Post This, Biatch

Chapter 3
As I mentioned, I did not take the job at Celeb with the intention of writing a “tell all.” My book is not a tell all, it is a roman a clef—there is a world of difference between Dominick Dunne and Julia Phillips. Dominick can eat lunch wherever he pleases, while Julia is, well, dead. And while she was alive, she found it very hard to eat at The Ivy after her tell all was published. But, just for the record, I took the job at the sleazy Celeb because I needed a job in magazines, bottom line. I actually wanted to work for Penny, as I thought I could learn a thing or two. I didn’t learn much, but I witnessed a lot. Too much, in fact. It would have been one thing if the things I was privy to were on the up and up, par for the course of objective journalism or even “journalism” loosely defined—then I would have just gone on my merry way. But I have this little affectation; brutal honesty. When I see or hear things that I think are wrong, I have this silly moral compunction to bring things to light. While it’s true that I never worked for The Wall Street Journal or the New Yorker, I am no less of a journalist because of that. I have, in fact, never aspired to be anything but a writer and editor. I have devoted my entire life to journalism and magazines. I have two degrees in journalism, and I take the business very seriously. Yes, my areas of expertise may be fashion, travel, jewelry, society, entertainment and the arts, but that did not make me any less serious about the industry I served. As cheesy as it sounds, I did become a writer and a journalist to disseminate the truth, and when I see the truth being obstructed or obscured, I consider it my duty to intervene. I can be one nosy biatch.
For nearly eight months, I did my job at Celeb mostly without incident, though I hated the job from the start. I loathed what I was witness to—lying, deceit, paying, bribing and threatening in order to get stories—but I did nothing about it. But then around month seven I started to get itchy and resentful. I started hating this bitch called Penny for infecting the lives of her staffers. I saw that nobody had the balls to stand up to her, I suppose because they were fearful of losing their dreadful jobs. But I was born with no such fear, did not possess that silly, prosaic Protestant work ethic, knew that there would always be another job and more money to be had. I had no desire to waste 60 hours a week at a job where I made no creative contribution. So one day in late April, 2004, I gave notice to my direct supervisor. But here’s the catch, I gave more than six weeks’ notice, reasoning that in that six weeks I would figure out what my next move would be. And within a week or two, I had my next move figured out—I would write a novel, and this time, I would see it through till the end.










Chapter 4
Like any other lifelong writer, I had made several previous attempts at novelizing. I always got off to a promising start, always had a powerful introduction and plot, but never saw a book through to its conclusion. At the same time, I had long believed that my first successful novel would be reflective of my life and my experiences as Stephanie Green. “Write what you know,” is the invisible hand that guides both journalism and literature. From Hemingway to Didion, this rule applies. I would have no better luck at writing about politics than I would in running for city council. I don’t know how to do either, and I have no interest in learning. What had always captivated me was fashion, media, society, jewelry and familial relationships. These were the subjects I had mined since adolescence and these were the subjects I knew I could write on with authority. The problem was that up until I left Celeb, I had never had the thread of a story that I could weave throughout the tapestry of my life. That, and only that, was what Celeb gave me. A brief episode to tie my life story together. Sure, Serena Gold, the main character in my Dishalicious, worked for a fictitious, evil editor at smarmy tabloid for a mere eight months. But for the previous 27 years, the inspiration for her existed and led an interesting, humorous, creative life that provided the main foundation for the novel.
One day shortly after I’d given my notice to Celeb and before I’d begun writing, an old college friend was in town staying with me for a few days. As we were walking up Lexington Avenue past the antique shops and I was telling Hank of my tribulations in the media, he made the offhand comment, “You know, you should really write a book.” And in that one remark, although I’d said the same thing to myself at least 100 times, I found the external validation that I needed to light a fire under my ass. “Yes,” I thought, “I should write a fucking book. What’s stopping me? I finally have a compelling story, one that people might actually be interested in.”
I started writing the next day and didn’t stop for the next three and one-half weeks. I wrote at least ten pages a day, following a rough outline that I composed the day that Hank inspired me. I know that people think I’m exaggerating when I say I wrote a book in three weeks, but it’s the truth. Like I said, I’d always had the skeleton of the story I was telling, all that had been missing was the salacious element, which was quite easy to insert once I’d been at Celeb for seven months. The story literally poured out of me in a cathartic flood of creativity. Dialogue which I never knew I had the creativity to craft erupted from my consciousness, and my photographic memory finally came into good use. I’m the type of person who remembers every conversation I’ve ever had, can recall every snub, every embarrassment, every incident with startling clarity. And though I’d never before had any tangible use for such a talent, apparently this skill comes in handy when writing a book. I was inspired like I’ve never been before, and I finally was able to “write what you know.”
I was able, with very little effort, to gather all of my meaningful life experiences into a compelling narrative. I was able to bring to life long-dead relatives, to put my family’s hysterical history to paper, to express my heretofore unexpressed fears and sentiments—I was able to write freely for the first time in my life. See, after six years of journalism schooling, I’d been bogged down by rules, AP Style, grammar, punctuation, objectivity—so much so that I felt I couldn’t write a creative article to save my life. I had felt that journalism school had murdered whatever talent for creative writing I had once possessed. What a relief and a pleasure it was to discover that I could write unrestrained and unconfined for pages and pages without having to worry about AP Style and objectivity. During those three writing weeks, I had more fun writing than I had since I’d penned short stories in the sixth grade. I felt free and so relieved to know that my talent hadn’t evaporated once I’d enrolled in NYU journalism school. That my professors hadn’t been able to squelch my innate creativity, despite their best efforts.
I finished the first draft of Dishalicious while visiting my parents in Florida over Memorial Day weekend. For the first time in my short life, I felt a true sense of accomplishment. Because I have always been a controlling, wannabe-overachiever, nothing I’d done had ever been good enough for me. It wasn’t enough that I had a master’s degree in journalism from NYU; it should have been Columbia. It wasn’t enough that I was a magazine writer and editor; it should have been Vogue I was writing for. But I actually felt a real sense of accomplishment with this book—I’d written a novel! I’d always wanted to write a book but never actually believed I’d do it, and yet I had. I was happy, for a few brief moments anyway.
I am not necessarily endowed with much self-esteem or pride, so to feel a sense of accomplishment so great was a true achievement. Of course it was a fleeting experience. Happiness, for me, has never been a sustainable emotion without copious amounts of prescribed and/or black market drugs.






Chapter 5
After I finished the first draft, I still had two weeks left at Celeb. I was practically jubilant around the office, knowing not only that I was getting the hell out of there, but that I was leaving with this great project, something that I had done all on my own. During those two weeks, I did the bare minimum at the office and devoted all my spare time to revising the first draft. My goal was to find an agent the week after I left Celeb, so as not to waste any time. Although I do come from a privileged background, I do not, have a trust fund or anything like that. So the lack of financial freedom meant that I had to sort of get approval from my parents to go off on this whole novel adventure. I explained to them over and over how I saw this playing out. First, I would get an agent quickly. Then I would plant items in Page Six and Gawker and other places to stimulate interest. Then a six-figure book deal would fall in my lap. Easy peasy. What can I say? I was a young, naïve idiot. At the wizened age of 30, I now know better. This is what I honestly thought, with Plum Sykes, Lauren Weisberger and the nanny girls influencing my beliefs. I thought my book was as good or better than Devil Wears Prada. My parents, though dubious that this money should easily fall into my lap, were supportive. They were, natch, helping with my rent; on the Upper East Side, a $40,000-per-year job just doesn’t cut it. Surprisingly, things went exactly according to plan over the next few weeks.
The week after I left Celeb, I contacted the agents whose names I’d gotten from friends, relatives and acquaintances. The first agent to get back to me loved the manuscript, so I agreed to sign with him, not giving the decision much afterthought. Obviously, that was ill-advised, but I was under the impression that it was usually very difficult to get an agent, so I figured I should jump at such an opportunity. The same day I agreed to sign with my agent, I got a call from Paula Froelich at Page Six inquiring about the book, tipped off by an anonymous source. Naturally, I was the anonymous source—I’d concocted a fake e-mail address and identity and sent her a “tip.” To this day, nobody, not even my agent knows that I was the elusive tipster. Being a media insider does have its advantages in situations like this. My agent advised me not to talk with Paula, but I did send her an e-mail detailing the book’s plot against his advice. On July 4th, the following item appeared in Page Six, the country’s pre-eminent and most widely read gossip column. It is absolutely required reading for those in the media.

Bonnie Seeing Stars
Bonnie Fuller may have thought the worst was over—Star magazine’s numbers are up, the staff upheaval has stemmed and the magazine finally went glossy—but she has one more nightmare to look forward to. Former researcher Stephanie Green left Star two weeks ago and, in that short time, has penned a “scathing and hilarious roman a clef about a sleazy tabloid and an extremely evil and notorious editor who tries to use the researcher as a scapegoat when a cover story involving Hollywood’s ultimate perfect couple goes horribly awry,” a source reports. The world’s favorite gossip column, Page Six, is said to also figure prominently in [the] novel’s plot as “the lead character [the tabloid editor] (sic) considers the gossip column required brain food for anyone in the media.” The character may be evil, but she sure sounds smart to us! Green has just begun shopping the book to editors and agents. She didn’t return calls but a Star rep said: “Stephanie did work here but she is contractually forbidden to write a book—fact or fiction—based on her experiences here.”

Couldn’t have written it better myself. Actually, I did write the majority of it, as the quotes and descriptions were all from me, via the “anonymous source.” However, because this item ran on a Sunday, July 4th nonetheless, it went largely unnoticed. Gawker (a widely read media blog) didn’t pick up on it, and most influential media types do not stay in the city on a holiday weekend. So, while it was gratifying to see my name in boldface in the world’s most famous gossip column, it did little for the book, save for alert my former employer, to the book’s presence. A couple of days after the item ran, I received a letter from the HR department stating that I had signed a confidentiality agreement and that it would be enforced. I largely ignored the letter and wasn’t the least bit worried about my former company; the book was fiction after all. Hello?First Amendment? My father is a litigator and before I began to publicize the book, he and a team of his paralegals researched the confidentiality agreement, deemed it unenforceable, and gave me the go ahead. That was all I needed. Plus, I knew that even the worst-case scenario—getting sued—would result in a cavalcade of publicity for the book.
I spent the next month editing the book, per my agent’s suggestions and according to my own judgment. He advised me to tip off another media outlet and I settled on the fashion industry bible, Women’s Wear Daily, because it had a widely-read media section. I tipped off the section’s editor in the same way I had tipped off Paula Froelich. This time, I consented to an interview. The item ran on August 24.

