The Final Countdown

Eight days till the big Georgia-Florida football game and the even bigger annual Green party in honor of the Gators' victory.

Seven days till I am reunited with the love of my life, Wally, and my crazy-ass friends in Jacksonville, Crazy Fun Weekend.

Six days till I go to Palm Beach, one of my favorite locales and stay with Lynn and Alan, two of my favorite people. Haters and Lovers

Five days till I have at least 50 clean pages of my second book completed and edited.

Four days till the Botox fully kicks in. Already I have no more crow's feet and can barely scrunch my eyebrows together and that pleases me immensly. Alex Kuczynski be damned. My ass she's given up cosmetic dermatology. Her face doesn't move at all.

Which means 10 days until I can go back for more botulinum toxin in the hideous horizontal line that spans my forehead and get Restylane in my frown lines to boot.

And speaking of Wally, apparently, once he turned 11, his testosterone skyrocketed and he's been humping Stella and Tessie, of Tangled up in Tessie Lou Blue fame, like there is no tomorrow. Now I'm about to render him celibate again.

I got nothing else. I gotta go write.

Media Mongrels

One of the most loathsome qualities of the New York media is its obsession with schadenfreude. Members of the media, especially underlings or marginally successful people, take immense delight in the failures and foibles of their former coworkers or ex-compatriots.

I found this out firsthand when I wrote Dishalicious, but I knew what I was getting into and didn't much care, because here is the truth: Most members of the print media are pathetic, schlumpy, bitter, jealous, untalented, mildly-retarded, dullards. I'm not speaking of the Conde Nasties, the Hearsties, the AmEx kids or the like. I'm speaking mainly of the Gawkettes, Gawker the tabloiders, the local paper people, etc.

One of my main themes in Dishalicious is that it's not as glamorous on the inside as you may think. In fact, it's decidedly pedestrian. You will meet smarter people at the DMV than you will in the bullpens of Us Weekly or In Touch.

But of course there are a few standouts, people who despite the amoral atmosphere, maintain an air of dignity and sophistication that seem to be a part of their character. One of these people, in my humble opinion, is Jared Paul Stern, Night & Day, who is a legendary New York media figure. Of late, he has had his troubles and been cast outside of the circles he was very much on the inside of for most of his New York career. Gawker's biased coverage.

Apparently, there was some sort of alleged "payola" scandal that arose while he was writing for Page Six, which he was an integral part of for years. Recently, he sold his book about the annals of gossipland, see yesterday's Observer article on his book deal. I didn't follow this Ron Burkle scandal closely, namely, because I'd worked with Jared at Star, and found him to be quite sweet, humble and upstanding, three qualities in short supply in tabloidland. So I think, to say the least, that he's gotten a bum rap of late. And I wish him well on his book deal and all things to come. And Gawker, which just seems to be getting bitchier by the day, should just lay the hell off people every once in a while.

It is horrifying that his wife has to work in a factory, hello. How would you like to work in a factory instead of blogging from your studio walk-up, Gawker editor??? And one day, all you Page Sixers and Gawkers with your ink-stained hands, shoddy wardrobes and limited vocabularies will be on the receiving end of your snarkiness, and trust me, it ain't pretty.

Addictions

I seem to have an addictive personality and this blog has become an addiction, whether healthy or unhealthy, I don't know. Dr. L. says, regarding the whole "blog thingamajig," as she calls it, "I just don't understand the benefit of people purging their lives into the void of cyberspace. But, whatever."

I think the benefit is just that; it's a purging of the soul for those of us who do not have other outlets. Sure, all bloggers, esp. formally trained journalists such as myself, would love to have a book deal or a column. But we don't, so we do this. And, in fact, some famous authors/columnists/journalists do actually have columns and/or book deals and still blog, so there must be something to it.

Anywho, last night while "baby-sitting"--as predicted, the extent of my contribution was walking the dog--Daryl commented how funny it was how my parents know every detail of my life. And if you're a regular reader, you know that my parents, in fact, do know almost every detail of my life and I have a very open, close relationship with them, which I think is healthy. My parents are very cool, and, in fact, are very close with lots of my friends and I'm very close with lots of their friends. That's just how we roll.

