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

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

Beach Bitch

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



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

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

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

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

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

Don't Know Why

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Golf Girl

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

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

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

• It's hot as balls today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's see, the highlights of this week?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also What Not to Get Mom in Juli B.

The Big Reveal

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

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

Juli B Muy Caliente

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

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

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

It's pouring again, work wise.

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

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

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

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

Juli B monthly picks.

South Beach Seediness at the Sagamore

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

But Miami guys are by far, the worst.

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

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

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

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

"What? Why?" we asked.

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

"Nooo!" I shouted.

"Nooo!" L. shouted.

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

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

Needless to say, we were appalled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things that I am obsessing over at this particular moment:

Jewelry by Indian designer Suhani Pittie.



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


Juvederm, supposedly better and longer lasting than Restylane.

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

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

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

And my obsessions aren't all superficial:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I hate starting out the day crying.