that many of history's greatest creative minds were depressives because if you're happy all the time, what the hell do you have to express through your art? View the full list here. Note how many of history's greatest writers and artists were depressives; it's simply staggering. And for those of you who suffer with clinical depression like me, both inspiring and reassuring. We are in good company, my friends.

Menachem Begin

Marlon Brando

Barbara Bush (elder)

Lord Byron

Albert Camus

Truman Capote

Drew Carey

Jim Carrey

Ray Charles

Sir Winston Churchill (!)

Kurt Cobain

Leonard Cohen

Francis Ford Coppola

Sheryl Crow

Ellen DeGeneres (!)

Charles Dickens

Emily Dickenson

Thomas Edison

T.S. Eliot

Ralph Waldo Emerson

William Faulkner

Harrison Ford

Sigmund Freud

Judy Garland

Paul Gauguin

Audrey Hepburn

Anthony Hopkins

Henry James

Billy Joel

Elton John

Franz Kafka

Larry King

Jack London

Herman Mellville

Michaelangelo

Claude Monet

Eugene O'Neill

Dorothy Parker

George Patton

Sylvia Plath

Jackson Pollock

Cole Porter

Ezra Pound

Lou Reed

Anne Rice

Mark Rothko

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Yves Saint Laurent

Brooke Shields

Paul Simon

Princess Diana

Amy Tan

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Dylan Thomas

Leo Tolstoy

Spencer Tracey

Vincent Van Gogh

Kurt Vonnegut

Mike Wallace

Damon Wayans

Tennessee Williams

Tom Wolfe

Ed Wood

Natalie Wood

Virginia Woolf

Emile Zola

Also, my newest story on Juli B—the coolest sneakers ever.

The tres chic Juli B picks for March by moi.

Had my first tennis lesson yesterday and I was shocked at how fun it was. I was fairly good, actually. Once you become a gym rat and live your life on the treadmill/elliptical/stair climber, you forget that excercising can actually be enjoyable. Went out and bought my court shoes today and have another lesson Friday.

Apparently, our hotel in Positano has one of the most beautiful tennis courts in the world, etched into a cliff overlooking the sea, so to be able to hit some balls while I'm there would be nice . . .

And the latest photos of the girls, Tessie Lou (right) and Stella (left). Wally seems to think the camera steals his soul.

Rats

I just e-mailed my (very anti-Botox) friend Jen saying how I am already losing my shit at home in east bumblefuck, but that I'd rather find a job in Miami or somewhere aside from New York because I simply cannot deal with the rodents, rodents and more rodents.

This is what she e-mailed me back; further confirmation that not only are subways truly evil, but also that I don't think I'll be back in Manhattan anytime soon except at the Four Seasons.

"Ha, I thought of you the other day as I was heading home from work—I glanced down the platform where this girl was standing and reading a magazine and this rat ran up to her and sat on her foot! She just looked down and gave her foot a shake, totally unfazed. Now, I'm not afraid of rodents, but I would definitely give a jump and girly scream if a rat took a rest on my foot."

Um, I would have screamed loud enough to call in the NYPD, hyperventilated, then passed out. That girl? The very definition of jaded New Yorker.

The God of Small Things

I don't really believe in one god per se, but I do believe in a higher power, an invisible hand that guides us along the meandering roads that determine our lives.

I place great stock in coincidences and believe that in almost every coincidental event or encounter, meaning can be extracted—whether it's something trivial or something life-changing. Think about those people who overslept and missed their subway that ran directly under the World Trade Center on 9/11. (My brother's good friend was such a person.)

I think coincidences are so important, in fact, that I think there should be a new word for them that conveys their profundity.

One of my main themes of this blog is that life is too short not to do what makes you happy. It's too short to sit in an office for 12 hours a day doing something you are not passionate about. Then again, some people are born without passions, so perhaps they are the correct beings to work office jobs.

Anyway, what to make of these latest coincidences that have unfolded in the past 24 hours?