OK, so Daryl says, "You know when you were younger you were just the opposite; you never told your parents anything and you'd always get mad when they asked you personal questions."

A fair point, but most teens/adolescents go through that phase. Then he started cracking up and said, "I remember once that you were so mean to your parents that they made you wear a sign to the movies that said, 'I Love and Respect My Parents.'"

"What? They SO did not do that Daryl! I do NOT remember that at all--how old was I?"

Daryl and Dana have known me since birth. "You were like 13."

"Uh, uh. No way. I'd remember that."

"I swear, Dana told me and I remember cracking up for a week. You must have repressed it."

"Sweetie, I've been in therapy for 10 years--I repress nothing."

"Well, maybe it was just a threat then..."

"It had to be a threat. I would remember. And there is NO WAY mom and dad would let me go out in public looking like that."

Dana gets home and Daryl says, "Do you remember when Stephanie told her parents to fuck off or something and they made her wear..."

Dana completes his thought, "A sign that read, 'I Love and Respect My Parents!!!"

We all started cracking up, but I still contended that it must have been a mere threat by the 'rents, for I would definitely remember a humiliating experience like that.

I e-mailed mom this a.m. for a clarification, and as usual, my memory reigns supreme, fuckwads:

Nancy says, "Now about Dana and Daryl’s memories...That is one of the most absurd things I have ever heard!!! Actually, it is crazy. You don’t for a moment think we would have done something like that??? Very weird. What even brought that up????"

A Question for You, Reader

I've noticed that a great deal of you are entering my page through this post: Southern Style Smackdown? Bring it on.

Can one of you explain how/why? I'm not that Internet savvy, so please solve this mystery for me by commenting.

My hand hurts from typing; 27 pages of the second novel in 4 days.

My brother has bought a one-way ticket to India on Kuwaiti Air.

Wally's World

A big, fat happy birthday to my beloved Wally, who is 11 years old today. This is his first birthday I haven't been with him. And traditionally I have fed him a special dinner that included meat. For his 5th birthday in NYC, I got him a burger from Wollensky's. Who says I'm not nurturing?

However, since he's at home with mom and dad, and mom's a vegetarian and dad subsists solely on Lean Cuisine frozen dinners and odd, homemade soup concoctions, I don't think Wally will be having a carnivorous birthday this year:( I have instructed mom to give him the "meatiest tasting" faux-meat product they have.

Poor booger. Only two more weeks till we are reunited. Maybe he won't recognize me due to the Botox;)

I bit the Botox bullet yesterday, finally. It was utterly painless and I have no bruising whatsoever. My friends think I am crazy, because they are most certainly behind the beauty times, but it's all about preventative maintenance, darlings. If your muscles are paralyzed, no new lines can form, hellooo. I will post before and after pictures once the effects are optimal. You start to see results in a few days, but they max out in two weeks.

There is minimal recovery time; for four hours you cannot lie down, put makeup on the area or exercise. You are supposed to smile and frown often to circulate the toxins or engage the muscles or something. So I was talking on the phone, driving home, smiling and frowning like a maniac. God knows what my fellow drivers thought...

Dog Days Are Here Again

Meet Wally; the only man I will ever truly love limitlessly. He shall be back in my bed after I go home for the big Florida-Georgia party Halloween weekend. The Nazi regime that is my condo board can go shove their poles up their asses until they hit something solid as far as I'm concerned. Thanks to dad, a hissy fit that scared the wits out of my decrepit landlord and a legal loophole, I am out of my condo Dec. 31 at the latest. Now, girls, I need some suggestions for a chic, designer doggy tote that looks like a handbag so I can smuggle him in and out of the building undetected by the omnipresent cameras. I welcome your comments, please.

Double Happiness

I caught the sublime French movie Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain a few days ago for the second time. If you haven't seen this film, it's about a quirky young woman who, due to a childhood of solitude and isolation, has learned to find pleasure in the smallest of things. One of the funnest aspects of the subtitled film is that each character is introduced by the narrator in a voiceover listing his or her dislikes and likes:

"Amélie's mother, a school mistress from Grugeon, has always had shakey nerves.She dislikes puckered fingers in the bath, having her hands touched by strangers, and pillow marks on her cheek in the morning. Amandine Pouline likes figure skaters' coustumes on TV, polishing the parquet, emptying her handbag, cleanign it out, and putting everything back."

