Awanta?

Awanta: Who do they think they are? Hebrew-style.

American Media (all links via Gawker) is, once again, reading this. Is it a lackey? Is it a lawyer? Is it Bonnie or Joe? Most likely, it's a lackey, as this particular AMI slave was logged on at 9:47 p.m. last night and read for more than 15 minutes.

Sooo, because I'm in a particularly bad mood today and because AMI pretty much made my life a living hell with the lawsuit (despite the fact that I smacked their asses down in court), this is what I have to say to you American Media: Fuck off, lech lehizdayen, joda lejos and baiser de. Hebrew, Spanish and French, respectively. But cursing in phonetic Hebrew is the funnest.

There's:
zonah: whore
benzonah: son of a bitch (son of a whore, literally)
lech zayen et ima shelcha: go fuck your mom
arss: white trash

My favorite Hebrew phrase, however, is sababa, meaning cool, okay, fine. It's just so fun to say. Sa-ba-ba.

Ah, the things you learn at sleepaway camp, in Hebrew school and in Israel. I miss Israel and esp. Israeli men. Everyone thinks they are chauvinistic and sexist and maybe they are a little. But, they are hot. They are strong. They are men's men. They are also sweet, complimentary and put women on pedestals. They are, in short, much better in my opinion than American Jewish men, who tend to be coddled, prissy, dorky and often spineless due to years of thinking they are the best thing since sliced bread, thanks to their overbearing mothers.

I think I need to go back to Israel; the last boyfriend I had was Israeli, and though things would've never worked out due to cultural chasms, he was hot, sweet, hardworking, hardbodied, caring, sensitive, funny, goofy and he gave great massages.

Condo Commandos Catch Clandestine Canine!

Wally's jig is up. Seeing as how I stopped using the stupid Sherpa bag and have been walking him freely, just like, oh, any other normal dog, I'm not surprised. Alas, he was ratted out in ways of which I am not aware, but I suspect the security guys. I think they probably get kickbacks for being narcs. I mean, how could anyone possibly take offense to this face?

Anyway, I was planning on driving him back to the 'rents house this weekend so he could avoid the whole moving ordeal. After I returned from Jax a couple weeks ago with Wally in tow and told my realtor-friend, he responded with this humorous e-mail:

"I hear someone singing

Reunited and it feels so good

This breakup we had

Has left me lonely and sad

But we’re reunited, hey hey"

And then today, upon me telling him that the way in which Wally was caught was nothing dramatic--for he has since become a loyal reader and expects nothing less than high drama from moi--responded:

"I pictured the condo emperor running you down as you sauntered out with that oversized LV puppy purse. 'What whimpering...oh that?...um, that's my cellphone...got to go!"

D. I think you may have missed your calling as a writer or something;) Although I'm sure a sense of humor comes in handy in your line of work.

Check out today's Fashionosophy; I actually managed to post something. Or nothing. Eye of the beholder and all that.

Sitemeter

For those of you web newbies/old people out there, we bloggers have a function called sitemeter that often enables us to see who is reading our blog and for how long. With the exception of AOL users, we can see your IP address, your company name, your geographic location, how long you spent on our site, how you entered and exited the site, and what page you were referred from.

Sometimes this falls under the heading of "too much information."
Case in point: Today someone from the law firm of Sedgwick Detert Moran & Arnold viewed 79 pages of my blog! WTF? I didn't even know I had 79 pages. You're an atty--don't you have, like, work to do?

One of the best parts of sitemeter, however, is that when someone arrives here from a Google search, you can see the exact phrase they typed in. Usually, it's just my name or Dishalicious. But some of the funniest ones I've had are "hairy green scary," "lexapro and kicking and screaming in sleep," "seeking for 100% auth dating site in maryland in 2006," and "slingbacks adhesive" and "jdate freaks."

Leave it to Me

To be one of those idiots who never deletes e-mail addresses and enters each person into my "contacts" because I had Hotmail and otherwise it went to Junkmail. What this means is that when I sent out my e-mail today announcing that I was switching to Gmail, and selected "all" in my address book, the email went out to every ex, every potential employer, every JDater, every ex-friend, etc. etc. who was still in my address book. And now they all not only have my blog addresses, but also my cell phone #. Ah, the wonders of technology and the stupidity of moi. So, er, welcome back people. It's been one of those days.

On the plus side, I've gotten to chat with lots of old peeps who I haven't heard from in a while, so it's all relative.

Dog Day Afternoon

Wally and Cubby's second playdate, in which Wally, trying to establish his dominance, ignores Cubby, and Cubby tries fruitlessly and relentlessly to engage Wally in a little lighthearted play. Wally wasn't having it.

The Bitch Must Die

Is it justifiable homicide if I, say, accidentally murder my upstairs neighbor with one of her stiletto heels because she wakes me up repeatedly? No? Well, what if, say I have major sleeping problems and treasure those sleepy Saturdays and Sundays as if they were platinum laced with D-colored diamonds? How about then? I'm about to leave a note on her (see #9) door that says:

¿Habla inglés? No? Bien entonces, gracias para despertarme otra vez. He tratado de ser próximo tiempo cortés pero llamo a policía o inmigración. Espero su Visa o Tarjeta Verde está en la orden.
la mayoría del sinceramente suyo,
su colinda abajo

Translation:
Speak English? No? Well, then, thank you for awakening me again. I have tried to be polite, but next time I am calling police or immigration. I hope your Visa or Green Card is in order.
Most sincerely yours,
Your downstairs neighbor

I am not kidding here people; I will photograph the sign and scan it in for your pleasure later. This nifty online translator rocks; it translates whole paragraphs at a time.




And this site, making fun of Page Six on my behalf, is pretty groovy too: Swanky Beast.

More TK later after I've taken out my frustrations at the gym, posted my nifty sign and taken Wally and Dana's dog Cubby for a walk. It's about time the little beast made nice with other canines. I also have some more post Botox and Restylane pictures to share. I'm sure you're all just oozing with anticipation.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

OK girls, I've stumbled upon the singleton's version of a registry and fabulously, it's courtesy of Neiman's.

In light of the overwhelming response to my post about the cost of being in a friend's wedding, consider this the singletons' revenge or something like that. So here's my Neiman Marcus Wish List, and naturally it's far-fetched (hey, isn't that what wishing is for?) and I expect to get nothing from it, but it's a fun diversion. And, um, this is very addicting; once I started, I just couldn't stop!

So girls, (and guys, if you're so inclined) I encourage you to do the same, and please post your link in the comments section so that everyone can see what you've registered for! If you don't already have a Neiman's online account, you simply have to register with your e-mail and a password. And to view each other's, we need to have one another's e-mails, so include those in your link. Happy shopping, er, wishing, hoping and dreaming!

And visit Fashionosophy for a glimpse into the inner-workings of my designer-diseased brain.

Twatwaffle, Tee-Hee-Hee

It's a dry day, please visit Fashionosophy. But, oh, am I loving this: Gawker's smackdown of the twatwaffle. That's not my word, it's Gawker's or one of its commenter's but oh what a brilliant word. I'm adopting it. The comments are the funniest part, so be sure to read those . . . The fact that this twatwaffle has a book deal is just beyond.

Update: My ongoing love affair with the word "Twatwaffle" has taken a new turn. Gotta love Gawker for their contributions to the lexicon of low-culture. And I mean that as a compliment Gawkers...

Singles Versus the World

There is an ongoing, pervasive war being waged between the women in this country: It's the singletons versus the fiancées, and it's getting bloody people.

What I'm speaking of is the showers, the parties, the destination weddings, the hideous bridesmaids' dresses, the endless shelling out of dough that it now costs to "celebrate" your friends' happiness. In the good ol' days, at least according to my mom, there was simply. . . an engagement party thrown by the parents, preferably at the yacht club;a wedding and reception; and a honeymoon. Period. The end. There was minimal "cost" involved for the celebrants and atendees. You wore a pretty outfit, you showed up, you toasted, you sent the couple on their merry way and that was that. Hurrah.

Oh, but for the good ol' days. It was quite a bit more civilized then, no? Sure, there were registries, but mainly for bone china and place settings, not for, say, cappuccino makers, bread makers, ice-cream makers, nic-nacs, picture frames and things that have nothing whatsoever to do with weddings, per se. And there was simply Tiffany, Bloomingdale's, Bergdorf's, Neiman's, Jacobson's. There was, thankfully, no Bed, Bath & Beyond. And then, I am almost positive, the registrants did not return your gifts for store credit.

But now, there simply must be a party for everything. And let me tell you, for us singletons, esp. those of us who will never marry, this gets to be a huge pain in the ass and causes a major dent in the wallet. It's even worse if you are the maid of honor.

So let's do a case study of a destination wedding in which I am the maid of honor.

First, the phone call.
"You know, of course, that I want you to be my maid of honor," says the best friend, gushing.

"Oh, um, thanks?" I reply, knowing that this was coming, but also thinkingfabulous. I'm unemployed, the wedding is in Napa Valley, not an easy or inexpensive place to get to, and we also live in different cities.

