Thank God for Retail Therapy

FYI, major retail therapy was needed yesterday—my haul:

1 pair of strappy, sparkly Stuart Weitzman stilettos
1 pair of black Zanotti pumps with a silver-and-crystal embellishment at the toe
Diane von Furstenberg black, silk dress
Embroidered and embellished bronze Rebecca Taylor skirt
Cosabella night gown
Bailey 44 black capelet.

Hey, I was in a really bad mood. I haven't been dumped in a long fucking time.

How's this for the start of a week?

Lost job Friday, got unceremoniously dumped by guy on Sunday. And it's my birthday Monday. I am soo back to celibacy once again. I've covered every market—Jew, Goy, young, old, dark, light, creative, book smart, poor, wealthy—and you know what? They ALL suck. Thank God for retail therapy. And friends. But seriously, I'm now confident that all you guys are douchebags. Even the "nice" ones. So once again, I am done.

More TK on the job; let's just say it makes the Star saga seem boring.

The Psycho in St. John

I don't quite know where to start regarding this last "job" of mine. So let's just jump right in. Past "employees" have been coming out of the woodwork to swap stories with me about the publisher and her husband. Each one has a nickname for her better than the next: The Charlatan in Chanel; Abnorma; and mine, Luna, as in LUNATIC. That's just a primer.

Webster's defines nouveau riche as: "a person newly rich." Duh.

But its definition for parvenu is much more apt for Abnorma: "one that has recently or suddenly risen to an unaccustomed position of wealth or power and has not yet gained the prestige, dignity, or manner associated with it." Humph. That about sums her up.

Well, some people say new money is better than no money at all, which is entirely dependent on the possessor of said new money. Yet when a tacky, classless, evil couple use their new money as a means to the end of buying their way into "society,"—and treat their employees like cockroaches, flaunt their wealth as if others care—and engender such loathing within the very circles they have tried to infiltrate, what do we call these people? Social climbers, sure. Trash, no doubt.

But I like the good ol' fashioned term poseur best, such a great word, no? For, Abnorma and her hubby might as well have tattoos on their foreheads that read, "I am new money! Pay attention to ME!" And from what I've garnered recently, the new money is not that substantial. Natch, it's all an act. She buys her Pulitzers at Marshalls and demands substantial discounts from everyone.

The dumb wench did NOT have me sign a confid. agreement, but apparently after I left, she made EVERYONE sign them. Ha!

My Godson and me at his first birthday. How precious is he? He finally knows my name, therefore I shall reward him with a fabulous designer birthday present!

Hoo boy, when I have good gossip, it's hard not to reveal it, let me tell you. Rest assured when the time comes, I will share, natch.

Finally a relaxing, do-nothing, gym, friends and shopping filled weekend. Boat time tomorrow. Can't freaking wait.

How fun do you think it is for your AC to be broken in your apartment when it's 100 degrees outside and you have floor-to-ceiling, water-view, west-facing windows in your living room? Let me tell you, it ain't pretty folks. In fact, I've probably ruined my precious Yves Delorme linens with sweat.

Thankfully, after five days of house-hopping and sweating, it seems to be marginally better. Sleep has eluded me until last night, as has the gym, personal time, etc. Looking forward to a day of massages, the gym and dinner with friends. I have turned into one of those boring rat-race pod people.

When the hell is an enterprising doctor going to invent a cure for PMS, seriously? Personally I hate going batshit like clockwork every 28 days.

If someone could invent a pill to cure this thing, they would be a very wealthy person indeed. I suppose this is what Valium is for. I am stressed, exhausted, sleep deprived, gym deprived and the PMS is just the cherry on the cake of my day.

Ah, it looks like I've again made it into that bastion of journalistic excellence, The New York Post.

Once again, the Post—which originally ran a story that was actually the basis of AMI's lawsuit against me—mentioned my long-dead but oft-resurrected book. Thanks to the commenter who pointed me towards the story, as I have no time to eat or sleep anymore, let alone read the Post.

