Just in case you guys have not seen this site, it's pure genius and LOL funny:

Overheard in New York

What Will You Miss?

Somebody asked me today, in so many words, whether I'd milked the city for all it was worth while living here. Did I feel that I'd done enough, seen enough to sustain me and make me feel as though I'd taken advantage of "all the city has to offer?" (Enter another JDate cliche.)
My response?

"Oh, who are we kidding? I've never been to the ballet; I've never been to the opera and I don't care if I ever do. I have no interest in those kinds of things. Soo, no, I probably have not taken advantage of 'everything the city has to offer.' But do I feel like I've been there, done that? Yes, I do."

And, the truth is that in going over what I've done here, I suppose it does seem like a long, strange trip over the past five and-a-half years.

I "earned" my master's degree at NYU.

I witnessed, literally, September 11th.

I finished graduate school during the worst economic/job slump the country has seen in decades.

I lived through the blackout and the transit strike.

I wrestled with rodents.

I was unemployed.

I got several jobs. I quit several jobs.

I wrote a novel.

I made Page Six, The New York Post, New York Daily News, Gawker, Women's Wear Daily, 60 Minutes, even.

I got sued by a loathsome, multimillion-dollar company.

I kicked said company's ass in court (with the help of some kick-ass counsel).

I discovered Japanese Straightening. I may as well have discovered oil.

I made some great friends.

I lost some not-so-great friends.

I made some enemies and some frenemies.

I had a hell of a lot of fun.

I mingled with media peeps, CEOs, artists, politicians, socialites, trendoids, hipsters and intellectuals.

I learned that no matter what you may think, the grass is almost never greener.

I was there, I did that. I'm over it. I'm ready for a new scene.

I'll miss Manhattan, for certain, I will miss many, many things and people. But New York will always be here, just a plane ride away.

I cannot think of one thing I haven't done that I wish I had done, and so I suppose that that means I have no regrets.

Dancing Queens? Yeah, Not So Much

The decision to stay or go would be much, much simpler if I didn't have so much God damn fun with my friends up here. And I love the fact that it's always when you least expect to have a rowdy time or big night that everything falls into place easier and you end up having a better time than when meticulously planning everything. Thought last night would be a quiet one, dinner w/the girls in Meatpacking, sending off Shartz (I'll keep calling you that until you give me a viable pseudonym)—poor thing is being forced to go to the Four Seasons in Maui—but ended up partying at a club with the guys and the girls and even my younger bro and his friends. My brother is more Lower East Side than Metrosexual, to say the least, so imagine my gleeful surprise to find him dancing and letting loose with both his friends and mine. Of course, it was after much cajoling from his gal pal, myself and my friends, and there may have been copious amounts of alcohol involved as well. Just a guess. But contrary to your opinion bro, you certainly have more rhythym than dad, who is quite possibly the whitest dancer ever. Makes Elaine's dancing on Seinfeld seem Martha-Graham-esque. Seriously.

I still remember going to some concert at Radio City with the family when I was in high school and being exposed to the visual horror that is dad's "dancing." It was some hippie reunion concert with, like, Ringo Starr, Joe Walsh, The Guess Who, etc., and I thought dad was going to knock someone over with his gyrating, tushie-pushing and wacko arm movements. He doesn't care though, luckily, so he's still shaking his booty to this day. In fact, the 'rents are at a destination wedding at this very moment, so it's quite possible that Costa Ricans are being subjected to the Daddy Dance as I write. He doesn't read this too carefully, but if he does, this paragraph may be redacted soon. Anyway, I'm quite sure that his friends reading this will agree with my characterization of his white man's shuffle. Not that I am any better. In fact, nobody in my family seems able to dance, but that doesn't stop us. So brother is just accepting his rightful place in the Green family hierarchy. But I don't think either one of us can dethrone dad.

Will post last night's pics when I get them. In the meantime, support my friends and family by reading and watching the tube.

Amanda's book

Brother's article

Jon's show

I'm sure I have other shout-outs due, but I can't remember them at the moment.

I think it's hilarious that now whenever I am out with my friends and something funny happens, it's always followed with, "Is this gonna make the blog?" It's just you guys reading about yourselves anyway. And if I chronicled everything noteworthy or humorous here, I would be chained to my desk. Never a shortage of drama, and I have to protect the innocent, and the guilty, for that matter. And the juciest stuff is for our ear's only; this shit is just scratching the surface.

Miami Versus Manhattan

You guys (my NY friends) are making this decision to stay or go all the more difficult. I may actually have to do an old-school pro/con list. Spoke to the family members whose business I could potentially go into tonight, and the opportunities inherent in doing that would be almost limitless, compared to what I could accomplish on my own up here, business-wise. I'm a big believer in keeping family businesses alive, and I've always said that if I had a family biz that was located in a good place, I'd go into it. So it may be put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is time. And, God, the ocean, and the real estate down there, there is just no comparison. It's almost half the price.




(Look at the view from BFF's balcony, above, jeez.) And, I kind of dig the idea of kicking ass in the corporate world, think I could really be down with that.

My grandpa's family had a rocking real estate company in Florida that all but went down the tubes when he died, and I've always regretted the fact that we didn't keep it going. I would have gone into the biz, but it's in Sarasota, Fla. where the average age is probably about 80 and there is more parking for wheelchairs than cars. OK, so maybe there was that tiny, insignificant legal scrape with the EPA, but before that, all was swell. (Brother, have you ever read up on this case? Are you trying to atone for the sins of our family??????? I just made this connection. Better change your name or conceal your genealogy if you want to become a serious environmentalist.) Totally think the fam was innocent, BTW, it was kind of a witch-hunt type situation, wherein the government decided to make an example of someone, and that someone was my great-uncle and my fam's company; grandpa was already deceased. Otherwise, it may have been a different story. He didn't take shit from anyone, even the EPA. Hey, I guess I'm following in the family's footsteps by creating a legal hullabaloo.

Tampa Bay Business Journal

Paver Development vs. EPA

EPA

Anyway, after speaking with the fam and my BFF, who lives in Miami with her husband, the Miami move looks more appealing than staying here and spinning my wheels. Whenever I go down to South Florida and spend time with friends, family and family friends, they always ask me if I'd ever move down there and leave NYC. And my answer is always, "Well, in an ideal world, I'd live part of the year in Florida and part of the year in NYC." And, that's the truth. I suppose I am an 80-year-old snowbird trapped in a 30-year-old's body. But dual residency certainly isn't going to happen without a J.O.B. And, let's face it, there are absolutely no guarantees in the editorial field. I could say, "I'm going to get a job in my field in Manhattan," but, in reality, I have no control whatsoever over whether I'd actually accomplish that.

So it's a total catch 22: Go to Florida, where I would have this awesome opportunity, or stay here, where I may, may one day have the possibility of having an opportunity to write or edit professionally. I really don't see how I can rationally choose to stay. Mr. Devil, can you teach me how to do one of those handy polls? Should I stay or should I go?
I'll be going on a fact-finding mission down there fairly soon, so until then I guess my fate remains unsealed, though at this point, I'd say I'm 90% there.

Bienvenidos a Miami/The Dish Does Dade

I don't feel like sending out a mass e-mail at the moment, so let this serve as a substitute.

My mind has essentially been made up for me. Didn't get this job I've been interviewing for, though truth be told, I suppose I didn't truly want it all that much. It would've been a nonprofit gig, e.g. 70-hour weeks for a paltry salary. No thanks. I think it's fairly evident that I don't necessarily have the mindset to work hard for something if I don't reap a fair amount of rewards. Soo, the thought of putting in horribly long days, getting out of work when it's dark out and then not having time to hangout with friends or do the things I have fun doing, while not earning a decent wage, is just extremely unappealing. The irony is, or not really irony, but humor of the situation is that whilst interviewing for this job, I was basically forced to conceal who I was at core in order to create the impression of who I thought they wanted for this job. I had to dress down. I couldn't wear my normal jewelry. I couldn't carry my favorite handbags. Couldn't wear the typical stilettos. Couldn't wear makeup. Essentially, I had to conceal who I was in order to give off the impression that I wanted/needed this job. Just goes to show you that hiding who you really are, no matter how noble the reasoning behind it, always backfires.

Fuck that shit. I like dressing well. I like wearing nice jewelry. I like being fashionable. I like wearing makeup. I like speaking my mind. I like being honest with myself and with others. I don't like riding the bus. I don't like going above 86th Street. I don't like being subordinate to other people in such a way that forces me to compromise my personality. And I don't like waking up at the ass-crack of dawn when it's sub-zero outside. This job would've required a great deal of cowtowing and diplomacy, and while I can certainly handle lots of different personality types, I probably wouldn't have been able to bite my tongue on an hourly basis. Hell, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

I actually had to borrow "conservative" clothes from my neighbor to wear to the interview. Knowing myself, if I really wanted to "make it work" up here, I'd find a way, and the fact that I am just not motivated to make it work up here, shows me that I am ready to leave. I'm sick of people asking me what I do and not having a succinct response. Not getting any younger, not in any sort of relationship, not magically getting some fab job that will alter the course of my existence, thus not seeing the point in merely biding my time here anymore. If the fam lived here, I suppose that would be another story. So I plan on pulling up ranks here very soon, hopefully within the next month or so, and heading back to the sunshine state, where life is easy, the weather is good and everyone knows everyone else. I heart NYC and all that, though, in the end, I guess I just don't love it enough to sacrifice standard of living, health, sanity, etc. etc. The truth is that I don't want to be 35, single, weathered, jaded and living in a studio apartment. If I'm going to be single and in my 30s, I'd much rather do it while having an oceanview, a nice car, a business and a family around me.

