Shoes, Glorious Shoes

OK, beach girls, PB girls, prepsters and Louboutin-lovers, here you go.

These Stephen Bonannos have never been worn and they are the ones with the heel. You can see a better picture and description here. Their price (plus a 3-week production time) is $95 with the heel; mine is $80 including shipping. Size 7.

These Stephen Bonannos have been worn once or twice, but are still in pristine condition (and I've Purelled them). See a better picture here, mine are also with the heel. You can see a better pic and description here. Their price is $85, with the heel; mine is $65 with shipping. Size 7.

Steph's Sample Sale

It's spring-cleaning time, so I'm offering up some handbags for sale that I simply have no use for. Payments made through PayPal; just click the "Make a Donation" button.

Trust me, they are all like new and have barely, if ever been used. Shipping included in all prices (if you are in the U.S.). These are all steals and there will be no refunds or exchanges. But if you've learned one thing from me over all these months, it's that I'm brutally honest, so you can trust me when I say these are all in primo condition. And I think that it goes without saying that they are all real; as if I would have anything less.

Ladies, start your engines.

Congrats to Jen, who has purchased the Fendi Baguette and to PJ who bought the brown Tod's. Mary got the Gucci; so only one left! I think I may have stumbled upon a second career.

JP Tod's long shoulder bag in black deerskin with silver accents. Probably $700-$800 originally. My price, $140.

The picture of the inside label of this one didn't come out.

If this goes well, it's onto shoes, which have never been worn. . . .

You guys should really get a hobby; it's Saturday and the weather is loverly. I would be at the beach again if my ass didn't look like a pomegranate.

I need a date for a party the first weekend in June. I am taking applications/volunteers from those I know (ahem) who are reading this. Yes, you would have to come to Jackassville, but it would be a good time. And most of you owe me anyway. . .at least the ones I am speaking to.

Beach Bitch

Today I am calling it a day and heading to the beach club, where the ocean will be my valium, my supple skin will soak up the sun thus forcing me to break down and set my next Botox and Juvederm appointments, and my iPod will be my sole companion. The beach club is the one place in this God-forsaken town where I can feel like the luxury lover I truly am. Thank God for the ocean and for private clubs.



Never mind the fact that we used to own a house about 1 mile south of the club with 100 feet on the ocean. If I had a dollar-for-dollar compensation for every former piece of real estate that my parents prematurely (and stupidly, oh so stupidly) sold, I would be a bona fide heiress instead of just a spoiled, no good brat.

The pit of dread continues to multiply. Today my day consists of going to Lexus for an estimate of the damage done in Miami, going to the gym, working on assignments and then hunkering down to watch the Grey's finale.
Ain't life grand?

I am enduring what my friend Schuman so eloquently (and appropriately) refers to as "the pit of dread." You know it. It's that feeling in your soul you have when you know that absolutely everything in your life is absolutely wrong, and there's really nothing you can do about it except what you are doing.

You wake up with it; you go to sleep with it; you have dreams that are allegories representing the causes of it. You try to overcome it and find that you can only do so much—that we are all connected and sometimes other people are responsible for making you feel like shit.

May Beauty Picks for Juli B. The 29 cosmetics and the Bliss tan in a can products are fab. The tanning spray TOTALLY works and looks amazing! And this coming from a true, real tan devotee!

Don't Know Why

But I can't seem to stop thinking about exes lately. Ex-lovers, ex-quasi-boyfriends, ex-one-sided crushes. When I date someone and it ends, I'm usually over it like that. I've never gotten back together with an ex of longevity; sure I've reconnected with ex-crushes or ex-hookup-hiccups, but never with an ex-boyfriend.

Recently, a friend described to me how "love at first sight" had resulted in a bitter divorce for someone he knew. And so that got me thinking, because, being the skeptic I am—especially in the romance department—I never believed in such a thing.