I don't know about you, but there are certain thematic elements in my life, and just before watching this movie, I'd had a discussion with Dr. L., who said, in more eloquent words, "Do what makes you happy; what fills you up and gives you pleasure. This is not so difficult."

So I had been thinking about what actually makes me happy, gives me genuine pleasure and fills me up spiritually. And then I watched this movie, which, in essence is about the same things. Amelie does what makes her happy and tries to do the same for the others in the movie. Really, it's harder than it sounds to just do what makes you happy, but anywho, here is my list, a la Amelie.

Dogs, dogs, and more dogs. All dogs--cute, ugly, mutts, but especially Wally.

The beach.

Art, both appreciating and doing it.

Fashion, clothes, jewelry and fashion magazines.

Being around my friends and family.

Traveling.

Reading.

Writing.

Partying like there is no tomorrow, because maybe there isn't.

Taxis.

New York.

Grooming and beauty products. Only girls can understand the pleasure of products, the brilliance of Sephora, the divinity that is a fabulous new moisturizer, mascara or lip gloss.

Laughter and a sarcastic since of humor, to wit: Larry David, Woody Allen, Seinfeld, Arrested Development, Entourage, Frasier, David Sedaris.

I can think of more, but I must go stretch. And I'm off to Chicago tonight in the pursuit of happiness in the form of friends, family, fabulous foods, art and architecture.

Day of Atonement

Yesterday was Yom Kippur, the "Day of Atonement," wherein Jews are supposed to repent for their sins and ask for forgiveness. I tried that last year; it didn't work. In fact, I'm pretty sure it backfired. Last year, I atoned for every single one of my sins, in writing no less, and the next 11 months proceeded to be even crappier. So fuck that.

Yesterday I went apartment hunting with my non-Jewish realtor. All of the sudden he looks at me and says in his adorable, gay, southern voice, "Wait a second, honey, aren't you supposed to be atoning for your sins?"

"I am," I cried. "I am atoning for the fact that I abandoned my dog for the wrong apartment, I'm begging forgiveness for doing so and I'm trying to rectify the situation!!"

What more could God ask for?

Hasta Lavista, Brickell

A big Allo to all my new Australian readers; I would love to visit your part of the world sometime soon.
Yesterday I gave my 30-day's notice to my landlord that I would be vacating the premises by midnight, Oct. 31. I'm coming home to collect Wally and moving to South Beach, where the young, Jewish and stylish roam free. My landlord has not responded to my phone calls, so I've gotten a real estate lawyer involved and consequently, am going to nail his old, decrepit, German ass to the poorly shod walls.

On another note, you simply must read what my "fan" Leandro has written about me. Particularly hilarious are the parts where she advises me to get a makeover so I can go from "pretty to beautiful" and the part where she tells me to get a subscriptiton to NetFlix. I wonder what kind of meds she is on? Freaking priceless. I love it. I am heading to Chicago on Friday and have a busy week of apartment hunting, so I don't know how much I will post. If you have any apartment leads on West Ave or Bay Dr., send them my way...
LeandroToro Juicy Gossip and Fun!
In her defense, I'm pretty sure she's Canadian. And in my defense, drugs are FUN.


Page 623 -- Bonnie Fuller, Stephanie Green, Dishing from Dishalicious
Filed Under: Bonnie Fuller

(source: www.cbc.ca)

PHENOMENALLY FOCUSED AND HARD-WORKING BONNIE FULLER, EDITORIAL DIRECTOR OF AMERICAN MEDIA, INC.

* * * * *



(source: www.dishalicious.blogspot.com)

STEPHANIE GREEN, FORMER RESEARCH ASSISTANT AT AMI, AUTHOR OF A FICTION NOVEL, DISHALICIOUS


Stephanie Green has replied to our posting about her on her website as follows:



Thursday, August 24, 2006

Wow, It's weird being written about by retards

Keep in mind that the book is fiction and I only stumbled upon this link through a function of my site tracker. This is pretty unbelievable dreck, but worth some shits and giggles. BTW, this "writer" takes offense at the fact that I use expletives in my writing. Um, OK, what can I say? I have the manners of a Miss Porter's graduate and the mouth of a sailor.




