The Big Reveal

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

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

Juli B Muy Caliente

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

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

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

It's pouring again, work wise.

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

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

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

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

Juli B monthly picks.

South Beach Seediness at the Sagamore

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

But Miami guys are by far, the worst.

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

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

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

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

"What? Why?" we asked.

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

"Nooo!" I shouted.

"Nooo!" L. shouted.

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

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

Needless to say, we were appalled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things that I am obsessing over at this particular moment:

Jewelry by Indian designer Suhani Pittie.



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


Juvederm, supposedly better and longer lasting than Restylane.

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

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

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

And my obsessions aren't all superficial:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I hate starting out the day crying.

What do you do when . . .

You hate where you are geographically.

You hate where you are career-wise.

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

What to do people, what to do?

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

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

Ummmmm, yeah, get yourself a shrink, dude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving On

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Manhattan Mammaries

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

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

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

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

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