Women's Wear Daily Tuesday, August 24, 2004
THE DEVIL SHE KNOWS: When it comes to thinly fictionalized magazine memoirs, Stephanie Green is a lot less coy than Lauren Weisberger. Whereas Weisberger, a former assistant to Vogue editor in chief Anna Wintour, doggedly insisted her novel, “The Devil Wears Prada,” was a work of pure fancy, Green describes her new book, “Dishalicious,” as a roman à clef — defined by Merriam-Webster Online as “a novel in which real persons or actual events figure under disguise.” The book’s main character, Serena, is a researcher at a celebrity tabloid run by “this evil editor in chief whom the New York media loves to hate,” said Green, herself a former researcher at Star magazine, which is run by Bonnie Fuller. Citing a confidentiality agreement, Green declined to comment on her eight-month stint under Fuller, which ended earlier this summer. “The best I can say is that it was an interesting experience,” she said. Green dashed off the 300-page manuscript in just three weeks. Her agent, Jim McCarthy of Dystel & Goderich, will shop the book to publishers next month. Green said she’s aware the book could earn her some enemies (although, given Fuller’s reputation, it could earn her some friends, as well). “I know that there will be some backlash, which is fine with me, because my experience at Star taught me that celebrity journalism is not for me,” she said. “I’m not easily intimidated, and I’m not worried about offending people that may have inspired characters in the book, because it’s well deserved. It’s not like I’m picking on angels here.” — Jeff Bercovici



And I wasn’t picking on angels, but demons. This item got considerably more attention, as Gawker did pick it up:
Bonnie Fuller Gets 'Devil' Treatment

Oh, goody: another roman à clef for the media elite is on the way. While the title, Dishalicious, takes the retarded cake, author Stephanie Green's book just might be entertaining in the same way that made The Devil Wears Prada tolerable:
The book’s main character, Serena, is a researcher at a celebrity tabloid run by "this evil editor in chief whom the New York media loves to hate," said Green, herself a former researcher at Star magazine, which is run by Bonnie Fuller. Citing a confidentiality agreement, Green declined to comment on her eight-month stint under Fuller, which ended earlier this summer. "The best I can say is that it was an interesting experience," she said.

Honestly, we can't believe it's taken this long to produce a thinly-veiled account of life in Fuller’s house, but we imagine those standard-issue titanium ball-gags are rather silencing.

Now, while I wasn’t happy with this girl calling my inventive title retarded—what grade is she in, anyway?—the Gawker blurb had the effect I intended. My former agent, who was essentially having his job done for him by me, was flooded with inquiries from publishers, translators and film scouts. I was already making his job incredibly easy by garnering my own interest and coverage. It was my feeling that after all this press, a monkey could sell this fucking book. Now, it should be noted that while all this was going on, the book had yet to be sent out to publishers on my agent’s advice. He seemed to think that it’d have a better chance of selling in September. This agent, on the other hand, also advised me against having an attorney vet the manuscript by doing what is called a libel read. I decided, regretfully, to trust his advice and not my instincts on that one.






Chapter 6
I spent the next two weeks readying the manuscript to go to publishers. I was under the impression that having an agent meant that I wouldn’t have to worry about the little things. I was wrong. It was up to me to print out 10 copies of the manuscript and deliver them to the agent’s office on September 7. Nine would go out to editors the following day via a messenger. All did not go according to plan, however. The next day, my agent informed me that one of the manuscripts has gone missing and did not reach the intended editor. I had a brief, paranoid vision of a journalist intercepting that missing copy and my fear was confirmed when I got a phone call the following day from a raspy-voiced reporter named Sara Nelson at the Post. My agent had e-mailed me that morning to say that Nelson would be calling, he did not, however, although I would later find out he already knew, warn me that Nelson had snagged a copy of the manuscript. The one that went missing perhaps? I’m certainly no conspiracy theorist, but it all seemed rather suspicious.
“Stephanie, I’m sitting here looking at your book. It’s so scandalous and nasty and hilarious. I love it,” Nelson said in her pack-a-day, husky voice.
“What do you mean you’re reading it? How did you get it?”
“I have my ways,” she chuckled.
She proceeded to “interview” me, though I suppose that particular journalistic term has a much different meaning at the Post than at a reputable media outlet. She asked me to send her a jpeg of myself, which I happily did. She said she’d run the story in the business section the following day.
I woke at the crack of dawn, literally, the next morning and read the piece online. After the initial sharp intake, I don’t think I breathed for the full time I read it. Why. That. Little. Bitch. It ripped me and the book to shreds in places, and Nelson’s words seethed with bile, shedding journalistic objectivity and accuracy. I was misquoted, the manuscript was summarized inaccurately and the journalist didn’t bother to check her facts. She even went so far as to ask point blank whether publishers would pay six-figures for this.

ROMAN A CLEF CUTS BONNIE TO SHREDS



New York Post - New York, N.Y.
Author: SARA NELSON
Date: Sep 10, 2004
Start Page: 040
Section: Business
Text Word Count: 474



Document Text



(Copyright 2004, The New York Post. All Rights Reserved) This Devil may wear Prada, but she somehow manages to make it - and her Manolo Blahniks - look "cheap." She also "carries last season's handbags, has adult acne . . . and talks with that hideous working class Canadian accent."So says a new novel called "Dishalicious" that has just gone out to about 10 New York publishers.The 281-plus page manuscript by former Star magazine employee Stephanie Green won't keep the media world guessing about the clefs to this roman - the book is painfully obvious.Editor-in-chief Penny Mother#$@*ing Saxe - PMS to her disgruntled employee - is clearly Bonnie Fuller, former Cosmopolitan, Glamour and Us Weekly editor who now runs the Star.If the Canadian digs, body image insults and descriptions of the editor as "one of the most hated women in Manhattan media" aren't enough, there's the fact that Green was a researcher at the Star until June of this year.She cheerfully admits she was working on the novel during her eight months at the first full-time job she had in New York. And while she signed a confidentiality agreement with Star parent American Media Inc., she's not concerned that her writing a tell- all book breaks that agreement."My dad is a lawyer," she says. "I've done my research. Yes, it was inspired by my life, but I haven't talked about what went on at the Star. The book is obviously a work of fiction."Well, yes - except that the descriptions, and even the names - seem awfully close to reality.David Pecker, Fuller's boss at American Media, is here called Harvey Dick. The magazine that Saxe/Fuller runs is called Celeb (Star), and she came there from "People." (Us Weekly) Like Fuller, the fictional PMS lives - horrors! - in the suburbs, has several children under 16, and is married to a more or less stay-at-home husband. She's also widely dismissed - and secretly envied.Bonnie Fuller was unavailable for comment, but staffers say she is well aware that Green has written a book, although it's unlikely she has seen it.An American Media spokesman says, "We wish [Green] well and hope her book sells as well as Star does every week on the newsstand."Will some publisher pay six figures for this hatchet job, which dresses the dish with a meager chick-lit plot line about a young staffer's romance and her ill-fated quest to get a byline on a cover story, no matter what?---Bad BonnieA new novel by former Star researcher Stephanie Green is supposedly fiction - but some think its boss from hell bears strong resemblance to Star Editorial Director Bonnie Fuller.'One of the most hated women in Manhattan media.'Carries last seasons handbags, has adult acne . . . and talks with that hideous working class Canadian accent.'[Illustration]
-Stephanie Green -Bonnie Fuller [N.Y. Post: David Rentas]

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction or distribution is prohibited without permission.



Abstract (Document Summary)



Editor-in-chief Penny Mother#$@*ing Saxe - PMS to her disgruntled employee - is clearly Bonnie Fuller, former Cosmopolitan, Glamour and Us Weekly editor who now runs the Star.David Pecker, Fuller's boss at American Media, is here called Harvey Dick. The magazine that Saxe/Fuller runs is called Celeb (Star), and she came there from "People." (Us Weekly) Like Fuller, the fictional PMS lives - horrors! - in the suburbs, has several children under 16, and is married to a more or less stay-at-home husband. She's also widely dismissed - and secretly envied.A new novel by former Star researcher [Stephanie Green] is supposedly fiction - but some think its boss from hell bears strong resemblance to Star Editorial Director Bonnie Fuller.






There was a huge, hideously unflattering picture of my former boss and a small picture of me. I was gratified that I looked decent and reasoned that maybe a hot Jewish guy would see it. Hey, I had to find a thread to hang onto. My agent kept insisting that any press was good press, but I knew better. I do believe that the Post story, coupled with the fact that the characters were indeed thinly veiled—hey nobody bothered to tell me to disguise them better—scared off publishers. In the first week after the manuscript went out, the reaction was generally positive. In my former agent’s words, this is how things progressed over the next couple of weeks.

September 13, three days after manuscript went out:
Hope you had a great weekend. Wanted to let you know where a few people are:
Warner brought it to editorial board. They're getting a few more reads. The editorial director read the first 100 pages and liked them. They are "seriously interested."
The editor at Atria was out sick last week and is jumping into the game late. She's planning on reading tonight.
The editor at Broadway really loves the lead character and is very, very positive about the book. She has to get some more reads and is trying to do everything as quickly as possible.
Haven't heard from the other 6 editors yet this morning but will keep you up to speed.

September 16, one week after manuscript went out:
Interest is still high with three publishers. Two I haven't heard from in a few days but know the interest is high. Four have passed. Since a significant portion of the industry is out of the office until Monday for the holiday, I don't think we're going to hear much until then. I'm going to call around today and see if there are other publishers who want to take a look and can get us an answer quickly. We're still in a very good place but (ugh!) have to wait. Don't worry about following up. I'm just as impatient as you are. If I don't talk to you before tomorrow, have a wonderful birthday!

My 29th birthday fell on a Friday that year, Rosh Hashanah Friday actually. Apparently, our people are quite predominant in the publishing industry, but leave it to me to pick a Goyim agent. I was scheduled to fly home to Florida on September 22, as I had not heard from my agent since the e-mail on the 16th, I asked him to give me an update before I left. He called me, and I immediately detected notes of both resignation and detachment. I knew bad news was coming.
“I know you wanted an update before you leave for Florida, and I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he said.
My heart went to my throat and I sat down and braced myself for the worst.
“All but one of the publishers have passed.”
From there, everything else he said was a blur. I remember being almost relieved that my destiny had caught up to me so quickly. It’s simply amazing, isn’t it, how quickly the tides can change in life?
Obviously, this was quite a disappointment. I had counted on a bidding war in the first round and so had my agent. In fact, in retrospect, I feel that my agent didn’t do a hard sell because he felt that the publicity would do his job for him. Bottom line was that my agent didn’t know his head from his ass and that the book had not been ready to go to publishers. I didn’t see the rejection by 9 publishers as a slight bump in the road or an obstacle to overcome—I saw it as the end. I saw it as my public humiliation, the end of my writing career before it had even begun. Because, let’s look at the facts here: I had no job, no money of my own, no plan for the future except one that had just gone up in smoke.