Our comments on her comments:

* * * * *

We stand by our position:

PROFESSIONALISM

We found Stephanic Green a compelling author based on the excerpt she published from her novel Dishalicious on her site. Wonderful!

Nonetheless, we still maintain that it is (temporary) career suicide for someone with two degrees in journalism to (a) attempt to publish a fictional book about a top editor; (b) publish material which has many four-letter words (perhaps it gives flavor to the story, what do we know); (c) publish what appears to be semi-autobiographical material that describes (mild but regular) illegal drug use by the author.

Is that professional? Is that the way to act to gain respect of peers? All the bloggers may love it, it's part of the "rough and tumble" of blogging (to paraphrase President Clinton talking about politics).

Ms. Green gives the impression she feels she is above glossy gossip tabloids. Nothing wrong with that.

But where is Ms. Green planning to work? If one were, say, seeking a position at Vogue, is this what one would present to Anna Wintour as part of a resume?

We take no offense with Ms. Green's comments -- we enjoyed her writing.

Moving on from that, as Ms. Green put her work (about a fictional life) on her site for viewing -- we are just commenting.

Do we work in the book/magazine/publishing industry? No. We're just guessing that this isn't the way to gain respect in the industry. (But again, what do we know,)

Do we ourselves have "bad manners" in commenting in this way? Perhaps.

Though Ms. Green emphasizes this is a work of fiction, the attraction of her work is that others simultaneously suggest it is thinly-veiled biographical material.

So we feel sad to see such an obviously intelligent and talented person commit (temporary) career suicide. (She's presently studying for a position in real estate.)

SELF-DEFEATING

What's the point of working to get a front-page-story by-line in Star magazine (OK it's all fiction) on a scoop re Brad and Angelina if one then does the above three things?

OUR ADVICE TO STEPHANIE:

Now we attempt to "make-up" for our possible bad manners, by giving possibly unwelcomed advice.

1. You are semi-famous. Look at the magazines and find the name of make-up artists. Throw yourself at the mercy of someone and beg him/her/them to re-do your look. You could go from pretty to beautiful (just as do many "stars" with the correct make-up person).

Then get a few photographers to take many photos of you and put the best ones on your website under "press kit" to provide potential interviewers and writers with access to good photographs of you.


2. Decide whether or not you really want to be famous, and how famous you want to be. You might want to do the following.

(a) Read Deborah Schoeneman's excellent book, "4% Famous." Do you want to get "so" famous your life will be investigated and you will be attacked? Or do you want to stay below the radar at 4% or less?

(b) Join Netflix (can't get a better bargain -- you can end up renting top movies for about $1 each) (and yes, we have its ads on our site). Then rent the movie "Spanglish" with Adam Sandler. Sandler plays a chef who wants to get a rating -- he doesn't want 4 stars -- that's the equivalent of "too famous." He wants, say, 3.4, so he's high, but not too high.

(c) Invest in Bonnie Fuller's "The Joys of Much Too Much" so you can keep going when getting famous is stressful.

(d) Read Paris Hilton interviews. See what how a super-famous individual handles the inevitable insults that come with being famous.

3. Think over your opinion of "super" agents, particularly, the idea that you need such.

The "right" agent could have gotten you a big "advance." What's that? An "advance"? Isn't that a loan against your future royalties? It would be great to get all that money up-front, but then how many years would you have to wait to sell enough books to cover that advance so you can start making more money?

And what about super-agent's percentage? What percentage of that advance and those future royalties would belong to super-agent?

And what percentage of the cover price is yours and what percentage of the cover price goes to the publisher?

4. Self-Publish

Dishalicious (in our opinion) is a great title -- ignore what everyone says -- keep it.

Bonnie Fuller is one of the hottest editors in the country. She's super-mom, super-achiever, super-advisor. She gets into what she's doing and gives it her best. That type of person is rare. People have gotten into game-playing power-struggles with her and left the scene in a rage. Everyone wants to read about Bonnie Fuller.

You have a gold mine in that book!

You are $30,000 in debt. Why? You fought a court case and WON.

