Hahahahaha. The funniest Google search of late that pointed someone toward this page: "how to get even with a catty nosey person."

Jen, you got anything even close to that?

Wagging the Dog

These pics are from the balcony of my friend's apt. I am subletting this month.

Sooo in the midst of all this work craziness, I am looking at condos with my realtor. Today, after seeing an amazing condo in a building on the beach, we had this utterly mystifying experience. And I wouldn't be wasting my literally precious time right now, but I need input on this scenario. You all know my obsession with dogs; my realtor is also a dog-lover and owner.

After we exit this amazing PH we spent about 15 minutes looking at, we go out into the hall and see this chow
dog wandering around looking agitated. No other people are in the hallway. The dog goes up to the double-door PH that is clearly where he lives, and starts barking and scratching at the door.

We knock on the door to no avail, then agree we can't leave the dog out in the hall, as he is clearly distressed and neither one of us could bear to just leave him. So I stay with the dog and comfort him while my realtor goes down to the front desk to tell them what's going on. As time goes by the dog is getting more and more distressed, crying and barking. I'm knocking on the doors, the neighbors' doors, and trying to soothe the dog, all fruitless efforts. Finally, I try the handle—the freaking penthouse is open. The dog waltzes in. I open the door about a foot wide and call out. I can hear the dog lapping water from his bowl, but cannot see him.

What I do see is the tenant/owner's wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. Something is clearly not right. I'm thinking the owner had some kind of medical emergency, but once the dog is inside, he doesn't bark or try to get my attention again. The real mystery is: How the hell does a dog end up in the hallway on the 33rd floor without its owner? Where the hell is the owner? Dead? Passed out? High off his gourd?

Anyway, my realtor returns with a member of the building's security, a man less puzzled or troubled by this scenario than one the other day in which someone was so high he left a wad of cash and his ID at the pool.

So as we stand there freaked out about this dog and wondering whether the owner is alive or dead, the security guard is nonchalantly gossiping about the crazy shit he's seen owners do. That's all well and good, we're thinking, but leaving money at the pool ranks a little bit lower than a freaking dog roaming the hallways, and an open door to a penthouse with a wallet and keys on the counter.

Well, we did all we could do and then left in the hands of building security. But we spent the whole ride home trying to solve this riddle: How did a dog end up in the hallway without his owner realizing it and where is the owner?

This is how busy and frazzled I am—I didn't even realize that my column came out a week ago. Juli B July Picks

Okay, back to work.

Oh, I spotted Mark Badgley and James Mischka, aka Badgley Mischka, lunching at the Ritz-Carlton South Beach while I was doing the same this afternoon—hey it was business. It's Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week here now (swimwear), but I'm so busy I can't cover it. Frankly I didn't have any clue that Badgley Mischka was even doing swimwear. Some fashionista I am. . .

Holy Exhaustion, Batman

Just today I stopped living out of a suitcase. But that was only after spending Thursday through Sunday at Acqualina. The resort is truly divine, like all Rosewood
properties.

When I was a travel mag editor in L.A. I had the privilege of staying atLas Ventanas al Paraiso, and overall, that remains the most staggeringly perfect resort I've ever been to.

I am thoroughly spent and the work just keeps coming, which I am not complaining about, but I'm gettting to the point where I don't know how I am going to accomplish everything on my plate. I've got countless assignments, meetings, pitches etc. due, and I've got to find a more permanent place to live.

My to-do list is endless; my computer useless until I get some damn obsolete chip that probably won't even work anyway; my world is spinning. And for a type A control freak, this is not a good thing. I am relieved to have a space that is my own, at least for a month, but since I'm so regimented, I'm suffering from like organizational withdrawl or something.

In Jackassville, my life was boring but I had my routine downpat. I had a nice little workspace, didn't have to do much by way of cleaning and housekeeping, and got to work with our three little pooches twittering at my feet. Now I'm on my friend's laptop that I am a complete moron at using and my organized, borderline-OCD world is just gone. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it; that's the beautiful irony—I'm totally out of control of being in control.

That's just the way life is.

No Rest for the Weary

So you all are aware of my sleeping problems—earplugs, eye mask, pitch black, the whole nine. And it wasn't until late in the day that I realized that my friend didn't have blinds in her bedroom. Then, as I made the bed, I realized it was a water bed. Uh, oh. However I slept surprisingly well; until noon actually, as I'd been up since three a.m. getting settled.

Then a trip to the Apple store today revealed that they don't even make the wireless card for my G4 anymore—it's about 5 years old—so thank God Stace left her laptop. Slight problem though; all my work docs are on my desktop. So I have no e-mail access to my work docs and the wireless card that I ordered won't get here for about a week. So basically, I'm fucked.