Serialization

OK, so this isn't THE book that you guys have been bugging me to post, but this is a fictionalized account of what happened after I wrote the book. This is basically the nascent form of my second "novel," which upon opening again for the first time today I realized is 400 pages long. So I think I'm going to edit it and then post it as I go along. I'm not even going to try to publish this time, so I figured what the hell...Also, this is kind of a no-holds-barred look at the publishing/agenting process, so it may even be helpful in showing people what pratfalls to avoid.

Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, but nearly everything in it is true. This is a work of fiction because the truth is too painful, too revealing, too dangerous and too personal. This is a work of fiction, because the truth is stranger than. This is the very real yet heavily edited story of my life and how I managed to survive the most trying year of it.

















Chapter 1
My life has always crumbled around my birthday and my 30th was shaping up to be no exception. In the week leading up to the big 3-0, I’d had my heart shattered by the first man I’d met in more than five years who’d given me butterflies; I’d been dumped by my supposedly stellar literary agent; and pushed out of the only steady editorial job I’d managed to hang onto since my entrée into the Manhattan media. What a wonderful world. But then I was off to Bermuda for a week with my family, in an attempt to forget my utterly disappointing life in New York. For seven days, sitting on a beach, perhaps I’d be able to push to the back of my mind the fact that I was single, unemployed, broke, notorious, a failed author with no hope and even fewer prospects. But hey, at least I was looking better than I ever had—a small but important consolation for a single 30-year-old woman. Hard to fathom, but last year at the same exact moment, the outlook had been bleaker still.
One year prior, on the eve of my 29th birthday—an easy one in retrospect to turning 30—my brother and best friend practically had to drag me from my apartment to “celebrate.” Because, in the week leading up to that birthday, my career, hopes and emotions had been on one hell of a roller coaster ride. In that one week, I’d gone from three possible book deals to being rejected by every single house my roman a clef had been submitted to. My name had been skewered in The New York Post, Gawker and Women’s Wear Daily. I’d had six-figure dollar signs dancing in my head and then seen them vaporize. I’d been up, I’d been down, I’d been elated, then suicidal. In short, I was a huge fucking mess, as was my life and my career. See, I’d written the first draft of this little chick lit book that ended up causing a huge scandal, which resulted in me being sued by America’s largest tabloid publisher. It was a novel, but I’d named names, pointed fingers, exposed dirty little secrets, aired soiled laundry and attacked an industry that I found to be morally bankrupt and deceitful. It was a breezy, cheery, fast-paced, romantic comedy type of novel, but it was not without depth and was as much of a social critique as a beach read. It was not the great American novel; it was not the book I’d always dreamed of writing; it was not, by any standard in fact, the best book I had the ability to write. It was a novel that I had thought would be an easy sell, would make a splash, give me a name and enable me to follow it up with something much more substantial. Of course, in my life, nothing ever turns out as I intend.
The novel was called Dishalicious, and in the words of my second agent, it was summarized thusly:

"Dishalicious is the story of Serena Gold, who reluctantly works at Celeb: the most notorious magazine/tabloid (depending on who you’re talking to) in the business, for the most notorious editor in the business, Penny Sapp. When Serena gets a hot tip about the breakup of Hollywood’s most gorgeous and revered golden couple, she needs to decide: does she use the story to get her coveted byline or does she bury the tip and rise above the muck that is Celeb magazine? And will she ever manage to bring down Penny and get her dream job at Vogue—inquiring minds want to know….
Along the way, Serena finds love, helps found a fabulous doggy rescue charity, and goes shopping, shopping, shopping. Dishalicious is “chic” lit in the tradition of Nanny Diaries and Bergdorf Blondes, chockfull of references to the very most glamorous side of life—from Chanel to Choo to Cavalli."


I didn’t take the job at Celeb with the intention of writing a tell-all, which is what most people seemed to think. The unadorned truth is that I’d really wanted the job; was, in fact, desperate for an editorial job, any old job. It was shortly after 9-11, and most everyone’s creative career prospects were dismal. I thought it would be a sort of grown-up adventure. A lark even. Me work sixty or seventy hours a week? Sure, fine, bring it on. I’d be one of those productive mopes with a right to complain about how much I worked. So I took this job as a research editor for this Godawful tabloid that routinely wrote ridiculous stories based on information gleaned from drug-addled tipsters, celebrities’ trash bins, so-called friends of stars and spies sent out to stalk the superstars. I hated every single drawn-out second of working at Celeb. It was the type of job where, if you wanted to get through the day, you had to check your morals at the door and accept the fact that you were contributing to the downfall of Western civilization.
So I sucked up my pride, my highfalutin morality for eight interminable months and then I simply had enough. I’d gone to work there at the time that a very famous, yet hated editor had taken over, so things were insane from the day I was hired. I’m the type of person who’s always kept a diary and written down nearly everything of interest in my life. In May, I went on what the media later dubbed a “three-week writing binge.” Actually, it was more of a month-long purge. I purged my mind and body of all the words that had accumulated over time and come to make up my being. I poured them out into a story that I always wanted to tell—a story that encompassed my family’s history, my philosophy and my social critiques of the media and New York society in general. And, much to my own surprise, I ended up with a cohesive manuscript. Surely the writing was the hardest part, no?


Chapter 2
So then, I was trapped in a hurricane-induced blackout, rejected by nine New York publishers and sued by a multimillion dollar corporation within the same week. Happy fucking birthday! The week had sprouted tinged with optimism, but had concluded with me completely gutted and utterly despondent. Not to mention shocked, overwhelmed and anxious. I was a 29-year-old, unemployed, Jewess, completely dependent upon my generous parents, how could I possibly handle a serious legal and fiduciary matter that had the potential to derail not only my novel that the lawsuit was centered around, but my entire professional persona? Yes, I’d wanted the press. The stories in the Post, Women’s Wear Daily and Page Six were nice mementos. WWD was especially meaningful, as fashion has always played a significant role in the lives of the women in my family. I courted the controversy at first. I knew I would have to in order to generate buzz around my dime-a-dozen chick-lit tome. I knew how the press worked and I manipulated it to the best of my ability, and then, natch, it backfired. And now I found myself with a manuscript and a life in limbo, my fate in the hands of the Hon. Joan A. Madden of the New York State Supreme Court.

Necesito un vacacion

If I weren't such a pacifist, I would have strangled my upstairs neighbor by now. The woman insists on clomping around her tile-floored condo at all hours of the night in high heels. Same thing in the mornings. So much so that despite my earplugs, I'm being woken up on weekends, to which I do not take kindly. I have complained to no avail. The next step, I suppose, is trying to get out of my lease via what is called a "quiet" something or other clause.

Sigh. I need a vacay, and I can't seem to get Bermuda out of my mind since having gone there for my 30th last September. It is perhaps the most relaxing destination I've been to, save for Cabo. Last time we stayed here: The Reefs





But we did the big birthday dinner at the Mandarin Oriental's Elbow Beach, Elbow Beach
which was picturesque, and I'd love to stay there next time. So on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, which was I was tuned into cause it's on after my new reality tv obsession Work Out, they sent this honeymooning couple to Elbow Beach. I've taken this as a sign. Bermuda anyone?

Crazy fun weekend from which I am still recovering — aren't those the best kind? But the rhetorical question of the day is when, when, when will I learn that hard alcohol and wine just don't mix well in my system? Two degrees, six years of higher learning and yet I still can't seem to grasp this fact.

Saturday we hosted a baby shower for my BF, so the party started early and continued well into the night. During the evening, me and a longtime childhood friend crazy ass Nicole, who was staying with me, hungout with two of our guy friends at the Mandarin. One (or possibly four) too many cocktails later, we all end up passing out back at my place. The guys wake up in the middle of the night and drive back north to make a flight the next day. I go back to bed. Nicole is, as far as I know, sleeping it off on the sleep sofa. Except. Except, when I exit my bedroom around 10 a.m. and head out into the living room, Nicole has vanished and her bag is gone. I cannot process. I call her cell phone. No answer. My first thought is that for some reason she left with our friends, which makes no sense, but is the most logical explanation anyway. I call Dana's cell phone bewildered.

"Um, question — where the hell is Nicole? She's, like, gone."

Dana starts cracking up at my confusion, but by now I'm completely mystified. Well, as it turns out, it's no laughing matter. She woke up shortly after the boys left and had a stomach attack, called our family friend after being unable to wake my inebriated tuchas, and was rushed to the hospital at 4:30 a.m. By the time I woke up, they were in and out of the hospital and brunching in South Beach. Never, ever a shortage of drama with me and my friends. Especially with this particular group. Nicole is fine and on the mend, but let me tell you that for a few waking moments yesterday I couldn't decipher what exactly had happened to my missing houseguest.

art therapy

I have been feeling under the weather lately; long story short, I need to get the wisdom teeth removed. Yes, I still have them. Shut up. So this weekend I took some much needed me time and caught up on housework, errands, made advance preparations for the baby shower me and some other girls are throwing next weekend, and, finally, did some art. I've always had two creative outlets—writing and doing art/crafts. I have long neglected my crafty cravings. So this weekend I got back into the swing of things, first creating a gift for the BFF's baby shower, and second, creating a gift for moi.

I've been absolutely obsessed with all things coral and beachy lately, so that was my inspiration for this. The boxes are older, and are more in line with my signature style. Please excuse the awful photography skills.







I would love to open up an eBay store sometime soon to showcase the wares of me and my talented friends, but I surely must create the inventory before I begin. So this is a slow start, and it will take a while to get back into the swing of things, but it only took a couple of hours.

Also happy birthday to the little brother, who is an aged 27 as of tomorrow.

Boys and Baubles

It's my personal philosophy that men have a complicated relationship with jewelry. In fact, I think most men fall into one of four categories regarding women and jewelry: 1. They are appreciative connoisseurs 2. They are mystified and/or intimidated by it. 3. They think it's silly 4. They just don't get it

Appreciative connoisseurs have grown up around women who are impressively bedazzled and have learned by osmosis the importance and the beauty of diamonds and other jewels. Typically, while on a date, these men will take note of your jewelry and compliment you on it. These are the best kind of men. Case in point: On a recent date, the gentleman noted my jewelry, which, like 90% of my collection came from dear, departed grandma, and said, "Is that jade? It's quite unusual for a girl your age to be wearing such lovely jade." OK, so he was in the diamond business and was a bit more specific than most, but still.