You took those (temporary) career suicide risks. Now comes the time to reap the financial benefits, and keep doing so for a long, long time. You could write a second, a third, a fourth novel. Advice on how to succeed at Star magazine, etc., etc., etc.

Self-publish on Amazon. You'll begin making money immediately and keep making money. The percentage taken by Amazon can't come close to super-agent's percentage plua publisher's percentage..

We guess you'll be assigned a self-publishing specialist from www.Amazon.com who will advise you on the best price to choose, etc. and people who wish to read your book can simply go to Amazon.com, pay the price, and download and read it. You likely will not be required to invest any money "up-front" (our guess).

5. Publicize, publicize, publicize.

You've already shown you have a talent for getting publicity.

Supplement that with even more expertise. Look up on the Internet material on how to publicize your book, and keep working at publicizing it. Appear at bookstores. Go to book signings. Never mind if only a few people show up. Keep doing it. We do read from time to time of a best seller that was made by an author who believed in his/her book, that many best sellers have become best-sellers simply because the authors just kept working to publicize them. And your constant self-publicizing may also produce good job offers.

* * * * *

Click here to go to the Dishalicious web site.

* * * * *


(source: www.gawker.com)

BONNIE FULLER SPEAKING AT COLUMBIA'S GRADUATE SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM

The publication of the "fictitious" "tell-all" actually might help Star's sales.

What could be hurting the gossip glossies' sales is that people think it is "all "made-up."

Here is part of what was reported on Gawker.com when Bonnie Fuller spoke at Columbia's Graduate School of Journalism:


[Bonnie Fuller] claimed that her stories are legitimate and multi-sourced, and some of the "scoops" she gets, like the next day's Angelina cover, are obtained by sending out stringers to stalk celebrities, taking copious notes about their activities, and drawing conclusions from there.

For instance, when they reported on Jen and Brad's estrangement ("We were the first!"), it was a "scoop" because they were the only ones to stake out the two of them and write about how they were never together.

So they drew a conclusion from there. Brilliant.

So when the rest of the world was reporting their break-up, Star had already moved on to the Brad and Angelina affair.

...

...Bonnie told us what she does with famous people's assistants and friends and the like when they call and give them a big scoop. She polygraphs them.


Dishalicious' fictionalized portrayal of the fictional gossip glossy describes exactly that.

This can only make Star more believable and buyable (in our opinion)

Publicizing Dishalicious likely could increase interest in and therefore sales of Star magazine.

Click here to read the full Gawker article.

Click here to go the Star magazine website.

* * * * *

Ah ... giving advice... isn't it fun?

* * * * *

P.S. Fact-checking detail: Re Dishalicious' heroine's "hideous working-class Canadian accent" -- there's no such thing as a "working-class Canadian accent."


MY COMMENTS TO HER: (The girl just can't help herself)
OK, Leandro, I just stumbled across this post about me again. A few corrections: 1) I am not $30,000 "in debt" that was merely the cost of my legal counsel. 2.) It is my understanding that people who grow up in Canada of a certain lower income class, are branded with a particularly annoying accent like Ms. Fuller's. 3.) I have ABSOLUTELY no desire to be famous and I am not 'semi-famous.' 4. People who shop exclusively at Bergdorf Goodman, Barneys, Neiman Marcus and on Madison and Fifth Avenues are not the ones in need of makeovers. The ones in need of makeovers are the ones who've never heard of these locales. But thanks for reading. You certainly have some interesting opinions!

Shana Tova, Jewtopia

I've said many times that I'm extremely blessed by amazing friends, family and family friends. Sometimes, these people even become "famous." One such person is Sam Wolfson, one-half of the creative team behind the hilarious, dead-on, mega-hit, off-Broadway play Jewtopia (Jewtopia Play). Sam and I go waaay back; our grandparents were dear friends and our extended families remain close in our hometown of Jacksonville. It was evident from an early age that Sam wasn't going to be your typical Jewish guy, and I mean that in the best possible way. In high school, he had long locks and fronted a rock band while the other kids in our social circle were, like, shopping or joining pseudo-fraternities. Even back then, he just had that stage presence that so many Hollywood types aim for but never achieve. You're either born with it or you aren't, and he had it from the womb. To this day my dad still talks about this skit that he performed at one of his parents' parties. When I moved to LA, he was doing the stand up comedy thing out there, and I caught a few of his shows when I could.