In part due to my new "no day but today" mindset, the soundtrack of my life here at home has been the Broadway show Rent. I listen to it when I write, when I shower and, religiously, when I stretch. I haven't been keeping up with the meditation thing, but when I'm stretching and listening to Rent, I essentially am meditating. For those of you living under a rock who don't know the basic plot of Rent: Artists on the Lower East Side struggle with love, drugs, poverty, AIDS, corporate America, fitting in and producing meaningful projects by using their own differing creative talents. Some people find the show/movie depressing; I find it truly inspirational. Because essentially, the moral of the story is, "Do what you love. Love what you do. Never give up on your dreams. Life is short."

Yesterday was my dad's father's Yahrtzeit—the anniversary of his death—and in Judaism, we go to synagogue that night to honor our loved ones' lives.

I didn't know my grandfather that well; he died when I was in 7th grade. My memories of him are mainly from the nursing home. Before services, my dad called upstairs to me,

"Steph, come look at this! Hurry!"

I went downstairs and found him in front of the flat-screen, watching with glee a grainy, old video set to music. The little four-year-old boy looked familiar.

"Is that you," I asked, bewildered. My dad is sometimes on the news, but I couldn't imagine why he would be on TV as a child.

Turns out, dad took many of his very old childhood videos and had them digitally remastered.

"Um, was this just a coincidence that you got them back today, on the anniversary of poppy's death?"

"Yeah, isn't that weird?"

Indeed, weird. My dad was jubilant watching himself, his parents, his siblings, his dogs and his childhood friends, many of whom are still his best buddies, some of whom are dead or sick now.

Then we went to services. The sermon, by our very liberal and slightly off-kilter rabbi, turned out to be about doing what you love, following your heart and devoting yourself to what you were put on this earth to do. Again, weird. In Rabbi Matt's case, it's studying the Torah. In my case, it's writing and creating art. I thought this sermon couldn't come at a more opportune time, when my parents think that just because I sit at my computer all-day I am doing nothing. In fact, I am doing what I feel I was put on this earth to do. And if book publishers, magazine editors or whomever disagree—fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. (Except you guys, who obviously keep reading for some reason or another.)

As if that weren't enough . . . I stayed in last night to finish an artistic project I'm working on. At like 11 p.m. I'm scrolling through the 500 channels and what do I find on Encore? Rent, the movie. Some days more than others, you really can feel that invisible hand.

Now, I want to YouTube this video of my dad's but I've never YouTubed and I have the DVD but can't figure out how to do it. Any help would much be appreciated. It's a truly lovely video.

Ha, vindication from the New York Times.

Is Looking Your Age Now Taboo?

Like, duh. Who the hell wants to look their age? (Jen, save your comments!)

Between A Rock and A Prada Place

It's not polite to speak of money, you know. Or so the motto of the wealthy and cultured goes. What that statement really translates to is the following: It's not polite to talk about money with people who have less than you. It's not polite to talk about specific amounts of money. It's not polite to speak of how much money you make, how much something cost or how much money you lost in the market. It is, however, acceptable to discuss with people who have roughly the same amount as money as you people who have much more money than you. For instance, it's acceptable to talk with X, who is in the same bracket as you, how much Y, who is on the Forbes list, paid for his Palm Beach house. In other words, it's fine for millionaires to speak about billionaires, but it's not okay for billionaires or millionaires to talk about those who have substantially less than they do. That would be crass.

I've always divided the wealthy—again, rich is simply not an acceptable word—into a few categories. There are the uber-wealthy; the $500 million+ group. There are the very wealthy; the $100-$500 million group. Then there are the wealthy; $10-100 million. And finally, the well-off set; $10 to a $5 million. I am as usual just expressing my own opinions, which are naturally colored by my own limited, sheltered experiences.

My point with all this is multifaceted. The progeny of the very wealthy typically have trust funds and therefore, even if they do choose to work, don't really have much to worry about.

But many children of merely wealthy or well off people, do not typically have trust funds, and thus, though they may be extremely spoiled, are always dependent on mommy, daddy, husband or wife. As this relates to me, again without speaking of money per say—because that would be impolite—this puts me in a precarious position.