So here's what is on the table over the next six months celebrating her engagement/wedding:
1. Engagement gift: Jay Strongwater decorative box: $135

2. Engagement Party, thrown by my parents and me, at my childhood house in our hometown:

• Invitations: $125
• Food: $200
• Alcohol: $200
• Plane ticket home for Wally and me: $350
• Shirt to wear to party: $200

Total Cost, Engagement Party: $1,075

3. Bachelorette Party:

• Transportation to Miami for Wally and me: $350
• Hotel Room: $100-200 (I don't remember)
• Food/Alcohol: $100

Total Cost, Bachelorette Party: $600

Shower:

• Thrown by other bridesmaids; I didn't attend. Enough was enough.

4. Wardrobe:

• Bridesmaid Dress. Not something I would ordinarily buy: psychedelic print, strapless, shiny silk, multicolored, ruched and knotted, asymmetrical hem.

Let's lowball it at $150.

• Handbag for Ceremony: Prada black nylon, mini shoulder bag with silver chain, about $300.
• Dress for Rehearsal Dinner: Classic, black Max Mara dress, $500 or so.
• Jewelry: Borrowed from mom, free.
• We won't go into mom's dress for the wedding, or her shoes, but suffice it to say that the dress was Luca Luca (retail) and the shoes were crystallized Manolos from the evening collection. My target audience knows what kind of digits we are talking about here.

Total cost, my wardrobe: $950

5. The Actual Wedding:

• Plane fare, NYC to Sacramento, CA $450
• Rental car, Sacramento to Sonoma: $340
• Hotel: $900 for three nights
• Add to the above the fact that my mom, dad and brother also went, so triple the cost. But this is about ME.

Total Cost: Wedding: $1,690

6. Wedding Gift: Jay Strongwater candlestick, shared by another family, don't know the cost.

Grand Total, Best Friend's Wedding, Cost to Maid of Honor and her family: (exclusive of the rest of the family's plane fare and the actual wedding gift): $4,600.

Why, I could buy my very own Monique Luhllier gown for that cost. Or perhaps my own Jay Strongwater piece. Or maybe even a Chloe Silverado Satchel and a Fendi Spy. Or a Chopard Happy Sport watch that I've been coveting for years. Or a few days in Italy. Or actually, that would've covered two months' rent in my Manhattan apartment.

Oh, but it's the right thing to do, right? Cause (and this is what people always say) "She would do it for you in a heartbeat." And she would, except here's the rub: I'm not getting married. And most likely never will. I'm not getting the parties, the gifts, etc. etc. etc. The singles, my friends, get shafted. Big time. Remember that episode of Sex and the City where Carrie registered at Manolo Blahnik because of all of the above reasons? Well, it's not so far fetched, after all.

But here's the worst part about being a maid of honor--you don't actually get to enjoy the wedding or the party like you should because you have to worry about bustling the dress, making the toast, making sure the bride is taken care of even though there is a wedding planner. Oh, the endless joys of being single in a married world.

And before you comment, yes, I'm bitter. I'm bitter that single people aren't recognized as whole individuals. We may as well be mutants--we are pitied, poo-poohed, fixed up, fussed over, worried about. Hey, we're not the ones asking our friends to shell out thousands of dollars to make us happy, so tell me, who, really are the screw-ups? Singles or Marrieds?

Fashionably Late

OK, people, move on over to Fashionosophy and check out my first post. It's really scary how much more I enjoy fashion than almost anything else in life aside from Wally. I will continue to post here as well, but since my sartorial life is much more exciting than my social life, I wouldn't hold your breath.


UPDATE: Cartier has lost my Tank. What the HELL is going on today? Seriously? Maybe I'll get a new watch out of all this if those morons can't find my three-year-old one.

Fashionosophy It Is...But I Need Some Tech Help

OK, the votes are in, and by that I mean, like three of you. But Fashionosophy it is. I'm working on a prototype now and trying to figure out why my damn camera has such a hard time taking close up shots of jewelry. If I were smart, which I never accuse myself of being, I would have lugged the camera to Cartier in Bal Harbour with me today, where I drove to pick up my watch. Come to find out that my watch, which I'd left there for an estimate and had subsequently balked at the $789-repair pricetag, was located in the "repair shop" upstairs, which isn't opened on Sunday. Oh well, at least Wally got to see Bal Harbour. And he wasn't the only Poodle in Cartier either, which is the truly sad thing.

Anywho, check back on Fashionosophy in the next couple of days.

Shit, can someone please tell me how to change my profile on each blog separately? My Dish profile is now the same as my Fashionosophy profile, God forbid. There's gotta be one tech-savvy reader out there...

Reader Response Required

OK girls and queens, this one's for you. I'm going to start another blog that deals exclusively with beauty, fashion, accessories and jewelry. I'm trying to think of a cute, snappy, one word name. I want the title to include the word "fashion," or "fash."

Which do you like best, or, if you can think of something better, please feel free to comment.

1. fashionabulous

2. fashionosophy

3. fashionfesto

4. fashtastic

Things That Make Me Go Grrrr

My car.
It insists on having its oil changed, tires rotated and aligned and likes to leave me "messages" on the dashboard. E.G. "wiper fluid out, please refill," except the wiper fluid is not out, thank you very much. And this one: "service type 2 required in 24 days." What, do I speak Latin now? I'm supposed to thumb through the 290-page manual to figure out what "type 2" is? God, words cannot express how much I loathe driving and specifically my car. Take a lesson from me people, do not let your parents buy your car from eBay, especially if you have not driven in six years and therefore don't understand the significance of taking it for a test drive. Oh, and I have I mentioned that the schmancy CD player won't play burned (or in Mercedes lingo, "copyright protected") CDs? That's why I listen to audio books. Well, that and the fact that I'm a completely lame geek.

Publix and Grocery Store Clerks.
Now, Mich, maybe you can answer me this question or start a campaign or something against grocery store baggers. Could the country's recycling issues not be resolved merely by grocery store clerks just cutting down on the sheer volume of bags they insist on using? Does each item really need its own separate bag? Do my soy chips really require their own plastic entity? Are my bananas really going to be irreparably damaged if they touch my frozen dinners? The overuse of grocery bags infuriates me irrationally, I think because I have to carry them from my car to my apartment, so I insist on consolodating everything into as few bags as possible in my wretched car. This results in the front seat of my car looking like a Publix shopping bag repository.

Network TV Executives, Nielsen TV Ratings and The American Public in General.
Oh, you're yanking Studio 60 already? Big surprise--it's smart, engaging, culturally relevant and cutting-edge, just what America doesn't want. Aaron Sorkin's brilliant and beautiful dialogue is just a little too smart and witty for you? Four episdoes weren't enough to garner high ratings? Do you think that perhaps it has to do with the horrible time slot it was shoved into, as lame-ass, overeducated peeps like me, who are probably the show's target audience, are tired at 10 p.m. cause we are now old and lame? Oh, and I'm still smarting over Arrested Development. Perhaps the most brilliant show ever created. Ever. As much as I hate my car is how much I love AD. Love, love, love it. Why didn't HBO buy it? Why am I still obsessed with it? Maybe because it's brilliant and I'm lame and need to get a life.

Desk chairs.
Why are they so uncomfortable? Even now I have to quit typing and get up and stretch because my desk chair and my damn car aggravate my tendonitis. That's my rant for today.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Nothing Special

OK, first of all Restylane freaking hurts. Bad. As compared to Botox, which requires a few mere pinpricks, Restylane requires about ten on either side of the mouth and it's painful. You have to sit there with numbing cream on for about 45 minutes and then come the injections and then you have to ice it. I was pretty swollen walking out of the derm's office last night. Today I'm a little red and a little swollen, but overall, the pain? Sooo worth it, ladies.

For those of you who don't know what it is, Restylane is a filler that goes around the frown lines around your mouth, or technically into the "Naso labial folds," which run from the bottom of the nose to the bottom of the lip. Anywho, I'm icing my face at the office today. I don't have my own before and after photos, but take a gander at these:

Restylane before and after photos

On a completely unrelated note, my friend Daryl's You Tube video that he compiled for the guys, has me cracking up today. These are the guys I grew up with, and after watching the video, you'll probably realize what an awesome crew it is and what I mean when I say that I'm truly blessed with regards to my friends, family and family friends. Young Yearly Video

Also, completely unrelated, I seem to be having dreams about people whom I have absolutely no conscious relationship to and/or haven't thought about or seen in years. Last night it was this very nice fellow also in the crew I grew up with who apparently is a rising music star. Mutual friends have been telling me to listen to his stuff for a while now, and I just got around to it. I'm not musicially inclined nor do I pretend to have good taste in music, but I dig it:

Ashton Allen on MySpace

I think it's funny how the ad at the top of this site this morning was "What Really Attracts Guys." Oh, the irony. How about "What Really Repels Guys?" Yesterday it was, "How to Attract a Wealthy Guy." Yeah. Now it's "Put Your Face on Ice" and "Lip Fat Injections." Man, Google does a good job of targeted advertising.

