Live Blogging the Oscar Pre-show

Can someone please shoot Bobbi Thomas and Jay Manuel? These are fashionistas? Jay with his hideous bleach blond hair and Bobbi with her less-than-zero knowledge of fashion?

Getting to Know Me

I'll bet you thought there wasn't much you didn't know about me, but, ha! There is. I'm bored and can't sleep. So here goes. And, oh yeah, I'm going to live-blog from the Oscar pre-show on Fashionosophy, cause I'm. Just That. Lame.

What do I suffer from? Constant insomnia (trouble falling, but not staying asleep—it's 4 a.m. right now), which only began once I moved to NYC and begun having mouse problems, random anxiety, slight OCD when it comes to germs and cleanliness, clinical depression.

What do I want to do before I die? See the world by big, private yacht or big, private jet. Either one will do.

What do I not have, materialistically, that I would like? A fabulous full set of luggage, preferably T. Anthony or Goyard.

What is my greatest fear? Not being successful enough to satisfy myself. Given my impossibly high standards, my greatest fear will likely be realized.

What can I not live without, in terms of objects, on a daily basis? My SSRIs, lip balm, face cream, hand cream, my Filofax, a computer or mobile device with access to email, my cell, a book or two, a pen and note paper, contacts or glasses, Wet Ones or Purell, 64 oz of water, two cups of caffeine, either Diet Snapple or coffee, and my everyday jewelry—watch, earrings, dainty diamond necklaces and a diamond bracelet. This is a comfort-level thing, not a showy thing. I feel naked without my watch and jewelry. My friend Adam once was at my gym with me and said, "Are you wearing all those diamonds to work out?" I said, nonchalantly, "Um yeah, why?" "Are those real diamonds?" "Of course, I said. "So why do you wear them to the gym?" "Why not? I never take them off, not even to sleep; I always work out in them." "You're crazy," he said. "Why? This is my everyday jewelry." "Ha. Everyday jewelry. Your crazy."

Yes, maybe, but again, not being able to live without Purell is most likely crazier than wearing jewelry all the time.

What is my morning routine? Well, given that I have no office job, it's surprisingly basic. I really am not high-maint in that sense. During the day before leaving the house, I shower, brush my hair, let it air dry, brush my eyebrows—ladies, you know what I'm talkin' about—and put on moisturizer. That's really it. Obv. my evening/going out routine is a lot more complicated and time consuming. Luckily, there is nobody to impress right now. And I always do my own nails and toenails and always get compliments on them. I have very steady hands. Always French.

What is my fitness routine? I do about an hour of cardio 5-6 days a week, usually the elliptical. I stretch for 30 minutes each time, twice a day. I do weights/strength training 3-4 times a week. I like to run, but since my tendinitis, I can't do so without causing a flare-up, so I've stopped. And it's so bad for the joints anyway. Now that I am where I am, I'm going to start taking up tennis again. Lying in front of the TV at night I do core Pilates exercises for the abs. Though they don't seem to do much.

What are the most important things to me? My family, my friends, my dogs, my therapist and my life experiences. Also, my intelligence, my resilience and my sense of humor, which has pulled me through many a tough situation. I'm not an optimist, but a sense of humor and the support of my family have gotten me through the toughest situations I've been in.

What don't I have that I wish I did in general? The love of a good man and a job that I enjoyed and could be proud of.

What are my greatest regrets? I know it's unhealthy to have regrets, but I can't help it—I have a lot. Let's start with high school—I passed on an opportunity when the then-editor-in-chief of Mademoiselle, Gabe Doppelt, (who now works at W), invited me to visit the magazine and meet the staff, after I wrote her a heartfelt letter and she wrote me a very heartfelt one back. Then, in chronological order, not going to an Ivy League school or, at the very least, NYU, which my parents wouldn't let me attend, even though I'd gone to NYC every year since I was old enough to walk practically. Then not going to NYC for summer internships. Then going to NYU grad school—perhaps to spite mom and dad for not letting me go there undergrad—to get my master's degree in journalism when really I should have taken a job as the low person on the totem pole at a magazine I liked. See, all my regrets have to do with my career.

What is my greatest aspiration? To be successful—so successful that I am slightly famous. 1% famous. Or famous to the people who matter. You see, I never aspired to marry and have kids. I aspired only to be successful. I do want to get married, but I want success even more and would choose the latter if it was an all-or-nothing decision. I want to leave my legacy on the world not with a child, but with a great body of work.

What has been my biggest disappointment? Not getting my book published, obv. This was such an earth-shattering, gut-wrenching, publicly humiliating disappointment that this is the reason why I cannot bring myself to actively pursue publication when my agent failed so miserably. I cannot put myself through it again.

What has been my biggest achievement in recent years? Kicking the shit out of American Media Inc.'s ass in court; working at a job I loathed just to prove I could be (semi-self) sufficient and as a result coming to the realization that writing and editing is the only thing that truly makes me happy job-wise.

If I was stuck on a deserted island, what would I need? Books, water, lip balm and a dog.

What is my philosophy? Life is short. Do what you want. Be real. Have fun. Be yourself. People either love me or hate me and that is fine by me because I'm always real. If I don't like you, you'll know it and vice versa. Life is too short to hide from who you are. If you're gay, be gay and come out of the closet; if you're an idiot, be an idiot; if you never want to work and just need to travel the world, travel; if you don't want kids, don't have them just because society thinks you should; if you don't want to get married, don't; if you waste 12 hours a day at a job you hate, quit. You could die tomorrow; in the words of my new mantra and RENT, "no day but today."

What have I always known about myself? Since about age 11 or so I have always thought three things with certainty about myself: that I would be famous, that I would die young and that I would never marry. Of course, these things are ludicrous, at the same time, they are all self-fulfilling prophecies. And I still kind of think all three are true.

And finally, the most important question of all, What are your favorite TV shows? This has been a good year for TV and I'm sorry to say, I'll watch just about anything when I'm bored or lazy. But my never-misses are: Curb Your Enthusiasm, Entourage, Extras, Ellen DeGeneres, Grey's Anatomy and Friday Night Lights. If I'm home, I'll watch Gilmore Girls, America's Next Top Model, The Apprentice, Lost, Without A Trace, What Not to Wear, all the Law and Orders and any sort of celebrity oriented reality show. Now that I have DVR, I'm kind of in trouble.

I think I'll try to go to be now; meaning I'll toss and turn and then sleep until 1 p.m. tomorrow.

