Wagging the Dog

These pics are from the balcony of my friend's apt. I am subletting this month.

Sooo in the midst of all this work craziness, I am looking at condos with my realtor. Today, after seeing an amazing condo in a building on the beach, we had this utterly mystifying experience. And I wouldn't be wasting my literally precious time right now, but I need input on this scenario. You all know my obsession with dogs; my realtor is also a dog-lover and owner.

After we exit this amazing PH we spent about 15 minutes looking at, we go out into the hall and see this chow
dog wandering around looking agitated. No other people are in the hallway. The dog goes up to the double-door PH that is clearly where he lives, and starts barking and scratching at the door.

We knock on the door to no avail, then agree we can't leave the dog out in the hall, as he is clearly distressed and neither one of us could bear to just leave him. So I stay with the dog and comfort him while my realtor goes down to the front desk to tell them what's going on. As time goes by the dog is getting more and more distressed, crying and barking. I'm knocking on the doors, the neighbors' doors, and trying to soothe the dog, all fruitless efforts. Finally, I try the handle—the freaking penthouse is open. The dog waltzes in. I open the door about a foot wide and call out. I can hear the dog lapping water from his bowl, but cannot see him.

What I do see is the tenant/owner's wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. Something is clearly not right. I'm thinking the owner had some kind of medical emergency, but once the dog is inside, he doesn't bark or try to get my attention again. The real mystery is: How the hell does a dog end up in the hallway on the 33rd floor without its owner? Where the hell is the owner? Dead? Passed out? High off his gourd?

Anyway, my realtor returns with a member of the building's security, a man less puzzled or troubled by this scenario than one the other day in which someone was so high he left a wad of cash and his ID at the pool.

So as we stand there freaked out about this dog and wondering whether the owner is alive or dead, the security guard is nonchalantly gossiping about the crazy shit he's seen owners do. That's all well and good, we're thinking, but leaving money at the pool ranks a little bit lower than a freaking dog roaming the hallways, and an open door to a penthouse with a wallet and keys on the counter.

Well, we did all we could do and then left in the hands of building security. But we spent the whole ride home trying to solve this riddle: How did a dog end up in the hallway without his owner realizing it and where is the owner?

This is how busy and frazzled I am—I didn't even realize that my column came out a week ago. Juli B July Picks

Okay, back to work.

Oh, I spotted Mark Badgley and James Mischka, aka Badgley Mischka, lunching at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach while I was doing the same this afternoon—hey it was business. It's Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week here now (swimwear), but I'm so busy I can't cover it. Frankly I didn't have any clue that Badgley Mischka was even doing swimwear. Some fashionista I am. . .

Holy Exhaustion, Batman

Just today I stopped living out of a suitcase. But that was only after spending Thursday through Sunday at Acqualina. The resort is truly divine, like all Rosewood
properties.

When I was a travel mag editor in L.A. I had the privilege of staying atLas Ventanas al Paraiso, and overall, that remains the most staggeringly perfect resort I've ever been to.

I am thoroughly spent and the work just keeps coming, which I am not complaining about, but I'm gettting to the point where I don't know how I am going to accomplish everything on my plate. I've got countless assignments, meetings, pitches etc. due, and I've got to find a more permanent place to live.

My to-do list is endless; my computer useless until I get some damn obsolete chip that probably won't even work anyway; my world is spinning. And for a type A control freak, this is not a good thing. I am relieved to have a space that is my own, at least for a month, but since I'm so regimented, I'm suffering from like organizational withdrawl or something.

In Jackassville, my life was boring but I had my routine downpat. I had a nice little workspace, didn't have to do much by way of cleaning and housekeeping, and got to work with our three little pooches twittering at my feet. Now I'm on my friend's laptop that I am a complete moron at using and my organized, borderline-OCD world is just gone. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it; that's the beautiful irony—I'm totally out of control of being in control.

That's just the way life is.