I think I'll have the opportunity to go into a family biz down in South Florida, and, even though it would mean totally changing careers, I'd much prefer to be a successful businesswoman than a struggling artist. I don't enjoy hardship or struggling. Life is way too short. I'm ready for a challenge that ultimately will be rewarding. At least that's what I'm hoping for. There is the small matter of moving, getting a car, an apartment, saying good-bye to my amazing friends, to Bergdorf's, to 47th Street, to Shun Lee Palace, to furs, to boots, to seasons, to the center of everything, to the media and to walking everywhere. But it's time. I'm ready to be a big fish in a small pond, and, finally understand the rationale of this philosophy. Ready to relax, ready to be an adult, ready to be around my old friends, ready for the beach. I am, not, however, ready to deal with drinking and driving. I wonder if car services are commonplace down there? Kidding. Save the nasty comments.

The Rodent Report

Was awoken by doorman ringing me for exterminator who was down in lobby. Told neighbor I would accompany him into her apartment since I would be home. I am not terribly lucid within the first few minutes of waking up; is anyone? This is especially so if I don't get my much-needed eight hours. So it took a good five minutes of a modified, "Who's on first" routine with the doorman this morning, given the language barrier and my general level of confusion, sans-caffeine.

"Miss Stephanie, the exterminator, he is here, Heather say you have problem? He is in lobby now."

"OK, can you have him wait a little while?" I was in my nightgown, and I needed a few minutes to get dressed and walk the dog.

"He is here now. You need him, yes?"

"Yes, I need him. But can he wait a few minutes?"

"He is here now, you need him?"

"Yes," voice rising, "But I need a few minutes. Will he be in the building for a while?"

"He is in the building right now."

"I understand that. I am asking whether he will be here for a little while. Could he come up in a few minutes?" Voice was really rising at this point.

"Heather say you need him? Do you not need him?"

"YES," really losing my patience now; Heather and I think this doorman is either playing dumb or on serious narcotics. He is always out of it; barely opens the door for anyone, except around holiday time (when tips are customary). "I NEED HIM. I JUST NEED A FEW MINUTES. WILL HE BE AROUND?"

This went on for a good ten minutes, swear to God. Eventually I ran into the exterminator in the lobby. He was the one who was here over the summer, when they found a fucking family in my radiator and I completely flipped out and went to the suburbs to stay with a friend.

I ushered him up to my apartment, told him that I wasn't necessarily having an issue, but since my friend was, and I knew the building had a problem, I wanted him to check everything out. Plus, I told him, there is constant construction in the hood.

"I remember you from the summer. I swear, your's was the only apartment in the whole building I found live ones in."

Am I the luckiest girl on earth or what?

"Well, I don't really buy that, as I know the whole building has been having problems."

"That may be, but, your's was the only one where I actually saw them. This building really isn't that bad."

OK, whatever, tell that to my nerves. "Now, I'm going to ask you to do me a favor," I said, as I let him into my apartment. He looked at me warily; I can only imagine the shit this guy has seen in his career as an NYC exterminator. "If you do find anything, just don't tell me. I really don't think I want to know. If you find something in the radiators, please just fix it and don't tell me."

He looked at me like I was a serial killer. "I've never heard that one before."

"Really? Well, I just don't think I could rest at all knowing they are still here." I'm not a subscriber to the ignorance-is-bliss school of thought, but in this case, I'd prefer denial. Thankfully, all was ok in my abode (am knocking on wood at the very moment). Heather was not so lucky though, and her pain is mine right now.

And this is what he told me, as I followed him around both apartments:

• They only need 1/4 of an inch opening—hence my steel wool in every last crevice.

• They do tend to stay away from the pipes in the winter when the heat is on, but since they only need the smallest of openings, there are no guarantees.

• If the droppings are "moist," they are fresh; if they are hard/crunchy they are old. Ewwwwwwwwww.

• They are warned off by the scent of cat food. Actually, I have known this since the last incident. Wally has been dining on Fancy Feast for the past few months. He's perfectly happy. Ignorance is bliss.

Continued, AKA Reasons to Head South for the Season

I'm still baffled as to the strangers who are reading this, but hey, as mom says, "We all have our mishegas."

Friday, January 13
So I spend literally a couple of days contacting the people I've put down as references on my resume, some of whom I haven't spoken to in a couple of years. I mail the thank-you notes, send the follow-up e-mail, and wash my hands of this interview process. I honestly don't give a shit anymore, as I'm like 90% on my way back to Florida. We all end up there anyway, what's the point in delaying the inevitable? My friends up here are ab fab, but I really can't justify staying here just because I love my friends and have an action-packed social life. The truth is that I can write anywhere, can fail anywhere too, for that matter. At this point in my life, if I have a potential family business to go into or an opportunity to make a career change (and actually have a "career" per se), then better now than later.

I also paint and draw, though not of late. But I do have a fair amount of skill in that area. So when it came down to choosing a career path or major, I went with writing and editing, thinking it was the safer bet. Thinking that it's easier to earn a living as a writer/journalist/editor than a visual artist. However, now, I often say and think, "Fuck, I may as well have gone to art school if I knew I was going to be a 'starving artist' type."

Anyway, back to the weekend. Friday night started out at this bar on Park Avenue South with the girls, and Mr. Devil and his friends ended up meeting us out. They all asked permission to refer to me as "Dish." Oh, what the hell? I suppose there are worse nicknames. Quite a funny picture of Scott and his friend; quite unflattering of me, but I'll always choose humor over vanity. Well, most of the time anyway. I've cropped it to protect the guilty. It merely appears as though Mr. Devil is copping a feel. As we all know too well, appearances can be deceiving.



And, as it turned out, the brother of the person whose birthday we were there for, is dating this woman who lives in my building. I was thisclose to asking her about the rodents, but she has a child, so I didn't want to freak her out.

We ended up at Home until like 4 a.m. hanging out with the guy-friends, though don't worry guys, I am not writing about you specifically cause you always give me shit about it and I don't want to hear it. Couldn't sleep again that night b/c of "the issue."

Saturday, January 14
In the morning, spoke to my friend in L.A. who I haven't spoken to in more than a year, and was so out of it and sleep-deprived that I had to check my cell phone to make sure that I'd actually spoken to him. I had. For a half-hour. Oy vey. I can't stand to be in my apartment, so I bolted in the early afternoon and saw Match Point with my brother downtown. Huge Woody Allen fan, but think this flick is terribly overrated. This guy is totally yummy though; I could stare at him for hours. And he's brilliant in the film; steals the show from the lead guy, who is just creepy.

Matthew Goode

Woody is getting a little stale and quite depressing. I mean, we all know he has fidelity issues and is sex-obsessed, but this is pushing it even for him. There is no humor to alleviate the pathos, so in the end, it's just a big downer of a film. Had dinner afterwards with brother and one of my girls, and I convinced brother and his friends actually to come out with us. We eventually ended up at Aspen, which is very cool decor-wise, but always seems to attract the worst of the worst B&T crowd/wannabe mafiosos. Retarded bouncers gave brother and his friends a problem getting in, and it was so smoky and the people so cheesy, that we split and headed to BED, where our friends were promoting a party. After climbing, literally, seven flights of stairs, we reached the roof of the club. Somehow, we'd missed the elevator.

And, for some reason, it's gotten to the point where we all know everyone at all of these clubs/lounges we end up at every week. Whether it's a matter of having met these people through friends, having seen these people's pictures on Friendster or somewhere else online, it just seems that it's almost impossible to meet people who are really new. And I didn't even grow up here, so I'm the anomaly of the group. My friends who grew up in the area, REALLY know everyone. My point with all of this, is that I'm kind of getting tired of the same old faces and places. After a while, every night out begins to blend together. So by 4 a.m., I was over BED, and we headed out of the club and into a blizzard. After getting an armchair psychology lesson from our cab driver, who was cheated on by his wife and is now threatening her with deportation—cab drivers are the bartenders of today—I finally reached my neighborhood. The snow was really coming down hard, and it was very windy, so much so that my umbrella was getting flipped inside-out. As I was walking down Second Avenue, the umbrella flipped inside-out and knocked one of my earrings out of my ear. The street was covered in snow, the earring went flying God knows how far, it was freezing, windy and dark, and it was nearly impossible to see. I looked for a little bit, then gave up. I've always had a knack for finding lost jewelry, but I went back today and yesterday and couldn't spot the earring.

And one of the reasons I was so upset after losing this earring, aside from the symbolism of it all, was that it was part of a matching set that went with a ring, both of which my mom had given me for either Valentine's Day or my birthday. Natch, though, as I was describing the earrings and ring to my mom on the phone yesterday, she couldn't even remember having given them to me. Anyway, losing a sentimental earring at 4 a.m. in the middle of a near-blizzard seems like a perfect, symbolic end to a really long, disappointing weekend and month.