There are several job openings at Star magazine. Wouldn't it be a kick if I jokingly applied for one of them to see how long it took them to catch on. I'm so bored and in need of a good laugh that I'm almost tempted to do it. But they'd probably sue me again.

On a totally unrelated note, can we just discuss how amazing Ellen Degeneres is? I love, love, love her talk show. I know most of you work and therefore cannot watch it at 4 p.m. every day. But I love her show so much that I plan my workout schedule to coincide with it every day. And let me tell you, she makes the time go by a lot faster. If you've never watched Ellen, watch it. No matter how down you are, it will lift your spirits.

And how fab does she look in this month's W? Ellen rocks.

I am finally almost unpacked and organized. Now I'm just hoping I will find a gig that will require me to repack and relocate ASAP. With Wally in tow natch.

Finally, look at this amazing pic my brother snapped in India. He's there for an indeterminate amount of time and is about to embark on a 10-day meditation retreat wherein he cannot speak or communicate in any way. We are just a little different. But our ideas of paradise are strikingly similar, like the place below.

My Boyfriend's Back

And he's no trouble at all. He's petrified of camera flashes, tall men and people in uniforms. On the plus side, he loves to kiss, cuddle and snuggle—and he's Jewish. So he's a little short and hairy, but I can deal. He thinks I'm the greatest woman on the face of the earth. What more could a girl ask for?


Yesterday I stuck to my "no day but today" philosophy, and it substantially lifted my spirits. I worked, I unpacked, I took care of business, I went to the gym, I figured out DVR for the first time, I applied for a job, I ran errands, I finally finished moving in, I assembled a desk from start to finish, I went to the eye doctor—all things considered, I accomplished a lot in one day. By the end of the night I was exhausted in that good way, pretty relaxed and ready for bed.

Lying in bed, I looked down at my arms and discovered hives. Lots and lots of them. Um, yeah. No idea WTF they are from, but I'm in a heavily wooded area, there are tons of bugs around etc., but I don't recall rubbing up against anything unusual. And I'm more relaxed than normal, so I don't think it's an anxiety thing.

Isn't it ironic? The first day of my new found spiritual quest ends with me covered in hives. So me.

Symphony in the City

You guys should all try to go to this event for the Friends of the New World Symphony, of which I am on the executive committee. It's being thrown by my uber-fab college friend Stacey (holla!) and she throws amazing parties that attract cool, eclectic crowds. You should also think about joining the NYC or Miami group, Friends of the New World Symphony. I can't make this event in NYC, but I go to all the Miami ones. For information or to buy tix/RSVP, get in touch with:
stacey.glassman@nws.edu

The NYC Executive Committee consists of Marco Acerra, Chris Barnicle, Raphael Bejarano, Jacqueline Bush, Craig Bruck, Justin Davis, Anand Dutta, Kara Dutta, Samantha Epstein, Rena Fischler, Michael Friedland, Jona Genova, Jim Hayes, Katherine Herring, William Kangas, Elizabeth Katcher, Jette Kelly, Sara Link, Guelay Mese, Stratis Morfogen's, Pavan Pardasani, Max Ramirez, Shaun Rose, Amanda Roth, Jonathan Rubenstein, Seth Ruthen , Lisa Sayfie, Christine Sonu, Tony Theodore and Zak Zaidman.

The Miami Executive Committee is led by Chairman Aaron Resnick and Vice-Chairman Dan Grech and consists of Corina Biton, Dr. Darren Bruck, Jeffrey Feldman, Lauren Funke, Lindsay Glassman, Jason Goldstein, Hemley Gonzalez, Stephanie Green, Calvin Kohli, Denisse Lemos, Tomas Loewy, Lisa Maister, Ellen Marchman, David Martin, Shoshanna Mehrpouyan, David Restainer, Brad Rosen, Amy Rosenberg, Alan Roth, Michael Sheehan, Dawn Toroker, Dindy Yokel and Alison Zhuk.

Ommmmmmmmmmmmmm

I spent a lot of time this weekend with a family friend who has lived an interesting life, has endured some very trying times, yet has emerged triumphant and supremely balanced. I am an old soul at heart, so it's not unusual for me to hang out with my parents' friends. Often, I have more fun and more meaningful relationships with them than with people my own age. I suppose it's because they have more to teach me, but I don't know. Maybe I am just blessed with great family friends?

This weekend with this friend, we spoke of our mutual experiences with therapy; I explained my clinical depression to him and the fact that I have accepted my need to be on some form of SSRI antidepressant for the rest of my life. (A matter that I am fine with, btw.)

Somehow a discussion of therapy diverged into his practice of meditation, which he does daily, wherever in the world he may be. Most often, he is out on his magnificently serene, sprawling, waterfront patio with an unobstructed view of his boat, the turquoise waters and other people's estates.

"Do you have any kind of mantra you chant or anything like that?" I asked, thinking of that episode of Curb Your Enthusiam where Richard Lewis lets Larry use his mantra, "Jai-ya," that turns out to mean "fuck me."

"No," he said, "I just sit out there, look at the water, go to 'that place' and think, basically, 'Look at all this I have; it can't get any better. All I have is today. I don't know if there will be a tomorrow and that's essentially what I focus on; living in the moment instead of thinking or worrying about the future."

That really resonated with me, as I am such a control-freak, type-A planner who, if I don't have a plan for "the future," completely freaks out. Like now.

"You know," I mused, "I think I'm going to try to do that. I get so wound up in thinking about the future that I forget to live in the moment."

You should, he said, because most people get so wrapped up in their day-to-day BS that they can't appreciate the now.

"Well, if I lived where you lived, I'd be out on that patio all day, just staring at the water and living in the moment, that's for sure."

"That's the funny thing," he said. "Whenever I'm out there, I look at everyone else's homes around me and nobody is ever out on their decks; nobody is appreciating these amazing things they have."

So then I quizzed him on whether he was coached on how to properly meditate, breathe, etc., and he said no, that he just went to 'that place,' cleared his head and told himself something along the lines of, "Look at what you have; you have life; you have this great home; family; friends and you have today. That's all you need. Just focus on today."

I suppose it all falls into that "one day at a time" philosophy, with a more positive twist. I often say that to my therapist, when I am really down, that I am just taking things "one day at a time." But yesterday it ocurred to me that I could turn that around into a positive. Like as they say in Rent, "No day but today."