No Rest for the Weary

So you all are aware of my sleeping problems—earplugs, eye mask, pitch black, the whole nine. And it wasn't until late in the day that I realized that my friend didn't have blinds in her bedroom. Then, as I made the bed, I realized it was a water bed. Uh, oh. However I slept surprisingly well; until noon actually, as I'd been up since three a.m. getting settled.

Then a trip to the Apple store today revealed that they don't even make the wireless card for my G4 anymore—it's about 5 years old—so thank God Stace left her laptop. Slight problem though; all my work docs are on my desktop. So I have no e-mail access to my work docs and the wireless card that I ordered won't get here for about a week. So basically, I'm fucked.

Oh well, guess that means it's vacation time. Either that or I will have to call one of my computer savvy friends and bribe him to come over and do some magic.

Tomorrow I am off to the resort and the beach, though right now I'm looking at the water and it's lightening, thundering and pouring rain. It's hurricane season after all, bienvenidos a miami.

I am FINALLY settled in South Beach by way of Palm Beach. The good news? I can bring Wally and he can stay with me here at my friend's pad and at Acqualina (for a mere $100). The bad news? My shoes, handbags and clothes do not yet have a home. I might have to make a trip to BBB and buy some kind of cheap contraption for them. . .I am exhausted. More TK when I am unpacked and social.

Ciao to the South

Well, it's my last official day in Jackassville. Thank God. How did I spend it? Loading up on a month's worth of supplies at BJ's. Dad went for the new printer but no so much for the Chopard watch.

Tonight we'll dine at Ruth's Chris in Ponte Vedra Beach; meet some friends afterwards and then call it a night. Tomorrow I'll drive to Palm Beach, spend the night there and then hit South Beach in the morning to move into my friend's swanky digs while she's in Bali. I'd rather be in Bali too. . . . The next time you hear from me, hopefully there will be something exciting to report.

Huh?

I had a tres bizarre dream last night.

I awoke to find Naomi Campbell in my bathroom, eating the emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds out of one of my pendants. Instead of asking the pugnacious supermodel what the hell she was doing there, I asked her a question with real gravitas:

"Naomi what are you doing? How many calories are in those?"

"Oh, practically none, you know, because you can't chew them," she replied.

Leave it to this journo to ask the really important questions. I'm sure this dream was prompted by the fact that I packed my jewelry last night, but no idea why Naomi entered the picture.


On another note, I just finished a really funny, genuinely enjoyable chick-lit/beach book by the girl who wrote Legally Blonde. It's called School of Fortune; it's in paperback and it's laugh-out-loud funny.

Married to the Marsupials

CJ, I think you make such a valid point in your comment that it's worth a post. This is a subject that I've often pondered and is perhaps the one reason I am thankful to be single.

I look at my married friends who are popping out babies, taking care of them all day, doing their husband's laundry and then cooking them dinner. I feel sorry for them, and it almost breaks my heart to see so many of them settling for lives that are straight out of Leave it to Beaver. However, most of my married girlfriends do not work. So I think the men feel even more entitled to expect exactly what you are speaking of, and they think that because they earn the money, they are entitled to virtually enslave their wives.

It's like feminism has completely been obliterated. At least when you work, you have some sense of independence. My advice to you, if you are a working mommy, is to sit your husband down and say, "Look, I work twice as hard as you, so pick up some of the slack, buster." Or at the very least, get him to hire you some damned help. That's the least you deserve.

All of my parents friends worked and raised children. I watch these young couples today, my friends exhausted after a day of baby-manning, the husband expecting a home-cooked meal as soon as he walks in the door, and think to myself, maybe being single isn't so bad after all.

You are right, my parents set great examples, they both work and were always on equal footing. My mom and dad share the chores, finances and social calendars equally. Mom doesn't cook; dad doesn't mind. Dad shops for groceries and picks up his own dry-cleaning. And brings home a bouquet of roses from the farmer's market every Friday. Mom does what she wants, when she wants and so does dad. And they are completely in love after 36 years. They are, in short, the perfect couple, impossible to live up to, so I have pretty much given up trying to live up to them in that dept.