The ad from this a.m., "What really attracts guys," brings me around the subject of modern women versus traditional women and parental role models. As I have said before, my parents are very modern. They share almost equally in the responsibilities of the marriage. They both work hard and play hard. And they don't keep secrets from each other like many of their friends do. Secrets mainly such as, "Oh, I was really bad at Neiman's today and I'm just going to intercept the bill before hubby sees it."

We don't play like that in my family. Anywho, I know that in most marriages in the Jewish community the women do play like that, or they're on an allowance or the husband goes over the bills with a fine-tooth comb. Well, where am I going with this? Oh, OK, even though we don't keep secrets like that in my fam, mom is the one who buys me pretty things. Dad stays out of the shopping picture with regards to me. Sometimes dad doesn't know to what extent mom spoils me, because she's spending her own money.

His curiosity factor usually goes something like this. I'll see him and be carrying a new Chanel bag or something. "Oh, that's pretty honey," he'll say, "Is it new."

"Yes, I got it in New York last time we were there, remember?" and then I'll catch mom's eye. For some reason he notices handbags but it takes him a while to notice jewelry.

Up until I saw the "Go girl" comment from last week, I was unaware that dad is a regular reader. So I got a little flack when I went home this weekend about the Botox, fashion stuff, jewelry, etc. etc. that I just didn't think daddy knew about. I was going to write more on this subject and how it all ties into my mom's traditional friend berating me this weekend b/c she thinks I am too upfront with men, how they don't need to know about my botox, my jewelry, my clothes, that I should be more subservient, less intimidating, but now I'm tired so here's the short version. Mom's good friend, whom I am very close to, ALWAYS tells me this stuff, and I love her to death but we do not see eye to eye on this subject. I know I need man advice, and perhaps I should even listen to it, but, let's face it, I'm not going to. I'm going to continue to be me.

My response this weekend, to mom's friend's comments that I should not blog about my Botox, jewelry, etc. was as usual, "A man can take me as I am or not take me at all."

And if there are no takers, then that's just dandy by me, cause at least I'm keeping it real.

Enquiring Minds...

OK, Anon, this one's for you. We all have some questions for you, so I figured instead of speculating with my friends and family and other bloggers, I'll just put 'em out here into the great cyberspace void.

1.) How old are you?

2.) Where in NY do you live?

3.) How did you find my blog?

4.) If we played Jewish Geography, would we come up with some common names?

5.) This one is from the moms and the yentas, what do you do?

Feel free to respond via the comments . . .

Wally Is Back

OK, first an update, dear readers. Tomorrow I will go into the details of my weekend and last week. I arrived home from Jax last night around 9:30 with a petrified Wally in tow. I smuggled him into and out of the building in his new Sherpa Tote Around Town bag (thanks for the rec, Mel).

He is a little skittish, but was playing with his toys last night and seems happy to be with me again. I have the bark collar on him today while I'm at work, because he tends to howl when I leave.

A hot topic of conversation among my parents' friends who read this blog was the anony-commenter who seems to have a slight crush on me, against his better judgement. My mom wants to know who he is and my mom's friends do as well.

I got to hang with Nancy P., my biggest fan amongst my parents set--it was great to see you too--and found out that indeed, my dad did leave the "Go girl," comment. Truly frightening. I also have some pre- and post- Botox pictures to share later when I upload this weekend's pics. Tomorrow I go back for some more in the forehead and Restylane around my frown lines.

Thanks to Lynn and Alan for being such great hosts in Palm Beach as always. And I do have some funny stories but I will wait until later for those. For now, I thought I'd amuse you with excerpts from my diary, circa 1985, when I was 9 years old. I don't remember exactly what I looked like at that age, but I'm pretty sure I was in a lovely awkward, fat phase. And in the throes of my first-ever true crush. This is verbatim, spelling and all:

April 23, 1985
Dear Diary,
Today wasn't too bad. Guess what? Bryan sat next to me at lunch. He talked to me without making fun of me. I guess I still like him. But I think he likes Jessica and Cecelia. I had piano today. I hate it! I'm not sure if I want to quit or not. Mabey Bryan does like me! Bye!

Same Day
We wrote limericks today in school, here's mine:
There once was a girl named Jane who knew she was a pain. She bumped her lip and cut her hip and from then on she used her brain.

Like it? I do. Bye!

April 24th or 25th [The dates seem to jump around a lot. I guess I wasn't as type-A at age 9.]
Today he was mean to me. I don't think I like him anymore. I hate my teacher. She's a pain in the rear end! Yesterday we got our report cards. I only got one C+ [probably in phys ed]. Want to hear my grades? B, B+, A, B, B+, A, B, B.

April 26
Dear Diary,
Someone died in our class. His name was Tarek John. He died of a blood vessel in his brain, it popped. He was Christi's boyfriend. He was nice to people. I am sad he died

Questions, Questions

There is one annoying, offensive, bothersome, anger-inducing question I am asked that seems to pop up repeatedly from all kinds of sources: Why is a cute/nice/smart/flattering adjective girl like you still single?

Why do people insist on asking this question of us singletons?

From now on, my answer is going to be, "Why not?"

It's always off-putting when someone slams you with this question in-person, for what are you supposed to say? That all the men you meet are creeps? That most of the good ones are taken and the ones who aren't are like you--single because they are not yet ready to settle down?

OK, so here are my answers, because I had my bimonthly phoner with my therapist last night and she asks me this damn question every time I talk to her. And I tell her the same things, over and over and over again.

1.) I refuse to settle.

2.) I have very a specific physical type to whom I am attracted: Dark hair, slightly Semitic looking, not short, decent body, full head of hair, handsome face.

That pretty much rules out a large part of the single, over-30, Jewish male population. And I'm not being a snob here and I'm not saying that I think I'm so good looking that I think I should be with a hottie or anything like that. What I'm saying is that I am simply not physically attracted to other types, and physical attraction is obviously an important factor in any relationship.

3.) I am actually quite chaste and do not sleep around. At all.

4.) I hate the process of dating. I would rather go to the dentist or dermatologist (esp. if Botox is involved;) than on a first date.

5.) I have been told that I can be slightly intimidating--with brains, good jewelry, designer clothing, a fabulous family, solid opinions, a good sense of humor and sophistication actually working against me.

6.) I don't cook, and I never will.

7.) I don't believe in the traditional male-female gender roles wherein the woman stays home and caters to the male's every need. That's not how it works in my family and any guy I fall for would have to be the type of guy who carries the burdens of a relationship equally, e.g. cooks, cleans, runs errands, tends to the kids, the dogs etc. as much as the woman. My dad is a case in point, and in my family, the roles were divided equally, period. My dad wants dinner? He cooks it himself. He wants his dry-cleaning picked up? He gets it himself. My mom works as hard as he does, so why should she have to go home after work and do more than he does? She shouldn't and she doesn't. Period. The end. This is a rarity in upper-middle-class Jewish culture, where many women do not work and instead go shopping all day and are completely dependent on their spouses. That's not how it works in my family and that's not what I want.

Sadly, I think most Jewish guys want a subservient woman, whether subconsciously or consciously. I am not her.

8.) I like my independence and a lot of the time, I like being alone with my thoughts. It would be nice to spend some quality time with a quality fellow a few nights a week, but I think that the other nights, I would just like my space.

9.) I am easily annoyed and like to be in control of my environment.

10.) I take up the entire bed and often talk in my sleep. Loudly.

11.) Guys suck. Girls are crazy. Stereotypes are true.

12.) I think I actually like being single, as much as I bitch and moan about the lack of decent men. Because the truth is that I think like a guy most of the time and have this "what if I could do better/the grass is always greener mentality."

13.) My parents are the perfect couple--looks, brains, success, kindness, love, respect the whole nine yards. And, as we all know, our parents are our primary role models in everything. And I don't think it's a coincidence that my younger brother, who is a perfect specimen of physical beauty and is also kind, cool and smart, is also still single. So until I find the perfect guy for me--perfect for me, not "perfect"--I shall be single, OK?

14.) And, oh yeah, I don't want kids. I'm not a baby person; I prefer dogs. Apparently this makes me some kind of freak of nature. I'd like to think it shows that I am self-actualized enough to recognize the fact that I would not be a good mother. If Roxy, my grandmother, had recognized this, she would have saved my mom and her sister a lot of grief. And a lot of money paying for hired help.

15.) I want someone smart, well-educated, funny and successful. At best, I think most guys I meet have three of the four. OK, so I only have three of the four at this point in my life too, so maybe that's part of the problem. Whatever. That's my bitch session for today.

New York Dreaming

I had a dream last night about a boy I worked with and had a brief, but fun tryst with for a while last year in NYC. Things ended poorly, for we both were using each other for our own reasons, none of which seem to matter anymore. Also, the saying "Don't shit where you eat," really is a wise one, because after things end, it's always bound to be awkward at best, humiliating at worst.