So today, just now actually, I did it. I meditated for the first time in my entire life. I found my "place," and though I have been to many, many beautiful, spiritual places, this is the one that came to me: Lord Byron's Grotto, a scenic overlook on a cliff in Portovenere on Italy's Ligurian coast (Cinque Terre region). Lord Byron often wrote there and went there for inspiration. Apparently this site is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

It's next to the Church of San Pietro, and the beauty and awesome energy of this scenic overlook is indescribable. (These pictures don't do it justice, but, hey, I've got shit to do.)

I think this will be my "place" and my mantra—if I feel the need for one—shall be "no day but today." So make the most of it, girlie.

Where in the World is SG?

Where in the world is Stephanie? (Friends and family friends, please do not play!)

Pick Your Pretty Poison

After seven- and one-half hours in my packed-to-the gills car yesterday, I could use any one of these treatments: Juli B Beauty Picks for February.

Happy fucking valentine's day people. I am out of Miami manana, and I didn't even have to learn Spanish.

"No habla Espanol" was pretty effective in warding off the beggars. I realize I have not told my readers where I am going, suffice to say that given the open-book quality of my life, I think it best that a few things remain private.

Promises Malibu? Sierra Tucson? Bellevue? Nothing that exciting, so I probably won't be posting as much in my new locale. Thank god for Klonopin, family and dogs; not necessarily in that order.

Shoes, Glorious Shoes

Last night I had a dream that I went back to Israel and packed about 7 pairs of my best shoes. Somehow they got lost along the way and were substituted for someone else's more practical pairs. So I'm in Eilat wandering around the beach and the pool asking (yelling really) if anyone's seen my Manolos or Guccis.

Yes, I am sick, but this dream did not come out of nowhere. I'm moving Thursday, and the past couple of days I've focused on handbags and shoes, which I will take with me in my car. Behold the bags of shoes and handbags littering my floor. And these are just spring shoes and handbags. Can you say problem?

Testosterone Top 5

Again, this stolen from Jen. She doesn't care (I hope) that's how we roll.

Five qualities of a perfect man?
1. Handsome, but not too handsome. Slightly askew or odd, to balance out my extreme oddness.

2. Funny, sarcastic, wry, witty, appreciating Larry David, Arrested Development, Entourage, Woody Allen and Seinfeld.

3. Well-read and enjoys reading.

4. Highly intelligent and well-educated, coupled with extreme ambition.

5. Jewish, from a "good family" and appreciates Jewish women, with all our eccentricities.

Ladies?

Fw:

I am posting this for lack of anything more scintillating. It landed in my inbox thanks to Jen. Feel free to comment with your additions.

YOUR REAL NAME?
Stephanie Diane Green, nee Greenberg, pre-Ellis Island

YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (first 3 letters of real name plus izzle)
Ste-izzle (lame)

YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (fav color and fav animal)
Pink Dog

YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, and current street)
Diane Brickell

YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first
2 letters of your first name, first 3 letters of mom's maiden name)
Grestpav

YOUR SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd favorite color, favorite drink)
Blue Fuze

YOUR IRAQI NAME: (2nd letter of your first name, 3rd letter of your
last name, any letter of your middle name, 2nd letter of your moms
maiden name, 3rd letter of you dads middle name, 1st letter of a
siblings first name, last letter of your moms middle name)
Tedamme (heh)

YOUR WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mothers maiden last name and fathers
middle name)
Paver M.

YOUR GOTH NAME: (black, and the name of one your pet)
Black Wally

PORN STAR NAME (very first pet, very first street name...that
you can remember)
Corky Pickwick

And I have one more to add: FUTURE HUSBAND/WIFE'S NAME (first name of first person you kissed, last name of your most abiding celebrity crush)
Scott Jordan

The Annas, Big and Small

I am totally obsessed with the death of Anna Nicole Smith. Her life in the past year has been its own unscripted E! True Hollywood Story and now this? Sooo bizarre and tragic. And it happened here? That hotel is like 5 minutes from where I worked and I've stayed there before. Anyway, in her last interviews with ET + The Insider (What is with those two shows now anyway; two separate shows with the exact same content? Why don't they just create an hour-long entertainment news show?), Anna seemed even more unbalanced than ever. It's certainly left me wondering what exactly she was on aside from the Valium that the above story says was found in her room. And did you notice the horrible dark circles under her eyes? That coupled with the oddly plumped lips made her look even more unusual than ever in the days leading up to her death. Very very sad indeed, esp. for her little baby. I don't know about you, but I'm eagerly awaiting the press conference at 3 p.m. cause I'm so cool and have nothing better to do, aside from like packing and moving and stuff like that. But that can wait.

And speaking of Annas, the original, the best Anna—Wintour that is,—has, I'm afraid committed a major fashion faux pas. Sometimes she's the most fabulous thing on earth and sometimes, she just misses the mark completely. Today was one of the latter times: Fashionosophy: Fur Catastrophe.

Fashion Week

Please see Fashionosophy: Ode to Vogue.

My latest journalistic endeavor: Juli B February Picks. Now if only I could somehow turn this writing thing back into an actual career . . .

Superbowl wha?

So apparently this big football game was in town and everyone was, like, totally excited and spent all this money and clogged up traffic and then just like that it was over. Yawn. Why do they bother with this silliness every year? I'm glad the Bears didn't win though—ha.

I'm out of this cesspool of a city in a little more than a week. It's honestly the only city I've ever lived in that I didn't love aside from Jacksonville where I grew up, but I don't consider that to be a city. And it certainly wasn't my choice to grow up there. Anywho, I loved Atlanta, where I went to college. I loved Los Angeles where I moved after college. And, it goes without saying, that I love New York, which has always been my home even though I didn't grow up there.

So what to look forward to after the move? Well, I'll be reunited with my beloved Wally, first and foremost. And then we are going on a truly fabulous family vacation to Italy in early spring, to meet up with brother who will be joining us from India.

Believe it or not, we have never been on a European vacation as a family, and I think it's high time. We're doing two nights in Rome, three in Positano and three in Amalfi. I had a say in all the hotels—my first job out of college was as an editor at a travel magazine—so I'm super psyched for all the destinations and the amazing hotels. I love nice hotels, I mean, who doesn't—but I really love nice hotels. I'd gladly give up half my wardrobe to travel in style. Check 'em out: St. Regis Grand Hotel in Rome, Il San Pietro in Positano and Santa Caterina in Amalfi. Sigh. I'm so there already.