Therefore, it's nearly impossible to find a man who would treat me the same way my dad treats my mom. And I don't want kids, am "too much" for guys my age to handle, and expect a lot from a partner, all of which leads me to believe I need an older man. Now if only I could find one who wasn't off-limits. . . .

Ahh, I see that someone at the lovely Miami Herald is reading the blog again. What your own paper is boring you? What a shocker! Perhaps you should think of bringing your coverage into the 21st century . . . there actually is unique, fun stuff happening in that city of yours. Too bad you have nobody to cover it.

The only things in my life that are not a complete frazzled mess right now are: my shoes, which are now all Ziploc-ed and ready to go (they fit perfectly—okay barely—in my large Skull and Bones tote, JPS;) my handbags, ditto; my car, sparkling like the top of the Chrysler building; my desk and work materials, which are already in my car. Now onto the hard parts—jewelry, toiletries, linens and clothes. And oh yeah, my love life is absolutely 100% clean cause I ain't got one. So that's pretty cut and dry.

Guys and low-maint girls don't understand this, but packing is extremely traumatic especially when it's for a month. And especially when you don't know what exactly the month will hold. Casual nights? Black-tie affairs? Fashion shows? Anything is possible and like a good Girl Scout, I must be prepared for all situations.

Today is my parents' 36th wedding anniversary.

As a gift, my dad had our jeweler ship him 5 dazzling diamond bracelets and then this morning, he left the boxes and cards by the coffeemaker for my mom—telling her to choose the one she liked best—so that she would see them first thing in the morning.

What I don't understand is how a generation of men like my dad—men with generosity, morals, taste, humor, success, humility and kindness—have given way to a generation of douchebags. Douchebags and asshats who think women are expendable or worthless or albatrosses. Where have the good old days gone. I often think I was born into the wrong generation. Sure, my potty mouth may have gotten me into trouble, but I'd be much more comfortable in the days of garden parties, African-American nannies, drivers and yachts.

Does such romanticism exist for people my age? Not that I've heard of. Christ, my parents will be lucky to live long enough to see me get married, let alone celebrate a substantial anniversary.

The Final Four

Lordy, I am tired. I'm leaving Sunday a.m. for South Beach, stopping in Palm Beach for a visit, and then commencing my month-long sublet. No idea where this crazy-ass adventure called life will take me after that.

Yet I've not begun to pack. Anything. And I am so anal about packing that this represents a serious form of procrastination/self-sabotage. The most preparation I have done is cleaned my car, and I scrubbed that sucker from top to bottom. You could operate in it thanks to the amount of antibacterial wipes I employed.

So I get to MIA Sunday, move into my friend's pad Monday and then Wednesday momsy, popsicle and their friends are coming down for their annual 4th of July TEP-fest. We are staying at the divine Acqualina; so I'm not complaining. But I think I will actually have work to do that week, so I haven't quite figured out how that will come to pass. I suppose I need a laptop.

BTW, has anyone been tuning into HBO's John from Cincinnati? I'm so addicted; it's like Six Feet Under at the beach with a twist of mysticism. Rad.

Girls and Boys

Brother please don't read this post, for your own good.

So here's a little story I've got to tell about, well, about my previous two posts. This is what went down. This new friend T. and I go out with some of my old-school friends Friday night—and we're talking about guys I've known for 25 years. I'd confessed to her that I'd always had a crush on one of the boys, P., but that nothing had ever happened.

Cut to about five hours later; we're at a club at the beach where P. has brought in Biz Markie to DJ. My guy friend K. who drove us out there, decides that instead of driving back downtown from the beach—about 30 minutes—we'll go crash at this hotel where P. rented a bunch of rooms. Girlfriend T. voices no objections. Several joints later, K. ends up getting T. and me a hotel room of our own. Next thing we know P., my crush, is lying in bed between us just shooting the shit. Eventually, I got tired and had my head turned away from them, trying to sleep, but I couldn't sleep because I could hear the two of them hooking up beside me.

T. who, earlier at dinner with my parents, told them she'd never even seen cocaine, proceeds to do it all-night with K. She wakes me up the next morning, jacked, and says, "We need to get out of here now."