The skies have parted and after SIX WEEKS of searching I have a lease! Gorgeous building, amazing water views in SoBe, marble floors, California closets, wine refrigerator, subzero, the whole nine. Thank. Fucking. God. Oh, the best part—the bathroom is at least 150 square feet with a shower and a jacuzzi tub. And of course a bidet. Move in on Monday. No more sofa surfing for this chica.

Uh, I think hell has frozen over. I got--sit down, wait for it--a full-time job. I'm going to be (gasp) the editor in chief of a society magazine. Awww yeah. I start MONDAY. Mind you, I am still decamping at my BFF's in-laws winter house and have yet to find a permanent residence. Ha!

Well, no decisions were made today. My folks were underwhelmed and sticker-shocked at my favorites. It's hard to go back to Saks when you've been shopping at Neiman's and Bergdorf's your whole life.

Monday I'm off to a guest house in Coral Gables. After that, it's looking decidedly murky.

This article on Jewish humor involving Gawker is kind of interesting. Where would our tribe be without Seinfeld, David, Allen, Lewis et al.? Not that I am comparing the scribes at Gawker to the former—though you Gawkers are all v. v. sweet!

Condo Commandos

Tomorrow my folks are coming in for the day to look at condos with me. I've just learned that my friend will be back Monday, so it looks like I'm on the move once again. My realtor and I have it narrowed down to 3 buildings. We are using the Macy's to Neiman's analogy to explain the apartments to my folks. Of course I want Neiman's (and mom will too), but in this loony tunes market, sometimes the Macy's properties are as expensive as the Neiman's ones. The top two are Neiman's; the last one is Saks. And the Macy's one? Such a $500,000 craphole I didn't bother taking pictures.

This is where I want to live; a 24th floor junior penthouse with unobstructed ocean views from every room. (The Dog Building.) And check out the bathroom.






This is the second-runner up, but more $$$ and not as close to the ocean and the beach.








This is the third-runner up—not as super high-end as the other two buildings, but the apartment is nice and the owner did a great renovation.

My God, all I want to do is shop, shop, shop and I have no dough. Neiman's and Saks and Bergdorf's—sale time. I don't even tempt myself by going to Bal Harbour. In fact I have cosmetics I need to return to Saks and I'm putting it off so as not to be tempted.

It's quite stormy here but my schedule has eased up a bit, so this week is a bit of a breather. Mom and dad are flying in for the day Saturday to help me look at condos, because as of the 2nd week in August I am like totally homeless. Who the hell would have thought that I would be 31 and sans an abode? Nobody, honestly.

I can't remember if I wrote this already, but I saw Hairspray and loved, loved, loved it. I'm sure theater snobs won't, but screw them, I—and about 300 gay guys—had a smile on my face during the whole entire movie.

Ugh, I went to the Mondrian today and was literally salivating. This condo-hotel is going to be phenomenally gorgeous. The sales office alone is stunning. Two problems, both equal issues: No dogs are allowed. The prices are astronomical. New York prices—$711,000 for a studio that is less than 600 square feet and has no alcove area. On the other hand, a corner-unit, one-bedroom with great views is $746,000. However, if I had the money and pets were allowed, I would live there in a heartbeat. On site bars, Agua Spa, Asia de Cuba, fully appointed units with huge plasmas and designed by Marcel Wanders. It's going to be fabulous. Though the no dogs thing is bizarre, as I could swear I've seen dogs in The Mondrian in L.A. and other Morgans Group hotels. . . This was going to be my week of doing nothing except looking for apartments. Now I suddenly have a serious interview tomorrow morning. I barely remember applying for the job, as it was in May.

Soooo not in interview mode right now.

The best Google search ever directing someone to my site: "Urinators in Russia."

In no way does that phrase appear in my blog. I don't even think the word Russia has been written here.

Jen, whatchu got?

1. I am soo happy that the NYC explosion wasn't terrorist related. I hope you guys are not plunged back into post-911 traumatic stress syndrome. I know I would be popping Xannies left and right if I heard/felt/saw that explosion. Especially since it came on the heels of the whole Bin Laden using Iraqi operatives in the U.S. thing. Seriously, someone needs to murder that motherfucker already.