I haven't been to Europe since before Sept. 11, so thanks to momsy and popsicle for the vacay and thanks to brother for being his enlightened self and going to India and providing us with an excuse to leave the country. Now that I think about it, I bet I could bring Wally too . . .

Oh, Leandro, you are killing me and my parents too. Too funny.
My latest journalistic endeavor for Juli b has me visiting M-W for words such as "carnelian" and "chalcedony."

Today I actually wrote more pages of my second manuscript, of which there are like 5 different documents/versions. Then I looked at the master document to discover with horror that it's 485 pages long. And I keep adding, when what I need to do is subtract, cut, copy, paste, mold. No, I never suffer from writer's block, merely writer's disorganization. God, I used to be so organized. I need an editor, except wait, that's me and I can't seem to edit my way to the top of this one.

Another Day, Another Sale

On my way out of the gym last night—it's located in the Four Seasons Hotel and Residences, so there are various other businesses in the building—I picked up a brochure for this skin clinic I always pass on the way out to the parking garage.

The brochure reads: "30% off all injectables Thursday February 1." This, of course, includes Botox, for which I am due a touch up. I know, I know, you all think I'm crazy what with the Botox, Restylane etc. I may be crazy, but the Botox has no bearing on that. And the bottom line is I'm due.

30% off? Big discount; this stuff is expensive. Score—skincare sale!

And girls check out my SAG red carpet review on Fashionosophy.

Questions for you guys: Do any of you well-heeled travelers have hotel recs in Positano aside from Le Sirenuse and Il San Pietro?

And, excuse the ignorance from this Jew, but is the Vatican/Sistine Chapel open Easter weekend?

I have been to Rome several times without managing to see the Sistine Chapel (don't ask) and now it seems our visit there will coincide with Easter . . .

eBaying at the Moon

OK, the Marc Jacobs bag is now on eBay.

If it doesn't sell, I'll most likely return it, though we did just book our tix to Italy and how perfect would this bag be for the Amalfi Coast and Capri in the spring? Oh, decisions, decisions.

So excited to go to the Amalfi Coast for the first time and back to Capri and Rome. So much for my hiatus. This blog is like crack to me and I have an addictive personality.

The Last Good-bye

This will be my last post in a while, for myriad reasons, not the least of which is that this blog has become my primary journalistic outlet, which is unhealthy in terms of both finances and career-development. From today on, I will only post on Fashionosophy. I am leaving Miami on Feb. 15th for parts I am too ashamed to reveal. But thankfully I'll be on the Amalfi Coast by early April, so it's all relative.

I haven't thought a lot (or at all really) of what grave, life-changing lessons I would like to leave you with, so as usual I'm just going to shoot from the hip.

This blog started as a way for me to publicize my novel more than a year ago when it was still "out to publishers." And, sure, it garnered some mentions in Page Six, Gawker, etc. But the book remains unpublished, so I suppose a true self-promoter I am not.

What this blog turned into though is a journal of the twists and turns, fears and phobias, ups and downs of my life. Often this blog is a caricature of my life—for if you were to meet me in person, you would behold nothing more than a nice, down-to-earth, (of course impeccably turned out) Jewish girl—often, it's 100% true. Where is the line? I suppose only I know.

It also, I think, turned into a chronicle of one woman's (god, I hate the word 'woman,' I still think of myself as a 'girl') struggle with clinical depression, a serious mental illness. There is a big misconception in this country about clinical depression, in that everyone feels blue once in a while, but when that blue-ness turns into an every day state of being, or even a character trait, it's nothing to laugh at. Instead, it's something to be categorized in the DSM-IV and treated.

I have been clinically depressed since about the age of 17, which at this point, is almost half of my life. In my family, mental illness doesn't just run, it sprints. It wasn't until I was about 20 though and read Prozac Nation, that I was able to put a name to what I had always felt. In that regard, Prozac Nation was the book that most changed my life. Once I realized what was wrong with me, I began therapy coupled with SSRI medication (Prozac, Paxil, Lexapro). I have been "in treatment" for 11 years now. The past 7 years with the same therapist, who practices in Beverly Hills and I speak with on the phone a couple times a month.

Am I cured? Well, obviously not. I think that there is no cure for clinical depression as deep as mine. Depression, my own at least, is usually cyclical. Sure, if my life is going fabulously, I am "happy." If it's in the toilet, I'm suicidal. Literally. But here's the thing about my life—I've had only fleeting moments of happiness amid a steady stream of blackness. And for those of you who are yelling at their computer saying, "Oh, come on, just snap out of it! You have a great life!" I will say this—you could be the luckiest, most privileged, most loved, most successful person in the world, but if you are clinically depressed it matters not. You're still going to hate yourself and have suicidal ideations.

Anyway, if you think you may be clinically depressed and want to learn more about it, I would suggest reading both The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Sure you could go to the National Institute of Mental Health's depression web site, but reading someone's memoirs strikes home a bit more.

In conclusion, on depression, I will say that it's a complicated illness that has affected every aspect of my life—from career to relationships to family to social life.

OK, on a lighter note. Some thoughts and advice I will leave with you.

Never settle for anything less than what you consider the best—in a job, in a partner, an apartment, whatever. Life is too short.

Money and material possessions do not make you happy. Take it from someone who has never wanted for anything and is still unhappy.

Money does make life easier, so I don't think there is anything wrong with striving for more of it, as long as you realize that once you get it, it won't fulfill you completely.

Family is the most important thing in this life. So if you don't have a good relationship with yours, try to do something about it before it's too late. Because in the end, they may be all you are left with. Friends are important too, but it is your family's job to be there for you, remember that. Our parents brought us into this world willingly, and even if they don't agree with the way we live our lives, they created us and upon doing so agreed to love, nurture and support us unconditionally, no matter how hard a job it may be sometimes.

Always buy designer, preferably at a discount. You will thank me ten years from now when you are still wearing the item. But I can't afford designer you say? Then you haven't been reading carefully, darlings, for there is always, Century 21, Neiman Marcus Last Call, Off 5th Saks Fifth Avenue, Blue Fly, Filene's Basement, Loehmann's, etc. The list goes on, so you're out of excuses.

Go to Italy at least once in your life, even if you have to max out your credit cards. And if you're Jewish, go to Israel too.

Have fun at all costs.

Always have a sense of humor even in the most dire of times; you'd be surprised what it can get you through.