Oh-kay, I think, this isn't exactly NYC we're talking about here. K. says wait for the others to wake up and we'll drive you. But no she needs to go, now. So she calls about four cabs as if the hotel is on fire. On the way home, I confronted her about the coke lie and said, "So did P. put the moves on you?"

"Oh, yeah, she says casually, but I just wasn't having it."

Bullshit, I thought, and got the pit of dread. So later in the day, I called our mutual friend who introduced us, told her the story and said, "Is T. the type of girl who would do something like that? I mean, that's like the cardinal rule of girl-friendship!"

Yeah, the friend says, she would totally do that. That's her MO. So I confronted T. the next day, she claimed she didn't remember anything, which is exactly what our mutual friend said she would say, and then called my friends "vile."

Now, it's one thing to hook-up with your friend's crush, lie about doing drugs, lie to you about hooking up with said crush, but now she turns it around on my friends. My friends who I've known basically my entire life?

I don't think so, honey. Keep your friends close and your frenemies closer. Oh, and I neglected to mention that this ex-friend has a notorious reputation for sleeping around, dating men twice her age and just generally whoring herself out.

I have enough friends whom I trust with my life. I don't need one I can't even trust in the most mundane situations.

And in case you didn't already realize this, I'm not someone you want to cross in general. But most especially, if you are a lawyer in the same town as my dad, who's been practicing here for more than 30 years, knows every judge and lawyer in town, and doesn't take well to people fucking with his daughter.

The answer to yesterday's quandary is: Go with your gut, and trust the people who you've known your life as opposed to those who you've known less than a month.

In the wise words of Oprah, "Once somebody shows you their true colors, pay attention." Or something like that.

The cardinal rule of girl-friendship: Not hooking up with a guy you've admitted to crushing on, no? I don't care how much alcohol is involved.

The question is, can you trust this person again, especially when they deny that it happened.

Personally, I like to be able to trust my friends in any type of situation. What to do? Especially if you really like the girlfriend?

You know, if it's not the asshat reading my blog in Chicago, then I think I have a serious e-stalker. Who reads someone's blog for 2 hours? Christ, I didn't even realize I had 30 pages to view.

Honestly, Chicago person, I am really not that interesting. You should try reading a book.

Anonymous Idiots

I received this interesting yet insulting e-mail in my inbox today:

Hi, I sometimes read your writings because my 34 year old son seems to be fascinated with your ramblings. For him, you're a typical example of what is out there and why it is so difficult to meet a decent woman. As far as I'm concerned, I have difficulty believing that you're not spoofing an imaginary life.

Now, if you are serious, you may want to stop thinking only of yourself and wonder how can you be helpful in some way. You would need a reality check. Even Prince William of England worked in construction in Latin America helping to build for the poor. Another positive example is Angelina Jolie. I don't think she sits around worrying about her latest wrinkle or fancy shoes. There are loads of places which could use volunteers and it could be very illuminating for you to try to helpful. Totally self-absorbed people are never happy and material purchases only bring a temporary thrill. You need to remember that one cannot be buried with money, but good deeds live on in others.

Jill Bauer is a very down to earth, unpretentious person who picks topics of general interest and writes well. She deserved to get the Herald job.

I wish you well.

Of course, I had to respond, even though I have no idea who this Jill Bauer person is.

Well,
Anonymous Judith. If you don't like me, don't read. FYI, I do contribute generously to charitable organizations.

Many people find my so-called ramblings helpful, as I deal not only with superficial issues of shopping, etc. but serious issues such as self-esteem issues, therapy and depression that affect millions of people.

And FYI, those who know the "real" me—for my blog is not an imaginary life, but a satirical artistic endeavor—would be the first to tell you that I am a loyal, generous, thoughtful, kind, funny and warm friend and family member.