Men who are intimidated by jewelry, or a single girl who wears nice jewelry, probably have grown up in families where the mother either does not have good jewelry or doesn't much care about it. These men will take stock of the jewels you are wearing and a look of panic will cross their faces. "Does she think I'M GOING TO BUY HER THOSE THINGS?" Well, no, if we needed you to buy them, would we already be wearing them?? Case in point: On a date once, one of these category 2s actually asked me, "Are those real?" Seriously, I've been asked this question on a date, and yes, it was in reference to my diamonds.

Men who think jewelry is silly, well, why waste words on them? Certainly, handbags and shoes are sillier than jewelry, which, can be kept in a family for generations and generations.

Men who just don't get it, well, they just don't get it. And what I mean is this: Every girl, no matter how down to earth, unassuming, low-maint, whatever, would like at least one nice piece of jewelry. Nothing, simply nothing, makes a girl feel more special than being able to wear something that sparkles, especially if it has come from a place of love.

So where am I going with all of this? I have, on occasion, been told by friends of my mother's that I shouldn't wear certain pieces of jewelry on dates, so as not to MAKE THE MAN THINK I DON'T NEED HIM or to intimidate him. And, granted, I certainly don't break out the vault pieces on dates, however, I'm sure most of you can figure out how I feel about such sentiments. A. I don't need him to buy me things. Sure, gifts are always nice, but I have always thought that the whole notion of finding a man to take care of you is just so antequated and gauche. My mother has never expressed such sentiments, being that she's a major jewelry aficionado and has always shared the wealth.

However, this weekend, she gave me a belated 30th birthday gift in the form of some diamond earrings that she no longer wears. And to my utter horror, before handing them over, she actually said, "Well, I don't know Steph, don't you think that if you go on a date with a guy and he sees a 30-year-old with such big diamond earrings, well, what will he think?"

I merely rolled my eyes and snatched the rocks.
See, our jewelers on 47th Street,
GIA Diamonds,GIA Certified Diamonds,Diamond Rings,Designer Jewelry,Jewelry Designers-Norman Landsberg Inc.

And, previous family jewelry debacles:
Jews and Jewels

Independence Day Forward

I'll write more when I have time. In the meantime, these are for the Jacksonvillans. Holler. And, dad, if you've got the nerve to drink a Cosmopolitan in public for God sakes, then you'd better expect to be called out on it.

Tag and I'm It?

Oh, what the hell? I'm bored and I don't want to be jinxed. I'm off to see the fam tomorrow, so happy 4th to everyone.

"It appears other bloggers occasionally play a game of �tag�, where you have to answer some question(s) and pass it on to five other people."

Scott tagged me and I just plagiarized his text cause I'm uber-lazy right now.
Instructions:
1. Go to Wikipedia.
2. In the Search box, type your birth month and day (but not year).
3. List three events that happened on your birthday.
4. List two important birthdays and one interesting death.
5. One holiday or observance (if any).


Events of September 17th:
1. 1787 - The United States forms and becomes a country.
Duh, even I knew this. My birthday is, like, soooo cool.

2. 1928 - The Okeechobee Hurricane strikes southeastern Florida, killing upwards of 2,500 people. It is the third deadliest natural disaster in US history, behind the Galveston Hurricane of 1900 and the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.
This seems apropos given my new locale of a million hurricanes.

3. 2001 - The Late Show with David Letterman is the first TV talk show to return to the airwaves six days after terrorists attack the United States in New York City and Washington D.C.
Not so significant, but since it was my birthday and I was in NYC during the attacks and actually saw the towers aflame from the Village where I was in grad school, I remember this day particularly. This day of that year was the first time I had gone out to dinner since the attacks and I recall precisely the eerie sort of calm that was still pervading the city. People were finally eating out again, but everywhere, even the most social of places including Serafina on Madison, where I was, felt somber and rightfully so.

Birthdays:
1. 1931 - Anne Bancroft, American actress (d. 2005)

2. 1935 - Ken Kesey, American author (d. 2001)

Death:
1996 - Spiro Agnew, Vice President of the United States (b. 1918)
Grasping at straws here.

Holiday or Observance:
United States - Constitution Day (observed on the previous Friday if it falls in a weekend)
Or, how about my freaking birthday? Kidding, I actually loathe my own birthdays. Though last year's in Bermuda was the best I've had yet, as it involved a group of naked Canadians and the Bermudian police. Awesome.

You're it:

Always Double Back

Pan Kisses Kafka

May December

Mimi New York

Happy Anniversary to You

OK, usually I pay no mind to the spineless anony-commenters who for some reason have nothing better to do than read a stranger's drivel, but sometimes these people require rebuttals. I received this comment today:

"I have a very hard time reading your blog due to your incessant blasphemy...can't you be charming or funny or brilliant without cursing God? I just can't read this sort of stuff anymore....it breaks my heart when someone I love is spoken of cruelly."

Well, first, why the God damn hell are you reading my Semitic, un-Godly blog? For Christ's sake, I wore a shirt that says "Heeb" on the chest to the gym yesterday. If you are looking for God honey, you are clearly on the wrong page. Religion ranks about as high in my book as say, ice hockey or dodgeball, and I'm one of those left-wing commies who believe that organized religion is truly the opiate of the masses.
So I have a few things to say to you, oh mighty proselytizer: Get a life. Get an independent mind. Get a hobby that doesn't involve immolating your own autonomy to a faceless, ethereal, "being." And go read someone else's thoughts.

On a more pleasant note: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to mom and dad, who have been happily--truly--married for 35 long years. Jeez. I can't even imagine it. Some pics of our lovely family from Dana's wedding last July 4th in Napa. My parents, as I've said before, and as anyone who knows them will readily attest to, are pretty hard to beat. They're fun, they're cool, they're generous, they're smart, they're cultured, they're successful, they're liberal, they're tolerant, they're nice and they have set great examples. They're are a tough act to follow, but they rock.

Spa Daze

Jeez I am tired. What's that Rilke quote about inertia? I am too wiped to look it up. I had a very relaxing weekend, having spent the better part of Saturday at this spa with some of my girlfriends.

Standard Hotel Miami

Had a nice massage, chilled by the pool and sweated in the Turkish baths and steam rooms. They have this rather hedonistic sort of room, pictured above, called a Hammam room, that "encourages group relaxation." It's almost impossible not to conjure up orgiastic images while in there. It's coed and one chick was topless, though all the men were thankfully fully clothed. It's a pretty cool hotel and spa though, and for $25 per day, you can access the Hammam, steam rooms, pool etc., so I think I'll definitely go back.

Our fair basketball team seems to have clinched the NBA title, a spectacle that I both witnessed (from the vantage point of a barstool) and heard (through my windows, which overlook the bay, not far from the American Airlines Arena).

I also began physical therapy, which, contrary to what most people say, really isn't a big deal. The PTs say that I was OVERSTRETCHING, so folks, beware of stretching yourself silly, as I was doing. I'm finally back in the gym regularly, thank fucking God. The weather is still nice, though approaching the triple digits rapidly. The storms have yet to begin. Some recent pics of the Miami crew.

And whilst Googling today, I discovered that I've made it into some random blogger's dictionary thingy. But if I wanted to get picky, I would say, "Dishalicious" as I conceived of it, translates into something like: dishy + delicious, or deliciously dishy.
Celebrate Today

You Can't Have Your Cake and Eat It Too

Another action packed weekend from which I am still recovering. I was out Weds to Sunday, so last night I took a much needed night off and relaxed with Entourage, which has finally righted itself after a disappointing opener. Friday night I dined at Red Fish Grill, which is in an exquisite setting on a private beach. Great date place. THE RED FISH GRILL

So my parents were in NYC this weekend with their best friends, without me:( Being that it was father's day, and also my dad's BFF's birthday, and given that I'd yet to buy dad anything and his BFF is like an uncle to me, I'd decided to make a grand gesture. My dad's favorite delicacy is the fudge cake from The Carnegie Carnegie Deli NYC.

I decided to have one of the cakes delivered to their hotel, as both a father's day and birthday gift to dad and his BFF. The delivery went off without a hitch, dad was pleasantly surprised, and I elicted promises from mom that they would bring the cake to one of their dinners. Well, they were doing serious dinners this trip, Friday night at Il Mulino Il Mulino and Saturday night at The River Cafe The River Cafe.

Mom SWORE she'd bring the cake, after the painstaking efforts I'd taken to ensure its delivery. I spoke to brother Sunday afternoon and said, "So, did mom bring the cake to dinner?"

He starts laughing and says, "Well, she's going to try to lie to you to tell you that she did, but really she didn't because they couldn't get it opened and it weighs like 15 pounds."

"Huh?"

"Dude, it came, like, wrapped in this industrial strength twine and shrink wrap, and dad couldn't cut through the rope. So she made me promise to lie to you and tell you that we all ate it at dinner, but really, they couldn't even get it open, so they took it home on the plane with them."

Oy vey. Only in my family, seriously. Dad's BFF calls later to thank me.

"The cake was delicious," he lies.

"David, you're so busted, I already spoke to Michael."

Laughing, "What did he say???"

"That there is a vast conspiracy to lie to me about the consumption of the Carnegie cake."

"Ha, ha, ha. I can't believe he told you!"

Later, I speak to mom, who is essentially so innocent she's unable to lie with a straight face, "Dinner was great and the cake was amazing!!"

I start laughing, "Um, I talked to Michael."

She starts giggling. "That stinker! We honestly couldn't get it open and it was just too heavy to carry to Brooklyn. But we took it home on the plane, I'm going to eat some tonight and then we'll freeze the rest for July 4th. Oh, wait here's dad..."

"Hi honey! The cake was great!!!"

"Dad, don't even try I spoke to Michael hours ago."

"Oh, damn!!"

"And, I spoke to David too. Your Carnegie conspiracy is shattered."

When I was telling the story to someone on the phone a couple of hours later, he said, "Wow. That really brings new meaning to the saying, 'You can't have your cake and eat it too.'"



Indeed. But at least this way, I'll get to have a slice over July 4th.

Pop Culture Roadkill

My friend and I had the best of intentions last night with regards to watching the Miami Heat game. OK, so deep down I knew that "watching" really meant sipping wine while filing nails, tidying up and gossiping, but still, you get the drift. But then we realized that an earthshaking, life-altering, mind-bending journalistic landmark was scheduled to air at the same time, and we simply had to partake in such a profound historical phenomenon. That's right, the Britney Spears/Matt Lauer interview.

