Moving On

As I've stated this week in no uncertain terms, I am BORED as hell here. One can only go to the beach, the gym, Sephora etc. so many times in one week. And I've only been here like four days in the past month! And now that I have no vacations or major events in my Filofax to look forward to, it's time for some planning.

To that end, I've actually begun applying for jobs. In Miami/South Florida. That's right folks, NYC, my spiritual and geographic home for so long is no longer singing its siren song to me. A lot of this has to do with the rodents, rodents, rodents and more rodents, which you longtime readers and friends are well aware of my myriad issues with.

To those of you with no rodent phobias, I am sure it seems like a silly issue, surely not one big enough to keep someone away from a city they love. But for me, mice in one's home is not a mere nuisance; especially when you are paying upwards of $2,000 a month to cohabitate with them.

And though I always, always—from the time I was 13 years old—thought I would live and die in Manhattan, I truly don't much miss living there. Perhaps part of this "I must live in Manhattan or I am nobody" mentality had to do with grandmom Roxy, who grew up there, and mom, who wanted to grow up and live there.

I plan to go to Sarasota soon, where mom grew up and grandparents resided, to exorcise old demons, and to really see the place where I had so many formative adolescent experiences through an adults' eyes.


Even the mere mention of St. Armand's Circle/Lido Beach where Roxy lived, below, triggers so many mixed emotions.

The last time I was there was for grandpa's funeral, nearly 14 years ago. I think it would be both an emotional and interesting experience to go back there on my own and sort of excavate old memories and my family's history. Because not only are my memories of my grandparents there, but their physical legacies are there as well since grandpa's family are real estate developers and many of their projects bear their name. (Below, where grandpa lived.)


Anyway, I have always said that the perfect existence to me would be an apartment in the city and a place on the beach in Florida.

So last night when my mom received a brochure for a timeshare at the St. Regis in NYC and was musing aloud about that and another one on the UWS she's been pondering for years, I had to curb my enthusiasm. For I hope that mom will one day bite the bullet (aka follow her dream, despite my dad's divergent opinions) and invest in something at least marginally permanent in the city; and hopefully I will permanently be on the beach somewhere down here. And through the beauty of familial synergy, then maybe we can all have the best of both worlds, no?

Well, a girl can (and does) dream. I suppose I am feeling nostalgic today, perhaps because of all the deaths that have surrounded me this past week.

Three of my parents' contemporaries have died within the past week, all of whom (I think) were under the age of 60. Such events merely reinforce my life-is-short-do-what-makes-you-happy philosophy.

Life is fucking short people. Seriously. So what are you all doing out there in those cubes reading my blog? Get out there and do what you've always dreamed of doing cause you never know when your dreams are going to come to an abrupt end.

Not much doing here, so check out my favorite find from Miami Fashion Week on Fashionosophy.

Manhattan Mammaries

Wow, this boobalicious Jane mag story has the Gawkers gawking. Myself included.

It's interesting, looking at other women's boobies. I'd never be courageous enough to be a part of this story, but voyeuristically, it's made me very secure in the boob-arm fat/side-cleavage department. That is all I will reveal regarding my own breasteses.

Christ almighty I am SO BORED here that I'm thinking of going back to Miami this weekend for the final soiree of the symphony committee I am on.

But surely one's life cannot revolve around events and parties and travel, or can it? I suppose it can if technically, it's kind of my job to cover such occasions.

I need like a life coach or some such person. Therapy is great and all that, but it certainly can't help you vis-a-vis what the hell you are going to do with the rest of your life and where the hell you are going to do it. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.

I forgot to post this pic yesterday, but due to the heat, the long walk to the dog path and the utter craziness of my friend Nicole, this is how her dog Hailey was transported to and fro her "walks" outside in Miami. Oh, what we do for our dogs.

I returned from Italy Monday and left for Miami Thursday in Nicole's huge SUV with her 75-pound, 9-year-old, adorable, smelly, panting, snoring, burping and farting English Bulldog in tow. Seven hours and fifty pee-stops later, I was back in the city I left only two months ago.