Get massages.

Treat yourself and your loved ones to nice things; you can't take it with you.

Go to the beach.

Get a dog.

Get Botox or Restylane or liposuction or whatever you want if it will make you look and feel better; screw what guys say, they don't understand.

Read books. I don't understand people who don't read books. Books are one of life's greatest pleasures. In fact, if I had to choose between giving up books or fashion, it would probably be a toss up. (!)

Enjoy yourself when you can and take pleasure in the little things.

In last night's Grey's Anatomy, Izzie, upon comforting George over the loss of his father said, "Life is short, George. Life is short, and it sucks a lot of the time. And if being with Callie makes you happy, then go be with Callie." Life is short; do what makes you truly happy.

In the inimitable words of Meryl Streep's character in The Devil Wears Prada: That's all.

Marc Jacobs, Going Once, Twice . . .

Wow, I guess you voters are all talk. As of tomorrow, this MJ number is moving over to eBay and I'm taking a blogging sabbatical.

OK girls, what I have here for you today is a lovely, classic Marc Jacobs leather bag in an eggshell color. It originally retailed for $950 and I'm selling it for $375. There is only one, so if you want it, click "buy now" and you will pay through PayPal. The first person to hit the button gets it, no bidding.

It's in mint condition and is new with tags. The lining is suede and there are inside middle and side zippered pockets. The hardware on the bag is a brushed gold-ish, but not so gold that you couldn't wear it with white-gold or silver jewelry. The shoulder strap is adjustable so that you could use it as a shoulder bag or carry it on your forearm. It really is a classic, and if it sells, there are more available in green, pink and navy.



















If this sucker doesn't sell, I'm keeping it myself; it's just that adorable.

For the rest of my non-fashion-oriented audience, I promise to have a rather entertaining and humiliating pseudo-dating story for you tomorrow, as well as an update on what the hell I am doing with my life in the coming months.

Found someone out there a fab Marc Jacobs bag today that I will post for sale tomorrow on this site using paypal. The price will include shipping.

Ok, girls, now that I've conducted my own bit of ghetto-style market research regarding handbags, I'm off to score a bargain and then put it up for sale on this site later today or tomorrow, depending on where the day takes me.

Thanks to LeandroToro for her continued support and coverage (?) of me and my boring yet somehow blogworthy life. I love how she credits the photos of my dogs to them. How cute is that? Wally the rockstar . . .

If you guys haven't watched this yet, you must, but you have to turn the volume up to truly appreciate its humor:

Steve Irwin You Tube video

You girls are weak! Come on, is this what voting will look like when Hillary runs? After all the soul-bearing, gut-wrenching stories I've shared, you can't vote in a simple poll? Vote. NOW. Pretty please, I have shopping to do tomorrow! Maybe posting what I discovered at the outlets this weekend will entice you: Fashionosophy's Frugal Finds.

OK, guys, no more posting by your's truly until you answer yesterday's poll. 18 votes out of 100+ readers Monday? Weak. I need your input!

I am holding fast on my no posting policy until people vote. I need these answers by tomorrow people so I can go shop for you. And guys, per the comment, if this idea works, I would also do ties—Boss, Brioni, etc. So that is your option.

Handbags

I need to conduct some market research for this little business I want to run here, wherein I use my shopping expertise (and access to the best outlet stores) to bring you the most fabulous, new-with-tags designer bags hand selected by moi. So, ladies, or men shopping for ladies, please answer this poll, ASAP. Thanks!

OK guys you are not voting enough. Have some sympathy, I was up all night with what I can only assume is food poisoning. It seems the majority of you are only willing to spend $150-175 on a designer bag, which is a little unrealistic. So let me clarify which types of brands I'm talking about: Prada, Marc Jacobs, Chanel, Fendi, Luella, Gucci, etc. Does that change anything?

How much are you willing to spend on a new-with-tags premier designer handbag on this site?
	$150-$175
	$175-$275
	$275-$375
	$375-$475
	$475-$675
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Family Weekend

Sooooooooooo tired. Friday night, after spending all-day at the Neiman's and Saks outlets—I will post my fabulous finds on Fashionosophy—my parents and I dined with Dana and Jim at Americana at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach, which not only boasted delicious cuisine but an absolutely gorgeous atmosphere. I don't know why nobody goes here or seems to have discovered this gem. It was so empty. We dined outdoors, amid fires, open-aired tables, the Atlantic Ocean, white chaise lounges and a beautiful breeze. It reminded me of the Mandarin Oriental in Bermuda.

Dana, me at the Ritz:



Mom, me at the Ritz:



Mom, dad at the Ritz:



Dad, me at Nobu:



Atmosphere at the Ritz:






Saturday we bounced from lunch at Joe's Stone Crab with one of my dad's oldest friends, who, given his treatment there, it seems is the mayor of Miami Beach. Then mom and I sprinted to Bal Harbour. We only had less than two hours there, and I had the artist at the YSL Beaute counter at Saks do my makeup to save time, cause we had to rush back to my apt to change for dinner on Lincoln Road to meet dad and his friend. I really love the way she did my makeup though:




This week or next, I am going to launch a feature here (for you gals) wherein I scope out one fantastic fashion deal and offer it for sale, so stay tuned for that.

3 a.m. ramblings

Can one of my intelligent, medically inclined readers please explain to me why drinking wine always causes me to wake up in the middle of the night—wide awake. I know it has something to do with the sugar, but I would really like a scientific explanation and to know whether there is any way to combat this, as all I drink is wine. Mel? Seems like you might know something about this, I think you are fond of chemistry?.

Let's see, now that I am up at 3:52 a.m. after having three glasses of wine with dinner at Nobu with the dad and his friends, what to say? Well, Nobu uses too much sodium cause I am bloated and all I had were like 5 teeny-tiny vegetable rolls and a mushroom salad. On the plus side, I got to Shore Club a full 20 minutes before the rest of the party and table of men sent me over a glass of wine and one of them actually had the balls to come over and chat. That never happens to me; I'm telling you I never get approached by guys in bars. Soo anyway, that was nice.

But I missed Grey's, and truth be told, I would rather be watching Grey's than at Nobu.

I still haven't heard back from my landlord about postponing my move and he is showing the apartment today, so I think I will go clean a little before falling back to sleep. The fam is in town this weekend, which means lots of shopping, eating, guilt, tears, making up, drama, "where are you going with your life" speeches and the usual Jewish family histrionics.