And then, one night, I honestly—moronically, regretfully, shamefully—believed it had happened to me. The affair was brief, intense and short-lived. But before I met him, I had never experienced that unbelievable rush of emotions that was a melange of lust, comfort, curiosity, excitement, giddiness and desire. When we were together, it was as if I was on drugs, literally. I still have never met someone I've melted into in the way that we did. And though he turned out to be (I suspect) a borderline sociopath who is probably reading this and thinking that I'm the sociopath, and though it's been almost two years and I still get depressed thinking about him, and though the pain and anxiety he caused me was nearly unbearable—I want that again. But I want it in the guise of a sane man.

But the question is, does lightning strike twice? Should there even be lightning? Or is that a recipe for divorce and disaster?

I don't know; maybe you all do. All I know is I've been dating and hanging out with guys more in the past few months than in the past year, and I've yet to feel that electricity. So I've begun to give up again.

What an interesting story in today's NYT about the book publishing industry. It's guesswork? Oh, really? And the best part is the disclaimer at the bottom of the story. As usual, the Times is about ten years behind the news angle, but it still made me think.

For example, if a really savvy Fobes-List type with a marketing or sales background bought himself or herself a publishing house or started his or her own, he or she could make a killing. And then based on market research, he or she would have to buy my book. I think Oprah would be the perfect person to do this. I can just see it now O. Books. That's actually not a bad idea. Maybe I'll write her a letter. Or maybe I'll just continue to be lazy and resign myself from book-writing. I'll probably take the latter route.

It's actually astounding the minimal amount of market research that goes into whether or not a book gets published. The industry, like the newspaper one, is still living in the 20s. It's time to step into the 00s people.

Oh, I neglected to mention two things about my time at Equinox:

1. I had another Elsa Benitez encounter. My first was on a Milan-to-Miami flight about 7 years ago. She hasn't aged a bit, but it looks like she's had her nose done. Absolutely stunning; working out with a personal trainer doing weights.

2. The key to maximizing your weight-training/toning time ladies, is to do weights while your heart rate is up. Meaning, do your weight training after your cardio so that you burn the maximum amount of calories and fat.

Golf Girl

Sometimes I do really asinine things and I don't know why. Case in point: Me insisting on dad getting VIP passes to today's TPC game (Round? Rounds? Match? See, I don't even know the right word!)

Let's look at the facts here:
• I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in golf, save for the fact that I know that any guy I date most likely will play a lot of it.

• I just got back from Miami Thursday night and am exhausted already.

• It's hot as balls today.

• The only golfers' names I know are Tiger Woods, Jack Nicklaus and Vijay Singh, and I only know of the latter two because they are friends of friends.

Anywho, why did I want to go? Well, because, the TPC is perhaps the biggest event of the year in this sleepy, ass-backwards, redneck hellhole. And I thought it would be a nice, civilized, chic way to spend the day—somewhere to bust out the white capris, the canvas LV tote and the cute Clergeries. Look, a girl needs a place to wear all her clothes, OK?

But then I get there and it's, like, packed with, like, rednecks in their Gator gear, smoking their cigarettes and exposing too much flesh and too many bad manis and pedis. Even the VIP areas were packed with hoi polloi, and this little diva was bored after watching Tiger take one stroke. Because the crowds are soo thick and the greens soo far away, you can't really see where the ball lands. So, yawn.

Oh, and did I mention it was really, really hot? Like, really, really, really fucking hot.

Then I came home and a strange thing happened—the tourney was still on the telly and I found myself actually watching it. Voluntarily. And periodically emitting "Ohs!" and "Ooohs!" when a player made a good or bad shot. So the lesson here I suppose is: It's much better on TV. Or something like that.

On a completely unrelated note, I have yet another interview Monday, my third in as many weeks. Thank God this one is a phoner, because the mere thought of one more 6-hour-long car ride puts my back in traction. Here's the odd thing though, I'm three-for-three in terms of sending out my resume and getting an interview in return.

In NYC, I averaged about one-in-twenty, if that. Big fish small pond phenom I suppose; but I also think that editorial outlets in Miami like people with New York experience and New York sensibilities.

After a week of spa treatments and fitness fiascos, I'm once again exhausted.