I have always been impossibly spoiled, since I was born, first by my grandparents and later my parents, mainly my mom, because she controlled the money. I never wanted for anything; I had a clothing allowance at age 11; by age 16 I was shopping exclusively in New York and wearing only designer clothes. I was, and still am, crazy. At 31, I have more jewelry and designer clothes and accessories than most 50-yea-olds. And please don't get me wrong, I know this is sick.

Herein lies the problem—yes, I am a spoiled girl, er, woman. Yet I am not independent, precisely because I have always been so spoiled and have never had to be independent. My parents have always paid my rent, even when I worked full-time. In our defense, working full-time in New York does not pay the rent on an Upper East Side apartment.

So now at 31 I am crippled by the fact that I only know the finest things in life and that certainly isn't changing at this late point. Is it reasonable to expect me to go from Bergdorf's to H&M? No, frankly, it's not. Am I proud of what I have turned into? Noooo. The only thing I ever wanted was to be successful and independently wealthy. Yet my family are not Forbeses, meaning Daddy doesn't have the power to call up the CEO of Conde and get me a job. Nor do I have a trust fund to invest my own money in a business. And of course, there is the misconception that just because I am spoiled that I do not want to work or would not be a good worker, which could not be further from the truth. I am passionate about magazines, fashion, travel, accessories, editing and writing. And if I were offered a job at a magazine I respected, I would take it, regardless of salary.

My point with all of this is that when you are raised as I was and you are 31 and you find yourself without a job and without your own money but with a closetful of designer clothes what do you do? You could do what you have always done—the immature thing—move to yet another city, have your parents get you another apartment while you fruitlessly look for a job. Or you could do the mature (yet completely pathetic and humiliating) thing—you could move home, live rent-free, look for jobs, get your shit together, write and save your very generous parents some money. And live a little more guilt free. So I'm sacrificing my pride—I can't believe my life has come to being single, 31 and living at home in a city I loathe—to save my parents $2000 a month.

Another point with all of this is that if you are going to be the kind of parent who spoils your kids to their hearts' content, please make sure that you will be able to do this for the rest of their lives. Give them a trust fund; some independence; a business to run; something. Because if you don't, they will turn out like me: a spoiled, ne'er do well crippled by her privileged, pampered existence.

Portrait of a Life

Sleeping. Eating. Reading. Working out. Playing with the dogs. Catching up on all the movies. Writing not much of anything. Thinking. Going to doctors—cosmetic, of course. Not shopping. Drifting. Wondering how the hell my life came to this. Boredom.

The excitement factor? None. Tennis lessons. Woo-hoo. Preparing for Italy. Reading 3, 4 books a week and watching all the bad TV my brain can handle.

I suppose I'm in a "funk" cause I really don't want to do anything save for sleep, eat, work out, watch TV/movies and read. If there were shopping, I'd want to do that of course, but the closest Neiman's is about 130 miles away.

Watched Babel last night. Ugh. I know this movie carried a powerful message about gun control and illegal immigration, and Rinko Kikuchi's performance was amazing. (I simply can't imagine novice actor Jennifer Hudson being any better than her.)
However, I just couldn't help thinking a couple of things as I writhed in my chair, wanting it to be over already.
1. Why would a Mexican writer reinforce such negative stereotypes about Mexicans? I mean, Gael Garcia Bernal's character was so idiotic that the Mexican storyline made you want to become a Republican and patrol the borders yourself.

2. Cate Blanchett—though I worship her style—gets an Oscar nod for lying prostate and moaning a few times? And, oh yeah, pissing herself?

3. Again, another movie that just makes you wonder about Muslims. Only this time, Moroccans? Why Morocco? That's the one Muslim nation I've actually always wanted to visit. Couldn't they have picked somewhere truly evil like Syria or Lebanon? I mean, I know why—b/c Morocco is not neccessarily a terrorist haven so they wanted to illustrate the point that even though the shooting was not terrorist related the international media automatically assumed this. But still.