A defiant Britney Spears takes on the tabloids - Dateline NBC - MSNBC.com

Now, as most of you know, I worked at this bastion of journalistic integrity that may or may not be this publication called The Star. I also wrote a little novel that revolved around the underhanded activities that a research editor witnessed while working at a famous American tabloid. After having toiled in the trenches of trash journalism, my appetite for celebrity culture was obliterated. After leaving said magazine, I have not purchased, read or even glanced at one single entertainment magazine. I have not followed Bradgelina, Lohan or Spears. I have, in short, become one of those people who couldn't give two shits about celebrities. Whereas before, I was a prime source of celebrity gossip.

Suffice it to say then that I haven't read or seen anything about Britney in ages. Didn't know she was preggers again, so was shocked to see her looking like a trailer park denizen chomping on gum whilst wearing false eyelashes and sporting enough cleavage to crush Matt's head. Appearances and ironies aside--"I don't understand why people call me white trash," chomp, chomp, smack--there was something very interesting about this interview.

She spent a large portion of the interview berating the paparazzi for stalking her in order to get pics to sell to the gossip rags. A fair argument, but one that no celebrity will ever win for the money at stake in publishing. But here's the brilliant irony. One of the show's producers was none other than the illustrious Michael Lewittes,
Michael Lewittes, Gawker who was a top editor at US Weekly and The Star, and who, was, in previous incarnations as a muckraker, perhaps responsible for many scurrilous items printed in such publications about fair Britney.

Just a little observation about the small, incestuous world of the media.

Hallejewya

Thank fucking god, but I do not need surgery. I don't have a nasty popliteal cyst or even a miniscus tear. Apparently I have nothing more than a severe, persistent case of tendonitis and hamstring inflammation. I don't need surgery, just a four week course of physical therapy. I am feeling so lazy due to my non-exercise regime of late, that I'm actually psyched to begin physical therapy. Plus, my docs are the team physicians for the Heat, Dolphins, Hurricanes etc., so I think there will be plenty of eye candy at my sessions. At least I am hoping. Natch I don't follow sports, so I was pretty clueless as to who the big brawny athletes were in the office with me yesterday. Anywho, I'm very relieved and super excited that I can start working out again. I'm free to bike, swim and do the elliptical again. What a weight off.

So now that I know there is nothing gravely wrong with me, I'm feeling much better. I'm a total believer in the whole psychosomatic thing.


I had a fun filled weekend, hanging out with lots of old and new friends in the area. Friday my leg was hurting and I was going to stay in, even though I had been invited to a fab party at this hotel, which is gorgeous and worth a peek, if not just for the stellar art collection, SAGAMORE HOTEL. But then my best friend, who is, by the way, 7 months preggers, said, "I really feel like going out, let's go to the party."

How sad is it when your PREGNANT friend has to drag your SINGLE ass out??? So me, BFF and hubby did dinner at Shoji Sushi, which is owned by the Prime 112 guys, Prime One Twelve, and then headed over to the Sagamore. It was a benefit for the Miami Performing Arts Center or some such operation, and, as the case seems to be down here, was a collection of the same people I've been meeting over the past couple of months.

So though I've only been down here for about two months, I'm already spotting many familiar faces on the social scene, which is quite nice, since it takes, oh about five years to do that in NYC. Saturday night my dad's old college buddy had an amazing party at his amazing house on one of the islands on the beach, so it was a casual but chic affair with lots of food, drink and fun. I simply must move to the beach though, the cabs are getting awfully expensive and my area is just really quiet, mostly couples and not too many singles roaming around.

It's official: I'm a cripple. Orthopod's verdict: popiteal cyst or menescus tear or both? In the knee. Went for the MRI yesterday, best friend held my hand, due to my severe case of "white coat syndrome." I am now officially hopped up on Darvocet, bed rest and sneakers. The Manolos are staying put in the closet for an indeterminate amount of time. Sadly, this is the worst part about this condition--the fact that I cannot wear good shoes and the fact that I cannot stand at length, making going out very difficult. Oh, and it basically hurts to sit upright. I am in agony right now typing, hence the no-posting.

Send me to Bermuda in a Body Bag Please

My brother just got his Bermuda pics developed from September. We went there for my 30th; It was spectacular and I'm wishing I were there right now. In addition to my knee injury, which, after being on my feet all weekend, has decided to flare up again in a major way, I have developed some kind of back/neck/shoulder mess. Basically I want an IV of Percacet, stat.

Happier times...

Attitudes and Platitudes

When a man walks into a date, and informs you, upon you asking what he did that day, that "Neiman's is having its pre-sale," you know it's going to be a doozy. Such was the case last week, when my good friend and I had a sort of double-blind outing with a set-up I'd been talking to and one of his friends who was in town visiting.

Making small-talk when they first arrived, I asked what they had done that day.

"I did some SERIOUS damage at Bal Harbour; at Tod's and Neiman's," my date said. Uh oh. Not a great first impression.

My friend, God love her, and whom I am forever grateful to for accompanying me and turning a potential disaster into a fun night out, looks at date deadpan and says, "What's Tod's?"

Critical shopper that I am, I a.) KNOW that Neiman's is having its Goddamned presale and b.) DON'T want to be informed of this fact from a supposedly hetero, single, Jewish man. It went slowly downhill from there wrt to the set-up. But the friend was much more down to earth and cool, so we all managed to have a good time. And the restaurant was fab; for those of you South Floridians reading, it's def. worth checking out. It's a total scene, NY style, and Bruce Weber even sauntered in clad in his identifiable bandana. Prime 112

People ask me why I am jaded when it comes to dating, and it is merely for reasons like this. I just hate the whole time-wasting element of it all. You talk for weeks or months or whatever the case may be, esp. if the two of you don't live near each other, then you meet in person and there is nothing. However, given that I'd seen this guy's pics in the society pages several times, I did have an inkling that there would be no attraction.

Anywho, the NYC girls and I had a lovely, low-key time in Miami, due to the fact that the hip-hoppers took over the beach last weekend, so it was not the normal scene over there. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but just not our scene. In fact, after sitting in about 30 minutes of traffic, witnessing this,



amongst other things, we got out of the cab in front of the Shore Club, in front of a cavalcade of cops.

Spying us, four decked out white Jewish chicks, one of the cops said, "You girls look lost. Are you sure you want to be here?"

What can I say? The PC movement has been slow to reach the South.

One more note: Hands-down the best restaurant I've eaten at down here, truly delicious. Run there. Now. Ortanique

My NYC girls arrive tomorrow for the weekend, so I'm sure I'll have some more entertaining stories come Tuesday. Apparently it's a huge hip-hop weekend down here, so it should be exciting, to say the least. My car will remain in the garage all weekend, as I'm very strict about drinking and driving and I plan on partying it up NYC style for old time's sake. After the cat incident, which occurred when I was completely sober, sister's a little scared to hit the road again. Have double-blind date tonight, so must go home and primp. Dressing is a whole different ball game down here girls, jeans, it seems are not appropriate for every occassion as they are in New York. Happy Memorial Day.

On a serious note, this is almost too scary for words. Iran is trying to pass a law that would require non-Muslims, including, of course Jews, but also Christians, to wear colored ribbons! For the Jews, it's yellow, for the Christians, red. ... Sound familiar? Iran's "National Uniform Law"

Killer Karma

I can now add a new title to my prestigious resume: murderess. Yes, I surely have some bad karma coming my way. I'm driving down the Venetian Causeway Thursday night on my way to meet my friends. I'm going 30 mph max, factually ensured, since I had just seen a cop and was uber-observant of the speed limit. It's turning from dusk to night, and the road is sort of a narrow, residential street. All of the sudden, and, in slow-mo, as most life-altering events seem to be, this intrepid cat-who-looked-like-a-raccoon-and-shall-henceforth-be-referred-to-as-raccoon-to-assuage-my-Jewish-guilt, darts out in front my car. It sort of froze in the glare of my headlights, and before either one of us had the time to react, I hit the poor little fucker. Yes, I slammed on my brakes, but it was not enough. I suspect that even if I was only going 10 mph, 2 tons of German steel would have still caused the feline's demise. The impact natch produced a most sickening noise. I know it was a cat, even though my friends tried to convince me it was a wild animal of some sort, but it had a strange striped tail like that of a raccoon. It didn't have a collar, so I am hoping it was a stray and not a family's pet, but do cats ever have collars? The neighborhoods on the Venetian causeway are VERY tony, so I cannot imagine these people having wild outdoor cats.

Now as you all know I am an animal lover, and the pure irony of this whole situation is that EXACTLY 24 hours before I commited man/animalslaughter, I was volunteering at the freaking Humane Society. Could it possibly get anymore absurd? I mean, come on! The fact that I actually did volunteer at the HS the night before is the only reason I'm not having some sort of karmic meltdown, though I still do feel awful about the accident and have been having cat/raccoon nightmares all weekend. I do truly apologize to whomever owned/cared for this cat, so I'm lobbing this feeble apology out into the karmic/cosmic void.

Low Society

One of my guiltiest pleasures is observing what is shamefully referred to as "high society." From the earliest age, I've devoured the society pages and followed the boldfaced names. Perhaps it was the influence of my grandmother, who was a diva of unparalleled proportions. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that I've always been imbued with an affinity for life's finer pleasures. Or perhaps it's just that I like "pretty things" in the words of Rufus Wainwright. I take society at face-value: Sure, it's shallow, pretentious, ridiculous and exclusionary. But, again, paying homage to Wainwright, "Oh, what a world." It's just great fun sometimes.

Now, I'm not reinventing the wheel here, but it bears being said that society has not always been so friendly to Jews. Of course, as American Jews moved out of the lower strata of society and into the upper echelons in terms of sheer wealth, society, surprise, surprise, embraced members of the tribe a little more. But it was always a wink, wink, nod, nod kind of thing. In New York society, Jews have earned and hold their rightful place, sure. Many of New York's most prominent society fixtures are members of the tribe (MOTs). However, journey down to Palm Beach, and you'll notice fewer Golds, Bergs and Steins on the guestlists. So be it. The Jews who are members of Palm Beach society, tend to fall into the nouveau category, and how vulgar is that? There are a few Jewish old money--but not true "old" money, Jewish old money, which still means recent immigration--types that are the creme de la creme of international society such as the Lauders. But these families are few and far between.