Let's see, the highlights of this week?

• A two-hour, kick-my-ass personal training session at Equinox with Antwon, who assures me that using his techniques I can finally rid myself of those pesky last five (okay, 6.5) pounds. I had always thought that for women it's best to use low weights, high reps to tone and not bulk up. Not so, according to Antwon (sp) someone my size would have to be lifting about 25 pounds on each arm to "bulk up." So the reason I still have a novices triceps and biceps? Too few pounds on those weights. He increased the poundage and now I'm sore in a good way. I love being sore. Like I've said: Beauty is pain.

• A divine facial at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach, one of my favorite Miami hotels. If you are looking for a fabulous place to stay in the middle of South Beach but removed from all the icky tourists and nightclubbers, this is your place.

• An unusual Hammam ritual at the uber-cool, underground Spa V at the Hotel Victor, another hotspot.

• An utterly fantastic modified Thai massage at the Equinox Spa. Jose, you rock. I was so completely relaxed that I actually passed out, only the second time that's happened in my lifetime of spa-going.

The lowlights:
• I was so slammed with work that I did not get to see a single non-publicist friend.

• My dad's precious Lexus was wrecked somewhere between the Hotel Victor and the guest house I was staying at. I did not realize it until I pulled into Palm Beach to meet Lynn yesterday. Daddy once again not happy with daughter

• My utterly fruitless search from Miami to Palm Beach to Jacksonville to the New York ofices for the apparently elusive-in-the-South ESPN magazine with my piece in it. It comes out on Wednesdays; in New York I am sure you can get it on Wednesday.
In the South, you cannot get it until Friday or Monday. Hello? FedEx??????????

• My piece in ESPN. What started at 270 words ended up at oh about 100. But I got a byline, and sadly, that's the most important part.

Not much to look forward to now except the big golf thing the TPC tomorrow, which I've got VIP passes for, but apparently those get me no closer to Tiger, so what the hell's the point of being a VIP? Oh yeah, free booze.

And NYC in early June for the bi-yearly straightening ritual. But that's about it in the future plans department. Now I must go pay bills.

Also What Not to Get Mom in Juli B.

The Big Reveal

OK, big for me anyway. I have a story coming out in ESPN the magazine tomorrow, so get your copies quickly as it's only a weekly.
ESPN? You say? What has happened to our fashionista? Well, first of all, it's a footwear story. And second of all, ESPN is the Vogue of sports magazines.
Belsky, you can quote me on that.

My coverage of Miami Fashion week way back on April 13th.

Juli B Muy Caliente

Jeez Louise. I am off to Miami again on Saturday for a Tuesday interview. Thank God for Dana's in-law's guest house and thank God for books on CD. Dad's letting me take his old-man Lexus, which, while an old-man car, has the most comfy seats ever.

Very psyched for this interview; full-time position at luxury magazine launching in the fall. Now, what to wear? Keep in mind it's in a casual setting, during the day and in South Beach, so think dresses, skirts, etc. Pants are out of the question. It's sweltering.

Suggestions, please? I just got a very yummy, aqua Cacharel dress that looks great with these fab, tie-around, white, Walter Steiger cork heels I've got.

It's pouring again, work wise.

I am swamped with freelance assignments, my article in the major magazine is finally coming out next week (big yay!). Natch, I will reveal the name of the magazine once it hits the stands; then and only then will I believe it, as stories get killed at the 11th hour all the time. And I may have yet another interview in Miami for a big, serious, full-time job—in my field nonetheless.

Maybe I'll get the hell out of here after all with only a few minor scars.

And so it follows that if it's pouring in my professional life, it shall remain dry in my personal one. And that is fine. I will go to Sarasota by myself, as soon as I figure out whether I have to go back down to Miami for this interview. I will stay at the lovely Ritz-Carlton, visit old haunts, revel in old memories and spend some quality alone time.

I will say this though: I am sick to death of driving. If I do get a swanky full-time job, my first indulgence will be a car with comfortable seats.

Juli B monthly picks.