Did I miss it? Kind of, yeah; the beaches though, not Brickell.

Fun, action-packed weekend filled with good food—at the divine Il Mulino
and the utterly frustrating, no-reservations-allowed Joe's—good friends, good spas—Rik Rak Beauty Bungalow at the Sagamore Hotel—and fashion shows. Now back to life with the 'rents and the dogs. But it's hard to complain when you have smiling, furry faces to return to.

At the fashion show . . .



Nicole on the red carpet at the show . . .


The girls — Wally is seriously camera phobic. It's bizarre.

Amazing Amalfi

After our experience in Positano—fab hotel, two massages, delicious food and a near-comatose state of relaxation, I didn't think it could get any better.

Then we arrived at Hotel Santa Caterina in Amalfi. And it was better. In fact, it was pure heaven—white tile floors hand-painted with bright floral motifs, fluffy white sofas, views from here to eternity.

A corner of the lobby bar:



And then there were the rooms. Once again, dad pulled a Clark Griswold, though in his defense it wasn't entirely his fault. Upon arrival, only one of the rooms was ready and it was the one with the king bed. We "ooh-ed" and "ahh-ed" over its sumptuousness and spaciousness, its yellow, paisley-printed tiled floors and the view from the balcony. Surely the room Michael and I would get couldn't be better than this?

We went into the town of Amalfi, which is so quaint, adorable and filled with good shopping, that it puts Positano to shame.

I bonded with this little guy, bought him a sandwich of ham and cheese and fed him. For such a germaphobe, I will let pretty much any dog touch me. Is he not the cutest thing?






Anyway, we returned to the hotel and our room was ready. Not only was it prettier—in pink!—but again, the bathroom was twice the size of mom and dad's. We had a shower and a tub; they only had a tub. Plus we had a separate room for the toilet with another sink, not to mention two TVs. Dad was not happy, but it was so comical at that point that we just laughed it off.

Our gorgeous room—the view from the foyer.

The bedroom area:

The view from the balcony:

And the real view from the balcony:
Sigh. I need to learn to speak Italian, find a job over there and just do it. Now I'm off to pack again, this time for Miami Fashion Week.

I will post some trip highlights later and my fashion finds on Fashionosophy:Moda Mania. In the interim: Juli B Beauty Picks for April.

Okay, some of you may be wondering about the whole Vacation/Griswold theme. Typically our family vacays have been characterized by at least one of the following: hotel booked for wrong week, lost luggage, missed flights, dad sticking foot in mouth and offending a local, me not taking my meds and being a general bitch, dad peeing in public while sober.

But the past two family trips have been seamless, perhaps because I planned them. I was a travel editor in a former life, so I do have some expertise in this area.

For my 30th birthday last year, I planned our hotel and travel arrangements for a week in Bermuda. Aside from the minor incident where I stayed out all-night with a bunch of rowdy Canadians and mom took it upon herself to call in the Bermudan police, all was well.

For Italy, my parents relied on my expertise again, due to my knowledge of the area, the fact that I have more time than them and because they'd only been to Italy for cruise pitstops, while I've spent a great deal of time there.

And I have to say that all went well. Our driver/guide, Rino, a 34-year-old Italian Buddhist from Sorrento, was great; our hotels were amazing; our food was fabulous; the shopping was good; the weather was good and a fab time was had by all.

Though dad did have a consistently Griswoldian experience at every single hotel that was quite amusing and could have been prevented had he been just a wee bit more patient.

I had thought that Positano would be my favorite place; from what I'd read and heard, it was a glorious town and area. Originally, I did want to stay at Le Sirenuse, as Mel questioned, but we opted for the magnificent Il San Pietro instead, where every standard room has a balcony and sea view. Not so at Sirenuse. Plus San Pietro is about five minutes outside the very touristy center of the town of Positano and higher up the cliff with outstanding views. Rino also informed me that he'd driven Robert DeNiro there, but that Clint Eastwood—much friendlier than DeNiro—was deposited at someone's very nice yacht docked on the coast.