Player Hating, The Devilish Dog-Walker

I was not going to post, but I am a sucker for flattery and suppose I need a good vent anyway. A brief chronology of this week's drama follows, the cumulative effect of which has me contemplating a move down to Miami to be around my childhood friends and live a lifestyle which is more conducive to happiness, ease and success. (Do you know, for example, that you can rent a large, 1 BR apartment down there with sweeping water views for a little more than $1,000 per month? Sick. Comparatively, for those non-Manhattanites reading this, nice, alcove studios in newly-built 1BRs up here start around $2,100 per month.)

And a disclaimer—if you're one of those anony-commenters who hate me because you don't think I have real problems, don't read the following. And piss off; I'm not asking for your sympathy and I'm not forcing you to read this.


Wednesday, January 11
I have, as I previously stated, been interviewing for a job at an organization I really respect for more than a month now. It's driving me in-fucking-sane. Tuesday I spent 2 1/2 hours there speaking with four different people. They informed me that I was one of two candidates left. No pressure. I would've liked to have been kept in the dark about that. I cannot bear coming in second place, and I know you guys are just trying to make me feel better by saying, "Well, at least you got that far," but please stop saying that. I take absolutely no consolation in that. Second-best was never good enough for me. I like to win, period. Anywho, given the snail's pace at which the people at this place move with regards to hiring practices, it will likely be spring by the time they get around to rejecting me. Enough about that.

Did drinks with Mr. Devil Wednesday at our local haunt. We live a few blocks from one another, coincidentally, though before we met I don't recall ever seeing him in the hood. We had a lovely time dissecting our personal lives over a couple of drinks. It's always fun getting a male's opinion. He informed me that I was crazy re. the fact that I am still talking/thinking about The Asshole, and I informed him that he was crazy for myriad other reasons. After drinks, he walked me back to my apartment and we walked my dog Wally up and down my street.

Wally actually took a liking to Mr. Devil, which is highly unusual—he usually hates anyone I bring into my apartment. He's jaded and cynical just like mommy. It occurred to me as Mr. Devil was walking Wally, that he was not only the first, male, non-family member to walk my dog in ages, but also the first, straight, male, non family member even to come up to my apartment in ages. Jeez.

Interestingly, Mr. Devil told me that there is a way to track the anony-commenters. I have not yet had time to install/research this, but haters beware. I kind of don't want to do this, for fear that all the nice commenters are either my mother or friends of my mother's. Anyway, my anxiety was pretty high to start with this week, given the job situation and the fact that I had a completely blind date scheduled, so it didn't take much for it to shoot through the roof. To wit ...

Thursday, January 12
Nobody really calls my home phone save for my family and close friends, and usually it doesn't ring during the day. So when I awoke to see my neighbor's name on my caller ID, a good friend who has a day job and lives 10 floors down from me, I knew instantly something was amiss. I live in a very nice, newly built, "luxury high-rise" on the UES. My building is, in fact, nicer in appearance than any of my friends' buildings, save for the trust-fund babies. Therefore, when I had what I refer to as a "rodent issue" over the summer, I really flipped out. I had moved to a newly-built building precisely to avoid this issue. I thought, idiotically, "Oh, it will take several years for them to borough their way into this building. And even more time to crawl up to the 15th floor." Eww. I am getting skeeved out just by thinking about it. Since I had "the issue" over the summer, I have been terrorized by thoughts of the little motherfuckers. There is steel wool in every nook and cranny in my apartment, no matter how minute. "The issue" is, in fact, one of the reasons I am never home. Men do not realize the extent to which this is bothersome, but girls do. Also, I am from Florida, and therefore have absolutely no qualms about roaches, spiders, etc. Mice and rats, Oh my God, kill me now.

When I first moved to Manhattan almost six years ago, I had to find an apt. in like a week. I had a broker, and at the time the real-estate market was sky-high. Having lived in Florida, Atlanta and Los Angeles for the better part of my life, mice and rats were not something I was on the lookout for. I'd spent a lot of time in the city growing up, but nobody I'd hung out with—mostly UES private school kids—spoke of this issue. I was thus under the (mistaken) impression that NYC rodents were the exclusive domain of, let's say, economically challenged domiciles. So, after having unpacked and settled into my first NYC apartment in Midtown, which I'd paid through the nose for, I was completely unprepared for a visitor of the Stuart Little variety. Wally was not yet in town. My 25th birthday was approaching and I was in the first couple of weeks of NYU grad school. I was actually on the phone with the operator from Pottery Barn, ordering furniture when the little motherfucker sauntered out into my living room. I shrieked, the mouse retreated, and the Pottery Barn operator nearly had a coronary, probably thinking I had a real "intruder."

I remember specifically the operator saying something like, "Eww, what kind of building do you live in?"

"Um, a nice, doorman building," I replied in shock.

I was so utterly freaked that I slept on top of my dining room table that night. I am not kidding. At all. I then had to go to class at NYU the next day and was forced to hire my own exterminator in order for "the issue" to be taken care of the next day. After the exterminator came, I hightailed it to the Royalton hotel for the weekend. Damned if I was going to sleep in a mouse-infested abode the weekend of my 25th birthday. I spent the next couple of weeks sealing every crevice in that shithole, but there was a perpetual problem in the building. And I was only on the second floor, facing an outdoor courtyard. It was to the point where, when I walked Wally at night, I would see them everywhere on the street. I had nightmares about the creatures the entire time I lived there. So it was with a very heavy heart that I encountered the same problem in this building, 15 floors up and like 50 years more recently built. (FYI, that old building was 333 East 49th Street. Avoid it like the plague. And all of 49th Street on the East Side, for that matter.)


Back to Thursday. Once I saw my friend's name on Caller ID and knew that she was home from work, my first thought was, "Oh, shit, rodents." My radar has been up because of the construction in the area, and I have been extra vigilant of late. Any food-like matter has been in my refigerator since the summer. This includes: Gum, vitamins, cold medicine, dog food and treats, cough drops, wine, alcohol, etc. etc. etc. I clean religiously and am a complete neat freak to begin with. I even contemplated getting a cat, but I do not like cats, so I decided against this in the end.

Back to my neighbor. Sure enough, she'd found droppings and was as terrorized as I was. We became friendly in the gym originally, so after speaking with her on the phone and telling her all the insane steps I'd taken to rodent-proofing my abode, I went down to the gym and we then kvetched for another hour-and-a-half about the absurdity and creepiness of it all. We know it's completely irrational and, as people love to say, "A part of the city," but still. Fuck that shit. It's disgusting and it's preposterous to think that these little spineless creatures can so terrorize us. But they do still. Every noise I hear freaks me out. And, I'm utterly convinced that they are in every, single building in the city, old and new. If you haven't seen 'em yet, you're just not looking hard enough. They're there. Plug your holes with steel wool, and for god's sake, keep all your food in the fridge.

To make matters worse, I had a blind date scheduled for that night. It was truly blind; I had not even seen a picture. I have never done that before. We all have our own tastes and mine is disturbingly specific: tall, dark hair and eyes, not too skinny, not too built. I can't help it; that's just my type. What turns my head on the street. So I completely understand men who have types, be they blonde, skinny, tall, huge knockers, tight ass, all of the above, whatever. I get it. Girls are no different--at least the honest ones. Frankly, there is just too much to worry about without having to fret about physical attraction. There should at least be that at the start. Anywho (and Mr. Devil, I did NOT steal that phrase from you, ahem), after discussing the "rodent issue" for so long with my neighbor, I was so drained and exhausted that I wasn't even nervous about the date.
Will pick up on Friday tomorrow. Must get to bed—the exterminator is supposed to come tomorrow morning.

Responding

In response to two recent comments. No, I definitely do NOT tell potential employers about my blog and hope that they do not have the time to Google me or ferret it out on their own. Since my name is so commonplace, I think that works in my favor in such instances. Additionally, I do not have my book on my resume, so unless they are very careful media-watchers, people I am interviewing with usually do not know who I am or what controversy I may have caused. At least, that's what I hope. Though, really, I suppose you never know what determines whether or not you get a job in the end. I am a little concerned about potential employers stumbling across this, but frankly, I don't know how to remove this from Google or whatever.

Secondly, Greg, thanks for the compliments. And, no, I really do not let other people's negativity impact my life. But I think that humans in general have an initial, gut response to insults or character assaults. So if someone insults, rejects or bashes me, then, yeah, my initial reaction is to put my dukes up. And since I am a writer, I guess that this vehicle is my first line of defense. I am definitely going to ignore these people from now on.

If you don't have anything nice to say ...

JT Leroy is a tiny, emaciated fake!

Freaking fascinating and yet another example of how asinine, gullible, naive and mindless most members of the media are. I mean, what, his lack of an Adam's apple didn't clue you in to the fact that he was a she? Unbelievable. Further evidence that the NYT is overrated and not to be trusted, as, according to the above-linked article, if there had there been factcheckers on the prior travel story written by "JT Leroy," they would have probably unearthed the myriad discrepancies in this person's identity. In light of Jayson Blair, it's simply incredible that each and every one of the stories in the NYT are not thoroughly vetted. There have probably been many Jayson Blairs over the years who have flown under the vaunted Gray Lady's radar.