Also, now, a plea for help: I need a real J-O-B. So if anyone has media (mag editorial, web, newspaper) contacts in NY or LA, please send them my way.

And I also read a fabulous, couldn't-put-it-down book this week called Twins by Marcy Dermansky; such an impressive debut.

Don't Bring Me Down

OK, so I know the world is not ending, my problems are minuscule and I should really just try to focus on the positive—my wardrobe (kidding), my friends, my family, my dog, my many blessings.

But I am still in a prolonged (perpetual?) state of limbo.

I am contemplating postponing my move for yet another month.

Why? Well, I am supposed to be out of here Jan. 31st and I have yet even to start calling movers. My landlord has only shown the apt. twice, so I know the market is soft and I'm hoping he wouldn't mind me staying till mid- or late-February, which will actually give me some time to job-hunt. I think a job-hunt would be more effective from here than from my parents' house in Hicksville.

Also, the thought of moving home to my parents house even for a month fills me with what Schuman refers to as "the pit of dread." Not that they aren't great, but it would do massive damage to my already fragile ego.

Can you imagine the headline on Page Six? 31-Year-Old Failed Writer Forced to Move in with Parents! Book Still Hasn't Sold! Just Take the Entire Bottle of Klonopin Already Miss Dish!

Oy. I would lack some serious motivation were I to move back to the comforts of home. So that's my very rough plan at the moment. Ask for yet another extension on the lease, miraculously find a job I can stomach in a major market, pick up Wally and get my shit together.

On another note, I have now guilted the parents into including me on their family jaunt to foreign lands, but my dad seems to think that Europe is an equitable meeting point between India, where brother is, and the U.S. where we are. Don't quite see the logic there, but don't see the logic in passing up a trip to Europe. So I'm there.

A couple other things:

• Page Six the magazine is running a story/excerpt of Dishalicious in its next issue, which I think runs in February? The editor assures me that they are nicer than the daily version. (I'm holding you to that DM.)

• The Devil, has requested a new group blog, which will contain contributions from me, I Ended Up Here How?, Does Debbie and others TBD. I would also like to nominate Paige, if she's down, cause I know she knows Debbie.

And to end on a humorous note, I received a rather funny e-mail in reference to my posts about sleep-away camp and how I hated it sooo much that I wrote terrible, vitriolic letters home to my parents so they would come to save me. I mean, these letters were awful; in fact it's at sleep-away camp that I developed my potty mouth. I wish mom had saved them; they would have made for great material.

So this guy emails me and says how much he could relate to the whole letter-writing-campaign to the parental units; so much so that he used to write hate letters home and address them to "RESIDENT."

Absolutely priceless.

Golden Globes

I now have a new Hollywood crush: Sacha Baron Cohen. Was his acceptance speech not the funniest thing ever? Plus he's an MOT and British and went to Cambridge. And his fiancee is hot, but a non-Jew who's converting, but still.
Anywho, the fashion was kind of boring this year, no?

Best:
Sienna Miller in Marchesa. Though I'm usually not a fan of her BoHo style, last night she was luminous.




Penelope Cruz in Chanel ; I've always had a huge girl crush on her. She's simply divine.




Cate Blanchett chic in Alexander McQueen. Except the hair was awful.




Reese Witherspoon in Nina Ricci by Olivier Theyskens. Damn, the divorce has done her well; she's toned, glowing and trimmer than ever. Ryan must have really been a burden.



Emily Blunt vintage Herve Leger. Not many people can pull off Leger; Anna would be proud.




Ellen Pompeo in Versace. Love Grey's Anatomy. Love Versace. Love her.





Worst:
Hillary Swank. Ugh. That hairpin looked like it was about to eat her head.




Jennifer Love Hewitt. She looked like a copper factory vomited all over her and then someone brushed her in foil.



Meryl Streep. God love her, she's brilliant, but her outfit made her look twice the size she is. And when you're continually on Mr. Blackwell's Worst Dressed List, couldn't you just make a little effort? Steal something from the Prada set?






Beyonce. Ick. Can you say Scores? Can't she just once class it up a little?

Loving La La Land

Soo, now that my fate here in fugly Miami is all but sealed air-tight, I am thinking either L.A. or NYC. The whole L.A. thing opens up a whole other world of possibilities that NYC doesn't offer. And of course there's Fred Segal. . . .

And I know how New Yorkers love to diss L.A. but I lived there after college, and aside from the traffic (which is equally horrific here, even moreso since the other drivers curse at you in Espanol), there was nothing about L.A. I didn't like. It's beautiful, it's got a vibrant nightlife scene, there's art, music, fab shopping and culture (yes folks, there is culture). And did I mention its beauty? There's nothing like being on the top of a cliff in Malibu on a perfect balmy day.



So at the moment, I'm applying for jobs in both NYC and L.A., though I don't have a firm move date yet. My landlord can't seem to get a renter in this place. Perhaps it's because I take the potentials aside and surreptitiously tell them about my louder-than-elephants-stampeding neighbor?

If anyone has L.A. connections to send my way, please do so via e-mail.

I have to run, but ladies, check out Fashionosophy for my recommendations.

The Scoop on So. Florida "Journalists"

Soooo, I know I've been rather cryptic about my reason for staying in Miami after I quit my dreadful job for my uncle, but now I am finally able to reveal the truth. The second week of December, after I had hired the movers and done everything but pack, a family friend put me in touch with one of the managing editors of the online division of the largest (and only) paper in Miami.

He read my blog, loved it, loved my "voice," and suggested we do a "Sex and the City in Miami" type blog on this paper's web site. Well, hell, what writer doesn't dream of her own column for a huge paper? And this paper, although journalistically unfit to line you cat's litter box with—every day the front page headlines are either sports- or weather-related—has a huge circulation. This was a chance for me to establish this blog as a brand, basically.

Said managing editor gives the impression that this is a fabulous idea, a collaboration made in editorial heaven, and says he will speak to the right people, "get the ball rolling" and get back to me. I postpone my move based on his optimism and promises, for everyone agrees this is too good an opportunity to pass up.

Meanwhile, the holidays are approaching, so I know I won't hear anything definitively till after the new year. But, last we left it, it was, I would say a 90% done deal; semantics were all that had to be worked out. I came back from New York and had yet to hear from him. So I left the requisite "just checking in message." I get an e-mail back from him saying "this may not work due to budgetary constraints." (N.B. Managing editors are typically in charge of budgets, therefore he should have known about so-called budgetary constraints weeks ago.)