Anyhoo, enter the Griswoldian beginnings. We arrive on our first day at San Pietro, and the concierge proceeds to show us to both of our rooms. The first room she shows us is great, with a nice view and tasteful decor. The next room has a larger balcony.

Immediately Clark, I mean, Mark, says, "We'll take this one!"

Michael and I get back to our room and I look at the bathroom, which is nearly as big as the room. I call mom to see if she's looked in the bathroom yet, she says no and then I proceed to describe ours to her. "Damn!" she says. Or in mom parlance, probably something more along the lines of, "Darn it all."

Check out our bathroom:



I'll continue the saga tomorrow; now it's time for some fashion updates.

Photos

Ok, you can now view all the Italy photos here. I will post more details later.

Coming back to reality after a really amazing vacation is like coming down off an ecstacy high, especially if the place you come back to completely sucks ass. If my life could be one long vacation, it would be a European one.

Now I am back to the drudgery of living with my parents, going on blind dates with guys who do not yet realize they are gay, going to the gym, watching TV, writing dreck and generally pretending that there is an actual reason to go on living this absolutely meaningless life, despite all evidence to the contrary.

There were stray dogs everywhere in Italy, but they were surprisingly well-fed and friendly. Of course I had to bond with each and every one of them. These are the dogs of Pompeii. The rest of the photos should be uploaded to Flickr by later tonight.

I am back, sadly. I will post details later, as I need bed now, but a few pics to tide you over. I should have all the rolls combined on Flickr tomorrow.

Positano

Sunrise on the balcony of our room in Il San Pietro in Positano.



The impeccable patio of Il San Pietro.



Mom, dad and Michael at the top of the town of Positano.



The view from the hotel, above the infamous tennis court that I didn't play on cause of my bruised tailbone.



The view from where the lift takes you down to the tennis court and the heliport at Il San Pietro.



Looking south toward the town of Priano, towards Amalfi, from Il San Pietro.

I am sitting next to obnoxious New Yorkers at the St. Regis in Rome, they are talking of Bleecker Street, real estate closings on 50 Lexington Ave. and Britney in rehab again (?). There is nothing more annoying than JAPpy New York girls. Thank God I am from Fla.

Wherever you go, there you are.

And for those of you ignorant readers who have not noticed--I have comment moderation and therefore do not approve negative/bitter comments.

So, to Ryan, whom I suspect is this little weasly, stalkery motherfucker I used to work with: Yes, I can afford a vacation in Italy and fat wraps. And, yes, I am still accepting donations for my trade. Would you be a waiter-cum-male huster for free? I think not, sweetie darling. Soo kindly go fuck yourself.

Tomorrow I will be among Michaelangelo and on Via Condotti. Then back to Jackassville, then off to Miami.

And, yes, I actually do write for a living. And get paid for it. Imagine that.

Remember when I said it couldn't get any better than Positano? Well, boy was I wrong. Our hotel in Amalfi is simply to die for, and the town itself is so quaint, so adorable and so good for shopping. Many bargains to be had, despite the Euro. Seriously, I need to meet a nice Italian Jew with a summer home in Amalfi and then just stay. It's that beautiful. I can't upload pics until I get home. But, suffice it to say that if I could dream up the ideal decor of a beach house, this hotel would embody it. And our rooms are huge, with fab balconies overlooking the Mediterranean. Sigh.

Unfortunately, we are leaving tomorrow for Rome, which I've spent a great deal of time in and find to be a bit overwhelming. But the Good Friday celebration should be interesting. And our guide has promised to take us to the outlets tomorrow on our way from Pompeii to Rome.

But kids, especially honeymooners, you must visit this hotel.

And I have no way to moderate comments from here, so to the reader who asked about the slim wrap, follow my links in previous posts and you should be able to get a location near you. . .

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;)