2. My word of the day is fuckwit. I am surrounded by fuckwits.

3. I am glad to be living in a building again where I have friends.

4. Next, I want to live here: Mondrian South Beach These units come fully furnished with Plasma TVs, the whole 9 yards. Plus, privileges at the Delano. Hellooo.

5. I'm sorry, but Kimora Lee Simmons and Djimon Hounsu? WTFWTF? She is such a ghastly, ostentatious, money-grubbing, no talent ho. And he, oh bestill my beating heart. I have been in love with him since Amistad. He is just pure perfection. He, in fact, has supplanted my Michael Jordan obsession, and those of you longtime friends reading this know that is serious shit. Take a gander at Djimon's new campaign for Calvin Klein (I think it's Calvin) and you'll see what I mean. Scrumptious.

6. JDate is now officially the scariest site online. Seriously. I love to look, but the guys who check me out in return are either 25 or 55 and soo not cute. It really amazes me to no end that people I know have gotten married off this site. These people are freaking scary. Shirtless, incoherent, stupid, cocky or just plain bizarre. I must stop looking. There is enough eye candy in this building that I may as well just roam the halls.

Whew. I can finally breathe. Today was the first day since moving here that I've had the time to do what I came here to do—hangout and lay by the pool. With the bulk of my work done for the week, I've earned some much-needed time off.

But I'll only have this luxury for a couple of days, as now it's time to start condo shopping. And then more work due next week. There are many great things about freelancing—the fringe benefits, especially if you write about fashion and beauty, the ability to work from home and set your own hours. But the drawbacks outweigh the benefits, unless you are uber-successful and have several contracts with national magazines. Not me. I'm the freelancer who lives hand to mouth, waits two months after I've turned in stories to get paid even though I worked myself ragged. It's not an easy way to live, though on the flip side, I'm doing what I have always dreamed of doing—though I always dreamed it would be on a larger scale and in NYC.

Okay, so maybe I'm not living the dream here. Maybe I'm just another underpaid, overqualified, struggling artist living hand-to-mouth and beyond her means. I am, it seems, average. This is like death for me. I was not bred to be average. My family and ancestors were far beyond average. I had all the trappings needed to overcome mediocrity. And yet here I am, the very definition of failure and mediocrity.

My high school yearbook quote was by Todd Oldham, who in 1993 was just hitting his stride. It went something like this: "I've never aspired to be in the middle of anything. I want to live my life in extremes."

My former shrink would likely say he is bipolar. But that's exactly the way I think. I think often, too often, about how hard I've worked over the past many years—I started publishing when I was 20 years old—wasting more than a year at NYU getting my master's in journalism, which was a totally useless endeavor, and the whole, traumatic, expensive book ordeal. These thoughts leave me empty, sad and feeling like a complete failure. Yes, I put too much pressure on myself. But, I am 31 years old and should be much further along in my career. Instead, I am a piecemeal freelancer, a housewife with no husband and addicted to accoutrements I simply can't afford.

People often ask themselves, "Where did I go wrong?" Well, I know exactly where I went wrong at every turn. Problem is, you can't go back. You can only move forward. And that's what I'm trying to do.

BFD— women's magazines retouch photos! Stop the presses. In this day and age, you're an idiot if you don't retouch. It's virtual Botox and Restylane. Why wouldn't you? I make everyone look better in the pictures I post. Why? A. I choose to and B. my friends and relatives bitch if they look bad.

Yes, I am losing it. I am working 24/7, sleeping fitfully and barely have time even to go to the gym. This is my five-minute break.

And for some reason my beauty picks are truncated this month. Maybe I did something BAD. Oy, I am such a freaking mess.

Ya'll know I usually go gaga for dogs over babies; in fact I had a dream last night about all the four legged creatures I've met this week in the hall, the mall and even in an art gallery last night. Obviously I seriously miss my furry friends.

However, I saw my godson for the first time in a few months last night and boy is he cute. Their pug, in fact, seems extremely jealous and greeted me like the long-lost leader of the canines.

Now I am going to lay out at my friends' parents' house on the water. I've earned a much needed respite from the computer this week.