But given my past year of experiences with utter douchebags, drug addicts and, well, sociopaths, this particular fellow now seems rather sane and sweet. I watched The Break Up last night, which ends with Jen and Vince's characters having a pleasant random encounter on the street, despite the bitterness of their breakup. Time healing all wounds and all that.

My dream was very similar to this scenario, wherein I had an encounter with this boy and all was well. He looked cuter than ever, was kind, as was I, and I actually woke up smiling. It took me a couple of minutes to remember his role in my dream, but once I did, I suppose that what I thought was this: It actually is possible to meet someone nice, have some fun with them for a while, delight in one another's company while the relationship/affair/whatever lasts and then move on without bitterness or baggage.

I haven't thought about this boy in a very long time, but I do admit that in retrospect, I behaved badly toward him and am a little embarrassed by my actions. He entered my life at a particularly odd juncture—I was in the throes of my lawsuit and my anxiety was more than a little heightened. He also was around for the zenith of The Rodent Issue, and, let's face it, I was driven absolutely insane by that whole episode that summer. The Rodent Report

Anywho, today as I was editing my new book, rehashing the rodent stories and reading over my account of one crazy night we had at the Four Seasons, I remembered him fondly. And though we both, I think, treated each other at times with infantility, I wonder how he is doing and what he is up to. So if you're reading this, and I'm sure you'll know who you are, drop a line and let me know.

The Final Countdown

Eight days till the big Georgia-Florida football game and the even bigger annual Green party in honor of the Gators' victory.

Seven days till I am reunited with the love of my life, Wally, and my crazy-ass friends in Jacksonville, Crazy Fun Weekend.

Six days till I go to Palm Beach, one of my favorite locales and stay with Lynn and Alan, two of my favorite people. Haters and Lovers

Five days till I have at least 50 clean pages of my second book completed and edited.

Four days till the Botox fully kicks in. Already I have no more crow's feet and can barely scrunch my eyebrows together and that pleases me immensly. Alex Kuczynski be damned. My ass she's given up cosmetic dermatology. Her face doesn't move at all.

Which means 10 days until I can go back for more botulinum toxin in the hideous horizontal line that spans my forehead and get Restylane in my frown lines to boot.

And speaking of Wally, apparently, once he turned 11, his testosterone skyrocketed and he's been humping Stella and Tessie, of Tangled up in Tessie Lou Blue fame, like there is no tomorrow. Now I'm about to render him celibate again.

I got nothing else. I gotta go write.

Media Mongrels

One of the most loathsome qualities of the New York media is its obsession with schadenfreude. Members of the media, especially underlings or marginally successful people, take immense delight in the failures and foibles of their former coworkers or ex-compatriots.

I found this out firsthand when I wrote Dishalicious, but I knew what I was getting into and didn't much care, because here is the truth: Most members of the print media are pathetic, schlumpy, bitter, jealous, untalented, mildly-retarded, dullards. I'm not speaking of the Conde Nasties, the Hearsties, the AmEx kids or the like. I'm speaking mainly of the Gawkettes, Gawker the tabloiders, the local paper people, etc.

One of my main themes in Dishalicious is that it's not as glamorous on the inside as you may think. In fact, it's decidedly pedestrian. You will meet smarter people at the DMV than you will in the bullpens of Us Weekly or In Touch.

But of course there are a few standouts, people who despite the amoral atmosphere, maintain an air of dignity and sophistication that seem to be a part of their character. One of these people, in my humble opinion, is Jared Paul Stern, Night & Day, who is a legendary New York media figure. Of late, he has had his troubles and been cast outside of the circles he was very much on the inside of for most of his New York career. Gawker's biased coverage.

Apparently, there was some sort of alleged "payola" scandal that arose while he was writing for Page Six, which he was an integral part of for years. Recently, he sold his book about the annals of gossipland, see yesterday's Observer article on his book deal. I didn't follow this Ron Burkle scandal closely, namely, because I'd worked with Jared at Star, and found him to be quite sweet, humble and upstanding, three qualities in short supply in tabloidland. So I think, to say the least, that he's gotten a bum rap of late. And I wish him well on his book deal and all things to come. And Gawker, which just seems to be getting bitchier by the day, should just lay the hell off people every once in a while.

It is horrifying that his wife has to work in a factory, hello. How would you like to work in a factory instead of blogging from your studio walk-up, Gawker editor??? And one day, all you Page Sixers and Gawkers with your ink-stained hands, shoddy wardrobes and limited vocabularies will be on the receiving end of your snarkiness, and trust me, it ain't pretty.

Addictions

I seem to have an addictive personality and this blog has become an addiction, whether healthy or unhealthy, I don't know. Dr. L. says, regarding the whole "blog thingamajig," as she calls it, "I just don't understand the benefit of people purging their lives into the void of cyberspace. But, whatever."

I think the benefit is just that; it's a purging of the soul for those of us who do not have other outlets. Sure, all bloggers, esp. formally trained journalists such as myself, would love to have a book deal or a column. But we don't, so we do this. And, in fact, some famous authors/columnists/journalists do actually have columns and/or book deals and still blog, so there must be something to it.

Anywho, last night while "baby-sitting"--as predicted, the extent of my contribution was walking the dog--Daryl commented how funny it was how my parents know every detail of my life. And if you're a regular reader, you know that my parents, in fact, do know almost every detail of my life and I have a very open, close relationship with them, which I think is healthy. My parents are very cool, and, in fact, are very close with lots of my friends and I'm very close with lots of their friends. That's just how we roll.

OK, so Daryl says, "You know when you were younger you were just the opposite; you never told your parents anything and you'd always get mad when they asked you personal questions."

A fair point, but most teens/adolescents go through that phase. Then he started cracking up and said, "I remember once that you were so mean to your parents that they made you wear a sign to the movies that said, 'I Love and Respect My Parents.'"

"What? They SO did not do that Daryl! I do NOT remember that at all--how old was I?"

Daryl and Dana have known me since birth. "You were like 13."

"Uh, uh. No way. I'd remember that."

"I swear, Dana told me and I remember cracking up for a week. You must have repressed it."

"Sweetie, I've been in therapy for 10 years--I repress nothing."

"Well, maybe it was just a threat then..."

"It had to be a threat. I would remember. And there is NO WAY mom and dad would let me go out in public looking like that."

Dana gets home and Daryl says, "Do you remember when Stephanie told her parents to fuck off or something and they made her wear..."

Dana completes his thought, "A sign that read, 'I Love and Respect My Parents!!!"

We all started cracking up, but I still contended that it must have been a mere threat by the 'rents, for I would definitely remember a humiliating experience like that.

I e-mailed mom this a.m. for a clarification, and as usual, my memory reigns supreme, fuckwads:

Nancy says, "Now about Dana and Daryl’s memories...That is one of the most absurd things I have ever heard!!! Actually, it is crazy. You don’t for a moment think we would have done something like that??? Very weird. What even brought that up????"

A Question for You, Reader

I've noticed that a great deal of you are entering my page through this post: Southern Style Smackdown? Bring it on.

Can one of you explain how/why? I'm not that Internet savvy, so please solve this mystery for me by commenting.

My hand hurts from typing; 27 pages of the second novel in 4 days.

My brother has bought a one-way ticket to India on Kuwaiti Air.

Wally's World

A big, fat happy birthday to my beloved Wally, who is 11 years old today. This is his first birthday I haven't been with him. And traditionally I have fed him a special dinner that included meat. For his 5th birthday in NYC, I got him a burger from Wollensky's. Who says I'm not nurturing?

However, since he's at home with mom and dad, and mom's a vegetarian and dad subsists solely on Lean Cuisine frozen dinners and odd, homemade soup concoctions, I don't think Wally will be having a carnivorous birthday this year:( I have instructed mom to give him the "meatiest tasting" faux-meat product they have.

Poor booger. Only two more weeks till we are reunited. Maybe he won't recognize me due to the Botox;)

I bit the Botox bullet yesterday, finally. It was utterly painless and I have no bruising whatsoever. My friends think I am crazy, because they are most certainly behind the beauty times, but it's all about preventative maintenance, darlings. If your muscles are paralyzed, no new lines can form, hellooo. I will post before and after pictures once the effects are optimal. You start to see results in a few days, but they max out in two weeks.

There is minimal recovery time; for four hours you cannot lie down, put makeup on the area or exercise. You are supposed to smile and frown often to circulate the toxins or engage the muscles or something. So I was talking on the phone, driving home, smiling and frowning like a maniac. God knows what my fellow drivers thought...

Dog Days Are Here Again

Meet Wally; the only man I will ever truly love limitlessly. He shall be back in my bed after I go home for the big Florida-Georgia party Halloween weekend. The Nazi regime that is my condo board can go shove their poles up their asses until they hit something solid as far as I'm concerned. Thanks to dad, a hissy fit that scared the wits out of my decrepit landlord and a legal loophole, I am out of my condo Dec. 31 at the latest. Now, girls, I need some suggestions for a chic, designer doggy tote that looks like a handbag so I can smuggle him in and out of the building undetected by the omnipresent cameras. I welcome your comments, please.