Those of us who all grew up together always knew he would make it, and with Jewtopia, I think it's safe to say he has. But the best part about watching those you know succeed, is seeing how it doesn't change the core of who they are. Sam is still that goofy, self-deprecating, effortlessly funny, nice, Jewish boy that any mother would be proud of.

And, with the publication of Jewtopia the book, (Jewtopia Book), apparently both his mother and that of his writing partner and costar, Bryan Fogel, have much to be proud of. Or perhaps wary of? Sam tells me that they've put their moms' home phone numbers on the back of all the books that Warners printed for people to call if they have any questions. Apparently, the bubbes have been ringing the moms and leaving their grandaughters' phone numbers! But what I want to know is where is the love, er, press? The play is a monster hit, but I had to find out about the book through my mom??? In an era where slutty bloggers, fake addicts and dog memoirs saturate the media, can't us nice Jewish girls read some stories about some nice, Jewish, hometown boys who've made good? Hello?—The Forward, Heeb, Page Six, The Sun, NYT, Bueller? Sam tells me that the book has gotten so little press, that "we've now sunk so low as to go to Barnes and Nobles throughout Manhattan and sold them to people in the bookstore right there at the new release table." So, see the play, buy the book; I promise you won't be disappointed. And oh, yeah, they're cute too boot.





Bryan on left and Sam on right.

Losing It

The pattern seems to be that lately when I travel, I lose a little something. And, I'm not speaking metaphorically here about my dignity, pride or hope or anything lofty like that. I am talking about things, specifically jewelry. Let it be said first, for those who don't know me that I am a major type-A personality and am meticulously organized. Therefore, it is not often that I lose possessions, especially treasured or valuable ones. So it's only recently that this jewelry-losing thing has become a problem. Last September in Bermuda, a small diamond just fell out of a tennis-type bracelet. Fine, easily replaced. Then in January, in Atlanta, I lost that antique gold-and-diamond brooch. Not so fine, as it was antique, from dead Roxy and not replaced so easily. Never found that. OK, so this time in NY, a few strange things happened on the jewelry and accessories front. And if you're one of those superstitious "God is punishing" us types, the series of events is kind of amusing. Or maybe not amusing in the least bit. But you insist on reading, so essentially you asked for it.

And maybe I was lying a little bit when I said I didn't lose any dignity. Let the record reflect the following:

Thursday night, big plans: dinner at Babbo to be followed by girls' night out with my treasured friends I haven't seen in months. Well, dinner was preceded by a glass of wine at Cru, which was preceded by a dose of antibiotics on an empty stomach. Three courses of food and several glasses of wine later, I'm not feeling so hot. And I'm not looking so hot either. In the words of my bro, I looked "white as a sheet."

I manage to text my friends after trying for about 10 minutes: "S7 drunk. Npt making it out." Done. I manage to make it out of the restaurant in a vertical position, but then there is this little step that seems to escape my attention. Down I go. Onto the pavement; on my knees. The bruises are still here. My parents then proceed to guide me, hands-under-my-armpits-style, into the street so we can get a cab.

My dad tries to hail a cab, and the guy won't stop. He actually sticks his head out the window and says, "No drunk lady in cab."

Oh. My. God. Even in my inebriated state, I manage to be embarrassed. Next thing I know I am hugging the toilet. This almost always happens to me when I mix antibiotics and alcohol, and I know those warning labels are there for a reason. I really learned my lesson this time. I swear.

I am fine the next morning, go to the jeweler and Saks, then head to Spice Market for dinner with fam and friends, then see Wicked, then hit the Waldorf for nightcap.

Saturday: Rosh Hoshanna. The Good Jews are in synagogue. Mom and me? We're sleeping in and getting our hair cut in our hotel room while dad is at Emanu-El. Yeah, we're bad. So we finish with the cuts around the same time temple is letting out and we head to Barneys. The Good Jews are now eating lunch. We are getting another kind of sustenance. We are on the first floor of the store, in the Prada handbag nook. After lamenting the ridiculous cost of shoes and handbags and swearing we will not become victims of this punishing trend anymore, natch, we must scope out the dire state of accessories in our nation.

