Surprise!

As per usual, my parents' friends threw a great party, this one for my dad's best friend (and 2nd father to me) David's upcoming 60th birthday party. David, who prides himself on never being one-upped, was truly, utterly shocked.

I have posted all the photos on Flickr. But below are some of the highlights.

Uncle David, making his entrance, utterly stupefied.

Me, at home pre-party, as I promised Suhani I would take a pic of me dolled up donning her fabu necklace.

Me and loyal reader and suddenly slimmer Nancy P.

Me and David's youngest, Leah.

Me and David's older daughter Lindsay.

The girls and a very happy, anonymous (as requested) captain of industry. And how fab is Debbie's Missoni dress? Also ordered off the Internet, sight unseen!

Mom, Lynn (my Palm Beach mom and fashion/jewelry partner in crime and one of mom's best friends) and me pre-party. Mom is in Armani, and Lynn may be too, but I'm sure she will correct me if I'm wrong.

Me, mom and Uncle David.


Dad and me.

David and his 85-year-old mom, Kosher Kate, who is not only sharp as a tack but is always dancing on stage with the rest of us!

And for my fashionista readers, my ensemble: the dress, some designer I've never heard of, bought sight unseen off eluxury; the necklace by the fabulous suhani pittie; the earrings antiques from great-grandmother on my dad's side; the purse Marc Jacobs; the watch Roxy's much coveted and borrowed vintage Chopard; and the shoes, which you probably can't see anywhere, Manolo, natch.

Oh, yeah, here's my little contribution to society for today: Juli B June picks.

I'm sure great-grandfather would be oh so proud.

My dad wins an award for his volunteerism today, and I punch out stories about beauty and fashion. My dream assignments, don't get me wrong, but I must find a way to give back that doesn't actually cost any money. Cause I ain't got none to give. Only myself and a tiny bit of time.

And buy this sports book by one of my dear friends—hello, father's day! If it's as awesome as its authors then it's, well, awesome.

Family Facts

As I've said before, my family is not so great about keeping its history, but apparently some of its members are. Thank God, because my maternal family is fascinating. The following are things my mom learned at my uncle's funeral, fascinating stuff really. (Mich, you'll get a hell of a kick out of all this.)

• While still living on Long Island, my great-grandfather Martin—who worked his way up from taxi-driver living in the Bronx to real-estate magnate—owned the first gas station outside NYC, in Nassau County where you could buy fireworks.

• He then went on to create some kind of tire/rubber business and manufactured some kind of rubber part that helped during the war.

• While still in NY, due to his and my great-grandmother's (Millie) philanthropic endeavors, they befriended Eleanor Roosevelt. (!) She later stayed at their house when she visited Sarasota.

• Martin had a heart-attack at a young age and decided to retire. They took the boat down to Boca Grande, Florida, near Sarasota, and were going to settle there. Then they discovered Sarasota and Martin fell in love and decided to relocate there.

• Never having been in the building/construction business—and remember he moved there to retire—he was unhappy that the Sarasota marina did not have bathrooms. So he built them. And thus Paver Development Co. was born.

• They started with the residential development Paver Park, in which streets are named after my mom, aunt, grandparents etc. They went on to develop 6,700 residential homes in Sarasota county, and owned a utilities plant, a sewage plant and the land that is now the outlet mall there.

• They patented some kind of element in the pantry where you open the door and then there are multi-level shelves and called it the "Paver Pantry." Alas, the patent expired and people just copied them.

• They supposedly invented the "villa" type of housing, where you have two homes one lot.

• This is my favorite one, as it illustrates the wild streak that runs in my family: During the war Martin was arrested for rum-running. Millie had to go to the police and beg them to let him out, as he had children to take care of. Ha!

• Way back in the 40s, Martin built the first synagogue in Sarasota, Beth Shalom, as a gift of course. Later, when the synagogue moved to its new location, the firm gave them the land it now sits on and built the property for them at cost. When we were young, we would go into the Martin and Mildred Paver religious school, where there is a metal bust of great-grandpa, who we never knew, and rub his nose. He had quite a prominent nose.

• Millie's parents were from Vienna, where apparently they were the photographers for the royal family. And although when it was time for Millie to be born they were in the U.S., her mother wanted her to be born in Vienna. So she went there for Millie's birth and died in childbirth. Millie and her sibling were then sent back to the states to live with their dad.

• What else? So much more, they were such benevolent people to the Sarasota community, which is evident if you read the comments in the guest book of Uncle Paul's obituary.

And then there's me, who sits at her computer all day, typing drivel. I'm sure they would be so proud. I have to say, we have not lived up to the legacy of our forefathers.

I am breaking up with my therapist. It's the longest relationship I've ever had, six years.

How does one do that? The "it's not you it's me speech?" The Seinfeld episode where he breaks up with the friend?

Or how about: "I've been speaking with you for six years and last night you tell me you think I may have this mental illness instead of the one I've been being treated for?"

Are you kidding me?