Oh well, guess that means it's vacation time. Either that or I will have to call one of my computer savvy friends and bribe him to come over and do some magic.

Tomorrow I am off to the resort and the beach, though right now I'm looking at the water and it's lightening, thundering and pouring rain. It's hurricane season after all, bienvenidos a miami.

I am FINALLY settled in South Beach by way of Palm Beach. The good news? I can bring Wally and he can stay with me here at my friend's pad and at Acqualina (for a mere $100). The bad news? My shoes, handbags and clothes do not yet have a home. I might have to make a trip to BBB and buy some kind of cheap contraption for them. . .I am exhausted. More TK when I am unpacked and social.

Ciao to the South

Well, it's my last official day in Jackassville. Thank God. How did I spend it? Loading up on a month's worth of supplies at BJ's. Dad went for the new printer but no so much for the Chopard watch.

Tonight we'll dine at Ruth's Chris in Ponte Vedra Beach; meet some friends afterwards and then call it a night. Tomorrow I'll drive to Palm Beach, spend the night there and then hit South Beach in the morning to move into my friend's swanky digs while she's in Bali. I'd rather be in Bali too. . . . The next time you hear from me, hopefully there will be something exciting to report.

Huh?

I had a tres bizarre dream last night.

I awoke to find Naomi Campbell in my bathroom, eating the emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds out of one of my pendants. Instead of asking the pugnacious supermodel what the hell she was doing there, I asked her a question with real gravitas:

"Naomi what are you doing? How many calories are in those?"

"Oh, practically none, you know, because you can't chew them," she replied.

Leave it to this journo to ask the really important questions. I'm sure this dream was prompted by the fact that I packed my jewelry last night, but no idea why Naomi entered the picture.


On another note, I just finished a really funny, genuinely enjoyable chick-lit/beach book by the girl who wrote Legally Blonde. It's called School of Fortune; it's in paperback and it's laugh-out-loud funny.

Married to the Marsupials

CJ, I think you make such a valid point in your comment that it's worth a post. This is a subject that I've often pondered and is perhaps the one reason I am thankful to be single.

I look at my married friends who are popping out babies, taking care of them all day, doing their husband's laundry and then cooking them dinner. I feel sorry for them, and it almost breaks my heart to see so many of them settling for lives that are straight out of Leave it to Beaver. However, most of my married girlfriends do not work. So I think the men feel even more entitled to expect exactly what you are speaking of, and they think that because they earn the money, they are entitled to virtually enslave their wives.

It's like feminism has completely been obliterated. At least when you work, you have some sense of independence. My advice to you, if you are a working mommy, is to sit your husband down and say, "Look, I work twice as hard as you, so pick up some of the slack, buster." Or at the very least, get him to hire you some damned help. That's the least you deserve.

All of my parents friends worked and raised children. I watch these young couples today, my friends exhausted after a day of baby-manning, the husband expecting a home-cooked meal as soon as he walks in the door, and think to myself, maybe being single isn't so bad after all.

You are right, my parents set great examples, they both work and were always on equal footing. My mom and dad share the chores, finances and social calendars equally. Mom doesn't cook; dad doesn't mind. Dad shops for groceries and picks up his own dry-cleaning. And brings home a bouquet of roses from the farmer's market every Friday. Mom does what she wants, when she wants and so does dad. And they are completely in love after 36 years. They are, in short, the perfect couple, impossible to live up to, so I have pretty much given up trying to live up to them in that dept.

Therefore, it's nearly impossible to find a man who would treat me the same way my dad treats my mom. And I don't want kids, am "too much" for guys my age to handle, and expect a lot from a partner, all of which leads me to believe I need an older man. Now if only I could find one who wasn't off-limits. . . .

Ahh, I see that someone at the lovely Miami Herald is reading the blog again. What your own paper is boring you? What a shocker! Perhaps you should think of bringing your coverage into the 21st century . . . there actually is unique, fun stuff happening in that city of yours. Too bad you have nobody to cover it.

The only things in my life that are not a complete frazzled mess right now are: my shoes, which are now all Ziploc-ed and ready to go (they fit perfectly—okay barely—in my large Skull and Bones tote, JPS;) my handbags, ditto; my car, sparkling like the top of the Chrysler building; my desk and work materials, which are already in my car. Now onto the hard parts—jewelry, toiletries, linens and clothes. And oh yeah, my love life is absolutely 100% clean cause I ain't got one. So that's pretty cut and dry.