This is what a lot of non-media people, who worship the NYT as if it were the printed, reincarnated version of Jesus Christ, do not realize: Most of what is written about in newspapers and many other publications is, technically, unverified. And, ironically, it is the scandal sheets that have better, more libel-proof fact-checking devices in place. It's virtually impossible to check facts when are you are working on daily deadlines at newspapers. It's easier, and more commonplace, to check facts for weekly or monthly publications. So, even though I am legally prohibited from writing about my experience working for Star magazine as a researcher, let it be said that tabloids have teams of people dedicated to fact-checking pursuits, whereas the NYT doesn't employ full-time researchers/fact-checkers.

And, on a completely unrelated tangent, seriously, if you don't have anything nice to say, shut the hell up. Some anonymous fuckwad posted an incredibly vicious comment about me on someone else's site. The fact that he/she posted it on someone else's blog and not here, shows me that he/she doesn't even have the guts to insult me directly. And the vitriol with which he/she writes, leads me to think that he/she must actually know me and have some kind of personal animus towards me. Thus, it follows that:

He/she is an ex/spurned boyfriend or date with an incredibly small penis.

He/she is an ex-friend/frenemy with a major inferiority complex.

He/she is some weird, pathetic, unhappy ex-coworker of mine who harbors some resentment toward me for some reason I cannot, nor care to, imagine.

He/she is a member of the media, a notoriously snarky, jealous, resentful bunch.

He/she is a bitchy gay guy, as no hetero man writes in CAPS for emphasis, as far as I can tell.

He/she is a foreigner, for the word he/she uses doesn't exist in the English language.

I don't know why people think that I am fake. Furthermore, I don't know why it bothers me. Apparently, JT Leroy and James Frey are phonies, and they both have bestsellers. So perhaps it would behoove me to be fake. OK, you got me, I am fake. This is being written by a robot with a fabulous wardrobe and manicured nails. And, this retard accuses me not only of being fictional, but of lying about my age. I am Jewish, therefore, if I were lying about my age, I would not be 30, you moron. If I were lying about my age, I would shave off a couple of years, at least. My deceased grandmother turned 49 like five years in a row. I learned all the really profound life lessons early on.

Again, I am wasting too much time here. I have an interview tomorrow. Or, rather, "Stephanie Green" has an interview tomorrow. I'm sure the interviewers will be quite surprised when nothing/nobody shows up, because I do not exist.

People are so insane. Between Mr. Devil's stalker and these nasty, pitiable commenters, I'm just going to stop reading other people's blogs and comments. Thanks to all the positive commenters though, you guys are fab.

Life Lessons at 4 a.m.

OK, girls, I will not take a hiatus, as you have all insisted that I actually entertain you. So I must please my fans. Ha. And, yes, should I ever be on Oprah, you guys will def. be in the audience. I think you should all submit your own aliases for the second book, as I know Shartz ain't gonna cut it.

This is what I was thinking after getting home last night at 2:30 a.m., after yet another eventful night with the girls.

1. Bergdorf's during sale season, is definitely the happiest place on earth for a Jewish girl. The fact that I am thinking this at 2:30 a.m. is really twisted, but there it is... I never claimed not to be twisted.

2. Anything manufactured in Jacksonville, aside from the people I know and love, sucks ass. I go to watch a football game for the first time in years and that is what I get? Come on.

3. You can never have too many shoes, too many pairs of jeans, too many cell phone minutes, too many girlfriends, too much fun, too much sleep or too much time. You can, however, have too much to drink, too many guys named Scott, Jason, David, Ben, Mike, too many parties, too much to eat and too many bases/places to cover in one night.

4. The two worst smells in the city are cheap air freshener combined with a taxi driver's rampant BO and sulfur/eggs/farts in a bar or club or confined space.

5. All MOTs know eachoter in some way, shape or form. I'm still convinced we should start our own Friendster...Jewster? Jewography? Jewtastic? There's already a Jewhoo...

6. There is absolutely no reason, whatsoever, to go to a nightclub such as Pacha once you are over the age of 25. I repeat, no reason whatsoever. Blacklight? Hello? Oh. My. God. And girls dancing in showers? Oy vey, now I've seen everything. Thank God we didn't pay a cover! Doesn't this girl have a mother? And if so, does she know what her baby is doing? I just don't get it.



7. There is absolutely no way to avoid the subject of JDate when you are speaking to a Jewish single.

We may as well all have our profile numbers tattooed on our persons somewhere. (Speaking of which, you should all go see my friend's play, Jewtopia, if you haven't already; it tackles the subject admirably and it's quite funny. And as far as I know he's single! And Jewish! And successful! Well, you get the point. Actually, I have no idea if he's still single. But check it out, nonetheless. Jacksonville boy makes good; yada, yada, yada.

And to illustrate my above point about us all knowing one another, the opening page of the play's site is a riff on MasterCard's "Priceless" ad campaign. A family friend is chief in-house counsel for MC, and last I saw him, he was saying how one of his primary duties is to prosecute people who rip off those ads. Ah, the circle of conectedness. Discuss amongst yourselves.

8. This blog has caused to me to elevate the art of proscrastination to an art form; before I started doing this and before any of my friends were reading this, I was getting quite a bit of my novel written. Now I am doing this. This is a part of my second novel, but now it's becoming a larger part than I anticipated, as writing this truth is easier than writing a cohesive, fictional narrative. Though I'm still a firm believer in the fact that our single lives in Manhattan are really much more colorful than what I could make up, cause, we rock. Like, totally.

9. There are myriad benefits to being single, namely, not having to shave anything but the pits. You'd be amazed how much time that shaves off the showering routine. No pun intended.

10. My dog is extremely. Fucking. Annoying. Especially at 3 a.m. when it's freezing and I have to walk him.

11. Related: The third worst smell in Manhattan is my dog's breath. I can now smell it from ten feet away. I have tried everything; but his halitosis persists. I wonder what would happen if I gave him some gum. I'm guessing the result would be amusing, but would probably require veterinary assistance.

12. Apparently, it is medically possible for "post-nasal drip" to last for the duration of winter. I simply do not understand how in this day and age we can combat AIDS, certain types of cancer, depression, schizophrenia, etc. and cannot cure the cold. What the fucking fuck is up with that. Those God damned humidifiers don't do a God damn thing, either, so don't waste your money.

13. There are, as evidenced by our recent meals at Wollensky's and Angelo and Maxie's, apparently lots of nice, cute, well-educated Jewish boys toiling as waiters. Who knew and what is the origin of this phenomenon? Anyone?

14. I do not, and probably never will, understand people who don't drink, don't go out, don't shop, wake up early for no reason, don't worry, don't feel guilty or don't feel down, though I would very much like to be one of them.

15. Hilary Duff should be shot merely for existing, and I should be doused in lighter fluid and inflamed for ordering "The Perfect Man," on OnDemand at 3 a.m. OnDemand is the drunk-dialing equivalent of cable TV. It is pure evil.

16. Sex is like food—the less your body becomes accustomed to, the less it needs. Or perhaps that's just me. Either way, I think there could be parallels drawn between celibacy and anorexia, at least regarding women.

17. There simply are no female comedic equivalents to Larry David, Woody Allen or Albert Brooks. I think the closest we have are Tracey Ullman, Jennifer Saunders and perhaps Ellen DeGeneres. And they are, respectively, British and lesbian. Sad, really.

18. I wonder how our social lives would be different without the Internet and cell phone technology? It's simply unfathomable; I am sooo dependent on e-mail and the Internet. I know one thing, I'd get a lot more work done, but then again, I would have less material, as many of my friendships and funny stories are Internet-related.

19. The wage gap/disparity in income of women versus men simply doesn't make sense when you take into account how much more money it costs to be a woman, what with beauty products, clothes etc. and time spent maintaining our physical appearances.

Soon—I've been saying this for years now—I am going to calculate the monthly cost of what I spend in "product." My mom once counted the number of products she used before leaving the house and it was something staggering like 20 or 30 different things she used while getting ready. Whenever she's up here and we stock up on products at Saks or Bergdorf's, the bill can—"Don't tell dad!"—climb up toward the $500 or $600 mark. That's probably a per-month estimate, or perhaps a two-month estimate. And we don't even use La Mer or any of that overpriced crap. Another lovely thing about being a woman.

20. I have, once again, wasted entirely too much time on this blog. I am now going to write in my book. I think I may have come up with an ending—thanks for your input, Manch—and it's not happy. It's not sad, either, it's just real. And reality is not a bowl of cherries. (Where did that expression come from? Why not a bowl of ice cream? Much yummier.)

Fuck that chick-lit bullshit formula; I think that's why the first book sucks ass. I listened to my agent's advice about following a bullshit "formula" that all chick lit books have to adhere to, and in turn, lost my voice. You always have to follow your gut, even if it may get you into serious trouble. At least, then, in retrospect, you can say you did it your way and you'll have nobody to blame but yourself. If there's one thing I don't want, it's to regret, at the end of my life, that I didn't follow my dreams or my instincts. I would much rather be creative and fucked-up than conservative, boring, successful and sheep-like. At least I think; I really have no basis for comparison.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary?