Double Happiness

I caught the sublime French movie Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain a few days ago for the second time. If you haven't seen this film, it's about a quirky young woman who, due to a childhood of solitude and isolation, has learned to find pleasure in the smallest of things. One of the funnest aspects of the subtitled film is that each character is introduced by the narrator in a voiceover listing his or her dislikes and likes:

"Amélie's mother, a school mistress from Grugeon, has always had shakey nerves.She dislikes puckered fingers in the bath, having her hands touched by strangers, and pillow marks on her cheek in the morning. Amandine Pouline likes figure skaters' coustumes on TV, polishing the parquet, emptying her handbag, cleanign it out, and putting everything back."

I don't know about you, but there are certain thematic elements in my life, and just before watching this movie, I'd had a discussion with Dr. L., who said, in more eloquent words, "Do what makes you happy; what fills you up and gives you pleasure. This is not so difficult."

So I had been thinking about what actually makes me happy, gives me genuine pleasure and fills me up spiritually. And then I watched this movie, which, in essence is about the same things. Amelie does what makes her happy and tries to do the same for the others in the movie. Really, it's harder than it sounds to just do what makes you happy, but anywho, here is my list, a la Amelie.

Dogs, dogs, and more dogs. All dogs--cute, ugly, mutts, but especially Wally.

The beach.

Art, both appreciating and doing it.

Fashion, clothes, jewelry and fashion magazines.

Being around my friends and family.

Traveling.

Reading.

Writing.

Partying like there is no tomorrow, because maybe there isn't.

Taxis.

New York.

Grooming and beauty products. Only girls can understand the pleasure of products, the brilliance of Sephora, the divinity that is a fabulous new moisturizer, mascara or lip gloss.

Laughter and a sarcastic since of humor, to wit: Larry David, Woody Allen, Seinfeld, Arrested Development, Entourage, Frasier, David Sedaris.

I can think of more, but I must go stretch. And I'm off to Chicago tonight in the pursuit of happiness in the form of friends, family, fabulous foods, art and architecture.

Day of Atonement

Yesterday was Yom Kippur, the "Day of Atonement," wherein Jews are supposed to repent for their sins and ask for forgiveness. I tried that last year; it didn't work. In fact, I'm pretty sure it backfired. Last year, I atoned for every single one of my sins, in writing no less, and the next 11 months proceeded to be even crappier. So fuck that.

Yesterday I went apartment hunting with my non-Jewish realtor. All of the sudden he looks at me and says in his adorable, gay, southern voice, "Wait a second, honey, aren't you supposed to be atoning for your sins?"

"I am," I cried. "I am atoning for the fact that I abandoned my dog for the wrong apartment, I'm begging forgiveness for doing so and I'm trying to rectify the situation!!"

What more could God ask for?

Hasta Lavista, Brickell

A big Allo to all my new Australian readers; I would love to visit your part of the world sometime soon.
Yesterday I gave my 30-day's notice to my landlord that I would be vacating the premises by midnight, Oct. 31. I'm coming home to collect Wally and moving to South Beach, where the young, Jewish and stylish roam free. My landlord has not responded to my phone calls, so I've gotten a real estate lawyer involved and consequently, am going to nail his old, decrepit, German ass to the poorly shod walls.

On another note, you simply must read what my "fan" Leandro has written about me. Particularly hilarious are the parts where she advises me to get a makeover so I can go from "pretty to beautiful" and the part where she tells me to get a subscriptiton to NetFlix. I wonder what kind of meds she is on? Freaking priceless. I love it. I am heading to Chicago on Friday and have a busy week of apartment hunting, so I don't know how much I will post. If you have any apartment leads on West Ave or Bay Dr., send them my way...
LeandroToro Juicy Gossip and Fun!
In her defense, I'm pretty sure she's Canadian. And in my defense, drugs are FUN.


Page 623 -- Bonnie Fuller, Stephanie Green, Dishing from Dishalicious
Filed Under: Bonnie Fuller

(source: www.cbc.ca)

PHENOMENALLY FOCUSED AND HARD-WORKING BONNIE FULLER, EDITORIAL DIRECTOR OF AMERICAN MEDIA, INC.

* * * * *



(source: www.dishalicious.blogspot.com)

STEPHANIE GREEN, FORMER RESEARCH ASSISTANT AT AMI, AUTHOR OF A FICTION NOVEL, DISHALICIOUS


Stephanie Green has replied to our posting about her on her website as follows:



Thursday, August 24, 2006

Wow, It's weird being written about by retards

Keep in mind that the book is fiction and I only stumbled upon this link through a function of my site tracker. This is pretty unbelievable dreck, but worth some shits and giggles. BTW, this "writer" takes offense at the fact that I use expletives in my writing. Um, OK, what can I say? I have the manners of a Miss Porter's graduate and the mouth of a sailor.




Our comments on her comments:

* * * * *

We stand by our position:

PROFESSIONALISM

We found Stephanic Green a compelling author based on the excerpt she published from her novel Dishalicious on her site. Wonderful!

Nonetheless, we still maintain that it is (temporary) career suicide for someone with two degrees in journalism to (a) attempt to publish a fictional book about a top editor; (b) publish material which has many four-letter words (perhaps it gives flavor to the story, what do we know); (c) publish what appears to be semi-autobiographical material that describes (mild but regular) illegal drug use by the author.

Is that professional? Is that the way to act to gain respect of peers? All the bloggers may love it, it's part of the "rough and tumble" of blogging (to paraphrase President Clinton talking about politics).

Ms. Green gives the impression she feels she is above glossy gossip tabloids. Nothing wrong with that.

But where is Ms. Green planning to work? If one were, say, seeking a position at Vogue, is this what one would present to Anna Wintour as part of a resume?

We take no offense with Ms. Green's comments -- we enjoyed her writing.

Moving on from that, as Ms. Green put her work (about a fictional life) on her site for viewing -- we are just commenting.

Do we work in the book/magazine/publishing industry? No. We're just guessing that this isn't the way to gain respect in the industry. (But again, what do we know,)

Do we ourselves have "bad manners" in commenting in this way? Perhaps.

Though Ms. Green emphasizes this is a work of fiction, the attraction of her work is that others simultaneously suggest it is thinly-veiled biographical material.

So we feel sad to see such an obviously intelligent and talented person commit (temporary) career suicide. (She's presently studying for a position in real estate.)

SELF-DEFEATING

What's the point of working to get a front-page-story by-line in Star magazine (OK it's all fiction) on a scoop re Brad and Angelina if one then does the above three things?

OUR ADVICE TO STEPHANIE:

Now we attempt to "make-up" for our possible bad manners, by giving possibly unwelcomed advice.

1. You are semi-famous. Look at the magazines and find the name of make-up artists. Throw yourself at the mercy of someone and beg him/her/them to re-do your look. You could go from pretty to beautiful (just as do many "stars" with the correct make-up person).

Then get a few photographers to take many photos of you and put the best ones on your website under "press kit" to provide potential interviewers and writers with access to good photographs of you.


2. Decide whether or not you really want to be famous, and how famous you want to be. You might want to do the following.

(a) Read Deborah Schoeneman's excellent book, "4% Famous." Do you want to get "so" famous your life will be investigated and you will be attacked? Or do you want to stay below the radar at 4% or less?

(b) Join Netflix (can't get a better bargain -- you can end up renting top movies for about $1 each) (and yes, we have its ads on our site). Then rent the movie "Spanglish" with Adam Sandler. Sandler plays a chef who wants to get a rating -- he doesn't want 4 stars -- that's the equivalent of "too famous." He wants, say, 3.4, so he's high, but not too high.

(c) Invest in Bonnie Fuller's "The Joys of Much Too Much" so you can keep going when getting famous is stressful.

(d) Read Paris Hilton interviews. See what how a super-famous individual handles the inevitable insults that come with being famous.

3. Think over your opinion of "super" agents, particularly, the idea that you need such.

The "right" agent could have gotten you a big "advance." What's that? An "advance"? Isn't that a loan against your future royalties? It would be great to get all that money up-front, but then how many years would you have to wait to sell enough books to cover that advance so you can start making more money?

And what about super-agent's percentage? What percentage of that advance and those future royalties would belong to super-agent?

And what percentage of the cover price is yours and what percentage of the cover price goes to the publisher?

4. Self-Publish

Dishalicious (in our opinion) is a great title -- ignore what everyone says -- keep it.

Bonnie Fuller is one of the hottest editors in the country. She's super-mom, super-achiever, super-advisor. She gets into what she's doing and gives it her best. That type of person is rare. People have gotten into game-playing power-struggles with her and left the scene in a rage. Everyone wants to read about Bonnie Fuller.

You have a gold mine in that book!

You are $30,000 in debt. Why? You fought a court case and WON.

You took those (temporary) career suicide risks. Now comes the time to reap the financial benefits, and keep doing so for a long, long time. You could write a second, a third, a fourth novel. Advice on how to succeed at Star magazine, etc., etc., etc.