I write back saying the money isn't important—I'm willing to work within his budgetary constraints, and that given my knack for garnering national publicity, my blog would surely increase their traffic. No word back. I leave him another polite message on Monday. Finally by yesterday I'd had enough and e-mailed him (again, politely) saying that I needed an answer, because as he well knew, I'd put my moving plans on hold in the hopes of working with him.

So last night I received a nasty email from the festering asshole (Jenn's phrasing) declining my services. Natch, I, in kind, respond that I expect a certain amount of consideration from family friends, especially when I have been patient, persistent and professional. I thanked him for the false hope and the fabulous blogging material. I mean, this guy is like +50 and this is how he conducts business? I suspect initially he made it seem like he had more power than he does and his bosses nixed the idea, and he was too pussified to tell me. So instead he hid behind the veil of "budgetary constraints."

So there it is. Therefore, unless I can pull a rabbit out of a hat and land a gig at the one mag in this city, I'm definitely out of here for good.

Update: Sooo, the "festering asshole" knew about this before he even approached me. I don't know if this makes him more repugnant or less, but perhaps he was looking for a replacement for her...Thanks, anon.

meme

I spent another three hours at the Spa V today. So that makes two people who have seen me naked and fondled me this week, alas they are chicks and they are getting paid for it. Still, can't say I'm not putting myself out there.

I've decided to start my own meme, since I'm doing nothing but pondering my nebulous future, I've been thinking about what else I could've done.

So here's the question: If you could be something else than what you are now in terms of your career, what would the top five or six choices be and why would you be good at these professions?

1. Litigator: I'm pugnacious, fond of debating and arguing, persuasive, passionate and studious. I wanted to be a lawyer until about age 13, just like dad. Then I grew up and realized how boring it would be to wear a suit every day. But I still think I could have made one hell of a trial attorney.

2. Jeweler. For the most obvious reasons; I love jewelry, I have a good eye for it and know a lot about it.

3. Clothing and accessories designer. I used to sketch clothing in high school, but it was all mainly Versace-inspired. This was around the time of his heydey, '92 or '93 and he was producing some brilliant, vibrant, magnificent couture and pret-a-porter.

4. Artist and gallery/shop owner. I love to draw, paint and make crafts. I've sold some in the past, but with me it's one creative side of the brain at a time. I'm either writing or creating art. And since the writing isn't getting me anywhere, maybe I should go back to creating functional art.

5. Manicurist. I've always done my own manis/pedis and I always get compliments, even from Miss Kim at the Delano who does all the celebs. Of course I am kidding about this one, but I am really skilled at this. It all comes from having steady hands I suppose. My own mani was better than Miss Kim's. And guess what the Delano charges for a mani? $60!!!!!!!!!!!!

6. Personal shopper. Somehow, I'm going to make this happen. What with all the free advice I dole out to my friends and family friends, not to mention the mistakes I've saved them from, I should be getting paid for this shit.

OK, I'm tagging Miss Squirrel, Miss Kafka, Mr. Devil and Miss Life Goes On...

Random Celeb Dirt

After viewing Dirt again, it's almost impossible to believe that the show's producers or writers did not have a mole inside American Media. I mean, the reality is just mind-boggling. And the irony of Bonnie's Page Six denial statement? It was given to a now-Page-Six reporter who was a Star intern at the time I worked there. Hmmm.

I spent all day at the Delano spa on assignment. I know, rough life. Massages make me soooo tired though that I am now ready for bed. My mani/pedi lady, a funny, older Vietnamese woman, shared some celeb tidbits with me, as the Delano definitely sees its fair share of celebrities.

She did Paris and Nicky Hilton on Christmas day, and reported that they were "nice and quiet."

She did Queen Latifah (LOVE her), and said that she was on two cell phones the whole entire time she was getting her nails and toes done.

"She was on the phones saying, 'Ooh girl, I'm gettin my nails done, my toenails done, I'm really getting treated like a queen,'" Kim, the manicurist, said.

"How did she not mess up her nails if she was on the phone the whole time?" I asked.

"She messed up her nails twice!" Kim exclaimed. "Finally I told her, 'Queen make me proud and don't mess up the third time.'"

"Hahahahaha." I giggled.

"You're cute, I like your laugh, your funny. Most people I do are boring. Anyway, Queen [she pronounced it Kwen] told the person on the phone, 'the lady doing my nails just told me to make her proud so I got to get off the phone.'"

She also did Matthew McConaughey (YUMMM) and regularly did J. Lo and P. Diddy (BLECH).

I have another "assignment" at Spa V at the Hotel Victor on Thursday. So I am actually working, if you can call this "work." It is but it isn't. I mean I'm reviewing these places, but I'm the one getting worked on. Anywho, nice way to pass the time.

I still have absolutely no idea what the next couple of months hold for me. Absofuckinglutely no idea. This is not a good thing for a type-A, control freak. The bottom line is if I can find a gig down here that I like, I will stay. But given that The Miami Herald and Ocean Drive are really the only two options, it's kind of a long shot. I do have good connections at both places, yet that has never helped me in the past. Beyond help? Probably.

On another completely random note, I watched The Last Kiss with Zach Braff, who is one of my few abiding celeb crushes. A.) Because he's a jew and B.) because I am still kicking myself for not taking the opportunity to meet him before he was famous. I used to date this guy I knew from college who grew up with Zach and is still good friends with him. At the time we were dating, Zach was in the city and it was like the spring/summer before Scrubs was set to debut. R. invited me to his going away party, where, like, the whole cast was, and I said no. Why? No idea. But I have declined so many fabulous events/opportunities that I'm beginning to wonder if I don't have some kind of social anxiety disorder. Or maybe I was just tired. Or maybe I'm just a complete moron with the worst sense of timing ever. Likely, a combo of all of the above. Anyway, I still love Braff, but the movie was quite depressing, though very relatable if you are in your late 20s, early 30s and all your friends (or you yourself) are getting married and having the whole "oh, God, what am I doing moment."

Anyway, where I'm sort of going with this is that I think my family friend Sam Wolfson, of Jewtopia semi-fame, could be the next Zach Braff, if only someone would cast him in the right pilot or movie. He's cuter too. And I'm off to bed.

