It's not you, it's me

It occurred to me this a.m. as I was woken up before my usual time of 11 a.m., that I have a serious issue with men. Natch, this realization is nothing new; I've been in therapy for 10 years.

But, it dawned on me that I have yet another issue to add to the list, and that is this: I'm one of those people who has no internal radar that picks up on whether or not a person feels the same way about me as I do them. Translation: You know those guys who hit on you, pursue you or stalk you because they genuinely think you like them, when in truth you have no feelings for them? That's me, sans the stalking.

Perhaps it's that my celibacy is at a year-and-a-half and all the dates I've had in-between have been comically tragic. Or perhaps it's my myriad Freudian issues. Or perhaps it's the old saying that you can't expect others to love you if you don't love yourself. Or perhaps it's my looks. Or perhaps it's the fact that I'm just a little too brash and opinionated for any man under the age of 40. Whatever it is, when I thought recently that I had an actual, muli-faceted connection with someone, once again, boy was I mistaken. That's all.

In other news, I've been doing lots of artsy stuff, most of which I would like to sell. So my friend Nicole and I and hopefully my friend Kim who is a bona fide, genius, uber-talented artist, have set up a selling blog.

It's called Art Couture, and there's nothing there yet, but maybe by the end of the week. So keep checking back.

Nostalgia is a Bitch

Nature or nurture?

A happy childhood doesn't necessarily guarantee a happy or carefree adulthood. Where are my yachting excursions, my barbecues, my husband, my house, my tight-knit community of neighbors who bring by baked goods? Well, you get the picture.

I guess when you are living in the home you grew up in, nostalgia is a natural emotional experience. So I began rifling through old photo albums, had some put on a CD and uploaded them to Flickr, which you can access by clicking there or on the link with the photos to the right of this page.

Of course, while at home I'm worrying about the big things—jobs, future, failure, utter patheticism—but also the small things. Like how I simply need this silver bag for spring and my Italy trip. Must have this bag.
So if there are any secret (or not so secret admirers out there), the way to this girl's heart is through her accessories addiction.

Tennis Anyone?

So, the complete moron at Dick's who sold me my "court shoes," well, he's a complete moron. (Do not go to Dick's; their salespeople are about as smart as the ones at Duane Reade.)

My feet were hurting in the days after wearing them. Given my year of knee/hamstring injuries, I'm hyper-aware of the importance of the right sneakers. I went to Dick's to return the shoes with dad, a stellar, lifelong tennis player. As we're trying on shoes, a knowledgeable saleswoman stops by and informs us that the original Mizunos the complete moron sold me were volleyball shoes. In fact, she said, half the shoes in the "court" section were not tennis shoes. She helped us discern the ones for tennis, and I ended up with some Adidas. I'm off to my third lesson now; my first in proper shoes.

And remember that tennis court in Positano at our hotel that I was so psyched about playing on? Well, I finally found a picture of it; check it out:


Are you drooling yet? Cause I sure as hell am. Cannot. Fucking. Wait.

My name is Stephanie Green and I am a cosmetics crackhead. Do they have 12-steps for that?

Depression's Celebs

I want to discuss this: famous people with some form of depression, in light of Rosie's announcement.

So here's a list of brilliant, famous, successful people also afflicted by this horrible, incurable illness. It's no coincidence that many of history's greatest creative minds were depressives because if you're happy all the time, what the hell do you have to express through your art? View the full list here. Note how many of history's greatest writers and artists were depressives; it's simply staggering. And for those of you who suffer with clinical depression like me, both inspiring and reassuring. We are in good company, my friends.

Menachem Begin

Marlon Brando

Barbara Bush (elder)

Lord Byron

Albert Camus

Truman Capote

Drew Carey

Jim Carrey

Ray Charles

Sir Winston Churchill (!)

Kurt Cobain

Leonard Cohen

Francis Ford Coppola

Sheryl Crow

Ellen DeGeneres (!)