South Beach Seediness at the Sagamore

Players are nothing new. And for those of us living in New York, L.A. and Miami, we've seen the worst of the worst. But Saturday night at the Sagamore, I think my girlfriends and I witnessed a new low. I have to say that I'll take a New York player over a Miami one any day. I mean, it's New York, you're merely cool by association.

But Miami guys are by far, the worst.

"I'll give you $100 for the first guy I see not in a white button down shirt and jeans," I said to my friend. Still have the $100.

It's like Player Numero Uno announced from atop the mountain, "Thou shalt wear only a white shirt and jeans every time you go out at night," and all the mini-players heeded his call. Ridic.

So my friend S. is talking to some guy X, when my friend D. grabs L. and me as we're going outside.

"Oh, God, that guy is such an asshole," D. says. "I cannot believe she is talking to him!"

"What? Why?" we asked.

"S. once asked him what type of girl he liked, and he said starving," D. said.

"Nooo!" I shouted.

"Nooo!" L. shouted.

"YES." D. said. "Can you even believe?"

"Jesus H. I have heard some bad things in my time but I think that takes the cake. I think, in fact, it is blogworthy. Especially since he isn't in such good shape himself, is not cute and has male pattern baldness."

Needless to say, we were appalled.

But on the way out, D. who works in fashion and has dressed the asshole before, got revenge.

"You know," she said, "you should really come see me, you're not looking so hot. What's with this outfit?"

Another 12-hours in the car, though worth it this time as I got the job. Freelance, and can do it from here, but still something more to fill the time with.

I'll be doing the event listings weekly for Social Miami. Now I have three jobs; none of which are quite enough to foster independence. But let me tell you, my Filofax is jam packed with assignments now.

As you all have probably realized, I have been holding of on dishing on my personal life as of late. I will continue to do that. However, recent events have conspired to form some conclusions in my head.

As was stated in When Harry Met Sally, men and women cannot be friends if there is some kind of attraction thing happening. This, if I may be so bold, is not women's fault. How many women do you know who are still friends with guys they may be in love with who don't feel the same? Tons. Men seem to think that just because there was or is something physical, the woman immediately falls into the we're in a relationship where's my ring, house and kid mode. Soooooo not the case guys, at least not in mine.

On the upside, due to the events of this weekend, I got to spend some quality going out time with my girls (holla Stace, Dawn and my new friend Lauren); got to see my best friend and Godson; got to soak up the sun; got to do some real shopping; and lastly reached some conclusions, henceforth:

1. I will no longer be friends or "friends with benefits" with men who do not show me the same respect and support that I do them.

2. I am now opening up the dating field to non-Jews and older men. Much older men. They know how to treat a lady.

When it rains, it hails apparently. Y'all know I've been itching to get out of town. And I have been sending out resumes. So I got a call this morning and have an interview down in Miami Monday morning. So I'm off again tomorrow (thank God). The only problem is making the 5-hour-drive by myself, as I hate driving and have been known to be maniacal and get a little road ragey.

But thank God for friends and their parents' second homes. And thank God I bought that cute little new dress last weekend! See, everything, even shopping, happens for a reason;)

Latest Juli B. feature. You Miamians should stop by the store Lola, and buy me a nice little present while you're at it;)

Things that I am obsessing over at this particular moment:

Jewelry by Indian designer Suhani Pittie.



This tote and polo tee from Skull and Bones by Jared Paul Stern.


Juvederm, supposedly better and longer lasting than Restylane.

When and how I am going to get to NYC to see Masato at Momotaro. I'm due for my bi-yearly touch up in June. Thank God for tax refunds.

My bad haircut. I don't care what mom says, nobody beats Blandi.

BORBA. Words cannot express how devoted I am to this product. If I were famous, I would be its spokeswoman.

And my obsessions aren't all superficial:

To wit, how the hell am I going to get out of this shithole with my sanity intact, money in my pocket and a legit job? Roxy had it written into her will that we are not allowed to sell her jewelry, and given that her ashes are scattered in our backyard—long story for another time—I am fully afraid of her ghost. So selling stuff is not an option. Though at this point I would sell my soul to get out of here.