Guys and low-maint girls don't understand this, but packing is extremely traumatic especially when it's for a month. And especially when you don't know what exactly the month will hold. Casual nights? Black-tie affairs? Fashion shows? Anything is possible and like a good Girl Scout, I must be prepared for all situations.

Today is my parents' 36th wedding anniversary.

As a gift, my dad had our jeweler ship him 5 dazzling diamond bracelets and then this morning, he left the boxes and cards by the coffeemaker for my mom—telling her to choose the one she liked best—so that she would see them first thing in the morning.

What I don't understand is how a generation of men like my dad—men with generosity, morals, taste, humor, success, humility and kindness—have given way to a generation of douchebags. Douchebags and asshats who think women are expendable or worthless or albatrosses. Where have the good old days gone. I often think I was born into the wrong generation. Sure, my potty mouth may have gotten me into trouble, but I'd be much more comfortable in the days of garden parties, African-American nannies, drivers and yachts.

Does such romanticism exist for people my age? Not that I've heard of. Christ, my parents will be lucky to live long enough to see me get married, let alone celebrate a substantial anniversary.

The Final Four

Lordy, I am tired. I'm leaving Sunday a.m. for South Beach, stopping in Palm Beach for a visit, and then commencing my month-long sublet. No idea where this crazy-ass adventure called life will take me after that.

Yet I've not begun to pack. Anything. And I am so anal about packing that this represents a serious form of procrastination/self-sabotage. The most preparation I have done is cleaned my car, and I scrubbed that sucker from top to bottom. You could operate in it thanks to the amount of antibacterial wipes I employed.

So I get to MIA Sunday, move into my friend's pad Monday and then Wednesday momsy, popsicle and their friends are coming down for their annual 4th of July TEP-fest. We are staying at the divine Acqualina; so I'm not complaining. But I think I will actually have work to do that week, so I haven't quite figured out how that will come to pass. I suppose I need a laptop.

BTW, has anyone been tuning into HBO's John from Cincinnati? I'm so addicted; it's like Six Feet Under at the beach with a twist of mysticism. Rad.

Girls and Boys

Brother please don't read this post, for your own good.

So here's a little story I've got to tell about, well, about my previous two posts. This is what went down. This new friend T. and I go out with some of my old-school friends Friday night—and we're talking about guys I've known for 25 years. I'd confessed to her that I'd always had a crush on one of the boys, P., but that nothing had ever happened.

Cut to about five hours later; we're at a club at the beach where P. has brought in Biz Markie to DJ. My guy friend K. who drove us out there, decides that instead of driving back downtown from the beach—about 30 minutes—we'll go crash at this hotel where P. rented a bunch of rooms. Girlfriend T. voices no objections. Several joints later, K. ends up getting T. and me a hotel room of our own. Next thing we know P., my crush, is lying in bed between us just shooting the shit. Eventually, I got tired and had my head turned away from them, trying to sleep, but I couldn't sleep because I could hear the two of them hooking up beside me.

T. who, earlier at dinner with my parents, told them she'd never even seen cocaine, proceeds to do it all-night with K. She wakes me up the next morning, jacked, and says, "We need to get out of here now."

Oh-kay, I think, this isn't exactly NYC we're talking about here. K. says wait for the others to wake up and we'll drive you. But no she needs to go, now. So she calls about four cabs as if the hotel is on fire. On the way home, I confronted her about the coke lie and said, "So did P. put the moves on you?"

"Oh, yeah, she says casually, but I just wasn't having it."

Bullshit, I thought, and got the pit of dread. So later in the day, I called our mutual friend who introduced us, told her the story and said, "Is T. the type of girl who would do something like that? I mean, that's like the cardinal rule of girl-friendship!"

Yeah, the friend says, she would totally do that. That's her MO. So I confronted T. the next day, she claimed she didn't remember anything, which is exactly what our mutual friend said she would say, and then called my friends "vile."

Now, it's one thing to hook-up with your friend's crush, lie about doing drugs, lie to you about hooking up with said crush, but now she turns it around on my friends. My friends who I've known basically my entire life?

I don't think so, honey. Keep your friends close and your frenemies closer. Oh, and I neglected to mention that this ex-friend has a notorious reputation for sleeping around, dating men twice her age and just generally whoring herself out.

I have enough friends whom I trust with my life. I don't need one I can't even trust in the most mundane situations.

And in case you didn't already realize this, I'm not someone you want to cross in general. But most especially, if you are a lawyer in the same town as my dad, who's been practicing here for more than 30 years, knows every judge and lawyer in town, and doesn't take well to people fucking with his daughter.

The answer to yesterday's quandary is: Go with your gut, and trust the people who you've known your life as opposed to those who you've known less than a month.

