Well, no decisions were made today. My folks were underwhelmed and sticker-shocked at my favorites. It's hard to go back to Saks when you've been shopping at Neiman's and Bergdorf's your whole life.

Monday I'm off to a guest house in Coral Gables. After that, it's looking decidedly murky.

This article on Jewish humor involving Gawker is kind of interesting. Where would our tribe be without Seinfeld, David, Allen, Lewis et al.? Not that I am comparing the scribes at Gawker to the former—though you Gawkers are all v. v. sweet!

Condo Commandos

Tomorrow my folks are coming in for the day to look at condos with me. I've just learned that my friend will be back Monday, so it looks like I'm on the move once again. My realtor and I have it narrowed down to 3 buildings. We are using the Macy's to Neiman's analogy to explain the apartments to my folks. Of course I want Neiman's (and mom will too), but in this loony tunes market, sometimes the Macy's properties are as expensive as the Neiman's ones. The top two are Neiman's; the last one is Saks. And the Macy's one? Such a $500,000 craphole I didn't bother taking pictures.

This is where I want to live; a 24th floor junior penthouse with unobstructed ocean views from every room. (The Dog Building.) And check out the bathroom.






This is the second-runner up, but more $$$ and not as close to the ocean and the beach.








This is the third-runner up—not as super high-end as the other two buildings, but the apartment is nice and the owner did a great renovation.

My God, all I want to do is shop, shop, shop and I have no dough. Neiman's and Saks and Bergdorf's—sale time. I don't even tempt myself by going to Bal Harbour. In fact I have cosmetics I need to return to Saks and I'm putting it off so as not to be tempted.

It's quite stormy here but my schedule has eased up a bit, so this week is a bit of a breather. Mom and dad are flying in for the day Saturday to help me look at condos, because as of the 2nd week in August I am like totally homeless. Who the hell would have thought that I would be 31 and sans an abode? Nobody, honestly.

I can't remember if I wrote this already, but I saw Hairspray and loved, loved, loved it. I'm sure theater snobs won't, but screw them, I—and about 300 gay guys—had a smile on my face during the whole entire movie.

Ugh, I went to the Mondrian today and was literally salivating. This condo-hotel is going to be phenomenally gorgeous. The sales office alone is stunning. Two problems, both equal issues: No dogs are allowed. The prices are astronomical. New York prices—$711,000 for a studio that is less than 600 square feet and has no alcove area. On the other hand, a corner-unit, one-bedroom with great views is $746,000. However, if I had the money and pets were allowed, I would live there in a heartbeat. On site bars, Agua Spa, Asia de Cuba, fully appointed units with huge plasmas and designed by Marcel Wanders. It's going to be fabulous. Though the no dogs thing is bizarre, as I could swear I've seen dogs in The Mondrian in L.A. and other Morgans Group hotels. . . This was going to be my week of doing nothing except looking for apartments. Now I suddenly have a serious interview tomorrow morning. I barely remember applying for the job, as it was in May.

Soooo not in interview mode right now.

The best Google search ever directing someone to my site: "Urinators in Russia."

In no way does that phrase appear in my blog. I don't even think the word Russia has been written here.

Jen, whatchu got?

1. I am soo happy that the NYC explosion wasn't terrorist related. I hope you guys are not plunged back into post-911 traumatic stress syndrome. I know I would be popping Xannies left and right if I heard/felt/saw that explosion. Especially since it came on the heels of the whole Bin Laden using Iraqi operatives in the U.S. thing. Seriously, someone needs to murder that motherfucker already.

2. My word of the day is fuckwit. I am surrounded by fuckwits.

3. I am glad to be living in a building again where I have friends.

4. Next, I want to live here: Mondrian South Beach These units come fully furnished with Plasma TVs, the whole 9 yards. Plus, privileges at the Delano. Hellooo.