So I caved and bought the Brookstone seat massager thingy. Best $100 I ever spent, as I am now sitting for countless hours at the computer, writing, editing and job-searching.

I am in as big a state of limbo right now as one can get—I have no idea what the immediate future holds for me in terms of career or living situation. It would be nice and proper if one of the people in whose hands my fate is being held would get back to me, ASAP.

The editing thing is for an excerpt of Dishalicious that a magazine plans to run. However, if my lawyers think this will open me up again to litigation, I probably won't do it. The prospect of being sued again is not a fun one.

Tagged, Too

Wow, I wrote this before I saw this item in Page Six. So I guess I'm not the only one noting the comparisons between Dirt on FX and the Star/National Enqiurer. Let's just say that Courteney Cox has plenty of reasons to seek revenge on Bonnie Fuller. You go, Courteney.

I can't find the damn dog, though I went back to Publix again. I'm going to rescue this dog if it's the last thing I do. In the interim, I will participate in Jen's game of tag, revealing five little-known personal facts about yours truly.

1. This is pretty much widely known by friends and family, but not readers.
I used to be fat and ugly. And if mom tries to comment to the contrary, I won't approve it, cause it's so true.

2. I hated sleepaway camp and was forced to go for six years in a row. Related to the above, all the little, bitchy Japs made fun of me cause I was fat and ugly. I used to write the most vitriolic, curse-filled letters home to mom and dad begging them to let me come home, so miserable did these girls make me.

3. In grade five or six (whenever it was chronologically appropriate) I absolutely insisted on wearing only ESPRIT clothing. And somehow I got away with it. Now, my parents wonder why I'm so spoiled—gee, I wonder.

4. I have been shopping almost exclusively in New York since my junior year of high school. Though that does not mean that I was always a fabulous dresser. I have made some horrible, mortifying fashion faux pas.

5. My mom's mother Roxy, long deceased, she of the legendary fashion and jewelry collection, once offered me money to lose weight. I think we were in a Larry's Subs sandwich shop at the time (I had probably just ordered a yummy, disgusting, artery-clogging, meatball sub) and I believe she offered me $100 a pound. My response was something like, "Why would I do that? Grandpa will just give me the money for doing nothing."

So now, dear readers, perhaps this will offer you insight into my obsession with my own image. Once you're that fat, ugly girl, you always see yourself that way, no matter who is looking back at you back in the mirror now.

The summer after mom practically forced me to go on Weight Watchers and I lost all the baby fat, I went back to camp. The bitchy girls stared at me in disbelief and stopped making fun of me. The boys noticed me for the first time, telling me what "nice eyes" I had while ogling my breasts. I see these same boys and girls out and about in Miami now. And guess what? Many of them are fat, ugly and bald. It doesn't make me feel any better.

Dog Day Night

Update: On my way to engaging in some retail therapy and freelance research at Neiman's, I saw the dog at the gas station. She then pranced over to the CVS. I was going to get her, bring her into CVS and buy her some food. Alas, by the time the damn light changed, she was MIA again. So now, on my way home from Neiman's I bought a box of Milk Bones to keep in the car. I am going to stalk the Publix parking lot tonight. How exciting is my life? Sooooo very.

And Leandro, I have no idea who you are, but God bless ya' for the steady stream of free publicity. You hiring?

I cannot even believe this happened last night, but it is even further proof that people suck, 2007 is not going to be any better than 2006, and my timing is just God-awful.

I take off for Blockbuster to console myself with The Last Kiss. Naturally, they are out of it. On my way out, I see a Boxer-type dog, with no collar, looking lost and with those droopy teats that seem to indicate a recent birth.

As you may know, I am the doggiest dog-person of them all—big, small, smelly, ugly, cute—bring them on. And all dogs love me, they can sense dog-lovers. So I'm not shy about approaching strays. This poor, big, brindle-coated canine looked so sad and lost, I almost started crying, both for what I'd apparently lost (more on this later) and for what/whom she had lost.

"Come here, sweetie," I cooed, and started making kissing noises. She came right up to me, licked my hand and let me rub her ears. She did not appear to be malnourished or dirty. I pet her for a few minutes and looked around for a potential owner. She kept pacing in front of Blockbuster and looking in as if her idiotic (no collar, no leash) owner would emerge any minute.

Blockbuster is right next to the Publix (supermarket) I frequent. There is a cop, whose beat apparently is to sit outside on the bench outside Publix all-day, every day. Usually it's a certain cop who is very nice to me. Not last night though. I didn't know what to do; my cell phone was at home or I would have called the Humane Society, where I am a volunteer. But the cop was sitting right there, so I thought he might actually help.

I made kissing noises for the doggy to follow me and then I called to the cop, who actually sighed and rolled his eyes for having to get his lazy ass up off the bench. Jesus H.

"Sir, this dog doesn't have a collar and looks lost," I say.

The cop starts yelling at the dog and telling it to "SHOO!" I am horrified, I try to get the dog to come back.

"What are you doing?" I screamed at the cop. "Why don't you call animal control? I didn't want you to run him off!"

The dog scurries off into the packed parking lot and nearly gets hit by a car backing out. Then she hightails it out of the parking lot into the black void of the night.

"Why couldn't you have just called animal control?" I yelled at the cop. "She nearly just got run over!"

"Lady," he barks in his barely understandable English, "That's not my job."

"Well, you could have at least tried!"

"It's not my job lady, if you're so worried you take him home with you!" he yells, then returns to the bench.

I am fuming by this point. I would have taken her home but we all know the condo nazis policy on dogs in my bldg. Now this poor dog is probably dead thanks to me and the hapless cop. I walk back over to the cop, staring into the parking lot, sitting complacently on the bench.

"You know karma's going to come back and get you when that dog gets killed by a car cause you ran him off," I hissed.

"You think I give a shit, lady?"

"Well, you should!"

"I'm doing my job, thas' it."

"Yeah, I can see you have a real tough beat, sitting outside Publix all day." I fume and walk away. Today I'm going back and getting his badge # and lodging a complaint. I circled the dark lot a few times looking for the poor dog but could not find her.

And this left me yet again thinking that people are just the worst; even those whose job it is to help, really just suck.

Dirt

Nothing to see here today folks, so move on over to Fashionosophy, girls.

Oh, there is this: If you missed the season premiere of Courteney Cox's new show Dirt on FX, find a way to see it, if you are the type who wants to know what it's really like to work at a fictional tabloid. It's so close to home it's almost a documentary.