Screw her, and in fact, screw therapy. It's obviously done a lot of good. Could've bought a freaking condo with all the money put in her pockets. I don't think I've ever felt so betrayed by someone who I came to trust with, literally, my life.

Paul Leonard Paver
Paver, Paul Leonard May 6, 1924 - May 26, 2007 Paul Leonard Paver, 83, Sarasota, formerly of Great Neck, N.Y., died May 26, 2007. Services will be at 11 a.m. today at Temple Beth Sholom in Sarasota. Toale Brothers Funeral Home handled arrangements. Saturday, May 26, 2007, saw the passing at the Siesta Key family home, of Paul Leonard Paver, a wonderfully beloved and preeminent Sarasota pioneer and philanthropist. Paul came to Sarasota in 1949 soon after his father, Martin, and mother, Mildred Paver, arrived in Sarasota. Together, along with his brother Stanley, the brothers formed Paver Construction Company. Over the next half century they built over 6,000 homes in Sarasota and developed numerous commercial properties. Paul was born in New York City and graduated from Great Neck North High School in Great Neck , N.Y. He attended Hofstra College before joining the Army. He was a veteran of World War II and served in both the European and Pacific theaters. Paul served in the Army's 480th Ordnance as staff sergeant and was in Paris on Victory in Europe Day. He so enjoyed being part of and contributing to the greater Sarasota community and was a member of the Sahib Shriners, Temple Beth Sholom, and the YMCA. He was a charter member of the Sarasota Power Squadron, and was a supporter of the Wellness Community and the New College Foundation. He served on the board of directors for SunTrust Bank. Paul was a board member and supporter of Temple Beth Sholom for 55 years. He and his brother Stanley founded the Martin and Mildred Paver Religious School at Temple Beth Sholom. He and his wife, Doris Morrow Paver, were married 54 years ago in Temple Beth Sholom. He is survived by his wife Doris, daughters: Randa Paver of Alexandria, Va., Andrea Paver Kaine of Sarasota, Pamela Paver Barton of Fort Lauderdale and Diana Paver of Sarasota. He also survived by his sister, Sydelle Paver and his grandchildren, Judith Kaine and Daniel Kaine. He will always be remembered by everyone who knew him as a wonderful gentleman and a kind and generous friend who loved life, people, travel, learning, and most of all - family. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the Martin and Mildred Paver Religious School at Temple Beth Sholom: 1050 S. Tuttle Ave, Sarasota FL 34237. Paul's brother, my grandpa Stanley. I don't have any photos of Uncle Paul. But who knew that nowadays you can sign online guest books for obituaries? What an amazing concept. I had no idea this web site existed, but I think this was our family's second residential development. The tribute is apparently the work of my cousins. Very cool, girls! The History of Kensington Park.

RIP

Lots of stuff to catch up on, but first I would like to take a moment to remember my Great Uncle Paul, my long-deceased grandfather Stanley's brother. Uncle Paul was a kind, generous, warmhearted, loving, charitable husband, father, brother and man. He will be greatly missed by his family.

Most of you know I've been wanting and meaning to go over to Sarasota, where he lived, knowing that he was ill, and that I would like to see him before he passed. Sadly though it happened too quick, which, I suppose is always the case unless you are like 106.

On the flip/yin-yang side, my uncle on the same side of the family, my mom's half brother, won the lottery on the same day that Paul passed. So perhaps in the same way that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, for every truly terrible thing that happens, there is a truly miraculous thing that occurs as well.

That it should occur in the same family is a bit mystical though, no? In that vein, my brother brought me a present from India to Italy; it's a small carving of the God (?) Ganesh, who Indians (Hindus) believe is both the placer and remover of obstacles. Somehow, Ganesh managed to fall the floor and break recently, but I glued him back together, as I need all the obstacle removal I can get.

Soooo, onto the party portion of the program, which I know is why you guys read anyway, as I have little to offer in guidance/wisdom. This weekend was the first time since moving here that I actually went out and had a fun time. Perhaps because Crazy-ass Nicole and I don't go out that much together, I really didn't think such a thing could be accomplished without being around all my old friends who are still here and have yet to (AHEM) get back in touch. But meeting new people is always fun.

And though the first part of my evening was tarnished by the news of my Uncle's death and a disturbing conversation with the Chicago asshat addict, who is once and for all finally out of my life, my phone book, etc., it was salvaged by crazy-ass Nicole, and her friends who I'd never hung out with before. We had a grand old time this weekend.

I learned more about Christianity than I think I ever have; I got way too much sun, which I made up for today with some lovely Botox and Restylane; I partied; I met some very nice people, who though extremely different from myself, were nonetheless absolutely fabulous to hang around. And, as is always the case with my crazy fun weekends, I lost a little something in the sartorial department. A friend of a friend accidentally stumbled into me and broke my favorite pair of Chanel sandals. Sigh. Lesson learned: bars and high fashion just don't mix.