5. I'm sorry, but Kimora Lee Simmons and Djimon Hounsu? WTFWTF? She is such a ghastly, ostentatious, money-grubbing, no talent ho. And he, oh bestill my beating heart. I have been in love with him since Amistad. He is just pure perfection. He, in fact, has supplanted my Michael Jordan obsession, and those of you longtime friends reading this know that is serious shit. Take a gander at Djimon's new campaign for Calvin Klein (I think it's Calvin) and you'll see what I mean. Scrumptious.

6. JDate is now officially the scariest site online. Seriously. I love to look, but the guys who check me out in return are either 25 or 55 and soo not cute. It really amazes me to no end that people I know have gotten married off this site. These people are freaking scary. Shirtless, incoherent, stupid, cocky or just plain bizarre. I must stop looking. There is enough eye candy in this building that I may as well just roam the halls.

Whew. I can finally breathe. Today was the first day since moving here that I've had the time to do what I came here to do—hangout and lay by the pool. With the bulk of my work done for the week, I've earned some much-needed time off.

But I'll only have this luxury for a couple of days, as now it's time to start condo shopping. And then more work due next week. There are many great things about freelancing—the fringe benefits, especially if you write about fashion and beauty, the ability to work from home and set your own hours. But the drawbacks outweigh the benefits, unless you are uber-successful and have several contracts with national magazines. Not me. I'm the freelancer who lives hand to mouth, waits two months after I've turned in stories to get paid even though I worked myself ragged. It's not an easy way to live, though on the flip side, I'm doing what I have always dreamed of doing—though I always dreamed it would be on a larger scale and in NYC.

Okay, so maybe I'm not living the dream here. Maybe I'm just another underpaid, overqualified, struggling artist living hand-to-mouth and beyond her means. I am, it seems, average. This is like death for me. I was not bred to be average. My family and ancestors were far beyond average. I had all the trappings needed to overcome mediocrity. And yet here I am, the very definition of failure and mediocrity.

My high school yearbook quote was by Todd Oldham, who in 1993 was just hitting his stride. It went something like this: "I've never aspired to be in the middle of anything. I want to live my life in extremes."

My former shrink would likely say he is bipolar. But that's exactly the way I think. I think often, too often, about how hard I've worked over the past many years—I started publishing when I was 20 years old—wasting more than a year at NYU getting my master's in journalism, which was a totally useless endeavor, and the whole, traumatic, expensive book ordeal. These thoughts leave me empty, sad and feeling like a complete failure. Yes, I put too much pressure on myself. But, I am 31 years old and should be much further along in my career. Instead, I am a piecemeal freelancer, a housewife with no husband and addicted to accoutrements I simply can't afford.

People often ask themselves, "Where did I go wrong?" Well, I know exactly where I went wrong at every turn. Problem is, you can't go back. You can only move forward. And that's what I'm trying to do.

BFD— women's magazines retouch photos! Stop the presses. In this day and age, you're an idiot if you don't retouch. It's virtual Botox and Restylane. Why wouldn't you? I make everyone look better in the pictures I post. Why? A. I choose to and B. my friends and relatives bitch if they look bad.

Yes, I am losing it. I am working 24/7, sleeping fitfully and barely have time even to go to the gym. This is my five-minute break.

And for some reason my beauty picks are truncated this month. Maybe I did something BAD. Oy, I am such a freaking mess.

Ya'll know I usually go gaga for dogs over babies; in fact I had a dream last night about all the four legged creatures I've met this week in the hall, the mall and even in an art gallery last night. Obviously I seriously miss my furry friends.

However, I saw my godson for the first time in a few months last night and boy is he cute. Their pug, in fact, seems extremely jealous and greeted me like the long-lost leader of the canines.

Now I am going to lay out at my friends' parents' house on the water. I've earned a much needed respite from the computer this week.

Hahahahaha. The funniest Google search of late that pointed someone toward this page: "how to get even with a catty nosey person."

Jen, you got anything even close to that?

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.