Self-publish on Amazon. You'll begin making money immediately and keep making money. The percentage taken by Amazon can't come close to super-agent's percentage plua publisher's percentage..

We guess you'll be assigned a self-publishing specialist from www.Amazon.com who will advise you on the best price to choose, etc. and people who wish to read your book can simply go to Amazon.com, pay the price, and download and read it. You likely will not be required to invest any money "up-front" (our guess).

5. Publicize, publicize, publicize.

You've already shown you have a talent for getting publicity.

Supplement that with even more expertise. Look up on the Internet material on how to publicize your book, and keep working at publicizing it. Appear at bookstores. Go to book signings. Never mind if only a few people show up. Keep doing it. We do read from time to time of a best seller that was made by an author who believed in his/her book, that many best sellers have become best-sellers simply because the authors just kept working to publicize them. And your constant self-publicizing may also produce good job offers.

* * * * *

Click here to go to the Dishalicious web site.

* * * * *


(source: www.gawker.com)

BONNIE FULLER SPEAKING AT COLUMBIA'S GRADUATE SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM

The publication of the "fictitious" "tell-all" actually might help Star's sales.

What could be hurting the gossip glossies' sales is that people think it is "all "made-up."

Here is part of what was reported on Gawker.com when Bonnie Fuller spoke at Columbia's Graduate School of Journalism:


[Bonnie Fuller] claimed that her stories are legitimate and multi-sourced, and some of the "scoops" she gets, like the next day's Angelina cover, are obtained by sending out stringers to stalk celebrities, taking copious notes about their activities, and drawing conclusions from there.

For instance, when they reported on Jen and Brad's estrangement ("We were the first!"), it was a "scoop" because they were the only ones to stake out the two of them and write about how they were never together.

So they drew a conclusion from there. Brilliant.

So when the rest of the world was reporting their break-up, Star had already moved on to the Brad and Angelina affair.

...

...Bonnie told us what she does with famous people's assistants and friends and the like when they call and give them a big scoop. She polygraphs them.


Dishalicious' fictionalized portrayal of the fictional gossip glossy describes exactly that.

This can only make Star more believable and buyable (in our opinion)

Publicizing Dishalicious likely could increase interest in and therefore sales of Star magazine.

Click here to read the full Gawker article.

Click here to go the Star magazine website.

* * * * *

Ah ... giving advice... isn't it fun?

* * * * *

P.S. Fact-checking detail: Re Dishalicious' heroine's "hideous working-class Canadian accent" -- there's no such thing as a "working-class Canadian accent."


MY COMMENTS TO HER: (The girl just can't help herself)
OK, Leandro, I just stumbled across this post about me again. A few corrections: 1) I am not $30,000 "in debt" that was merely the cost of my legal counsel. 2.) It is my understanding that people who grow up in Canada of a certain lower income class, are branded with a particularly annoying accent like Ms. Fuller's. 3.) I have ABSOLUTELY no desire to be famous and I am not 'semi-famous.' 4. People who shop exclusively at Bergdorf Goodman, Barneys, Neiman Marcus and on Madison and Fifth Avenues are not the ones in need of makeovers. The ones in need of makeovers are the ones who've never heard of these locales. But thanks for reading. You certainly have some interesting opinions!

Shana Tova, Jewtopia

I've said many times that I'm extremely blessed by amazing friends, family and family friends. Sometimes, these people even become "famous." One such person is Sam Wolfson, one-half of the creative team behind the hilarious, dead-on, mega-hit, off-Broadway play Jewtopia (Jewtopia Play). Sam and I go waaay back; our grandparents were dear friends and our extended families remain close in our hometown of Jacksonville. It was evident from an early age that Sam wasn't going to be your typical Jewish guy, and I mean that in the best possible way. In high school, he had long locks and fronted a rock band while the other kids in our social circle were, like, shopping or joining pseudo-fraternities. Even back then, he just had that stage presence that so many Hollywood types aim for but never achieve. You're either born with it or you aren't, and he had it from the womb. To this day my dad still talks about this skit that he performed at one of his parents' parties. When I moved to LA, he was doing the stand up comedy thing out there, and I caught a few of his shows when I could.

Those of us who all grew up together always knew he would make it, and with Jewtopia, I think it's safe to say he has. But the best part about watching those you know succeed, is seeing how it doesn't change the core of who they are. Sam is still that goofy, self-deprecating, effortlessly funny, nice, Jewish boy that any mother would be proud of.

And, with the publication of Jewtopia the book, (Jewtopia Book), apparently both his mother and that of his writing partner and costar, Bryan Fogel, have much to be proud of. Or perhaps wary of? Sam tells me that they've put their moms' home phone numbers on the back of all the books that Warners printed for people to call if they have any questions. Apparently, the bubbes have been ringing the moms and leaving their grandaughters' phone numbers! But what I want to know is where is the love, er, press? The play is a monster hit, but I had to find out about the book through my mom??? In an era where slutty bloggers, fake addicts and dog memoirs saturate the media, can't us nice Jewish girls read some stories about some nice, Jewish, hometown boys who've made good? Hello?—The Forward, Heeb, Page Six, The Sun, NYT, Bueller? Sam tells me that the book has gotten so little press, that "we've now sunk so low as to go to Barnes and Nobles throughout Manhattan and sold them to people in the bookstore right there at the new release table." So, see the play, buy the book; I promise you won't be disappointed. And oh, yeah, they're cute too boot.





Bryan on left and Sam on right.

Losing It

The pattern seems to be that lately when I travel, I lose a little something. And, I'm not speaking metaphorically here about my dignity, pride or hope or anything lofty like that. I am talking about things, specifically jewelry. Let it be said first, for those who don't know me that I am a major type-A personality and am meticulously organized. Therefore, it is not often that I lose possessions, especially treasured or valuable ones. So it's only recently that this jewelry-losing thing has become a problem. Last September in Bermuda, a small diamond just fell out of a tennis-type bracelet. Fine, easily replaced. Then in January, in Atlanta, I lost that antique gold-and-diamond brooch. Not so fine, as it was antique, from dead Roxy and not replaced so easily. Never found that. OK, so this time in NY, a few strange things happened on the jewelry and accessories front. And if you're one of those superstitious "God is punishing" us types, the series of events is kind of amusing. Or maybe not amusing in the least bit. But you insist on reading, so essentially you asked for it.

And maybe I was lying a little bit when I said I didn't lose any dignity. Let the record reflect the following:

Thursday night, big plans: dinner at Babbo to be followed by girls' night out with my treasured friends I haven't seen in months. Well, dinner was preceded by a glass of wine at Cru, which was preceded by a dose of antibiotics on an empty stomach. Three courses of food and several glasses of wine later, I'm not feeling so hot. And I'm not looking so hot either. In the words of my bro, I looked "white as a sheet."

I manage to text my friends after trying for about 10 minutes: "S7 drunk. Npt making it out." Done. I manage to make it out of the restaurant in a vertical position, but then there is this little step that seems to escape my attention. Down I go. Onto the pavement; on my knees. The bruises are still here. My parents then proceed to guide me, hands-under-my-armpits-style, into the street so we can get a cab.

My dad tries to hail a cab, and the guy won't stop. He actually sticks his head out the window and says, "No drunk lady in cab."

Oh. My. God. Even in my inebriated state, I manage to be embarrassed. Next thing I know I am hugging the toilet. This almost always happens to me when I mix antibiotics and alcohol, and I know those warning labels are there for a reason. I really learned my lesson this time. I swear.

I am fine the next morning, go to the jeweler and Saks, then head to Spice Market for dinner with fam and friends, then see Wicked, then hit the Waldorf for nightcap.

Saturday: Rosh Hoshanna. The Good Jews are in synagogue. Mom and me? We're sleeping in and getting our hair cut in our hotel room while dad is at Emanu-El. Yeah, we're bad. So we finish with the cuts around the same time temple is letting out and we head to Barneys. The Good Jews are now eating lunch. We are getting another kind of sustenance. We are on the first floor of the store, in the Prada handbag nook. After lamenting the ridiculous cost of shoes and handbags and swearing we will not become victims of this punishing trend anymore, natch, we must scope out the dire state of accessories in our nation.

"I saw this one really cute pleated Prada that's not too heavy," I say to mom, pointing out the bag.

She bites, and picks it up. "Yeah, it's cute and not too heavy, but, it's like, $1,300, you know..."

"I know. Soooo ridiculous. Enough is enough. Let's go to clothes; no more handba—"

"OUCH!" Mom exclaims.

"What?"

"A bee just stung me! There is a bee on this bag!!! Look!"

The salesgirls rush over, horrified, as if a homeless person had just walked in and tried to pee on one of the $1,200 pieces of crap. Sure enough, there is a bee sitting on the top of the bag. The salesgirl swoops in and kills it, a look of utter distaste on her face.

Mom and I are giggling at the absurdity of it all. A bee? In Barneys? On a Prada bag? I give mom some Purell and we move on to jewelry.

"Jeez," she says, rubbing her bee sting, "Do you think God is paying us back for not going to services today?" she asks, giggling.