OK, so my point with all this is that I've been observing this world for some time now, from Florida to California--well, Hollywood really throws society a curve ball, but that's beside the point--to New York, the center of all things. And I attended my share of society functions in New York, which, are in and of themselves, perhaps the most comical, fascinating and bizarre petri dishes of human interaction and behavior in the world. Because in New York society, if you're not a DuPont, Phipps, Taft, Guest or Getty, you're simply nobody, dah-ling. Sad, but true. So you just laugh at it all. In true NY-Palm Beach society, either your ancestors came over on the Mayflower or you're nouveau riche, period. And then it's like, so the fuck what? Your family could give as much money, or probably more, because as we all know society type WASPS are often very stingy wrt charities, to charity than a social register type, but if you're last name isn't one of the old ones, you're nobody. That's just the way it works, and frankly, it's just absurd.

Because, in the end, who the hell cares what your last name is and where your ancestors came from? Are you a generous person? Do you pay it forward? Do you share the wealth? Do you try to leave a positive legacy on this earth? Do you contribute something worthwhile to "society?" If yes, then, as far as I'm concerned, you're right up there with the Phippses, DuPonts, etc. The Jews, see, we do it better. We don't care who the hell your great-great-great grandaddy was. We actually don't care whether you went to Andover or Choate or Harvard or Yale. We don't care if your diamonds came from Graff. (We do care if your diamonds are real, but, preferably, they should come from 47th Street.) What we do care about is whether you are a generous giver. We care about what charities you donate to and how much money you give back in proportion to your wealth. Whether you're new money or old money, if you're writing the checks to the charities, come on in.

This is a rather longwinded way of me saying that I went to my first "society" event in Miami last night, and what a breath of fresh air it was compared to my experiences at New York society events. The people were genuinely friendly, the music was phat, the mood was casual, people were wearing everything from Hermes to American Apparel, and you know what? A fabulous time was had by all. I was genuinely shocked at how open, friendly and warm everyone was. How welcoming and interested and receptive people were.
"Would you like to join our committee?"
"What do you mean? You don't need a DNA sample and a genealogy tree? Well, then, why, yes, I would be delighted to be more involved in the arts."

Oh, and can I just describe the setting for you? OK. There is this island here called Fisher.
FisherIsland
According to it's web site, "Originally built in the 1920's by William and Rosamund Vanderbilt as their splendid winter estate, Fisher Island has enjoyed a long, storied history of entertaining the luminaries of its time." Blah, blah, blah. The long and the short of it is that this is where Oprah and the Olsen twins have pads. You must take a boat to and fro, there is a heliport, the biggest yachts docked outside of Monte Carlo, and more security than the Pentagon. From the time you drive onto the car ferry to your approach at the person's front door, you are escorted by security guards. This apartment was utterly fab, owned by a single guy around my age, with a terrace that everyone I chatted with characterized by excaliming, "this is bigger than my whole apartment." The terrace--I have a thing for terraces--was at least 1,000 sq ft, with gorgeous views of the ocean and the golf course.

But the best part was the people, who were all, every last one of them, completely without attitude and pretense. They just cared about the arts, having fun and enjoying the beautiful surroundings. Really, who could ask for anything else? But this island, although extraordinarily pristine, would have its drawbacks in terms of living. Like, for instance, can you imagine getting shitfaced in South Beach and then having to sit on a slow-moving, vertigo-inducing boat flanked by serious security guards in order to stumble into your home? Or how about this, as one of the guys I was with observed, regarding our host:

"What the hell does he do if he hooks up with a girl? Calls her a taxi and sends her off on a two hour long walk of shame back to the mainland? Or makes her walk to the ferry? That would have to be the worst walk of shame ever...can you imagine him saying, 'Hey, baby, want to take the ferry back to my place? You'll get home in like two days.' Do they even have cabs on this island?"

Probably not, but I'm guessing that one of the golf-cart-driving security guards would gladly escort you back to the ferry if you asked them nicely. En Espanol.

uh oh

So yesterday I experienced my first true thunderstorm since moving here. For those of you unfamiliar with the myriad machinations of Florida weather, a primer. Beginning in the summer and continuing into the early fall, the skies open up and release torrential downpours every day at about 4 p.m. Yesterday however, the onslaught began at about 3 p.m. and did not stop all night. Fine. It's just rain. But, driving in the rain, oh what a tangled web. And, to set the scene, I'd woken up at 5 a.m., have a raging cold, and still have not fully orientated myself with my new car. Sure, I knew how to turn on the wipers, but did I know that they have some sort of censor and adjust their own speed? Nooooo, why the hell would I know that. Technology can be really scary sometimes.

I get home, after an hour long drive—it is usually 30 mins exactly—and look out onto my balcony. The furniture is literally swaying, and the floor is soaking wet. I dart outside and remove the cushions from the sette and the armchair and bring them inside, getting whipped by the water while only out there for two secs. It pours for the duration of the night. I sleep restlessly to begin with, then, suddenly, I am jolted wide awake by what sounds like bombs going off all around me at 5 a.m. In that twilight phase, between sleeping and waking up, I thought I was still living in California and it was earthquake time. The thunder was jarring, so tremendous I could've sworn it was shaking the apartment. I did fall back asleep, but after some palpitations. My first thought was, "God, I'm glad Wally is not here, he would be having a major panic attack." My second was, "Holy shit, how the HELL am I going to get through hurricane season????????"

I do miss Wally terribly, and tomorrow is my first volunteer session at the Humane Society, so I'm sure being around all those other dogs will only make me miss him more. Who wants to take (make? I'm not a gambler) the over-under on whether I'll last a year without him? Pics of the apt and Wally and me in happier times.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Doggylicious

Ummm, I changed my posting thingamajig, and now all my comments have evaporated. I'm too over it to try to get them back, and what's the point anyway, but this new commenting apparatus seems to have actually posted an entry on my behalf. OK. Fab. Spent a sedate weekend with the family and the dog in northern Fla. Though I am loathe to admit it, Wally actually seems happier, or, shall I say, less neurotic/anxious/psychotic, while living with the folks. I guess that with two sprightly bitches to play with, he's considerably more relaxed and just generally more upbeat. He was less clingy, calmer and seemed less despondent when I made my exit. Ahhh, the good ol' days--when Wally was a crazed bat out of hell and mommy was a neurotic, rodent-phobic freak. Where does the time go?

Seriously though, it's nice to return home to a place without the, albeit perhaps slightly irrational, fear that critters will have invaded in one's absence. And the folks' home is now just a short flight away. I hopped on the 7 a.m. flight this morning and drove straight to work from the airport. Of course, I woke at 5 a.m., and, the last time I glimpsed those numbers on a clock I hadn't yet gone to bed, but I made it in one piece. And the Fort Lauderdale aiport has valet. Sweet.

Speaking of dogs, mental health, etc., In the Styles section of the NYT this weekend, there was a really funny piece. It seems that if I were still a Manhattanite and the Wally issue arose in a non-pet-friendly building, I could hire a lawyer and get him into the building by saying he was a "emotional support dog." Those of you who know me, know that I would surely not hesitate to do that. Anywho, the funniest part of this story is that the DOT apparently cannot discriminate against the mentally ill who insist, via doctor's letters, that their pets are "emotional support" pets. Sooooo, the airlines have their fair share of "emotional support" goats, monkeys, and the best--an "emotional support" duck whose owner dressed it in clothes! Can you imagine? Boarding a plane and seeing in the cabin a duck decked out to the nines? Yeah, sounds like that pet is doing A LOT to improve its owner's mental stability. The story is LOL funny though and worth a read:
Wagging the dog

Socialite Stories

I have to say that for the amount of "fake" bloggers/people/media creations out there, it's the bona fide people who are the most fascinating. Case in point, "socialite" Melissa C. Morris, nee Stanley,
Melissa C. Morris, who, recently married man about Manhattan "socialite" Chappy Morris. I've never related to the whole May-December thing, but, hey, whatever floats your yacht.

Slipping into Suburbia

Nothing too exciting to report on this end. I've become a housewife with no house and no husband. It seems most of the drama has faded; could it have been a New York thing? I've somehow slipped into a decidedly domestic routine down here, though I am sans significant other or even cuddly canine. And on that front, some bad news that I am only now digesting. Despite the fortuitous sighting of an old friend of dad's who resides in my Nazi-run building, it seems that smuggling Wally in is simply not an option. So I suppose I will have to make do with frequent visits to Jackassville and my upcoming volunteer sessions at the North Miami Beach Humane Society. I went there for an orientation session this weekend, and it's quite an impressive facility. Privately run, not a stench of urine or feces to be found. Of course I wanted to adopt each and every one of the barky boogers, but my condo restrictions prevented yet another impulse buy. Working, sleeping, eating--I think I am now like most other humans. Boring.

And I love it how I've gone from being intimidated by the whole driving thing, to being another crazy, bat out of hell on the road, blaring my horn at all the old grannies. I'd been driving around with a temporary plate, and since I got the car on eBay, yes, eBay people, the license plate that was mailed to me was without screws. Somehow I knew this would be a problem. I was perfectly content to let the metal plate rot in my trunk and cruise around with the paper one in my window—hey, the expiration date had rubbed off, so who would be the wiser? Surely a traffic cop would let me off. But uncle insisted I run to Pep Boys on my lunch hour to get the screws. It took, literally, an hour of me and this very kind Pep Boy's employee, opening up several packs of screws, making several trips out to the car, asking several people for screw specs for Mercedes, in order to find a measly two screws. When I returned to the office, I commented that it had actually taken me longer to find and secure license plate screws than it had to purchase the damned car. Oh, the joys of life in suburbia. Don't worry, once hurricane season begins I'm sure I'll have more exciting stories to regale you with.

A question: Do we think that if we could actually, legally and morally, buy husbands or wives of our own choosing, that the divorce rate would still be roughly 50%?

If you could buy your beau on eBay as easily as I did my car, would matters of the heart be easier or more straightforward? This train of thought is, of course, prompted by the below joke, not any other sort of malicious intentions.

And, in response to the peeps who will say that you can pretty much already do such a thing on JDate or Match.com, in my ideal spouse-buying world, material misrepresentation would not be an issue. There would be, like, fines and shit. I am clearly sleep deprived.

A Recurring Theme

As the saying goes, those who can't do teach. Or write about it. Or whatever. My good friend sent me this forward with regards to my recent theme of settling...it's pretty dead on. check out her blog, too:



Always Double Back/SquirrelFishin

The Husband Store Is Now Open!

A store that sells new husbands has just opened in New York City, where women may go to choose a husband. Among the instructions at the entrance is a description of how the store operates .