So like I said, you don't like me, don't read me. Go read your friend's column in what is arguably the worst newspaper in any major metropolitan area. And your son would be lucky to have a smart, creative, sophisticated, well-educated, talented and generous woman such as myself. If he can't find the right woman at 34 years old, perhaps it's time for him to be "self-absorbed" and think about what he is doing wrong. And perhaps it's time for you to examine why you think you are the bigger person while simultaneously insulting someone you don't know.

Ta-da. What, Judith, you think a writer won't have the last word? And, Jesus, do I feel sorry for your son.

Christ, I am fucking TIRED. This new medication I am on, Lamictal, is taken in gradual doses. You start at 25 mgs a day and culminate at 100. I just started the 100s yesterday and it seems to be making me reeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy tired. I'm tired when I wake up; tired when I'm at the gym; tired after I've had my two Diet Snapples; tired, tired, tired.

Luckily I go to the head shrinker tomorrow, and he will be able to tell me if that is one of the side-effects. And then he can give me more drugs. Drugs are good; don't believe the hype.

I also get my Botox fill tomorrow, before I take off again for Miami. I am also having a glycolic peel, which I have never had before and I hear can hurt. But as I've said before, beauty is pain, my friends.

Have I mentioned how tired I am? I am getting in bed to read. Cause I'm. Fucking. Tired.

I think the asshat is now reading this blog, as my readership in Chicago has suddenly spiked.

Is that you asshat?

If so, I hope you are still on the wagon and on the road to recovery, even though you treated me like shit on a stick.

So even though I consider myself to be a complete failure in my career, most of my friends (who work) are indeed very successful.

And given that I was always the one pegged since birth to be famous, successful and independently wealthy by this age—and given that I'm sooooo not any of those things—you'd think I'd be jealous of their success. But I'm not. I'm very proud of my successful friends, most especially those who have chosen to follow their dreams and do what they love. Perhaps these friends can give me pointers on what I am doing wrong.

Anyway, here's another one of my friend's success stories. Really, he's my brother's friend, but mine too. He's got a fab restaurant in downtown Jacksonville that everyone raves about, and soon it will be open for dinner. It's called Chew, and for those of you local yokels, check it out.

Also, I've decided to start my own blog/web site about all the things I love—shopping, fashion, resorts, spas, beauty products, travel, parties etc. But I really don't want to do the whole Blogger thing.

So if there are any readers out there who also happen to know how to design web pages, hook a sister up and email me.

This is what my week consists of, and I have other non-boring stuff to write about, but I must protect the guilty. Let's just say it was another weekend of police-involvement, crazy ass Nicole, and waking up in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment because we were too stoned to drive home. I hadn't smoked in like a year, so cut me some slack.

Oh, and I did land myself a fall-back marriage partner. You know the whole, "If we're not married by age 40, we'll just do it," Friends thing.


Today I took my wretched, hateful, hated, hunk of Nazi steel in for a "service type B," which my dad insists on me getting even though it costs like $500. Have I told you how much I hate my car? Oh, yes, I believe I have. So to me, that $500 would be better spent on a pair of summer Choos.

Tomorrow I have three stories to write.

Thursday it's more Botox and a peel, which I've never had but am looking forward to. Then later in the day, it's head-shrinking time. Must get my meds before heading back to Miami.

Friday is my first gyno appt. in like two years. Hey, when you're practically celibate, there really is no reason to go there.

Xanax and Barnes & Noble

For about a year after I realized my book wasn't going to be published, I dared not enter a bookstore, because if I did, I would start crying like a crazy chick. I sometimes even teared up merely passing the window displays of bookstores. I would stand there and think, "Jesus, look at all this crap people sell, and I can't even sell my crap, which I know is better than their crap."

And of course the book's course of events led to the downward spiral that caused me to leave New York, forsake writing, publishing and magazines, and move to Miami to get a "real job." Which of course made me realize how I was literally soulless without my writing, and having a boring "real job" made me more positive than ever that this is what I was meant to do. (Save your catty comments, I know I'm not Virginia Woolf. I'm not trying to be.)