4. American tourists are just idiots when they are in a truly foreign land. Why would they be on a tour bus ostensibly in the middle of nowhere? Tell me that. And without one cell phone between the entire group? Please. Now mom and dad understand my penchant for first-class travel.

My brother, on the other hand, is, as I type this literally in the backwaters of India with no means of communication. So as Cate was suffering in the mud hut, I kept thinking, "There's my brother. God forbid he gets hurt. He's miles away from civilization; probably does not have the number of the American Embassy or a first-aid kit, etc. Why on earth do people travel like this?

Anyway, this movie made me really mad. Maybe that's the point, but I'm certainly glad it did not win best picture.

For lighter fare, please see Fashionosophy.

Best- and Worst-Dressed List

Okay, my best/worst dressed Oscar list is now up on Fashionosophy. I know you are all peeing in your pants with anticipation.

Oscar Wrap Up

Okay, somehow my audience has become more international by like 10x over night, so hello to all you Swedes, Germans, Spaniards, Brits, Brazilians, Greeks, Chileans, Chinese, Czechs and Middle Easterners. I'm just curious how this lot found my little site.

Anyway, how utterly boring were the Oscars? Ellen was funny, natch, but oy, what a snooze fest. I couldn't be happier that Little Miss Sunshine won best screenplay and Allen Arkin best supporting actor, plus Forest Whitaker as best actor. But you know how disappointed Eddie Murphy was. Poor guy. Plus I kind of wanted Peter O'Toole to win, just cause he's like Peter O'Toole.

And let's just talk about the divine Helen Mirren for a moment. Sixty-one years old and her boobs are more vertical than mine. And she was wearing Christian Lacroix couture people. Couture, meaning the dress was designed specifically for her by Lacroix himself, hand sewn and embroidered in France and basically made to order for one Lady Helen Mirren. This divine dress probably cost, I'm guessing, around $40,000-$60,000.

For those of you out there not familiar with the correct definition of haute couture, as the term gets misused a lot—the French government actually decides which designers and houses of design can be labeled as haute couture. Lacroix is one of them.

Anyway, the dress is to-die-for. These pics are not the best, but were the only ones I could find right now.





I'll post my choices for best and worst dressed over on Fashionosophy later today.

And I'm outta here . . .

Oh, good lord. Reese, saved the best for last. Absolutely flawless. Love the extensions; love the dress. Love everything. Simply divine.

Wow. Meryl Streep just admitted she was a size 14. Women all over the U.S. are rejoicing and promptly gorging themselves.

This is Exhausting

I'm tired already. And the bigwigs haven't even arrived yet.

God, Cate Blanchett can do no wrong this award season. Again divine in Armani Prive and those stunning earrings. My god, what a year for her.

Loving Gywenth's Zac Posen dress. I think the lips could have been a little more complementary to the color of the dress. I'm never a fan of red lips. And she's reaching that age when the hair needs to be clipped by about 4 inches. She's as much of a fashion icon as Anna Wintour, so she should look flawless.

Okay, where is Reese? My hands are hurting. . .

Oh, Penelope Cruz, my abiding girl crush, clad in my favorite designer of all time (when he was alive) Versace. She can do no wrong by me; well, except for that minor Tom Cruise transgression.

Maggie Gyllenhaal divine in Proenza Schouler. My god, can you believe she was pregnant only four months ago? Jesus.

Oh, oh, oh, Jennifer Hudson, honey, your stylist should be shot. If she wins—and I think the odds are in on her—she's going to be looking back at the footage in ten years and thinking, "What the hell was going through my mind when I was talked into that hideous gold capelet?" The dress would be fab without that thing on top of it. And not a big fan of sideswept hair.

Cameron Diaz is always a mess, but I'm digging the new haircolor.

J. Lo. Ugh. The woman simply has no taste; never will. She is living proof that money can't buy taste. And, though I hate to sound like a Star headline, could she be hiding a baby bump?