I ponder this for a moment and say, "No, I think if it were God he would have sent a snake or something."

That night, we meet a friend for a drink at the W in Union Square, then have a divine dinner at Gramercy Tavern, then head to my absolute favorite bar in the city, The Four Seasons, for one last drink. After Four Seasons, my family elects to walk back to the hotel, whereas I elect to take a taxi, as I am wearing my new shoes and my bruised knees are aching. I beat my family to the hotel room, and as I am washing my face, my diamond earring catches and down the sink it goes. I open the drain; it's long gone. Probably replacable, as it's from the jeweler, but I probably won't get around to it. Continuing the losing streak into the next day, I am walking to meet the girls I stood up on Thursday for brunch before I head back to Miami, when I glance down for the time.

I look at my Cartier Tank, which had been acting up for a while—losing time, trapping condensation—and notice that it looks a little odd. Oh, why's that? Because it seems that the entire glass cover has just vanished. Poof. It's gone. Miraculously, the damn thing was still ticking.

OK, so if there is a message inherent in all this, then it's one I'm already aware of and trying to work on: enough with the jewelry and the clothes and all that BS. We really weren't so bad this time. But I am eagerly awaiting a couple packages from Barneys and the jeweler.

Hey, Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, isn't until Monday. And trust me I'll be in services for that one...

I promise to post a verbal account of New York tomorrow, in the meantime some photos. It looks as if I'll be breaking the lease and busting Wally out of JVille by November if I have anything to say about it. The plan is to stick it to the landlord, legitimately, natch, head home for the big Florida-Georgia game and parties, and drive back up with Wally in tow. Mommy is coming home!

I'll Take Manhattan

Ahh. Good Ol' New York. I wish I could say it was nice to be back. But four days is never enough in a city you hold so dear.
I won't bore you with the shopping highlights--well, OK, just a few. Tomorrow I will share the amusing stories you've come to know, love and cringe at, of which there are many.

Just the facts for now:
Fabulous little silk Marc Jacobs dress on sale for $235 at Barneys, fits like a dream
Classic pair of black, kidskin, 2 inch Gucci pumps from Saks
Black Cashmere Shrug from Bendel's, which I hadn't been into for 10 years
Mucho jewelry repairs and refurbishments from Norman Landsberg: Priceless
And one en suite haircut by Oscar Blandi stylist Lauren Lavelle. Oscar Blandi and The Blandi Team
No more handbags; mom and I are boycotting the LUDICROUS prices to which these accessories have climbed and are sticking to the classics that litter our closets.

Seriously, it is not okay that a nice handbag now will cost you at least $1,200-$2,000, forgetting about Hermes entirely. Please. And the shoes are just as out of control now too. I am not paying $700 for the masochist Manolo to line his pockets. Enough is enough, ladies. This is why God created outlet malls.

And the meals, oh, Lordy. Babbo is truly divine Babbo Restaurant. You must go there. Beats Il Mulino, hand's down. And Gramercy Tavern, ooh la la Gramercy Tavern. Now I see what all the fuss is about. Truly exquisite, both of them. Not overrated at all, a rarity for a famous NYC restaurant.

Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

OK, this is my last post before I leave for NYC, but I have to say that I actually really like Kelly Cutrone. In a sea of sycophantic flacks, she's always stood out. And she was super-cool to me when I was a total nobody (not that I'm a 'somebody' now) working my first job in L.A. She always hooked me up and was always sans-attitude. So, step off Gawker. Go back to picking on things and people that absolutely nobody outside of a four-block radius in Manhattan cares about. Kelly Cutrone, Questionable Master of the Dark Art of Fashion PR - Gawker

Stream of Spittle

Here's what I'm thinking at the moment, in no particular order of lucidity.
Flying with no liquids. God damned terrorists. Must get Purell cloths.

Shopping. Jewelry. Had a dream that the jeweler was closed for Rosh Hoshanna, quell nightmare. Haircut, finally, Oscar Blandi stylist making hotel call for mom and me. Sweet. Madison and Fifth. Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's, Bergdorf's.

Iran dude paying visit to the UN for my birthday. Our hotel, a few blocks from UN.

Must find Wally-friendly apartment or just smuggle him into my pad, to hell with the condo Nazis. Fuck 'em. Let them evict me and I'll invoke the "quiet enjoyment/hellacious-stiletto-wearing-at-all-hours-of-the-night neighbor."

What to pack for NYC--daytime clothes, evening clothes, jewelry, shoes, handbags and no liquids/makeup in the carry-on, therefore mucho grande cosmetic bags.

So many people to see, stores to frequent, so little time.

Fabulous restaurants, Babbo, Gramercy Tavern, Spice Market. Yum.

Cars. I. Hate. Driving. Driving and cars are to Miami what mice are to NYC for me; I hate them, am scared of them and they could very well force me out of this city.

Taxis, yay.

Semi-cool weather.

Friends and family. I'm scared that someone will have to drag me from NYC by my stilettos.

And on that note, I'm glad my credit limit is not high enough for a down payment on a condo, cause otherwise I would have someone swipe the platinum.

And to my NYC peeps--Helfman, I'm talking to you! esp;)--who I haven't made firm plans with yet, give me a buzz, I'll be there Thursday afternoon.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Oh, goody. I've totalled my car. I pulled in too close to the curb thingy this a.m., and when trying to leave for lunch, I heard this awful scraping, tearing, screeching sound. Lo and behold, my bumper had been wrenched off it's cheap German attachments and was now on the ground of the parking lot. Yummy. The curb had a rusty old nail in it that ripped the entire front bumper off. Now I've got to go get a rental and this couldn't have come at a better time, the week of my birthday and three days before I leave for New York. Who loves me?

happy birthday to ME

Dateline--One Year Ago:
Skinny dipping in Bermuda with a bunch of harmless but rowdy Canadians, forcing overwrought and nervous mom to contact Bermudian police to locate my 30 year old ass. (For the record, I was the only non-naked one; I'm a nice Jewish girl, I don't do that.) All was fine and fun; Natalie Holloway I was not. I made it home in one piece, escorted by security at 7 a.m. the next day. I was literally the talk of the town. Awwwwwwwwwww Yeeeah.



Cut to yesterday. Treated myself to a phat Tuleh dress from Neiman's Last Call ($1,650 to $350), punished myself at the gym and then attended a classical symphony and after party with good friends. Bermuda/South Beach? I have to say Bermuda. Though I am loving this dress.

Karma's a Bitch

My bad, it turns out that my beloved shrink had recently had hip replacement surgery and is now suffering from nerve damage. Jeez. It's pretty fucking bad when the doctor is in worse shape than you.

The Shrink is On the Mend

I feel a little bad about Tuesday's post, because as it turns out, the shrink had a hip replacement surgery recently and has literally been immobilized as a result of some nerve damage caused by post-surgical trauma. Oy, Dr. L., I feel for you. She sounds okay, but had to shutter her practice for many months, doing only phone sessions, so in the end, my case is not so unusual after all! It was good to talk to her again, get some fires lit under my ass, and I will def. be speaking to her more regularly now.

On a completely unrelated tangent, can someone please explain to me who Genevieve Jones is with regards to legacy/breeding? Is she related to Quincy Jones or some other African American star? And if not, why is she all of the sudden the token African-American society princess? Who is her family? Anyone? Bueller?

Shalosh Degrees of Separation

So my blog buddy Not Chosen, Just Posin' reviewed my real family friend's new book today on his blog. Jewtopia was first a play and is now a book. I haven't read the book yet, but the play will provide you with some giggles. Another Jacksonville boy makes good. Jewtopia.com

The Shrink Is In

I have been in therapy, off and on, for about ten years now. My personal philosophy is that everyone should be in therapy at some point in their lives in order to get to know themselves better and to facilitate a deeper understanding of the subconscious. It may not be for everyone, but it certainly can't hurt, right?

The key to successful therapy is finding someone you trust, relate to, respect and can confide in. I've chewed up and spit out many a PhD. The one who has stood the test of time, however, is Dr. L. After college, I lived in Los Angeles, and was referred to Dr. L. by a friend. Dr. L. practices in Beverly Hills, is smart, insightful and reminded me instantly of of the archetypal Jewish mother that I'd grown up around. It was a perfect therapeutic fit from the beginning; I was the slightly fucked-up-but-not-hopeless-Jewish daughter she never had, she was my second, nonjudgemental, Jewish mother on the West Coast. I grew extremely close to her, and she helped me through some major life events: my first real boyfriend, my first earthquake, my first job, my decision to move to New York and go to graduate school.

So when I left L.A. for New York, the thought of abandoning therapy with Dr. L. was just not an option. And seeing how she was used to the whole celebrity client thing, being jetted out to Vegas on private planes for a single session, the notion of phone therapy was not unusual. And so it went that I came to be strictly a "phone therapy" person for the past seven years. Jeez. Seven years. Our frequency of sessions varies with time and circumstance, but over the past seven years, from New York to Florida, Dr. L. and I have remained in steady contact. She knows my family, she knows my friends, my fears, my dreams, she knows Wally. There is very little she doesn't know.