I've not posted about crazy mary in ages. and as far as I know she's not internet savvy. besides, truth is stranger than fiction, always. and as long as you guys don't tell her about this blog—I have an inkling who you are anyway, as not many people, except those men who have, ahem, been intimate with her would jump to her defense—ignorance is bliss. This blog is taking up way too much of my time. I need a break from myself, I have real, actual work to do, so I don't think I'm going to post for a while.

Clarifications

For the record people, as my trusty friend J. pointed out in response to yet another snarky comment, The Asshole is not a college flame. It was only a few months ago, so the way I see it, I still have some time to get over him. Jeez.

I find it incredibly disturbing that the god damn miners are the main story everywhere when Ariel Sharon is near death. As much as I think Sharon is too hawkish and has aliented both Palestinians and Israelis, I find his demise troubling. I miss Netanyahu, I always found him very sexy. Maybe he'll run again, I don't know whether they have term limits over there.

I think this other blog is pretty funny: Gawker linked to it today.

Trophy Wives Anonymous

Real, faux? Inquiring minds....

Aliases, Libel, Speaking Ill of the Living

Mr. Devil made a good point the other night when he said that he never writes negatively of people on his blog, though he definitely goes into more personal details than I do. So I told him that I only speak ill of people who have done wrong by me or my friends. And if that's the case, they have it coming in my opinion. I'm a huge believer in karma, hence The Asshole entries and the obituaries. Yes, dating, living, working is hard; but that is no excuse to treat people poorly. Or to be just plain crazy. So if you're a raving lunatic, a pseudo-sociopath, or just an old-fashioned asshole who shits on people, and one of those people happens to be me, then, yeah, chances are you'll end up on my PC, whether on this site or in my book. As long as you treat me right though, you have nothing to worry about. I can assure you of that. Shit on me, however, and you'll get diarrheaed upon. That's all but guaranteed. I love that word; it's so descriptive.

And I'm definitely using aliases from now on, which I think I've been doing well with, but I can't be too sure. And, for the record, I'm not speaking of mere dating rituals, e.g. not calling, breaking up etc. That's all par for the course and doesn't even merit writing about or register high on my radar. You have to do something really grievous to inspire my wrath, if that's any consolation to anyone. And The Asshole is the only person in recent years who qualifies for such characterization. And he didn't even know what a blog was until his grandfather told him. Cool he would not be described as, so the chances of him reading this dribble are pretty slim. I suspect that had he read this, I would've been served with papers in yet another lawsuit already, so I think I'm out of the woods on that front. Though I don't remember signing a confidentialty agreement with him, so there. I'm going to quit wasting space on him. Make that another resolution.

Oh, yes, I thought of another resolution. I must go to bed earlier than 4 a.m. Someone in the medical profession told me today that the best way to do that is to shave off a half hour each night so that in one week you will have shaved off I guess 3 1/2 hours? Sounds a lot like the formula for weaning yourself off of pills without suffering from withdrawl. Not that I'd have firsthand knowledge of that or anything.

Resolutions, Revolutions, Closet Solutions

I'm not so big on New Year's resolutions, as what I set out to do, I usually do, regardless of the season. That is, everything that I can control, I do. Natch, I want certain things that are beyond my control, namely a job, a book deal, career success etc. But all the other variables in my life, I am quite content with. Aside from being unemployed, I consider myself extremely fortunate and there are very few things I would change. A date that isn't excruciatingly painful would be lovely, but, hey, I'm not holding my breath.

On that note, I've taken myself off JDate for good, as I'm convinced most of the men on there are unbalanced or defective in some way. (Present readers and friends excluded of course. You guys are just mentally ill, and I can live with that.)

Since getting back into town, I've resolved to clean out and organize my closets, as I've actually lost track of what I own. I have a wedding party to attend at the end of the month, and while shopping with mom, I just kept thinking, "I know I must have perfectly fine things to wear hanging in my closet that I've forgotten about." It's not that I'm so overloaded with clothes, it's just that due to the lack of closet space that characterizes a New York apartment, one often forgets or overlooks what one has. At least I do. And it's also that each time I go home, I pilfer mom's closet, and return home laden with goodies. Free goodies too, the best kind. Soo, I added some screws to my closet so that I could view all my handbags. My handbag collection has gotten rather sickening, even to me. I've been saying this for some time, yet it was not until I reorganized everything that I truly realized how out of control the situation has gotten. The shoes, too. I only have room in my bedroom closet for two racks of shoes, so the rest are in the hall closet. Thus I often forget what kind of shoes I own, too. Anywho, one of my foremost resolutions is to Stop. Fucking. Buying. Shoes and Handbags. I mean, enough is enough already.

My name is Stephanie Green and I am an accessories addict. If some Jewess somewhere, preferably Manhattan, were to start a secular version of AA that was called "Accessories Addicts," it would be sooo successful. I think my friends and I—or perhaps my mom, her friends and I—could fill out the inaugural class.

And so it was with amusement that my BFF in Miami, who rarely does the e-mail thing, sent me this link yesterday after I'd organized my handbags. She knows me better than anyone and knows my fashion addictions, so I think it's quite funny that she thought I wouldn't know about Bag Borrow or Steal It's a genius idea, but I think I could start my own, similar site. I really should start my own version, as I end up wearing the same things over and over again. So I sent her this photo in response to her e-mail. The really sick part is that this is just one closet. I need serious sartorial help.



I do have other, more profound things on my mind, but as I've said before, the more complicated my life gets, the more relief I find in superficial diversions. The past couple of days my time has been spent on this editing test for a job I'm in the running for, but like I told one of my friends last night, "Job prospects for me are like men: I never get my hopes up." Sad, but very, very true. Especially in editorial, the interviewing process is incredibly time consuming because there are always tests involved. I have probably wasted at least a couple months of my life doing editing tests for jobs I haven't gotten. I'm so sick of it. Often, before I bother with the editing or writing tests, I have this overwhelming urge to say to the interviewer, "Look, level with me, are you seriously considering me for this position, because if not, I don't really feel like wasting my time on your damn test." I never have the balls to do that, but since I've only had one legitimate, full-time job since moving here, I can't see how it would hurt. I'll be rid of the test tomorrow and then it's back to pounding the pavement.

So that's my main resolution: Stop buying accessories. I really have more than enough to last a lifetime. I can recognize this. And you know what they say, admitting you have a problem is the first step. And, ironically, as I am writing this, they are talking about the Hermes Birkin bag on Gilmore Girls. Heh.

Editor's Note: Please do not take this post so seriously. It's not. I do have real problems, but those are for me and my shrink, not public consumption.

And to my NYC girls who are reading this, you're all more than welcome to bag, borrow or steal from me;)

New Year's Dishes

Waaay too hungover to write, so I'm posting pics of my girls and I from New Year's Eve. And we're all single—imagine that.

I will say that I overdid it a little bit on the wine last night; I suspect the plastic cups threw off my perception of how much I was drinking, but by 1:30 I had the spins and headed home. Also, I had a true Carrie Bradshaw moment for the first time—no, no meeting of a Mr. Big—the heel of my stiletto boot actually broke off as we were leaving our friends' party. Insane. (See last photo.) And, since the heel was, oh, about 4-inches high, I was limping like a gimp out of K's building. Given my blood alchohol level and impaired gait, it was time to call it a night.

The Devil and Ms. Dish

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Art, Anyone? (AKA Shilling for Friends)

I am extremely fortunate in many respects, as I have previously stated. One of the things I am most grateful for is my parents and their amazing friends, all of whom, as I have also said before, rock. I consider many of my parents' friends, especially the lifelong ones, my own friends. They love me, they always have my back, they put up with my bullshit, they set stellar examples in life, love, morality, attitude. I in turn, adore them, admire them and have just as much fun hanging out with them as I do with my own friends, my own age. Now, it should be said that my folks and their friends are a whole hell of a lot cooler than most other parents I've encountered. They're funny, down-to-earth but sophisticated, intelligent, worldly, laid-back, and they all like to have a good time.
My dad's best friend since college, let's call him Ben, is like my uncle. A more quality person you could not find, and, my dad and him are so close, that we all refer to them as one another's boyfriend. They are like female best friends, in that they speak on the phone at least once a day, often more. Ben was actually the first man to see me after I was born, as he beat my dad to the hospital. And, throughout my life, Ben has been like a second dad to me and has always been a part of my family. This is a man who, each time he visits the city, throws $100 bills in the cab at me; who, on the occassion of my 30th birthday, called our restaurant in Bermuda, had the maitre d' send over a bottle of Jordan wine, and then, along with his wife, proceeded to sing "Happy Birthday" to me on the phone. Anywho, Ben married a woman who my dad grew up with in Jax. Let's call her Jen. (For some reason, I find coming up with pseudonyms one of the most challenging aspects of writing. Go figure.) I am also very close with Jen, and consider her one of my girlfriends. Jen happens to be one of the most talented, amazing artists I've ever known. I've always been her biggest fan. Jen is typically self-deprecating about her talents, but trust me when I say that she is incredibly gifted. I've always thought she should show in New York, but I don't believe she ever has. So when I was at their beach condo this week, I decided to take some photos of her work to post here. She's given me permission and if anyone who happens to read this would like to know more about her and her pieces, please feel free to contact me. Her main medium is collage, and she is quite well-known locally in Fla. for her work, but I happen to greatly adore her paintings. She gave one of them to me as a college graduation present and it hangs proudly in my living room here. And, in the scheme of the art world, her prices are quite reasonable. Enjoy. Pics posted below in separate entry.