It was only after I left NYC that I could enter a Barnes & Noble without the fear of crying. But then when I was in Miami, and I began venturing back into bookstores, I had these weird visceral reactions. I would get dizzy, lighthearted and short of breath. I would be unsteady on my feet. I felt the need to race through there and get to my car, ASAP.

It wasn't until a few months later that I realized I was having anxiety attacks each and every time I entered a bookstore. These pretty, colorful tomes were taunting me, screaming, "We got published and you didn't, and look at how crappy our book is! Ha, you total loser."

Well, I read several books a week and don't have the patience to order online, so bookstores are unavoidable. Today I was out of books; had to trek to B&N. And before I knew it, there was the nausea, the unsteadiness, the utter sadness, the pit of dread. And when I pulled into my garage and looked at the B&N bag, I just started crying. I couldn't help it.

I am trying to live in the moment here and focus on my future and my freelance career that is keeping me very busy, but for me, the non-publication of my book is like the death of a boyfriend or a lover—the insurmountable loss of something that you poured your heart, soul, time and money into all for naught. Or, more appropriately, it is the death of my dreams.

And upon reflection, I still can't say for sure that writing it was a mistake, because some good things did come out of it. But I do think that this rejection, especially since it was on a Page-Six-level public scale, is one that I may never get over.

Or maybe I will, when I write another one, or edit the 500 pages I have into something coherent. My July respite in South Beach may be just the place to do that. Because even though I can be a whiny, sensitive girly-girl, I'm also a tough chick, unafraid to kick ass, who can conquer pretty much anything. So perhaps there's hope for my dreams yet.

Charity

Per my do-gooder brother, please read the following. And if you feel so inclined to donate, please do so.

There is this kid named Sanjay who is trying to help polio (can you even believe brother is vacationing where there is still polio?) people in India.

Read about him here.

In my brother's words: "He is trying to buy a hemoglobin machine for the village. He gives free
health care to polio patients and rural villagers on the weekends. It would
be the equivalent of driving to Orlando [a two hour drive from where I am] every Sunday on dirt roads even though you have a full-time job and 2 kids. He's made children walk again
for the first time and its the only healthcare these people have. Here's my
experience with him.

Here is the link for Palms (I'm guessing that's his charity). . Click on "Special Projects."

They're trying to raise only $3,000 to send a woman to Tanzania to work with
crippled orphans, and she can't go unless they raise that amount.

I'm going to be charitable and donate; I need all the good karma I can get right now. And you cheap bastards donate too. A dollar or two makes a huge difference in India. They can like live on that for a day.

Oh and check out my brother's amazing pictures and please comment and encourage him to take this up professionally; natch he won't listen to his sister or his parents. But he very well may listen to strangers.

Best Quote Ever

You all know how much I love The Ellen DeGeneres Show, and she has this recurring feature where she calls up this 80-something-year-old woman in Austin, Texas named Gladys.

The first time she called Gladys, Gladys revealed the best. quote. ever.
She said, in response to a completely unrelated question by Ellen, "Listen, I'll be honest with you I love Jesus, but I drink a little."

Watch the video here.

And I'm OUT

Thank God, Ganesh, Buddha, hell, even Jesus Christ. I am finally out of this podunk town.

As it turns out, my very good friend with an amazing apartment in South Beach is going to Bali for the month of July. Her apartment would be sitting empty. I need a sublet. Connect the dots, and you'll find me back in Miami Beach in July, looking for a more permanent housing situation.

Hallelujah. Full-time job or not, this girl is just not meant for a town where only one place sells La Mer and not even one shop carries Manolos.

Dish's Dream Comes True

What a day/trip New York turned out to be. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Tuesday, was in the city by 10 a.m.; at Norman Landsberg by 12; and eating lunch at Bergdorf's by 1:30. Then it was dinner with the girls at Dos Caminos, where we had a grand old time as usual.

It was a fabulous New York day that was made oh so much better with the knowledge that I—after dreaming about this moment for almost 16 years—had an appointment at Conde Nast the following day.

I have been a Conde junkie for more than half of my life; it was Vogue and Allure that inspired me to want to write for magazines. My first clip was a letter to the editor in Vogue when I was 16; my cake at my high school graduation party was a mock-up Vogue cover, replete with headlines I wrote. Yes, I'm a total magazine geek.