You may visit the store ONLY ONCE! There are six floors and the attributes of the men increase as the shopper ascends the flights. There is, however, a catch: you may choose any man from a particular floor, or you may choose to go up a floor, but you cannot go back down except to exit the building!

So, a woman goes to the Husband Store to find a husband.

On the first floor the sign on the door reads: Floor 1 - These men have jobs.

The second floor sign reads: Floor 2 - These men have jobs and love kids.

The third floor sign reads: Floor 3 - These men have jobs, love kids, and are extremely good looking.

"Wow," she thinks, but feels compelled to keep going.

She goes to the fourth floor and sign reads: Floor 4 - These men have
jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous and help with the housework.

"Oh, mercy me!" she exclaims, "I can hardly stand it!"

Still, she goes to the fifth floor and sign reads: Floor 5 - These men
have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous, help with the housework,
and have a strong romantic streak.

She is so tempted to stay, but she goes to the sixth floor and the
sign reads: Floor 6 - You are visitor 31,456,012 to this floor. There
are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women
are impossible to please. Thank you for shopping at the Husband Store.


A New Wives store opened across the street.

The first floor has wives that love sex.

The second floor has wives that love sex and have money.

The third through sixth floors have never been visited....

I miss my dog. Waaaaah. Mommy is going to visit him for mother's day though, which will probably be excruciating for both of us. I would soooo try to sneak the little booger into living here—I'm having perverse fantasies of just buying a Vuitton dog carrier that looks like a handbag and toting him around in that, after the fucking "board officers" have vacated the premises daily—but getting caught would mean eviction and the thought of moving again is a huge deterrant. If anyone reading this who knows me thinks of someone who resides in my Nazi-like condo building, please share.

Anywho, people continue to solicit my relationship advice for reasons unbenownst to me—hellooooo, single, perpetually?— and while giving a friend said advice about her latest beau, we were discussing how the pace of most relationships/dating scenarios we've encountered lately seems to be completely skewed.
In my experience, it's either too much too soon, e.g. calling every day or several times a day, wanting to see you/smother you all the time, or not enough, e.g. not calling for extended periods of time then popping back up and thinking everything is kosher. I think I'd prefer the too much too soon approach b/c then at least you can write them off for being stalkers, whereas the never-callers tend to have a way of worming themselves back into your life just when you think they are done with you or you are done with them.

And, oh yeah, I'm now a state-certified/licensed mortgage broker—how the hell did that happen? I'll bet those of you out there who know me well could have NEVER predicted this path...

Listen, I am probably the last rightful person to be doling out relationship advice, since it seems that I am the embodiment of the toxic bachelorette, but ask and ye shall receive anony-commenters.
I think that if you surmise that you are in a dead-end relationship, then you have probably answered your own question. What are we talking about here—you want to marry or move in and he doesn't? I just don't know if I buy into the whole commitment-phobe thing; I think that when you meet the "right" person, that so-called phobia probably evaporates. So if you want something and he's not giving it to you, then I guess you are at some sort of dead end. For, if you are not getting what you want or need out of a relationship or even a friendship, then really what is the point? I don't believe in ultimatums, because, who the hell wants to force someone's hand into marriage or commitment, but if you feel it's shit or get off the pot time, and he's not shitting, well, then time's a wasting and perhaps you should explore your options. Then again, as I've said before, I'd rather be alone than be with the wrong person. But I am the exception and I think that most humans are ensconced in relationships that are probably less than what they dreamed of, each for varying reasons. But take this advice with several salt grains, as it's emanating from someone who has maybe one decent date every six months and is destined for spinsterhood.
And also keep in mind that the grass is always greener; singlehood really isn't as much fun as it may look from the vantage point of someone who feels that they are "missing something" by being in a relationship. Trust me, you're not missing anything—it's a jungle out here.

In other news . . . I joined the force of labor today and as a consequence am very tired. I am still enjoying Miami and the weather, but the wind on the key is absolutely out of control, my poor, sad, little plant is getting whiplash. Also, I looked up the sale price of the condo I am renting today in the real estate thingy and realized that the landlord is making a pretty penny of my rent. The value of this little place has doubled over the past ten or so years, so I can certainly see why so many people buy down here.
Though that is one area where I can claim to be commitment phobic—real estate. How can one commit to living in a place for longer than one year? THAT scares me, not relationships...

How humorous is it that in light of the recent posts and controversy this settling subject has stirred up, my mom comments to ask what I bought at Neiman's? The apple falls very close, my friends. I have one more point with this whole not settling thing though—it seems highly probable that those of us who don't settle will end up alone. And I think that must be weighed against everything else I suppose. I've sort of made my peace with this because I am the type of person who just can't even kiss or be really intimate with someone I'm not gaga over. Hence my near celibacy and my tendency not to date a lot. Different city, same issues it would seem.

settlement issues

Okay, so we're not in Gaza therefore the issue of settlements is a litttle less grave, but I think this post has certainly stirred up some strong emotions. In regards to the anony-commenters, a couple of points. When I proclaim that I won't settle for anything less than ideal, I am most certainly NOT referring to a "good on paper" brand of quality. I'm absolutely not on the hunt—nor do I advocate others to be—for a wealthy, Ivy League provider. I have learned through experience that good on paper rarely translates to good in the flesh. By not settling, I mean not settling for anything less than nice, sweet, loyal, devoted, funny, kindhearted, generous, moral and down-to-earth. Money, alma mater, car brand, height and hotness have very little to do with what or whom I am looking for. Any of my friends will attest to the fact that I am the last one to date someone simply because they take me to nice places. If I want a dinner at Daniel—or now, I suppose, Joe's Stone Crab—I'll buy it myself. Period. So please do not misinterpret me. When I refer to my friends who are settlling, what I mean, precisely, is this. They are with men who do one or more of the following: play around, belittle them, tell them they are fat, treat them like housekeepers, disrespect them or fail to recognize their beauty, strength or character.

I've said it before and I'll most likely have to shout it from the mountaintops until the day of my demise: just because I like nice things and shopping, does not mean I am without character, morality, integrity or intelligence. If anything, that is my message inherent in this blog. I am a firm, FIRM believer in a woman providing for herself. I have become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, therefore I plan on keeping myself in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Hence the change of careers to a more lucrative field. When I hear women discuss men in terms of their bank accounts or wallet size or car, I shudder, because, let me tell you, these things mean almost nothing at the end of the day. Again, I am wasting too much time here, I must go paint.

The Neiman's outlet, I fear, has turned into my Ben & Jerry's. Yes, it's a lot less caloric, but a lot more expensive. This is my last week before rejoining the working world again. After a nearly year-long hiatus from such a mileu, it should be interesting.

Last night while out at a local haunt, I ran into a guy I met at a society thing in NY way back in September, so, it seems, the world is just as small down here as up there. He lives two buildings away from me here. Weird. I did two very foolish things today, my jaunt to Neiman's notwithstanding—hey, cut a girl some slack they were having a handbag and shoe "event," I'm supposed to say no to that?—neither of which I feel comfortable disclosing here, but the perpetual question is: Why, oh why, does romance make such fools out of us, no matter the age or circumstance? WHY???????? I'm chalking today's behavior up to the paint fumes I've been inhaling all day.

Settling

I have noticed a disturbing and highly pervasive trend that is spreading amongst my friends from Miami to New York and in between. This trend affects both males and females, but in general, I think it falls more squarely on women's shoulders. The issue? Settling in the romance department. I think we all have those friends whose husbands/spouses/significant others we don't care for. "They could have done sooo much better than him/her/it," we say when talking about them. "What is she thinking?" we ask.


It's really quite simple when you boil it down. Personally, I think that women settle due to low self-esteem and/or fear of being alone—esp if you are over 30—and men settle out of pure boredom and/or laziness. One thing characterizes both sexes' attitudes when it comes to settling though, and that, my friends, is a sense of resignation. "Eh, I may not be able to do any better, so why not take this schlub?" Or, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one your with?" Right?

Um, NOOOOO. I cannot imagine anything under our control more dreadful than settling. For a person, a job, a lifestyle, an apartment, but most especially a lover. Sure, we all must settle sometimes: Prada over Hermes, Bermuda instead of St. Bart's, Mercedes over Bentley. I'm kidding, but not to such a drastic degree. Personally, I can honestly say that I'm a person very reluctant to settle, and when I find myself tempted to do so, I tend to snap myself out of it and remind myself that you only live once, so you may as well give yourself everything that you truly deserve. Because you know what? Nobody else is going to. I don't know if my unwillingness to settle for a significant other is due to my unhealthy level of perfectionism, my parents' almost disgustingly perfect marriage or what. All I know is that if I had settled, like so many of my friends, I would most certainly be divorced by now.

And, I know, I know, breaking up is hard to do and being alone is hard too, but divorce, my friends, is exponentially harder. Trust me, daddy is a divorce attorney. And while I am sure he would be pleased to take referrals, I would not relish proffering them. I'm here to tell you all, esp the girls, that yes, sometimes it's a big, scary world out there and clutching onto someone sub-par feels better than being in the water without a life vest, but, actually that's a recipe for disaster. Do you really want to be 40 or 50 and look at the person next to you and think, "Gee, I'll bet I could've done better." I don't think so. At least I hope not.

This is precisely why I would rather be single than attached just for the sake of being attached. And why in answer to that uncouth question that most Jewish parents seem to think is appropriate, "Why aren't you married?" I can always confidently answer, "I just haven't me the right person." Single doesn't = leper. And on that note, I am pleased to report that after a six-month-long bad date/no date drought, I've had a rather lovely one, simply because I refused to settle for any more lousy ones.

paradise found

If there ever was a doubt about moving to Miami, it was squelched today, for I have discovered, a mere 14 miles from my lovely new apartment, the holy land: Neiman Marcus Last Call and Off 5th. That's right folks, a short drive away there exists the Prada promised land. I am home. I'm loving this city more and more each day. There is certainly not the uber-drama of singlehood down here, as my nights out since my move have mostly consisted of dinners and tame activities, but I'm rather enjoying the sedation after so many years on the merry go round. The final bit of furniture was delivered today, the apt. is almost perfectly turned out, I haven't gotten seriously lost or carjacked yet, and the leg is feeling better. I face a wall of water from both my bed and my couches and have acquired some very comfy patio furniture. So all in all, life is good. Then again, my seasoned South Florida friends tell me that hurricane season starts in a little more than two months, so I guess the shit will hit the fan again fairly soon. I'm fortunate though, that my condo came with "hurricane shutters," which are these industrial strength, intimidating-looking shutters that protect windows and doors. Apparently these things are like thousands of dollars to install, so it's a real boon that my apt. came with them. And though I am certainly missing Wally, I have to admit that it's really nice to come home and not have to walk the little booger. Tomorrow I start my mortgage broker's class, which will consist of 24 hours of classes in three days and next week I take the state licensing exam. Boring, boring, boring I know, but I'm laying off the personal stuff at the moment. Though I do have a couple set ups I am actually looking forward to. I'm done, once and for all, with JDate. Seriously. I mean it this time.