Tangled up in Tessie Lou Blue

As promised, better pictures of my parents' new shih tzu tangled up by her leash thanks to their ingenious, revolutionary potty-training method.

Water, Water Everywhere and Too Much to Drink

So I have not been feeling well and thought I was extremely dehydrated. Genius me decides to combat this "dehydration" by sucking down water like, well, wine. I go from drinking my normal amount--probably about 75 ounces a day, I've always drunk a lot of water--to like 200 ounces a day. Just yesterday, during the course of my 50-minute session on the elliptical trainer, I consumed literally 75 ounces. I kept sending dad to refill my bottle. I wasn't sweating, and normally I'm a sweater, so I figure, the more water, the more likely I am to sweat it out. This has been going on for a few weeks now; I work out, I don't sweat a lot, so I drink more water. Then after I workout, each time, I begin to feel really lightheaded, like I'm on drugs or something. I've been chalking it up to dehydration, cold medicine, etc. I could not have been more wrong. Go to the doctor today, a family friend, so I totally trust him, unlike my ghetto, HMO docs in NYC. He tells me I've been drinking TOO MUCH water and THAT is why I'm feeling so weird and lightheaded after my workouts. The point here, cause I know nobody gives two shits how much water I drink, is that it is actually possible to drink too much water, FYI. I never knew that. You learn something new every day. Yes, Jacksonville really is this boring. And apparently, 64 ounces a day really is the magic number. Girls, this is why I've been feeling so weird when we're out!!! Phew!

Jesusville

Above are the photos of the doggies, the urn, and my loner dog, Wally. I'll post better ones of poor Tessie Lou tangling herself up when I have some more time and patience.
One of the few reasons I love coming home--my folks are up in Manhattan every month, making it unneccessary for Michael and I to visit Jackassville/Jesusville often--is that I get to dig for treasures, not only of the gemalogical and sartorial sort, but of the "literary" sort. I've always kept journals; probably since the age of 10 or so. Yesterday I found my journal from my first trip to Europe, when I was 17 and had just graduated from high school. I went as part of a group tour organized by a friend from sleepaway camp. It was one of those whirlwind, 7-countries-in-two-weeks kind of trips. Lori and I were the only Jews on the trip, and it wasn't exactly an Abercrombie & Kent-level sort of journey. It's kind of scary to realize just how little my personality has changed in 13 years.
"32 Things I Learned in Europe"
1. How to flush a toilet in six different ways
2. That I prefer to stay in the Ritz-Carlton as opposed to the Hotel de Belfort (a piece of crap hotel in Paris)
3. That I am more mature and just as intelligent as many adults (even then, I was humble;)
4. That I miss my dogs
5. That people in Europe are "in touch" with their sexuality
6. That Van Gogh is God (We visited the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam)
7. That most teenagers are immature and ignorant
8. That I don't give a shit about cathedrals (We visited cathedrals in every, single city and town and not one synagogue)
9. That I am dependent on bellmen, maids, hair dryers, sleep, irons, taxis, elevators, telephones and my car
10. That uncultured people do not suddenly become cultured by going to Europe
11. That Lou Lou is not just the name of my dog (I think one of our guides was named Lou Lou)
12. That everybody should be multilingual (And yet, I still am not, sadly)
13. That some people DO still wear acid-washed clothing
14. That most people have atrocious table manners
15. That I belong in taxis and not on subways (Again, sadly, still true)
16. That even the people in McDonald's in Paris are chic (That's probably highly debatable)
17. That I am doing my junior year abroad in London (Never happened)
18. That I am a snobby bitch and proud of it (Probably, some would say, still true, but I am certainly not proud of it)
19. That I can never forgive the Germans
20. That I hate looking like a tourist
21. That most people who should read Vogue don't
22. That finding hair in your food is repulsive no matter what part of the world you're in
23. That every man who works in a Versace store is gay (Yes, I started buying Versace in high school. So sue me. Oh, wait, somebody has.)
24. That I will have an apartment in London (Don't know quite what I was thinking with that one.)
25. That my parents spoil me waaay too much (Still do)
26. That a good shower is really hard to come by
27. That I have found myself and from hereforth shall only improve upon myself (Oy, remember when "finding yourself" actually seemed to be a legitimate task?)
28. That the Mona Lisa is truly overrated
29. That I shall return to Paris, stay at The Ritz and do the same in London
30. That I am an absurdly large tipper (Most likely because I couldn't figure out the exchange rates)
31. That I am most comfortable in a large city
32. That next time, I will stick to Musiker or American Trails West (Members of the tribe know whereof I speak.)

More Dog Drama; Early Evidence of my Elitism

Mom has just informed me that Lou Lou, our deceased Lhasa Apso, is "on the desk."
"What do you mean?" I asked reflexively, as I'd just woken up and the coffee had yet to kick in.
"She's on the desk," She said again. Then it hit me; her ashes are on my mom's desk.
So I walked over to the desk, in our kitchen, nonetheless, and sure enough, there was a small, black, urn-type thing. Oy vey, could my family get any weirder? Yes, actually.
"We have to put them outside around the big oak tree," she said, seriously.
The big oak tree is where we scattered both my grandmother and great-grandmother's ashes, whilst saying the Mourner's Kadish. Nevermind the fact that Jews are not supposed to be cremated.
I just asked mom whose ashes were out there in our backyard, and she replied, "Just Roxy and Schwalbe; It's not like we have a big cemetary out there or anything."
No, cause that would be REALLY weird.
I've unearthed some priceless journal entries from my inaugural trip to Europe when I was 17; will post them later. Don't hold it against me ... BTW, Jacksonville is in the heart of the Bible Belt, which means that everything, from gas stations to grocery stores are closed today and tomorrow, therefore I am essentially homebound. Mom and dad are having a party tonight for all the lonely Jews.

Freaky Florida

It's true what "they" say--people's eccentricities do indeed increase with age. Especially those of our parents. I'm now firmly ensconced at my parents' house in Florida, after a rather trying travel experience; 9 1/2 hours door-to-door from LaGuardia. I grew up in East Bumblefuck, aka, Jacksonville, Fla., so it's quite a feat to find direct flights home. And, being that I really only fly Delta domestically, today I had to connect through Atlanta, which was worse than Times Square on any given Saturday night. Though I did run into an old friend of my brother's at LGA, and we ended up chilling in the Crown Room, so all was not lost. The Greens are dog people, and after our childhood dog, Betsy, (see obit below) died earlier this year, mom and dad got a shih tzu pup to give their other shih tzu, Stella, a companion. I'd yet to meet Tessie Lou before today, but was present on the occassion of her naming. While we were in Bermuda for my 30th in September, my mom got the brilliant idea that the name of their new, as-yet-to-be purchased dog should be an anagram of our two childhood dogs, Betsy and Lou Lou, as an homage to them. So, while dining at our resort on the last night of our vacay, mom was scribbling anagrams on a sheet of hotel stationery. We got a little carried away and came up with some rather funny, if not really anagrammatical, ones: Boozy, Floozy, Toulouse, Loosey, Bluesy, etc. I can't remember the best ones, but we managed to amuse ourselves, and garner the scorn of other diners. Anywho, the name they settled on was Tessie Lou. Apparently, my folks have come up with a totally new and utterly bizarre method of potty training little Tessie Lou, which I was unprepared for. After I walked into their house tonight and all the dogs said hello to one another--my dog, Wally, is with me--I was introduced to this new, um, state-of-the art method. What does it involve? Oh, let me tell you: They attach one end of poor little Tessie's retractable leash to the bottom of a chair in the kitchen, where our family, like most good Jews, spends the majority of its time at home, and let her stay like that. Now, the leash is a good 30 feet long, but, still, It's quite amusing. She's running around trying to play with Wally and Stella, and she keeps twisting her leash around various chairs, tying herself up like a phone cord. When not "tied up" she walks around the house dragging the leash behind her like a literal ball and chain; the handle of the leash is quite heavy, and she's probably only seven pounds. Wally is extremely bewildered, as Betsy was alive the last time he was here, and now there is this weird, semi-chained up newbie in her place. My dad just came in to wish me good-night and he had Tessie in tow, on the leash. They actually walk her around the freaking house on a leash. Now, I honestly think I've seen everything. I'm going to post some pics of the poor thing all tangled up as soon as I figure out how to upload to this PC. Michael, were you aware of this???
Oh, and I've just read the letter that mom received from the jeweler in response to her letter--quite humorous, but she won't allow me to post it. ...

Crazy Mary Strikes a Nerve or Two?

I seem to have hit a nerve with Crazy Mary. Apparently her story has been making the rounds amongst our circle. So, please, if you do know her, don't direct her to my site. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. On the other hand, a small part of me thinks she needs a big, fat wake-up call to shake her out of her stalkeritis. And I love the idea EMS has about texting Don't Answer this blog address. But then I would feel REALLY guilty. Too bad she was so mean to Jeffrey, the waiter/psychologist, he probably could have offered her some pertinent advice. But my impression is that this girl is a little too far gone for therapy.