For those of you outside the media, 4 Times Square—the Conde building—is Mecca for most aspiring magazine journalists. It's Jerusalem to me. And Wednesday I sat outside the offices of Vanity Fair, just breathing it in, wondering how the hell I got there after all these years. Sixteen years of dreaming about that very moment and six years of living in New York and not getting even a toe into the company's door, and there I was. Finally.

But let's back up and start at 10 a.m. that morning, when I had my hair Japanese-straightened at Momotaro. My dress, heels and makeup were in my Bergdorf's shopping bag. (Thankfully, I had found out about the appointment as soon as I arrived in NYC, so I had time to buy a dress.) After I finished with the hair, changed and did my makeup in their bathroom, it was early. So I went to Saks for lunch.

On my way out, on my way to Mecca, er, Jerusalem, Ted Koppel got into the elevator. Holy shit, I thought. And merely by his presence, my pre-interview nerves were settled. You all know how I believe in karma and coincidences. So there I was, on my way to the journalistic pinnacle that I had always strived to reach and one of America's most legendary journalists was literally standing in front of me. If that's not a sign, then, hell, I don't know what is.

He held the door for me on the way out. I said, "Thank you sir. You do great work, and I am a big admirer."

"Thank you," Mr. Koppel replied.

And then I hailed a cab to 4 Times Square. It was a true Mary Tyler Moore moment. If I wasn't wearing four inch heels, I think I would have jumped for joy. Moments of pure happiness like that are so rare.

Now it's back to reality; sitting at my desk, punching out assignments while my parents are leaving for their friends' home in the Bahamas on a private jet tomorrow.

I get the distinct pleasure of watching the mutts and the house in this craptastic town while they get to sun themselves in the Bahamas.

Then again, they didn't get to go to Mecca, and to breathe the same air that Anna Wintour breathes, so I guess it all evens out.

It appears that my brother may have finally lost his shit in India. If you thought you and your sibling were polar opposites; compare and contrast my brother and me.

He's been there since December, so it's only natural that he'd lose his marbles at least once, what with the malaria, diarrhea, poverty, bad water, monsoons, etc.

On an even more shocking note, it appears that I actually can have fun in this ass-backwards, podunk town. Last night went to dinner with a fun group of girls—holla—at Ruth's Chris out at Ponte Vedra Beach and then onto a cheesy bar, where we danced to cheesy music. And I ran into an old high school crush in line.

He recognized me right away, which is a little offensive, since I like to think I am a lot better looking now. Then again, in the inimitable words of Elaine Benes, it's entirely possible that I'm not as attractive as I think I am.

Oh well. I try my best.

I will write up my NYC adventures when I feel it's safe to do so, which, if there is a God out there should be soon. I. Really. Freaking. Hope. So. Really. My life is completely in limbo right now and it would be nice to stop swinging.

Diamonds

Hey, I actually posted on Fashionosophy! Hail Mary. Or Ruth. Or whomever this Jewess is supposed to hail.

You know, God damn. Whoever said "the waiting is the hardest part" sure knew what the hell they were talking about.

Anyway, go get yourself a tanning butler or a facial: Juli B Beauty Picks.

World Weary

Note to self: Do not ever, ever again take a night flight from LaGuardia. What the hell was I thinking? After six years of traveling this route, this gal should've known better. Oy jet lag.

Anywho, I will write up my experience when it is safe to do so. . .I think I need to keep things on the DL for now.

I got to see most of the girls though, most of whom are now single again. Figures, when I move away they are all coupled up; when I go back to visit they are all single.



In the meantime, amuse yourselves with this Juli B Swimwear story. And I cannot remember whether I already linked to this, so whatevs, I will do so again: Juli B June Picks.

Leaving for NYC tomorrow at 5 a.m. (don't ask) to see friends and get my hair fix. Back late Wednesday night and then another deadline. Eventually, I'll find some time to do something.

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.