But I digress. Our relationship has always been slightly unorthodox, a little more friendly than doctor-patient. In between sessions, it's not unusual for her to call my cell to check in. Or e-mail. Or, if she hasn't heard from me in a while, it's not surprising when she calls my parents to make sure everything is okay. And, over the years, as her hourly rate has increased with inflation, the cost of gas and the sticker prices of Beverly Hills Bentleys, she grandfathered me in at her 2000 rate, a substantial discount.

Since I moved to Miami, however, I've been negligent in keeping in touch, mainly because I'm working now and am just too damn tired at the end of my day to delve into the inner workings of my rotten brain. But also because therapy is only so helpful; it's effective for a couple of hours, maybe a couple of days, but then it kind of wears off, and you're just stuck with yourself again. Wherever you go, there you are.

Usually I'd call to check in every couple of weeks, but these past couple of months, I'd been a ghost. First, she called my parents and left a message for them at home, inquiring about me and my brother. I heard the message, then e-mailed her to say "I'm fine," and that I'd be in touch. Kept putting her on my to-do list, along with the dry-cleaning, returning phone calls, getting car checked out, etc. But before I crossed her off my list, she called to check in. Left me a message about Sept. 11 and my birthday coming up. Finally, we spoke last night and scheduled a session for this week, but she wasn't letting me off the hook that easy.

"I think, Stephanie, the time has come for me to start charging your parents, or perhaps you, if you are now paying, the full hourly rate."

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, eh?

"Oh, sure, of course."

I've never been one to haggle; the Bergdorf's shoe sale and Woodbury Commons are the only discounts I like receiving. So I took it in stride, for I think we should pay the normal rate; I'm not that fucked-up, and given the infrequency of our sessions, there's no real reason for her to give me a discount. But still, after all these years, I can't help but wonder the subconscious motivations behind this step, because, after all, therapists are people too. And they are not above being human. That's what makes them good.


The pic is unrelated, but I'm digging it, snapped by a photog at an IDF event Saturday night in Aventura. Go Israel.

Remembering Sept. 11

It sneaks up on us each year, but it's here again: September 11th. And as all these people are on TV and the radio sharing their experiences of that day, I can't help but reflect and remember. It's our generation's JFK-shooting--we will all remember where we were when we heard the news. It's the event that when I think about still makes my heart race and brings tears to my eyes, even five years later. I don't know if this is true of all Americans, or just for New Yorkers or only for people who witnessed it or knew people whose lives were lost.

Anyway, here's my Sept. 11th story, which I will never forget, and I know I've written about longhand somewhere, but god knows where that notebook went. And not that my story is special, it's not, but it's a valid memory, because, if nothing else, it's history.

I had been in the city for about a year, but I'd been visiting New York yearly since about the age of 10, and was always a New Yorker at heart; was living in midtown; attending NYU grad school in journalism in the Village; dating an Israeli who lived in Haifa; had returned from visiting him in Israel about a month and a half prior to the attacks. In general, life was pretty good. I was "in love," had a big apt., was with Wally, was going to NYU, which I'd always dreamed of, and was living in the place that I loved better than anywhere in the world.

My mom and two of her girlfriends were staying with me for their annual "girl's shopping trip." I had my only early class that morning, and, ironically, it was a "journalism ethics" class, taught by 'renowned' ethicist Todd Gitlin. Everyone talks about the weather that day and it seems silly, but it's true that on days like that, you remember every detail, salient or not. So as I left my apt. a little before 9 a.m., I remember looking up at the sky and thinking what a nice day it was, no clouds, no awful August humidity. I hopped in a cab, just as I noticed that Second Ave. was rife with fire trucks and ambulances. No big deal, a common sight. As we proceeded downtown, the ambulances and fire trucks grew in number, and the cabbie and I began to wonder, so we turned on the radio.

At that point, the world was still in shock, and was talking about the 'commuter plane' that had most likely hit the Trade Center. Details were still sketchy at that point, but we proceeded downtown, both of us, similar to the entire city and nation, in a state of shock. By the time we reached the Village, the second plane had hit, and we were just confused, I mean, terrorism just didn't happen in our country, what were any of us supposed to think until we saw? Until we saw. Because while most people saw it on TV, for me it didn't sink in until I got out of the cab near Washington Square Park and saw both towers aflame. Then, and only then, it sunk in. From that point on, I was plunged into that same surreal, dreamlike, post-traumatic haze that most New Yorkers found themselves in for several days, if not weeks or months. I walked to the corner where clusters of people just stood staring up at the towers. Some were openly crying or looked horrified; most just stood there staring, mouths agape. It really was like a scene out of an Independence Day -type movie. Everything else stood still. I think I must have tried to call my mom and the girls, but cells were probably down. I knew I would never make it back uptown, and was in shock, so I moved robotically into the school's building and went into class.

And though it was an "ethics" class, and though many of the students in it lived near Wall Street and hadn't shown up yet, and though we were journalists who should be out literally witnessing history and trying to get the story, our professor kept us in class the whole two hours without TVs, radios, phones, and forced us to debate the 'ethical' elements of jumping to the conclusion that this was indeed a terrorist attack being perpetrated by Arabs/Muslims/Islamic extremists. Perhaps he was in shock to and the mantra, "just carry on normally" was propelling him. I had just returned from Israel, so I remember the shock finally wearing off and my rage beginning to kick in, and getting into a heated argument with an Egyptian student, wherein I blamed this on the Arabs and she defended them saying it could be anyone doing this.

We finally got out of class and emerged from our time-warp bubble, and learned that both towers had gone down. In those two hours, the sky had fallen. No, it couldn't be, I thought. There's just no way, my brain rationalized, those towers? It had looked like two small fires when I'd gone into class, relative to the largesse of those buildings. But sure enough, I walked out to the corner where I'd watched them on fire earlier and the skyline was flat. Gone. Now, New York City was a quiet ghost town except there were hordes of people walking slowly, stoically. Just walking like zombies, standing in line for payphones, eerily calm. No traffic, just on foot. No transportation anywhere, save for emergency vehicles, but I don't remember hearing any sirens, any noise at all save for radios with news. Nobody yelling, no street noise, the most disturbing thing in New York City--a lack of noise. I walked all the way from the Village to my apartment; walked amid a crowd stunned silent for probably the first time in their lives. I tried to call mom repeatedly, but eventually gave up. I lived near the UN, and kept thinking that that would be the terrorists' next target, so I kept popping into shops and asking if anything else had been hit, because the fire trucks never stopped going downtown.

I wondered where my mom and her friends had gone, but knew that they probably hadn't left the house before the news was out, so I wasn't worried. The horrifying thing is that they had been at the store Century 21, which was leveled by the attack, the morning before.

I got home and they weren't there, so then I started to panic, no communication, an empty apartment, with a Wally who just knew something was up. I think I just fell on to the couch and sat there, mesmerized by the footage on TV. It was as if I were in a drug-induced haze, which you really can't describe accurately, but if you've ever witnessed a horrible accident or crime, you can most likely relate to. Mom and friends eventually returned home, having walked over to 57th street to see what it was like outside. Like I said, when in shock, you just go by rote, do what you know. Head into class, teach class, go to work, go shopping.

Eventually, maybe two days later, mom and co. rented a car and drove home to Florida. Damned if they were getting on a plane. Damned if I was, not for a year or so I think. And though I didn't lose anyone that day and wasn't connected to anyone in those buildings, the event itself had such an impact if you were living in New York, whether you were able to admit it or not. For me, it meant that each time I saw a plane outside the window of my new 15th floor apartment heading past the Con Ed towers in Queens, each and every time for a couple years after, my first, instinctual thought was, that plane is going to hit that tower; it meant that I didn't take the subway for a couple of years; it meant that I looked at cab drivers appraisingly and unconsciously eavesdropped on their foreign conversations; it meant that I didn't feel safe in my own apt., my own city, for many, many years. It meant living in fear for a great while, thinking how easy it had been for them to do it once, surely they would strike again.

And still, I'm kind of amazed that nothing else has happened in our country because, really, we're no safer now, are we? Soon, surely, the sky will fall again.

Nothing much new here; just working, trying to sleep and attempting to edit my second manuscript. Tonight I start my career as one of those "junior comittee" members, though not in the stuffy, New York-ish society type of way. Not that there's anything wrong with that. My good friend from college runs the events and fundraising depts over at the New World Symphony, and I've recently been appointed to her executive committee. She throws the grooviest parties in South Beach, so I'm looking forward to being a part of that. (And, natch, supporting the arts.)

Otherwise, just gearing up for New York in two weeks--my hair needs a good cut, I need some quality time with my NYC girlfriends and I need my Bergdorf's fix, stat. It will be the first time visiting the city since moving away, and I'm guessing that it's a whole different experience being a tourist in a place you used to call home. I don't know quite what to expect or what my reaction will be, but I've always been kind of funny about visiting places where I used to live ...