Jessica Biel has arguably the hottest bod in Hollywood right now. Digging the simple fuchsia gown, with an uber-stylish belted waist. One cannot make a misstep in Oscar de la Renta, the king of dresses, or Valentino.

Harvey Weinstein's Phallic Mess

You know, as utterly senile as Joan is, at least she's acutally seen all the nominated films, even if she can't remember everyone's names.

I have to admit I haven't seen many of the nominated films, but I adored Little Miss Sunshine and am hoping that wins Best Picture. I think Abigail Breslin just may win too. And I think Forest Whitaker is a cinch, as is Eddie Murphy. Good year for the blacks; always a good year in Hollywood for the Jews. Oh, and the Brits. Helen Mirren is a shoo-in. You regular old gentiles are getting shafted.

Speaking of shafts . . . I think Marchesa will be a red-carpet fave this year, not only because the dresses are gorgeous, but because Georgina Chapman, 1/2 of Marchesa, is dating hideous mogul Harvey Weinstein.

Good Harvey Weinstein gossip? A couple of years ago, he was admitted to New York Hospital for a disgusting growth on his penis. Had a nurse friend who worked there. Ewww. I don't care how powerful you are, I think Marchesa could stand sans-Harvey and Georgina is simply beautiful. What the hell is she thinking?

Men, Glorious Men

Djimon Hounsou has been a favorite (and object of lust of mine) since his riveting turn in Amistad. He is simply virility personified. Sizzling hot. And I'm loving the salt and pepper beard and the sunglasses. Can't wait for that Calvin Klein campaign. He should have been Oscar-nominated for Amistad and won the Golden Globe. If you haven't seen Amistad, see it; it's one of Spielberg's finest works.

Have never been a Leonardo DiCaprio fan, looks-wise, he always was too boyish for me. But finally, he seems to have grown into his own. I'm digging the scruffy facial hair and the beefier physique.

Sacha Baron Cohen. Yum. Yum. Yum. And Kosher.

I'm now flipping b/t E! and TV Guide, and can I just say again what a moron Seacrest is. Hate, hate, hate him. Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that when I was living in L.A. and we were both on the VIP line for the opening of the W hotel in Westwood, he literally pushed me out of the way with nary an "excuse me," despite the fact that I could take him down with one arm.

Switching to TV Guide Channel for Joan and Melissa. Joan cracks me up and Ryan Seacrest is such a pompous moron who never asks, "Who are you wearing?" Four words, Ryan, not that hard.

Live Blogging the Oscar Pre-show

Can someone please shoot Bobbi Thomas and Jay Manuel? These are fashionistas? Jay with his hideous bleach blond hair and Bobbi with her less-than-zero knowledge of fashion?

Getting to Know Me

I'll bet you thought there wasn't much you didn't know about me, but, ha! There is. I'm bored and can't sleep. So here goes. And, oh yeah, I'm going to live-blog from the Oscar pre-show on Fashionosophy, cause I'm. Just That. Lame.

What do I suffer from? Constant insomnia (trouble falling, but not staying asleep—it's 4 a.m. right now), which only began once I moved to NYC and begun having mouse problems, random anxiety, slight OCD when it comes to germs and cleanliness, clinical depression.

What do I want to do before I die? See the world by big, private yacht or big, private jet. Either one will do.

What do I not have, materialistically, that I would like? A fabulous full set of luggage, preferably T. Anthony or Goyard.

What is my greatest fear? Not being successful enough to satisfy myself. Given my impossibly high standards, my greatest fear will likely be realized.

What can I not live without, in terms of objects, on a daily basis? My SSRIs, lip balm, face cream, hand cream, my Filofax, a computer or mobile device with access to email, my cell, a book or two, a pen and note paper, contacts or glasses, Wet Ones or Purell, 64 oz of water, two cups of caffeine, either Diet Snapple or coffee, and my everyday jewelry—watch, earrings, dainty diamond necklaces and a diamond bracelet. This is a comfort-level thing, not a showy thing. I feel naked without my watch and jewelry. My friend Adam once was at my gym with me and said, "Are you wearing all those diamonds to work out?" I said, nonchalantly, "Um yeah, why?" "Are those real diamonds?" "Of course, I said. "So why do you wear them to the gym?" "Why not? I never take them off, not even to sleep; I always work out in them." "You're crazy," he said. "Why? This is my everyday jewelry." "Ha. Everyday jewelry. Your crazy."