I know you commenters keep saying just get any old job (sorry, can't do the temp thing; I've tried, not my bag), but how does one go about getting 'any old job'—details please, commenters.

OK, dear readers, I am willing to follow your advice for once. I will suck it up and try to get a job that is not my "dream" one, if such a thing exists anymore. I mean, once I realized I would never work at Vogue, the notion of my dream job evaporated anyway. Now it's just a reduced variation of a dream.

Anyway, for my Miami readers, if you have any leads for me in the fashion, jewelry, PR, media or entertainment fields, please, please, please email me.

I remember shortly before I left for my freshman year at Emory, my grandfather, who I thought the world of and was the coolest man ever, was very ill and on his protracted deathbed. Even though nobody in the family talked about it, I knew I would never see him again.

My grandparents, Stanley and Roxy, of the Sarasota Pavers, had very high hopes for me. They thought I would be famous, successful and accomplish feats beyond compare. They never hesitated to tell me this. And at the age of 17, I suppose I was naive enough to believe this. I was 17 and, like always, I had a plan. I would go to Emory, graduate, move to NYC, become a writer/editor and conquer society.

Knowing that I likely would never see Stanley again, I sat down at our old Mac and composed a farewell letter to him, expressing my love and gratitude to him and outlining my plans for the future. I wanted him to know that his beliefs in me were not mere projections; that I would live up to his dreams for me. He had always offered, as I was his first grandchild, to pay for my college education. I don't think my parents took him up on his offer, but I remember one poignant moment vividly. I was staying at the Shoneys in Atlanta, getting ready to go to college; grandpa was literally on his deathbed. I was coming down the stairs when mom came running up with tears in her eyes and an envelope in her hand. Grandpa, good ol' Stanley, had FedExed a check for $10,000 for my first semester. Less than a month later, I was heading to Sarasota for his funeral. And though I never got to say good-bye in person, I feel like my letter was the best I could've done at the time.

That was the last time I was in Sarasota, and this is one of the reasons I feel it so important to revisit Sarasota as an adult. Stan's older brother is now on his deathbed and I want to see him and glean as much information about my grandpa as I can, before yet another piece of my family history is lost.

God, I hate starting out the day crying.

What do you do when . . .

You hate where you are geographically.

You hate where you are career-wise.

You hate the fact that despite your best efforts, you are powerless to change either of the above, for without a new job, I can't rightfully move.

What to do people, what to do?

I need advice from real, live people and readers, as I think my psychiatrist is crazier than I am and my therapist has become nothing more than a very good friend with my best interests at heart.

As some of you may know, when someone uses Google to find my site, I can see the search terms they type in. Often, it's quite amusing. Jen and I have a running contest. I win today, squirrel:
Somebody (obviously very disturbed) Googled "tight jeans nice ass rino toe," and was led to my site.

Ummmmm, yeah, get yourself a shrink, dude.

To wit, the name of our guide in Italy was Rino; I often speak of jeans; I probably use the word ass a lot; though I don't recall speaking of toes.

Suddenly all my junk mail is in Chinese. Does anyone else with Gmail have this problem? I had another boring, relaxing weekend, which I suppose is appropriate given the fact that it's the first weekend I've been home in almost a month.

On another note, I am reading a truly divine book—I'll Let You Go, by Bruce Wagner, per the recommendation of the dapper JPS. After I finish this tome, I'm going to inhale the rest of Wagner's novels.

Right now I am listening to The View, about to begin my stretching in preparation for the gym. There is something seriously wrong with this picture, people.

Once again, it's time for Sephora. The Lauder family should be prosecuted at the Hague for inventing this place. It's like a crackhouse for women. It's just dangerous, period. You go in needing one thing and come out $150 poorer. Somebody needs to stop this madness.

I ask my girly-girls out there, have any of you ever gone into Sephora and just bought one thing? It's like Lay's Potato Chips, nobody can buy just one thing.

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.