Charles Dickens

Emily Dickenson

Thomas Edison

T.S. Eliot

Ralph Waldo Emerson

William Faulkner

Harrison Ford

Sigmund Freud

Judy Garland

Paul Gauguin

Audrey Hepburn

Anthony Hopkins

Henry James

Billy Joel

Elton John

Franz Kafka

Larry King

Jack London

Herman Mellville

Michaelangelo

Claude Monet

Eugene O'Neill

Dorothy Parker

George Patton

Sylvia Plath

Jackson Pollock

Cole Porter

Ezra Pound

Lou Reed

Anne Rice

Mark Rothko

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Yves Saint Laurent

Brooke Shields

Paul Simon

Princess Diana

Amy Tan

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Dylan Thomas

Leo Tolstoy

Spencer Tracey

Vincent Van Gogh

Kurt Vonnegut

Mike Wallace

Damon Wayans

Tennessee Williams

Tom Wolfe

Ed Wood

Natalie Wood

Virginia Woolf

Emile Zola

Also, my newest story on Juli B—the coolest sneakers ever.

The tres chic Juli B picks for March by moi.

Had my first tennis lesson yesterday and I was shocked at how fun it was. I was fairly good, actually. Once you become a gym rat and live your life on the treadmill/elliptical/stair climber, you forget that excercising can actually be enjoyable. Went out and bought my court shoes today and have another lesson Friday.

Apparently, our hotel in Positano has one of the most beautiful tennis courts in the world, etched into a cliff overlooking the sea, so to be able to hit some balls while I'm there would be nice . . .

And the latest photos of the girls, Tessie Lou (right) and Stella (left). Wally seems to think the camera steals his soul.

Rats

I just e-mailed my (very anti-Botox) friend Jen saying how I am already losing my shit at home in east bumblefuck, but that I'd rather find a job in Miami or somewhere aside from New York because I simply cannot deal with the rodents, rodents and more rodents.

This is what she e-mailed me back; further confirmation that not only are subways truly evil, but also that I don't think I'll be back in Manhattan anytime soon except at the Four Seasons.

"Ha, I thought of you the other day as I was heading home from work—I glanced down the platform where this girl was standing and reading a magazine and this rat ran up to her and sat on her foot! She just looked down and gave her foot a shake, totally unfazed. Now, I'm not afraid of rodents, but I would definitely give a jump and girly scream if a rat took a rest on my foot."

Um, I would have screamed loud enough to call in the NYPD, hyperventilated, then passed out. That girl? The very definition of jaded New Yorker.

The God of Small Things

I don't really believe in one god per se, but I do believe in a higher power, an invisible hand that guides us along the meandering roads that determine our lives.

I place great stock in coincidences and believe that in almost every coincidental event or encounter, meaning can be extracted—whether it's something trivial or something life-changing. Think about those people who overslept and missed their subway that ran directly under the World Trade Center on 9/11. (My brother's good friend was such a person.)

I think coincidences are so important, in fact, that I think there should be a new word for them that conveys their profundity.

One of my main themes of this blog is that life is too short not to do what makes you happy. It's too short to sit in an office for 12 hours a day doing something you are not passionate about. Then again, some people are born without passions, so perhaps they are the correct beings to work office jobs.

Anyway, what to make of these latest coincidences that have unfolded in the past 24 hours?

In part due to my new "no day but today" mindset, the soundtrack of my life here at home has been the Broadway show Rent. I listen to it when I write, when I shower and, religiously, when I stretch. I haven't been keeping up with the meditation thing, but when I'm stretching and listening to Rent, I essentially am meditating. For those of you living under a rock who don't know the basic plot of Rent: Artists on the Lower East Side struggle with love, drugs, poverty, AIDS, corporate America, fitting in and producing meaningful projects by using their own differing creative talents. Some people find the show/movie depressing; I find it truly inspirational. Because essentially, the moral of the story is, "Do what you love. Love what you do. Never give up on your dreams. Life is short."

Yesterday was my dad's father's Yahrtzeit—the anniversary of his death—and in Judaism, we go to synagogue that night to honor our loved ones' lives.

I didn't know my grandfather that well; he died when I was in 7th grade. My memories of him are mainly from the nursing home. Before services, my dad called upstairs to me,

"Steph, come look at this! Hurry!"

I went downstairs and found him in front of the flat-screen, watching with glee a grainy, old video set to music. The little four-year-old boy looked familiar.

"Is that you," I asked, bewildered. My dad is sometimes on the news, but I couldn't imagine why he would be on TV as a child.

Turns out, dad took many of his very old childhood videos and had them digitally remastered.

"Um, was this just a coincidence that you got them back today, on the anniversary of poppy's death?"

"Yeah, isn't that weird?"