Yes, maybe, but again, not being able to live without Purell is most likely crazier than wearing jewelry all the time.

What is my morning routine? Well, given that I have no office job, it's surprisingly basic. I really am not high-maint in that sense. During the day before leaving the house, I shower, brush my hair, let it air dry, brush my eyebrows—ladies, you know what I'm talkin' about—and put on moisturizer. That's really it. Obv. my evening/going out routine is a lot more complicated and time consuming. Luckily, there is nobody to impress right now. And I always do my own nails and toenails and always get compliments on them. I have very steady hands. Always French.

What is my fitness routine? I do about an hour of cardio 5-6 days a week, usually the elliptical. I stretch for 30 minutes each time, twice a day. I do weights/strength training 3-4 times a week. I like to run, but since my tendinitis, I can't do so without causing a flare-up, so I've stopped. And it's so bad for the joints anyway. Now that I am where I am, I'm going to start taking up tennis again. Lying in front of the TV at night I do core Pilates exercises for the abs. Though they don't seem to do much.

What are the most important things to me? My family, my friends, my dogs, my therapist and my life experiences. Also, my intelligence, my resilience and my sense of humor, which has pulled me through many a tough situation. I'm not an optimist, but a sense of humor and the support of my family have gotten me through the toughest situations I've been in.

What don't I have that I wish I did in general? The love of a good man and a job that I enjoyed and could be proud of.

What are my greatest regrets? I know it's unhealthy to have regrets, but I can't help it—I have a lot. Let's start with high school—I passed on an opportunity when the then-editor-in-chief of Mademoiselle, Gabe Doppelt, (who now works at W), invited me to visit the magazine and meet the staff, after I wrote her a heartfelt letter and she wrote me a very heartfelt one back. Then, in chronological order, not going to an Ivy League school or, at the very least, NYU, which my parents wouldn't let me attend, even though I'd gone to NYC every year since I was old enough to walk practically. Then not going to NYC for summer internships. Then going to NYU grad school—perhaps to spite mom and dad for not letting me go there undergrad—to get my master's degree in journalism when really I should have taken a job as the low person on the totem pole at a magazine I liked. See, all my regrets have to do with my career.

What is my greatest aspiration? To be successful—so successful that I am slightly famous. 1% famous. Or famous to the people who matter. You see, I never aspired to marry and have kids. I aspired only to be successful. I do want to get married, but I want success even more and would choose the latter if it was an all-or-nothing decision. I want to leave my legacy on the world not with a child, but with a great body of work.

What has been my biggest disappointment? Not getting my book published, obv. This was such an earth-shattering, gut-wrenching, publicly humiliating disappointment that this is the reason why I cannot bring myself to actively pursue publication when my agent failed so miserably. I cannot put myself through it again.

What has been my biggest achievement in recent years? Kicking the shit out of American Media Inc.'s ass in court; working at a job I loathed just to prove I could be (semi-self) sufficient and as a result coming to the realization that writing and editing is the only thing that truly makes me happy job-wise.

If I was stuck on a deserted island, what would I need? Books, water, lip balm and a dog.

What is my philosophy? Life is short. Do what you want. Be real. Have fun. Be yourself. People either love me or hate me and that is fine by me because I'm always real. If I don't like you, you'll know it and vice versa. Life is too short to hide from who you are. If you're gay, be gay and come out of the closet; if you're an idiot, be an idiot; if you never want to work and just need to travel the world, travel; if you don't want kids, don't have them just because society thinks you should; if you don't want to get married, don't; if you waste 12 hours a day at a job you hate, quit. You could die tomorrow; in the words of my new mantra and RENT, "no day but today."