Oy Vey—Stalkers, Seat-Fillers and Succubi

OK, so now my mom is making Scott's blog, which I think is absolutely hilarious, but he seems a little scared that all these yentas will be privy to the details of his sex life! The Devil's Playground
So I've noticed a disturbing pattern lately that's popping up in the Manhattan/Internet dating microcosm: Stalking. I don't mean, scary, microwaving-bunnies kind of stalking, but somewhat more innocuous occurrences, played out via e-mail, text messages, phone calls, cyber-stalking, etc.
Following is the most interesting, pathetic, disturbing story I've heard of late, notwithstanding Scott's story of actual stalking, which I have yet to get the details of.
So there is this girl who is tangentially connected to my circle of girlfriends. She's pretty much a tagalong, who only comes out with us when one of the girls is feeling particularly sympathetic. This girl, let's call her Mary, stalks my girlfriends, calling, e-mailing and texting them about what we are doing until one of them feels compelled to respond out of sympathy. In the past couple of weeks, she has been out with us twice, mainly because someone felt sorry for her and then we made the mistake of talking about future plans in front of her. So she heard of the future plans and then made damn sure she was included in said plans.
Now, for months, Mary had been involved with some guy she met online. From what I can gather, she met this guy, they had sex a few times, which she mistook as them "dating" or being "in a relationship," while he probably just wanted to get laid and she was an easy target. The guy then disappeared, stopped taking her calls, removed his profile from the Web site. She called, texted and e-mailed to no avail; the guy had vanished. Then, she did the unthinkable—she snail mailed him?! Apparently, after he received her letter, written in pencil to boot, he got back in touch. Yeah, I don't blame him; he was probably scared for his life. He feeds her some story about being back with the ex or having lots of family obligations, blah, blah, blah. They hook up a few more times; she relentlessly pursues him, he continues to ignore her. Finally, after her repeated e-mails, phone calls and texts, he texts her back and tells her to leave him alone, that he is back with the ex once and for all.
She doesn't take no for an answer, continues to doggedly pursue him. She calls his cell; he hangs up. The other night, she was out with us. She takes my cell phone and calls his number. He picks up, then hangs up. He calls my number back; I let it go to voicemail, for I don't know the guy and don't care whether he gets my voicemail. She puts his phone number in my phonebook so that should he call me back, I'll know not to answer. She actually labels his number "Don't Answer!" The next day, she calls one of our mutual friends like five times to see if "Don't Answer" has called me. While out that night, we made the mistake of talking about Sara's birthday, to be celebrated Thursday at a restaurant on PA South. Despite our best efforts to ignore her, she repeatedly contacts several members of our crew to nail down Thursday's plans. And, she informs the girls, there is a new twist to the "Don't Answer" saga. Now, Don't Answer claims that the ex is pregnant with his child and is threatening to move to Florida with the unborn child. It's my personal belief that Don't Answer doesn't have an ex and is just pulling shit out of his ass in order to make psycho Mary leave him alone for good. But does the ex story stop Mary? Nooooooo. We manage to have a good time at Sara's birthday dinner by being ourselves and pretty much ignoring crazy Mary.
Mary, a narcissist who needs to be the center of attention, gets fed up by our exclusion of her, and, after one of us accidentally spills a glass of red wine, some of which gets on her hideous, rabbit-fur coat, storms out of the restaurant. This is not before however, she berates our adorable, sweetheart waiter, for her steak being undercooked.
"Relax," I tell her, "It's not Jeffrey's fault. He's not the chef." We've been served by Jeffrey before, and we like him. He's a nice, Jewish, boy with a master's in psychology from Columbia. The last time we were at the restaurant, he offered up some armchair psychology, free of charge. So, then, we were embarrassed at Mary's behavior, and, frankly, happy when she left.
"I'm so sorry, Jeffrey," I say after Mary's scene. "She's not really one of us. She's the tagalong; the toxic frenemy."
"Ha! I totally get it," he says, then recommends a comedian, Dane Cook, who talks about "the friend nobody likes." (More on this subject later, because I think we all have so-called "friends" we really don't like very much.)
Anywho, we think that Mary is pretty much done with us after this night, but, again, the girl just doesn't give up. The next night, she calls several of the girls to see what we are up to. Nobody returns her calls.
I kind of feel sorry for the guy; here he thinks that he can drive crazy Mary away by concocting this meshuga story, but instead of driving her away for good, it's making her pursue him even more. I think it would be less painful for both of them if he would tell her, in so many words, "Look, biatch, you are one insane motherfucker, I was just using you for sex, now get over it and leave me the hell alone." Let's just hope there aren't any bunnies in the vicinity of Don't Answer's apartment.

Finally a Valid Excuse Not to Use Public Transportation

Of course, come Friday when I will need to head to LaGuardia, I could be severely screwed. I don't understand this whole taxi "zone" plan; I need the Cliff's Notes version. For, standard car services do not allow beings of the canine variety in their stinky sedans, which means that Wally will either be going incognito or, or, I really don't know. Let's hope this ridiculous situation gets resolved before the holidays. MTA Strike
Unrelated: I am now convinced that, aside from Curb, Arrested Development is the most brilliant show on the air. If you haven't seen it—and, given the fact that it has been cancelled, you probably haven't—do yourself a favor and rent the DVDs. I think it's the funniest show since Seinfeld, and it will make you and your family seem completely normal. Lucille Bluth is my dead grandmother reincarnated; truly scary, but extremely entertaining.

A Pox on Your House, Asshole

Um, yeah, I did actually have a point to the previous post, and it was to introduce the following anecdote. Typically, I've been reserving the sordid details of my personal life for "literary material," but, what the fuck? This story is funny enough to be shared with the masses. And I can't remember which friends I've told the following to, so this will save me some phone calls. OK, so the Asshole in the previous post managed to not only infect me, but also my family. As like most Jewish girls who get along well with their folks, I reveal all to them, which usually comes back to bite me in the tuchas. Anywho, mom, dad and brother were privy to most of the intricacies of my dealings with said Asshole, and therefore were just as outraged over his treatment of me as was I. Mom, it seems, took his actions most personally. Dad just thought him a complete fuckwit unworthy of my time. If we were, say, the Gottis instead of the Greens, there would no doubt be a contract out on the motherfucker. And, in anticipation of the comments from male readers, yes, I am bitter—so what of it? Here goes; and this piece is not exaggerated in the least bit for comedic effect. Truth, in my family, is very much stranger than fiction.
A month or so ago, Mom and dad are at a TEP reunion in Gainesville, at the University of Florida. The Asshole was a TEP at UF, as was my dad and all his friends. So I tell mom when she’s in the TEP house to look up the composite photos for the year that Asshole was there and see if there’s a picture. I JOKINGLY tell her to bring a Sharpie and draw horns on his photo or something equally symbolic. Alas, there is no photo, but she locates his name. So I’m speaking on the phone to her, while she's in G'ville; I am sick. My voice is but a whisper, and it actually hurts to speak; it kills to laugh …
“So I’m like looking all over for the composite photos from the years you were here and there is only one photo from all four years,” she says.
“Really, only one photo?”
“Yeah. So I find the photo, and of course, there is no photo of him. But his name is listed under like ‘not pictured above’ or something like that.”
“Figures,” I say, “He’s such a weirdo like that.”
“Well, I’m like trying to think of what I can do to his name—"
“Mom, oh my God, when I told you to cross out his picture with a Sharpie I was totally kidding! Please tell me you did not.”
“Well,” she says naughtily, “I know you were kidding but I wanted to do something to the bastard after what he did to you. I didn’t have a pen with me…”
“Oh. My. God. Mom, stop,” I say laughing so hard I’m crying. I'm screeching like a 75-year-old, four-pack-a-day smoker.
“So I had a little piece of tape in my bag, so I take the piece of tape and put it over his name.”
“Oh my God. Stop!”
“And there are like, you know, 50 people in the room with me, so I’m like sneaking and doing this. And your dad tells me that I am acting like a teenager or something. But I had to do something, it’s like, you know, when you go to the Wailing Wall or something and stick a piece of paper in it.”
“Oh my God,” I am dying with laughter. “I cannot believe you did that! That is so fucking funny! Was it clear tape?”
“Yeah, it’s clear, so if anyone sees it they might think it’s a mistake. But you know how gross that house is; It will probably be years before anyone ever notices it, if ever. But it made me feel better.”
“Oh, God, that is too fucking funny. And the fact that you're comparing it to the Western Wall is just disturbing. You're 57 years old mom! Even I wouldn't have done that!”
"Weeelllll, I just had to do something. Who does he think he is treating you like that?!"
I can just see mom, standing in the filthy, ancient TEP house, surreptitiously placing a piece of tape over the name of the guy who broke her daughter's heart, thinking "A pox on your house motherfucker!!!!!!!!!!!"
Gotta love the mom who always has your back. And gotta love the fact that no matter how together, successful, accomplished, chic, sophisticated and intelligent a woman is, she can be reduced to a bit of a wacko in the face of heartbreak. If anyone happens by the UF TEP house in the near future, keep your eyes peeled for a name obscured by a piece of Scotch tape;)