Indeed, weird. My dad was jubilant watching himself, his parents, his siblings, his dogs and his childhood friends, many of whom are still his best buddies, some of whom are dead or sick now.

Then we went to services. The sermon, by our very liberal and slightly off-kilter rabbi, turned out to be about doing what you love, following your heart and devoting yourself to what you were put on this earth to do. Again, weird. In Rabbi Matt's case, it's studying the Torah. In my case, it's writing and creating art. I thought this sermon couldn't come at a more opportune time, when my parents think that just because I sit at my computer all-day I am doing nothing. In fact, I am doing what I feel I was put on this earth to do. And if book publishers, magazine editors or whomever disagree—fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. (Except you guys, who obviously keep reading for some reason or another.)

As if that weren't enough . . . I stayed in last night to finish an artistic project I'm working on. At like 11 p.m. I'm scrolling through the 500 channels and what do I find on Encore? Rent, the movie. Some days more than others, you really can feel that invisible hand.

Now, I want to YouTube this video of my dad's but I've never YouTubed and I have the DVD but can't figure out how to do it. Any help would much be appreciated. It's a truly lovely video.

Ha, vindication from the New York Times.

Is Looking Your Age Now Taboo?

Like, duh. Who the hell wants to look their age? (Jen, save your comments!)

Between A Rock and A Prada Place

It's not polite to speak of money, you know. Or so the motto of the wealthy and cultured goes. What that statement really translates to is the following: It's not polite to talk about money with people who have less than you. It's not polite to talk about specific amounts of money. It's not polite to speak of how much money you make, how much something cost or how much money you lost in the market. It is, however, acceptable to discuss with people who have roughly the same amount as money as you people who have much more money than you. For instance, it's acceptable to talk with X, who is in the same bracket as you, how much Y, who is on the Forbes list, paid for his Palm Beach house. In other words, it's fine for millionaires to speak about billionaires, but it's not okay for billionaires or millionaires to talk about those who have substantially less than they do. That would be crass.

I've always divided the wealthy—again, rich is simply not an acceptable word—into a few categories. There are the uber-wealthy; the $500 million+ group. There are the very wealthy; the $100-$500 million group. Then there are the wealthy; $10-100 million. And finally, the well-off set; $10 to a $5 million. I am as usual just expressing my own opinions, which are naturally colored by my own limited, sheltered experiences.

My point with all this is multifaceted. The progeny of the very wealthy typically have trust funds and therefore, even if they do choose to work, don't really have much to worry about.

But many children of merely wealthy or well off people, do not typically have trust funds, and thus, though they may be extremely spoiled, are always dependent on mommy, daddy, husband or wife. As this relates to me, again without speaking of money per say—because that would be impolite—this puts me in a precarious position.

I have always been impossibly spoiled, since I was born, first by my grandparents and later my parents, mainly my mom, because she controlled the money. I never wanted for anything; I had a clothing allowance at age 11; by age 16 I was shopping exclusively in New York and wearing only designer clothes. I was, and still am, crazy. At 31, I have more jewelry and designer clothes and accessories than most 50-yea-olds. And please don't get me wrong, I know this is sick.

Herein lies the problem—yes, I am a spoiled girl, er, woman. Yet I am not independent, precisely because I have always been so spoiled and have never had to be independent. My parents have always paid my rent, even when I worked full-time. In our defense, working full-time in New York does not pay the rent on an Upper East Side apartment.

So now at 31 I am crippled by the fact that I only know the finest things in life and that certainly isn't changing at this late point. Is it reasonable to expect me to go from Bergdorf's to H&M? No, frankly, it's not. Am I proud of what I have turned into? Noooo. The only thing I ever wanted was to be successful and independently wealthy. Yet my family are not Forbeses, meaning Daddy doesn't have the power to call up the CEO of Conde and get me a job. Nor do I have a trust fund to invest my own money in a business. And of course, there is the misconception that just because I am spoiled that I do not want to work or would not be a good worker, which could not be further from the truth. I am passionate about magazines, fashion, travel, accessories, editing and writing. And if I were offered a job at a magazine I respected, I would take it, regardless of salary.