What have I always known about myself? Since about age 11 or so I have always thought three things with certainty about myself: that I would be famous, that I would die young and that I would never marry. Of course, these things are ludicrous, at the same time, they are all self-fulfilling prophecies. And I still kind of think all three are true.

And finally, the most important question of all, What are your favorite TV shows? This has been a good year for TV and I'm sorry to say, I'll watch just about anything when I'm bored or lazy. But my never-misses are: Curb Your Enthusiasm, Entourage, Extras, Ellen DeGeneres, Grey's Anatomy and Friday Night Lights. If I'm home, I'll watch Gilmore Girls, America's Next Top Model, The Apprentice, Lost, Without A Trace, What Not to Wear, all the Law and Orders and any sort of celebrity oriented reality show. Now that I have DVR, I'm kind of in trouble.

I think I'll try to go to be now; meaning I'll toss and turn and then sleep until 1 p.m. tomorrow.

There are several job openings at Star magazine. Wouldn't it be a kick if I jokingly applied for one of them to see how long it took them to catch on. I'm so bored and in need of a good laugh that I'm almost tempted to do it. But they'd probably sue me again.

On a totally unrelated note, can we just discuss how amazing Ellen Degeneres is? I love, love, love her talk show. I know most of you work and therefore cannot watch it at 4 p.m. every day. But I love her show so much that I plan my workout schedule to coincide with it every day. And let me tell you, she makes the time go by a lot faster. If you've never watched Ellen, watch it. No matter how down you are, it will lift your spirits.

And how fab does she look in this month's W? Ellen rocks.

I am finally almost unpacked and organized. Now I'm just hoping I will find a gig that will require me to repack and relocate ASAP. With Wally in tow natch.

Finally, look at this amazing pic my brother snapped in India. He's there for an indeterminate amount of time and is about to embark on a 10-day meditation retreat wherein he cannot speak or communicate in any way. We are just a little different. But our ideas of paradise are strikingly similar, like the place below.

My Boyfriend's Back

And he's no trouble at all. He's petrified of camera flashes, tall men and people in uniforms. On the plus side, he loves to kiss, cuddle and snuggle—and he's Jewish. So he's a little short and hairy, but I can deal. He thinks I'm the greatest woman on the face of the earth. What more could a girl ask for?


Yesterday I stuck to my "no day but today" philosophy, and it substantially lifted my spirits. I worked, I unpacked, I took care of business, I went to the gym, I figured out DVR for the first time, I applied for a job, I ran errands, I finally finished moving in, I assembled a desk from start to finish, I went to the eye doctor—all things considered, I accomplished a lot in one day. By the end of the night I was exhausted in that good way, pretty relaxed and ready for bed.

Lying in bed, I looked down at my arms and discovered hives. Lots and lots of them. Um, yeah. No idea WTF they are from, but I'm in a heavily wooded area, there are tons of bugs around etc., but I don't recall rubbing up against anything unusual. And I'm more relaxed than normal, so I don't think it's an anxiety thing.

Isn't it ironic? The first day of my new found spiritual quest ends with me covered in hives. So me.

Symphony in the City

You guys should all try to go to this event for the Friends of the New World Symphony, of which I am on the executive committee. It's being thrown by my uber-fab college friend Stacey (holla!) and she throws amazing parties that attract cool, eclectic crowds. You should also think about joining the NYC or Miami group, Friends of the New World Symphony. I can't make this event in NYC, but I go to all the Miami ones. For information or to buy tix/RSVP, get in touch with:
stacey.glassman@nws.edu

The NYC Executive Committee consists of Marco Acerra, Chris Barnicle, Raphael Bejarano, Jacqueline Bush, Craig Bruck, Justin Davis, Anand Dutta, Kara Dutta, Samantha Epstein, Rena Fischler, Michael Friedland, Jona Genova, Jim Hayes, Katherine Herring, William Kangas, Elizabeth Katcher, Jette Kelly, Sara Link, Guelay Mese, Stratis Morfogen's, Pavan Pardasani, Max Ramirez, Shaun Rose, Amanda Roth, Jonathan Rubenstein, Seth Ruthen , Lisa Sayfie, Christine Sonu, Tony Theodore and Zak Zaidman.