Now, onto the asshat addict and my ongoing battle with celibacy. (If you are reading this asshat, I had previously chosen to spare you the poison pen, but frankly you've really pissed me off and you are deserving of every single word I am writing.) Though I suppose I should thank you, asshat, as you taught me a valuable lesson in the "don't-have-sex-unless-you-are-in-love" dept. It's just too difficult for women; once that wall is breached, our emotions are involved, period. No matter what we say.

I am once again re-dedicating myself to celibacy until I am actually in love. That, of course, means that I will most likely never have sex again. Ever. But you know, there are lots of other things that you can do, without actually having sex.

Finally, a plea, a beg even directed at my friends and acquaintances new and old of the male variety, I really need a date this weekend for a rather big party that I can assure you will be filled with fabulous people, food and fun. And no strings; I just need an escort. I don't think I can handle another event where the main comment will be, "So are you dating anyone? You know, my 45-year-old son is available and single."

And now, for the photographic evidence. I will post the rest on Flickr, which you guys can access by clicking the link on the right of this page.

Nicole and me, when she was just her normal brand of crazy.


Yet, as the evening progressed, she was in full, crazy-ass Nicole mode.



The group.


The fabulous view from the bedroom of the house I stayed in this weekend.

Memorial Daze

Thank God for friends with beach houses, and thanks to Jared Paul Stern for my awesome, huge Skull & Bones tote that makes the perfect weekend bag in this casual town.



Happy Memorial Day. I'm checking out until Tuesday.

Well, this willing thing seems actually to work. I just landed another steady freelance job writing for a magazine (yay, magazines, how I've missed thee!), after nothing more than a phone interview.

LOVE the phone interviews.

Now let's try this one:

I will have a date—even a friend-date—to this big party I must attend next Saturday. If that works, I'll faint.

Willful Thinking

You know that book/movie The Secret that is today's Celestine Prophecy? Well, I bought it and didn't make it past page 20. But the gist of it, according to my hero Ellen DeGeneres, is that if you visualize things, they will come to pass. You know, "if you build it, they will come."

I have always believed this, yet my visualizations have, for the most part, yet to materialize.

But writing things down always helps, because then you are beholden to achieving these things; at least those of which are in your control.

So here goes:

I will meet an intelligent, humorous, smart, handsome, successful man who is not only un-intimidated by my intelligence, humor, talent, honesty, boldness and fearlessness, but who appreciates and admires these qualities in me.

I will run a fabulous magazine, even if it is from Miami. Or I will start my own. Probably I will do the former and then the latter.

I will get married before I am 34, because I do not want to imagine what I will look like when I am 35. I don't care if he's gay; I will have a Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman-style marriage. I will get the dress and the ring.

I will own a house on the water and a nice little Porsche to go along with it.

I will, someday, maybe in the very distant future, publish a book. Any old book.

I will be self-sufficient.

I will continue to age backwards.

I will own a share in a private jet.

I will cruise the Med in a yacht with at least four staterooms, with people I love.

I will continue to cherish my friends, family and dogs.

I will be true to myself and try not to be so hard on myself when I fail at any number of things, which I do, quite frequently.

I will learn to take things one moment at a time and not sweat the small stuff, like the fact that it's 2:44 a.m. and I'm wide awake with a deadline tomorrow.

I will remember to appreciate all the things I have—big and small—that most people don't.

I will recognize the fact that for all purposes, I have a rather good life.

I will go to bed now.

Prada Anyone?

So, I sold three out of the four bags I posted. I still think you guys are missing out on the Tod's—a preppy classic, which is probably why I never used it—the only one left. However, I found this never-been-used Prada clutch/case while rooting around. I got it in Italy, on a whim of course.

It's maroon, could be used as a clutch or a cosmetics case, gym case, whatevs. The black strap is NOT big enough to fit around your wrist, but if you wanted to make it a true clutch, you could tuck the strap in with the zipper.

Soooo, without further adieu, I'm listing it at $80.

And, girls, please comment, would you be interested in designer clothing through this site?

The Designer Dark Side

I would like to congratulate Jen for officially crossing over to the dark side. Mwah ha ha! I can't help but take a great measure of satisfaction in this, given that I inaugurated her to the joys of Bergdorf's and Choo.

Once you go designer, you never go back—I'm just warning you. Will better be prepared.

So, here's my latest for Juli B on that inch-losing body wrap that Ellen DeGeneres (my favorite person ever) did on her show. Yes, I did it, and I'm not ashamed. If you go here, you can find a location near you.

Louboutin for Dior

Well, snooze and lose ladies—the Louboutins have been snapped up by mom, in an even trade for this adiorable Dior she got me today at the outlet. Not that I need another bag, but she bought two, so what's a girl to do?


Also, the wonderful resort we stayed in in Bermuda (The Reefs) for my 30th birthday (I'm still 30, BTW, 1 and 1/2 years later) is on this month's cover of Travel & Leisure. I, however, (or rather my byline) am nowhere to be found, magazine-wise. Except for that ESPN thing, which may or may not still be on the stands. . .

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.