"I saw this one really cute pleated Prada that's not too heavy," I say to mom, pointing out the bag.

She bites, and picks it up. "Yeah, it's cute and not too heavy, but, it's like, $1,300, you know..."

"I know. Soooo ridiculous. Enough is enough. Let's go to clothes; no more handba—"

"OUCH!" Mom exclaims.

"What?"

"A bee just stung me! There is a bee on this bag!!! Look!"

The salesgirls rush over, horrified, as if a homeless person had just walked in and tried to pee on one of the $1,200 pieces of crap. Sure enough, there is a bee sitting on the top of the bag. The salesgirl swoops in and kills it, a look of utter distaste on her face.

Mom and I are giggling at the absurdity of it all. A bee? In Barneys? On a Prada bag? I give mom some Purell and we move on to jewelry.

"Jeez," she says, rubbing her bee sting, "Do you think God is paying us back for not going to services today?" she asks, giggling.

I ponder this for a moment and say, "No, I think if it were God he would have sent a snake or something."

That night, we meet a friend for a drink at the W in Union Square, then have a divine dinner at Gramercy Tavern, then head to my absolute favorite bar in the city, The Four Seasons, for one last drink. After Four Seasons, my family elects to walk back to the hotel, whereas I elect to take a taxi, as I am wearing my new shoes and my bruised knees are aching. I beat my family to the hotel room, and as I am washing my face, my diamond earring catches and down the sink it goes. I open the drain; it's long gone. Probably replacable, as it's from the jeweler, but I probably won't get around to it. Continuing the losing streak into the next day, I am walking to meet the girls I stood up on Thursday for brunch before I head back to Miami, when I glance down for the time.

I look at my Cartier Tank, which had been acting up for a while—losing time, trapping condensation—and notice that it looks a little odd. Oh, why's that? Because it seems that the entire glass cover has just vanished. Poof. It's gone. Miraculously, the damn thing was still ticking.

OK, so if there is a message inherent in all this, then it's one I'm already aware of and trying to work on: enough with the jewelry and the clothes and all that BS. We really weren't so bad this time. But I am eagerly awaiting a couple packages from Barneys and the jeweler.

Hey, Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, isn't until Monday. And trust me I'll be in services for that one...

I promise to post a verbal account of New York tomorrow, in the meantime some photos. It looks as if I'll be breaking the lease and busting Wally out of JVille by November if I have anything to say about it. The plan is to stick it to the landlord, legitimately, natch, head home for the big Florida-Georgia game and parties, and drive back up with Wally in tow. Mommy is coming home!

I'll Take Manhattan

Ahh. Good Ol' New York. I wish I could say it was nice to be back. But four days is never enough in a city you hold so dear.
I won't bore you with the shopping highlights--well, OK, just a few. Tomorrow I will share the amusing stories you've come to know, love and cringe at, of which there are many.

Just the facts for now:
Fabulous little silk Marc Jacobs dress on sale for $235 at Barneys, fits like a dream
Classic pair of black, kidskin, 2 inch Gucci pumps from Saks
Black Cashmere Shrug from Bendel's, which I hadn't been into for 10 years
Mucho jewelry repairs and refurbishments from Norman Landsberg: Priceless
And one en suite haircut by Oscar Blandi stylist Lauren Lavelle. Oscar Blandi and The Blandi Team
No more handbags; mom and I are boycotting the LUDICROUS prices to which these accessories have climbed and are sticking to the classics that litter our closets.

Seriously, it is not okay that a nice handbag now will cost you at least $1,200-$2,000, forgetting about Hermes entirely. Please. And the shoes are just as out of control now too. I am not paying $700 for the masochist Manolo to line his pockets. Enough is enough, ladies. This is why God created outlet malls.

And the meals, oh, Lordy. Babbo is truly divine Babbo Restaurant. You must go there. Beats Il Mulino, hand's down. And Gramercy Tavern, ooh la la Gramercy Tavern. Now I see what all the fuss is about. Truly exquisite, both of them. Not overrated at all, a rarity for a famous NYC restaurant.

Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

OK, this is my last post before I leave for NYC, but I have to say that I actually really like Kelly Cutrone. In a sea of sycophantic flacks, she's always stood out. And she was super-cool to me when I was a total nobody (not that I'm a 'somebody' now) working my first job in L.A. She always hooked me up and was always sans-attitude. So, step off Gawker. Go back to picking on things and people that absolutely nobody outside of a four-block radius in Manhattan cares about. Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

Stream of Spittle

Here's what I'm thinking at the moment, in no particular order of lucidity.
Flying with no liquids. God damned terrorists. Must get Purell cloths.

Shopping. Jewelry. Had a dream that the jeweler was closed for Rosh Hoshanna, quell nightmare. Haircut, finally, Oscar Blandi stylist making hotel call for mom and me. Sweet. Madison and Fifth. Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's.

Iran dude paying visit to the UN for my birthday. Our hotel, a few blocks from UN.

Must find Wally-friendly apartment or just smuggle him into my pad, to hell with the condo Nazis. Fuck 'em. Let them evict me and I'll invoke the "quiet enjoyment/hellacious-stiletto-wearing-at-all-hours-of-the-night neighbor."

What to pack for NYC--daytime clothes, evening clothes, jewelry, shoes, handbags and no liquids/makeup in the carry-on, therefore mucho grande cosmetic bags.

So many people to see, stores to frequent, so little time.

Fabulous restaurants, Babbo, Gramercy Tavern, Spice Market. Yum.

Cars. I. Hate. Driving. Driving and cars are to Miami what mice are to NYC for me; I hate them, am scared of them and they could very well force me out of this city.

Taxis, yay.

Semi-cool weather.

Friends and family. I'm scared that someone will have to drag me from NYC by my stilettos.

And on that note, I'm glad my credit limit is not high enough for a down payment on a condo, cause otherwise I would have someone swipe the platinum.

And to my NYC peeps--Helfman, I'm talking to you! esp;)--who I haven't made firm plans with yet, give me a buzz, I'll be there Thursday afternoon.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Oh, goody. I've totalled my car. I pulled in too close to the curb thingy this a.m., and when trying to leave for lunch, I heard this awful scraping, tearing, screeching sound. Lo and behold, my bumper had been wrenched off it's cheap German attachments and was now on the ground of the parking lot. Yummy. The curb had a rusty old nail in it that ripped the entire front bumper off. Now I've got to go get a rental and this couldn't have come at a better time, the week of my birthday and three days before I leave for New York. Who loves me?

happy birthday to ME

Dateline--One Year Ago:
Skinny dipping in Bermuda with a bunch of harmless but rowdy Canadians, forcing overwrought and nervous mom to contact Bermudian police to locate my 30 year old ass. (For the record, I was the only non-naked one; I'm a nice Jewish girl, I don't do that.) All was fine and fun; Natalie Holloway I was not. I made it home in one piece, escorted by security at 7 a.m. the next day. I was literally the talk of the town. Awwwwwwwwwww Yeeeah.



Cut to yesterday. Treated myself to a phat Tuleh dress from Neiman's Last Call ($1,650 to $350), punished myself at the gym and then attended a classical symphony and after party with good friends. Bermuda/South Beach? I have to say Bermuda. Though I am loving this dress.

Karma's a Bitch

My bad, it turns out that my beloved shrink had recently had hip replacement surgery and is now suffering from nerve damage. Jeez. It's pretty fucking bad when the doctor is in worse shape than you.

The Shrink is On the Mend

I feel a little bad about Tuesday's post, because as it turns out, the shrink had a hip replacement surgery recently and has literally been immobilized as a result of some nerve damage caused by post-surgical trauma. Oy, Dr. L., I feel for you. She sounds okay, but had to shutter her practice for many months, doing only phone sessions, so in the end, my case is not so unusual after all! It was good to talk to her again, get some fires lit under my ass, and I will def. be speaking to her more regularly now.

On a completely unrelated tangent, can someone please explain to me who Genevieve Jones is with regards to legacy/breeding? Is she related to Quincy Jones or some other African American star? And if not, why is she all of the sudden the token African-American society princess? Who is her family? Anyone? Bueller?