Market Fluctuations

I know that I've said in the past that I'm back on the market and that I wouldn't talk about my dating life here, but I'm renegging on both those statements as of today. Frankly, I find the whole dating process nearly unbearable. Given the choice between a first, blind date and a visit to the dentist, I'd choose the dentist. A first, blind date and a job interview? The job interview. A first, blind date and a visit to the gyno? Um, debatable. My point is that I HATE dating; abhor it. The artifice, the games, the awkwardness, the hurt feelings, the rules. The truth is that I am a very, very bad dater. If it were a class I would get an "F" or maybe even an "incomplete." And, in general, I have a very low tolerance for bullshit. I've discovered, over the past several years, that being single/alone is much easier than putting yourself "out there." I don't often let down my walls because when I do, someone brings the pain. Also, I don't fall very easily for guys. In fact I think I've really only fallen hard for one guy over the past few years. And I'm still trying to recover from this painful precipice. With this guy, my defenses lay dormant; the fighter in me was not en guarde. And, as a result, my heart was torn out, shredded into a million little pieces, and then slam-danced upon. I don't relish ever feeling this way again. These are the lessons I've learned from The Asshole, who was arrogant/stupid enough to give me permission to write about him. (Are verbal aggreements binding in the state of New York? Anyone? Bueller?)
Lesson 1: It is NOT better to have loved and lost; If you've never loved, you don't know what you're missing.
Lesson 2: If something seems too good to be true, it is.
Lesson 3: Never let your guard down.
Lesson 4: It all goes back to your family; if your significant other has MAJOR family issues, above and beyond the normal, Jewish eccentricities, he's probably a whack job.
And on a marginally related topic, a question:
Has anyone noticed that art and wine are to New York businessmen—especially finance guys and traders—what clothes, jewelry and accessories are to New York women?
If I hear one more guy go on about the prices of his art and wine collections, I think I'm going to scream.
Do you hear us talking about the prices of our jewelry, handbags and shoes? What? Oh, that would be gauche? OK. The next time a guy pontificates on the value of his art or wine, I'll be ready.
"Does it taste good and is it aesthetically pleasing?" I will ask.
Oh, you don't know because these things are merely status symbols to you and have no inherent value of beauty or flavor? Then please, just stop talking. We are not impressed.

Jews and Jewels

So this is the big scandal in the Green family of late. Mom and her friends have been frequenting the same jeweler on 47th Street for more than 20 years now. This jeweler, mom always insisted, gave her and her friends the "best" prices on their baubles. And, over the years, mom has referred many a client to said jeweler. These clients have in turn referred other buyers to the jeweler, making mom a mini marketing machine for this business. Now, prices on 47th Street are somewhat of a sticky subject. In general, what you'll pay for a piece of jewelry on 47th Street is typically about 40% less than what you would pay at a retailer such as Cartier, Tiffany, Van Cleef or even at places like Bergdorf's, Barneys, Saks, etc. However, when you're a "good customer," or a really amazing customer such as my mom or her good friend in Palm Beach who's been her partner in crimes of the gemalogical sort over the past few decades, the prices are supposed to be even better than what the average Joe Schmo coming in off the street would be quoted. Mom and her friends, however, don't just take the jewelers' word that they are getting "the best" price, they comparison shop diamond prices like most yentas compare grocery prices. And, in the past, their jeweler has always come out on top. Cut to Thanksgiving week. Mom swore she wasn't going to buy anything new, which is a good thing because the woman has enough jewelry to cover a Sotheby's auction, but she was going to the jeweler to help my aunt pick out some things. Here it should be noted that my deceased grandmother's jewelry stash was legendary and now rests in the hands of my mom, my aunt and myself (thanks, Roxy). But mom and aunt still buy fresh baubles regularly. Aunt was looking for a pair of emerald-cut, several carat diamond earrings. The price our jeweler quoted her, was, in my humble opinion, absolutely ludicrous—I believe it was the equivalent of a BMW 325Ci Convertible or roughly a year of rent on a nice one-bedroom apartment in a luxury doorman building on the Upper East Side. Anywho, we all thought the price on these earrings was a tad high, especially for 47th Street. So my aunt and uncle—wisely, it turns out—decided to think about it.
They left our jeweler and paid a visit to a diamond wholesaler on 47th Street who they'd met at a jewelry show in another state. At this man's studio, they managed to score a similar pair of earrings, a diamond ring (pictured above) and a necklace, for roughly the same amount they would have paid for ONE PAIR of earrings at my mom's longstanding jeweler. Well, when mom heard this, it was as if she'd been sold an acre of land on top of a sinkhole. She did not know whether she'd been taken advantage of over all these jewelry-buying years, whether the jewelers were just starting to be more price-conscious because they are expanding their business, or, worse yet, whether the jewelers saw my aunt as a "whale" and were just price-gouging. The cell phones were abuzz from Jacksonville to Palm Beach to New York. Mom just couldn't reconcile her jeweler's price with what the wholesaler came up with.
Thanksgiving came and went; I was sick as hell and had other concerns, so I'd nearly forgotten about the Great Jewelry Debacle of 2005. The other night while on the phone with mom, though, I remembered and asked her whether she'd said anything to the jewelers about it. She and her friends typically use one salesgirl when they shop there, and they thought that she ALWAYS gave them the best price. It's always a little unclear who sets the prices there. Anywho, "Whatever happened with The Jewelers?" I asked innocently.
"Oh my God! I haven't filled you in! You'll never believe this."
Oh, I'm sure I will. When we were there over Thanksgiving, mom selected a pair of chandelier earrings for her aforementioned friend in PB, Lisa. Lisa wanted a pair similar to the ones my mom had bought a couple years ago. The Jeweler shipped the earrings to Lisa in PB for her perusal. Mom and her friends do this a lot. Lisa got the earrings and got the price, which came in under $1,000; fairly reasonable for a pair of nice diamond earrings. Well, this caused an even Bigger Jewelry Debacle, because mom had paid nearly three times that amount for her very similar earrings a few years ago. This was gasoline on the smoldering fire, people. Mom had had enough.
"Oy, mom. Well, did you say something to the Jewelers and to Jennifer [the salesgirl, also not her real name]?"
"You bet I did! I wrote them a letter!"
Oy, again. My mom and her letters. A few years ago, she did the same thing to Bergdorf's; and again, Lisa was involved. Mom and Lisa are obsessed with Loro Piana shawls. Lisa bought one at Neiman's in PB; Mom bought the same one at Bergdorf's. Bergdorf's and Neiman's are owned by the same company, therefore their prices should be comparable on the same goods, and they usually are. Except this time mom paid a couple hundred dollars more than Lisa for the same item. Enter the letter, written in longhand, to the Bergdorf Goodman Customer Service department. I don't remember what came of that letter, but I can't imagine it made much of an impact at Bergdorf's, where the wealthiest, most powerful and most famous women in the world shop, and drop a lot more dough than mom does. But I digress.
Her letter to the jeweler was much more appropriate, as she has always been one of their better customers, and has indeed referred many, many clients to them over the years. Apparently the letter had its intended effect—the salesgirl feels horrible and has offered to prorate some past prices. And, as of today, the two owners of the business had written mom a response letter, which she eagerly awaits. She's gonna kill me, but here's the letter. More proof that I'm really not that insane when viewed in the larger context of my family. But we're nuts in an innocuous, mildly amusing sort of way. At least that's what we like to think....The names have been changed, though I'm sure I'm still going to get into trouble.


Hi Jennifer! Hope you are well.

Thanks for your help the other day! I wanted to let you know that my sister and her husband ended up buying the earrings (and other things) from someone else on 47th. Apparently they had the name of someone and went there after leaving you guys. I wasn’t with them unfortunately, but according to them, they were able to buy a better quality stone in the earrings for almost $10,000 less. They ended up buying a ring (with a center stone over 3 carats), a diamond bracelet and a necklace too for about the same price as what you were going to charge them for one pair of earrings—they may as well have bought a Mercedes CLK!!! I am sharing this with you for two reasons…..First of all, I feel badly you “lost” a sale that had a lot of potential after spending the time you did with them. I do know, however, if they had felt they were getting comparable prices, they would have preferred to buy from you and give you the business. I believe they came fully prepared that day to spend a great deal of money with you guys!!

Finally, thanks for sending Lisa her things, all of which she liked. I selected the chandelier earrings for her because they were very similar to the ones I bought about a year and a half ago, and I knew she would like them. Out of curiosity, I asked Lisa how much you all were charging her (we always discuss the price), and to be quite honest with you, I was extremely shocked that hers were less than $1,000 when I paid close to $2,000.

Over many years, I have enjoyed a long relationship with you and the Kleins. I expect, in turn, you feel the same way and appreciate the business and referrals from me which have grown over time. Because I do respect the business relationship we have had, I must let you know that the vast discrepancy in the pricing of these earrings is really bothering me!

On the other hand, I know that much of the pricing is not in your control, so I don’t want to seem unappreciative for all of the fairly priced things I’ve purchased from you. I really am thankful and know you always go out of your way to help me get “better buys.”

I’m not sure what you can do with this information or to rectify the discrepancy, but I felt it was important to share my thoughts with you after doing business for so long. You may also share this letter with Mike, Dave and Ned if you wish! If you would like to discuss this more or have any questions, please feel free to call me.