My point with all of this is that when you are raised as I was and you are 31 and you find yourself without a job and without your own money but with a closetful of designer clothes what do you do? You could do what you have always done—the immature thing—move to yet another city, have your parents get you another apartment while you fruitlessly look for a job. Or you could do the mature (yet completely pathetic and humiliating) thing—you could move home, live rent-free, look for jobs, get your shit together, write and save your very generous parents some money. And live a little more guilt free. So I'm sacrificing my pride—I can't believe my life has come to being single, 31 and living at home in a city I loathe—to save my parents $2000 a month.

Another point with all of this is that if you are going to be the kind of parent who spoils your kids to their hearts' content, please make sure that you will be able to do this for the rest of their lives. Give them a trust fund; some independence; a business to run; something. Because if you don't, they will turn out like me: a spoiled, ne'er do well crippled by her privileged, pampered existence.

Portrait of a Life

Sleeping. Eating. Reading. Working out. Playing with the dogs. Catching up on all the movies. Writing not much of anything. Thinking. Going to doctors—cosmetic, of course. Not shopping. Drifting. Wondering how the hell my life came to this. Boredom.

The excitement factor? None. Tennis lessons. Woo-hoo. Preparing for Italy. Reading 3, 4 books a week and watching all the bad TV my brain can handle.

I suppose I'm in a "funk" cause I really don't want to do anything save for sleep, eat, work out, watch TV/movies and read. If there were shopping, I'd want to do that of course, but the closest Neiman's is about 130 miles away.

Watched Babel last night. Ugh. I know this movie carried a powerful message about gun control and illegal immigration, and Rinko Kikuchi's performance was amazing. (I simply can't imagine novice actor Jennifer Hudson being any better than her.)
However, I just couldn't help thinking a couple of things as I writhed in my chair, wanting it to be over already.
1. Why would a Mexican writer reinforce such negative stereotypes about Mexicans? I mean, Gael Garcia Bernal's character was so idiotic that the Mexican storyline made you want to become a Republican and patrol the borders yourself.

2. Cate Blanchett—though I worship her style—gets an Oscar nod for lying prostate and moaning a few times? And, oh yeah, pissing herself?

3. Again, another movie that just makes you wonder about Muslims. Only this time, Moroccans? Why Morocco? That's the one Muslim nation I've actually always wanted to visit. Couldn't they have picked somewhere truly evil like Syria or Lebanon? I mean, I know why—b/c Morocco is not neccessarily a terrorist haven so they wanted to illustrate the point that even though the shooting was not terrorist related the international media automatically assumed this. But still.

4. American tourists are just idiots when they are in a truly foreign land. Why would they be on a tour bus ostensibly in the middle of nowhere? Tell me that. And without one cell phone between the entire group? Please. Now mom and dad understand my penchant for first-class travel.

My brother, on the other hand, is, as I type this literally in the backwaters of India with no means of communication. So as Cate was suffering in the mud hut, I kept thinking, "There's my brother. God forbid he gets hurt. He's miles away from civilization; probably does not have the number of the American Embassy or a first-aid kit, etc. Why on earth do people travel like this?

Anyway, this movie made me really mad. Maybe that's the point, but I'm certainly glad it did not win best picture.

For lighter fare, please see Fashionosophy.

Best- and Worst-Dressed List

Okay, my best/worst dressed Oscar list is now up on Fashionosophy. I know you are all peeing in your pants with anticipation.

Oscar Wrap Up

Okay, somehow my audience has become more international by like 10x over night, so hello to all you Swedes, Germans, Spaniards, Brits, Brazilians, Greeks, Chileans, Chinese, Czechs and Middle Easterners. I'm just curious how this lot found my little site.

Anyway, how utterly boring were the Oscars? Ellen was funny, natch, but oy, what a snooze fest. I couldn't be happier that Little Miss Sunshine won best screenplay and Allen Arkin best supporting actor, plus Forest Whitaker as best actor. But you know how disappointed Eddie Murphy was. Poor guy. Plus I kind of wanted Peter O'Toole to win, just cause he's like Peter O'Toole.

And let's just talk about the divine Helen Mirren for a moment. Sixty-one years old and her boobs are more vertical than mine. And she was wearing Christian Lacroix couture people. Couture, meaning the dress was designed specifically for her by Lacroix himself, hand sewn and embroidered in France and basically made to order for one Lady Helen Mirren. This divine dress probably cost, I'm guessing, around $40,000-$60,000.

For those of you out there not familiar with the correct definition of haute couture, as the term gets misused a lot—the French government actually decides which designers and houses of design can be labeled as haute couture. Lacroix is one of them.