The eighth great wonder of the world: why do our parents, substantially older and more war-torn than ourselves, have more energy than us? Between Passover, the family visiting, friends and apartment stuff, the time is already flying fast. I can't believe that April is almost over and before I know it I'll be joining the force of labor. Spent all week and weekend getting the apartment together but was able to spend all day Saturday on dad's friend's boat, cruising around Miami in style. There are simply so many areas of this city that are really quite fabulous and beautiful. We saw all the major islands, many of which are well-known celebrity lairs such as Fisher and Star Island, but some of the lesser known areas are just as breathtaking. And strangely enough, I saw more celebs by sea than I saw all season in NYC. We cruised past Shaq's $29 million abode, and spotted him chilling in the backyard throwing one of his kids a party. We also saw Hulk Hogan scoping out his new ultra-modern digs with his family, adjacent to some big music producer pulling up on his 100-foot behemoth yacht. The interesting thing about the celebrity lifestyle down here is that they have absolutely no privacy. The ones who live on the water have completely exposed backyards, because if they were to erect high hedges, as they do in LA, they would block out the spectacular views. It's a catch 22 for them, and apparently the reason Shaq is looking to sell. Also saw lots of other Heat players on the water and at dinner, but I don't know their names. Honestly I didn't even know that Shaq was with the Heat now; not exactly up on the sports. Anywho, it was awesome to spend the better part of yesterday seaborn, and to take a boat to lunch as opposed to a car or train. Now I must make a friend my own age with some sea wheels.

And in another interesting twist, characteristic of the close degree of separation that is life in the South, as we were getting on the elevator in my new building Friday night, my dad ran into an old frat brother of his who lives on the 10th floor of said new building. Natch, I'm wondering if this has any consequences that may prove to be favorable to Wally...More TK on this subject. Next weekend I have my cram course for my mortgage broker's exam for the new biz, so it's back to school for me. That should be interesting.

As Nancy P. so diligently pointed out, I had to update my profile to say Miami; thanks Nance. It feels weird to call another place home after being a New Yorker for so long. Anyway Happy Pesach to everyone. The fam is coming to town this weekend so I'll be on another hiatus, but I'm sure I'll returned armed with lots of ammo as we are going apt. shopping this weekend. Alas, no Bergdorf's to be found here, but Bal Harbour is singing its siren song to me.

No Habla Espanol—but Oy seems to translate

This Spanish thing is going to be a problem, as it's not most of the worker's second language, but their first. Neither the cable guy or the carpet cleaner guy spoke English. Did some damage at Whole Foods today and I'm still getting used to having actual food outside the fridge, without the fear of little critters getting into it. I'm going to have to unlearn being an ultra-paranoid neat freak because by now it's by rote that I vacuum daily, clean obsessively after every meal and keep everything, including salt, pepper, coffee etc. in the fridge. It's bizarre not having to worry about common NY problems. But there are now others, like the fact that right now the winds are about 20 miles an hour and when I open the patio door my nic nacs are instantly strewn about, not to mention the temporary furniture that is being lifted off the ground. Gee I can't wait for hurricane season.

I am living in an unusual area called Brickell Key, which is a private island off of downtown. It's a really cool place, with lots of residential buildings, a couple of restaurants, a market, bank, florist, dry cleaner etc. You can actually walk to the marketplace, so it's a little bit cosmopolitan, which appeals to expats like me. The Mandarin Oriental is also on the Key and there's a cool bar and some fab restaurants in there as well. One amazing thing about the island, that I simply cannot fully take advantage of because I am sans Wally, and still scared to run for fear of worsening my fucking ITB, is that there is a walking path that spans the perimeter of the island, where there are dogs, joggers and walkers galore. You can see it in one of the above pics from my balcony, which, yes, I am completely obsessed with, you can see both the bay and the river and the port of Miami, hence the cruise ships. Today I got lost on my way home from Ft. Lauderdale and ended up in a lovely area called Crandon Park (I think). Ironically I missed my exit and ended up on a toll road; thankfully I had exactly $1.25 on me for the toll. I wonder what would have happened if I'd cruised up in my "luxury" automobile and professed to have no money? Do the toll booths take AmEx? I'm sure that this happens to people a lot down here....

I'm Baaaaaaaaack

A long overdue recap, for my cable internet has just been installed. In the past two weeks I have:

Become the new owner of a peppy little German (ugh) automobile, replete with cute little portable GPS thingy, for I happen to have the worst sense of direction ever. Seriously. I have gotten lost in people's houses before.

Slept on an air mattress, for the first (and hopefully last) time ever

Had a religious experience at Target. Twice. Whoever invented this superstore deserves no less than the Nobel prize for shopping.

Abandoned my loving, codependent, needy, 10-year-old dog, not without a hefty amount of Jewish guilt. I have also pondered ways to Anne Frank him into condo living, but alas, have come up with no feasible options that wouldn't result in my eviction.

Moved into my new condo, which, given that it is a one-bedroom and not in New York, has ample room, central air conditioning, fans, overhead lighting, a washer and dryer, a large kitchen and the fattest balcony ever, with sweeping views of the Miami River (who knew?) and Biscayne Bay.

Put up my first Mezuzah ever, though it's probably against the condo rules.


Employed my veeeeeeeeery rusty college-level Spanish. It's an absolute necessity down here, so I really must brush up.

Gotten back onto the elliptical machine, because, fuck it, my ITB bullshit wasn't getting better by not exercising. So I'm finally sweating again and it feels fucking great.

Sworn off shoe and handbag shopping once again, because even though I am now proudly in possession an actual walk in closet, there is STILL not enough room for the damn bags and shoes.

Perfected my tan.

Gone grocery shopping and bought more than just one day's worth of food.

Left the house in flip-flops, tank tops and exercise pants.

Left the house with wet hair.

Pumped some $3-a-gallon gas; you guys should have seen me at the gas station trying to figure out where the gas tank release button was. Ten minutes of sitting in the car pressing every button, then calling mom.

"How the fuck do I open the gas tank? I've pressed every button."

"Well in my car (another German make) you just press on the actual tank and that opens it."

This NEVER would have occurred to me; I was about to give up trying, but alas, mom to the rescue once again.

Gone back on that ghastly Jewish dating web site that all MOT belong to much to their own dismay. However, the first chap I've conversed with over the BellSouth (or is it AT&T now) wires, was flagrantly, flamingly GAY with a capital G. He said like about 50 more times than I do. Sigh. I don't think it's happening for me on JDate. I just cannot, for the life of me, envision myself at my wedding toasting to that fabulous cyber-bastion of head shots and "about me"s. call me crazy, but I'd like to meet someone the old fashioned way—through pushy Jewish mothers and friends—or not at all.

Anywho, I am now fully set up in my new pad, sitting here with my desk positioned so that I can look at the water while I type. There's a constant stream of boats gliding by, sunsets, dolphins, manatees, all visible from both my living room and bedroom. And after all the stress of moving finally subsided, cruising in my new car on Saturday, with the sunroof open, CD blaring, sun shining, and wind blowing my Japanese-straightened-therefore-always-perfect-even-in-the-blazing-humidity hair, I thought, "Why the hell did I wait so long to do this?" Is it cold in New York? That's what I thought. Pics are on my balcony, from my first Friday night in my new home.

And I'm back. To the comforts of home. To the three barking dogs, the fully-stocked pantry and (three) fridges. The move was, as all moves are, completely draining, compounded by the fact that I got not one minute of sleep the night before. Thus I looked like the walking dead when the guys showed up at 8 a.m. Tuesday morning. They undid in three hours what it had taken me three weeks to do. Arrived in JAX last night, totally the worse for wear, and crashed for about 11 hours last night. Set up the Florida bank account and got the new cell phone today; totally loving the pink Razr. Pretty soon I predict that the big design houses will be making cell phones, why not? I will be the first on the Chanel waiting list. Anyway, more errands the rest of this week, then we head down to palm beach saturday to pick up the new car, which, no, we haven't test-driven.
When I mentioned this to mom, the test driving thing, she said, "Eh, but we got a good deal." A good deal trumps all, my friends. I'm sure it will drive fine. It didn't come with GPS, however, and I happen to be someone who can easily get lost in her own apartment. So we got a freestanding GPS thingy at BJ's tonight. BJ's, similar to Costco, is somewhere I can easily envision wasting hours and hours of time in the near future. It's really so scary how content I am shopping, even if it only entails home-goods or groceries. What the hell is wrong with me? Is consumerism an actual disease? Cause if it is, I'm damned sure infected. So Saturday we are off to Palm Beach for the weekend and then I'll be in Miami next week, relying on the generosity of friends until the furniture arrives later in the week. I have never so looked forward to just being in my own place; I've been living out of suitcases now for more than one month.
Unpacking and decorating however, dear readers, is about the most exciting my life is going to get in the next couple of weeks though I'm afraid. I certainly don't have the energy to date, and if there's one thing the past month has reinforced it's that all men are fucking nuts and just not worth wasting time on. Even the ones who come highly recommended are wackos, and if I want to spend time with a whackjob, I'll hang solo or go out with my delightfully eccentric friends. Enough is enough. Maybe I'll start my own reality show, Single in the Sunshine State. Though, trust me, it would be really, really dull and most likely would be set mostly at Neiman's and the beach.

good-bye to all that, part three

the bags, as they say, are packed and I'm ready to go. well, almost. still have one more marathon day of packing left tomorrow, one more "last supper" at shun lee, and a few loose ends to tie up. but the car has been bought (on ebay, nonetheless) the going away party has been thrown (thank you guys so much:) and the good-byes have been said. I'm still a little in shock, but very excited and thankfully the leg actually feels better. cannot wait to have daily access to a pool, as I'm def. suffering from exercise withdrawl. I'm posting a few pics, but as I abide by the "all of us must look fab" rule, the choices are few and far between given the level of alcohol consumption and debauchery of last night at BED.

on another note, even though I have indeed taken a hiatus from divesting too many personal details here, I am happy to report that I now have a little bit of closure with regards to the asshole, and even better, have further evidence that he is indeed quite literally certifiable. it feels good to be right.