In the wise words of Oprah, "Once somebody shows you their true colors, pay attention." Or something like that.

The cardinal rule of girl-friendship: Not hooking up with a guy you've admitted to crushing on, no? I don't care how much alcohol is involved.

The question is, can you trust this person again, especially when they deny that it happened.

Personally, I like to be able to trust my friends in any type of situation. What to do? Especially if you really like the girlfriend?

You know, if it's not the asshat reading my blog in Chicago, then I think I have a serious e-stalker. Who reads someone's blog for 2 hours? Christ, I didn't even realize I had 30 pages to view.

Honestly, Chicago person, I am really not that interesting. You should try reading a book.

Anonymous Idiots

I received this interesting yet insulting e-mail in my inbox today:

Hi, I sometimes read your writings because my 34 year old son seems to be fascinated with your ramblings. For him, you're a typical example of what is out there and why it is so difficult to meet a decent woman. As far as I'm concerned, I have difficulty believing that you're not spoofing an imaginary life.

Now, if you are serious, you may want to stop thinking only of yourself and wonder how can you be helpful in some way. You would need a reality check. Even Prince William of England worked in construction in Latin America helping to build for the poor. Another positive example is Angelina Jolie. I don't think she sits around worrying about her latest wrinkle or fancy shoes. There are loads of places which could use volunteers and it could be very illuminating for you to try to helpful. Totally self-absorbed people are never happy and material purchases only bring a temporary thrill. You need to remember that one cannot be buried with money, but good deeds live on in others.

Jill Bauer is a very down to earth, unpretentious person who picks topics of general interest and writes well. She deserved to get the Herald job.

I wish you well.

Of course, I had to respond, even though I have no idea who this Jill Bauer person is.

Well,
Anonymous Judith. If you don't like me, don't read. FYI, I do contribute generously to charitable organizations.

Many people find my so-called ramblings helpful, as I deal not only with superficial issues of shopping, etc. but serious issues such as self-esteem issues, therapy and depression that affect millions of people.

And FYI, those who know the "real" me—for my blog is not an imaginary life, but a satirical artistic endeavor—would be the first to tell you that I am a loyal, generous, thoughtful, kind, funny and warm friend and family member.

So like I said, you don't like me, don't read me. Go read your friend's column in what is arguably the worst newspaper in any major metropolitan area. And your son would be lucky to have a smart, creative, sophisticated, well-educated, talented and generous woman such as myself. If he can't find the right woman at 34 years old, perhaps it's time for him to be "self-absorbed" and think about what he is doing wrong. And perhaps it's time for you to examine why you think you are the bigger person while simultaneously insulting someone you don't know.

Ta-da. What, Judith, you think a writer won't have the last word? And, Jesus, do I feel sorry for your son.

Christ, I am fucking TIRED. This new medication I am on, Lamictal, is taken in gradual doses. You start at 25 mgs a day and culminate at 100. I just started the 100s yesterday and it seems to be making me reeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy tired. I'm tired when I wake up; tired when I'm at the gym; tired after I've had my two Diet Snapples; tired, tired, tired.

Luckily I go to the head shrinker tomorrow, and he will be able to tell me if that is one of the side-effects. And then he can give me more drugs. Drugs are good; don't believe the hype.

I also get my Botox fill tomorrow, before I take off again for Miami. I am also having a glycolic peel, which I have never had before and I hear can hurt. But as I've said before, beauty is pain, my friends.

Have I mentioned how tired I am? I am getting in bed to read. Cause I'm. Fucking. Tired.

I think the asshat is now reading this blog, as my readership in Chicago has suddenly spiked.

Is that you asshat?

If so, I hope you are still on the wagon and on the road to recovery, even though you treated me like shit on a stick.

So even though I consider myself to be a complete failure in my career, most of my friends (who work) are indeed very successful.

And given that I was always the one pegged since birth to be famous, successful and independently wealthy by this age—and given that I'm sooooo not any of those things—you'd think I'd be jealous of their success. But I'm not. I'm very proud of my successful friends, most especially those who have chosen to follow their dreams and do what they love. Perhaps these friends can give me pointers on what I am doing wrong.

Anyway, here's another one of my friend's success stories. Really, he's my brother's friend, but mine too. He's got a fab restaurant in downtown Jacksonville that everyone raves about, and soon it will be open for dinner. It's called Chew, and for those of you local yokels, check it out.

Also, I've decided to start my own blog/web site about all the things I love—shopping, fashion, resorts, spas, beauty products, travel, parties etc. But I really don't want to do the whole Blogger thing.

So if there are any readers out there who also happen to know how to design web pages, hook a sister up and email me.