Anyway, the dress is to-die-for. These pics are not the best, but were the only ones I could find right now.





I'll post my choices for best and worst dressed over on Fashionosophy later today.

And I'm outta here . . .

Oh, good lord. Reese, saved the best for last. Absolutely flawless. Love the extensions; love the dress. Love everything. Simply divine.

Wow. Meryl Streep just admitted she was a size 14. Women all over the U.S. are rejoicing and promptly gorging themselves.

This is Exhausting

I'm tired already. And the bigwigs haven't even arrived yet.

God, Cate Blanchett can do no wrong this award season. Again divine in Armani Prive and those stunning earrings. My god, what a year for her.

Loving Gywenth's Zac Posen dress. I think the lips could have been a little more complementary to the color of the dress. I'm never a fan of red lips. And she's reaching that age when the hair needs to be clipped by about 4 inches. She's as much of a fashion icon as Anna Wintour, so she should look flawless.

Okay, where is Reese? My hands are hurting. . .

Oh, Penelope Cruz, my abiding girl crush, clad in my favorite designer of all time (when he was alive) Versace. She can do no wrong by me; well, except for that minor Tom Cruise transgression.

Maggie Gyllenhaal divine in Proenza Schouler. My god, can you believe she was pregnant only four months ago? Jesus.

Oh, oh, oh, Jennifer Hudson, honey, your stylist should be shot. If she wins—and I think the odds are in on her—she's going to be looking back at the footage in ten years and thinking, "What the hell was going through my mind when I was talked into that hideous gold capelet?" The dress would be fab without that thing on top of it. And not a big fan of sideswept hair.

Cameron Diaz is always a mess, but I'm digging the new haircolor.

J. Lo. Ugh. The woman simply has no taste; never will. She is living proof that money can't buy taste. And, though I hate to sound like a Star headline, could she be hiding a baby bump?

Jessica Biel has arguably the hottest bod in Hollywood right now. Digging the simple fuchsia gown, with an uber-stylish belted waist. One cannot make a misstep in Oscar de la Renta, the king of dresses, or Valentino.

Harvey Weinstein's Phallic Mess

You know, as utterly senile as Joan is, at least she's acutally seen all the nominated films, even if she can't remember everyone's names.

I have to admit I haven't seen many of the nominated films, but I adored Little Miss Sunshine and am hoping that wins Best Picture. I think Abigail Breslin just may win too. And I think Forest Whitaker is a cinch, as is Eddie Murphy. Good year for the blacks; always a good year in Hollywood for the Jews. Oh, and the Brits. Helen Mirren is a shoo-in. You regular old gentiles are getting shafted.

Speaking of shafts . . . I think Marchesa will be a red-carpet fave this year, not only because the dresses are gorgeous, but because Georgina Chapman, 1/2 of Marchesa, is dating hideous mogul Harvey Weinstein.

Good Harvey Weinstein gossip? A couple of years ago, he was admitted to New York Hospital for a disgusting growth on his penis. Had a nurse friend who worked there. Ewww. I don't care how powerful you are, I think Marchesa could stand sans-Harvey and Georgina is simply beautiful. What the hell is she thinking?

Men, Glorious Men

Djimon Hounsou has been a favorite (and object of lust of mine) since his riveting turn in Amistad. He is simply virility personified. Sizzling hot. And I'm loving the salt and pepper beard and the sunglasses. Can't wait for that Calvin Klein campaign. He should have been Oscar-nominated for Amistad and won the Golden Globe. If you haven't seen Amistad, see it; it's one of Spielberg's finest works.

Have never been a Leonardo DiCaprio fan, looks-wise, he always was too boyish for me. But finally, he seems to have grown into his own. I'm digging the scruffy facial hair and the beefier physique.

Sacha Baron Cohen. Yum. Yum. Yum. And Kosher.

I'm now flipping b/t E! and TV Guide, and can I just say again what a moron Seacrest is. Hate, hate, hate him. Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that when I was living in L.A. and we were both on the VIP line for the opening of the W hotel in Westwood, he literally pushed me out of the way with nary an "excuse me," despite the fact that I could take him down with one arm.

Switching to TV Guide Channel for Joan and Melissa. Joan cracks me up and Ryan Seacrest is such a pompous moron who never asks, "Who are you wearing?" Four words, Ryan, not that hard.

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.