The Miami Executive Committee is led by Chairman Aaron Resnick and Vice-Chairman Dan Grech and consists of Corina Biton, Dr. Darren Bruck, Jeffrey Feldman, Lauren Funke, Lindsay Glassman, Jason Goldstein, Hemley Gonzalez, Stephanie Green, Calvin Kohli, Denisse Lemos, Tomas Loewy, Lisa Maister, Ellen Marchman, David Martin, Shoshanna Mehrpouyan, David Restainer, Brad Rosen, Amy Rosenberg, Alan Roth, Michael Sheehan, Dawn Toroker, Dindy Yokel and Alison Zhuk.

Ommmmmmmmmmmmmm

I spent a lot of time this weekend with a family friend who has lived an interesting life, has endured some very trying times, yet has emerged triumphant and supremely balanced. I am an old soul at heart, so it's not unusual for me to hang out with my parents' friends. Often, I have more fun and more meaningful relationships with them than with people my own age. I suppose it's because they have more to teach me, but I don't know. Maybe I am just blessed with great family friends?

This weekend with this friend, we spoke of our mutual experiences with therapy; I explained my clinical depression to him and the fact that I have accepted my need to be on some form of SSRI antidepressant for the rest of my life. (A matter that I am fine with, btw.)

Somehow a discussion of therapy diverged into his practice of meditation, which he does daily, wherever in the world he may be. Most often, he is out on his magnificently serene, sprawling, waterfront patio with an unobstructed view of his boat, the turquoise waters and other people's estates.

"Do you have any kind of mantra you chant or anything like that?" I asked, thinking of that episode of Curb Your Enthusiam where Richard Lewis lets Larry use his mantra, "Jai-ya," that turns out to mean "fuck me."

"No," he said, "I just sit out there, look at the water, go to 'that place' and think, basically, 'Look at all this I have; it can't get any better. All I have is today. I don't know if there will be a tomorrow and that's essentially what I focus on; living in the moment instead of thinking or worrying about the future."

That really resonated with me, as I am such a control-freak, type-A planner who, if I don't have a plan for "the future," completely freaks out. Like now.

"You know," I mused, "I think I'm going to try to do that. I get so wound up in thinking about the future that I forget to live in the moment."

You should, he said, because most people get so wrapped up in their day-to-day BS that they can't appreciate the now.

"Well, if I lived where you lived, I'd be out on that patio all day, just staring at the water and living in the moment, that's for sure."

"That's the funny thing," he said. "Whenever I'm out there, I look at everyone else's homes around me and nobody is ever out on their decks; nobody is appreciating these amazing things they have."

So then I quizzed him on whether he was coached on how to properly meditate, breathe, etc., and he said no, that he just went to 'that place,' cleared his head and told himself something along the lines of, "Look at what you have; you have life; you have this great home; family; friends and you have today. That's all you need. Just focus on today."

I suppose it all falls into that "one day at a time" philosophy, with a more positive twist. I often say that to my therapist, when I am really down, that I am just taking things "one day at a time." But yesterday it ocurred to me that I could turn that around into a positive. Like as they say in Rent, "No day but today."

So today, just now actually, I did it. I meditated for the first time in my entire life. I found my "place," and though I have been to many, many beautiful, spiritual places, this is the one that came to me: Lord Byron's Grotto, a scenic overlook on a cliff in Portovenere on Italy's Ligurian coast (Cinque Terre region). Lord Byron often wrote there and went there for inspiration. Apparently this site is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

It's next to the Church of San Pietro, and the beauty and awesome energy of this scenic overlook is indescribable. (These pictures don't do it justice, but, hey, I've got shit to do.)

I think this will be my "place" and my mantra—if I feel the need for one—shall be "no day but today." So make the most of it, girlie.