To Russia with Love

Friday night was my first night out with friends in more than a week, as I’ve been seriously ill, and not just in the head. The plan was to take it easy; the doc said it may take a while to feel completely like myself again, that I should do what felt comfortable, but not overdo it. So we head to the Guggenheim, which has, in partnership with Flavorpill, begun to host a party the first Friday of each month. There’s a well-known DJ, cash bar, etc. Well, Gawker, which probably gets hundreds of thousands of readers a day, put the event on its “To Do” list Friday afternoon, so I should’ve known that it would be absolutely packed. We arrive at about 10:15 and the line is already backed up nearly to Madison Avenue from the entrance on Fifth. We end up waiting in line for about 45 minutes, and, of course, genius me once again chooses fashion over comfort. Decide to wear my fall, not winter, coat. Also don my hottest, but somewhat open, 3” Manolos, so that by the time we reach the entrance, my tootsies are so cold they are literally numb. I’m sure my doctor would be proud.
And, since I’ve been severely dehydrated due to my illness, I’d consumed, oh, probably 100 ounces of water prior to hopping in the cab. After we finally get inside, after it’s begun to snow, after the temperature outside has dropped another ten degrees, after my bladder has reached capacity, I bolt for the restroom. There is one stall; there are about seven girls ahead of me. By the time I reach the single stall, I’ve bonded with all the other urinators and wasted another 20 minutes; I’m hopping from numb foot to numb foot like a kindergartener. I finally get some relief and join my friends at the bar. The party is totally rocking; the entire first floor is packed with people, varying in age, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation and sartorial expression. It’s the most diverse crowd I’ve seen in a nightlife environment in a long time. In short, it’s fucking awesome. The coolest part about the experience is that the museum and all its galleries are open, so that you can walk through the museum and peruse the current exhibition to the soundtrack of pulsating electronica. The exhibition—RUSSIA!, the most comprehensive collection of Russian art outside Russia since the end of the Cold War—is phenomenal. And I’m not a big fan of, well, anything Russian, except maybe vodka. People are dancing; people are drinking; people are schmoozing; people are looking at art. It is the perfect, quintessential New York experience. Well worth the line, the numb feet, the full bladder. Well worth the wait—and I’m the most impatient person ever.
And on a completely narcissistic note, a funny tidbit about cyber-friendships from my new blogger buddy: The Devil's Playground

Friendster or Foe?

While e-mailing with another blogger today, whose site is very funny and definitely worth a read—http://www.theidlemind.blogspot.com/—the subject of e-stalking came up. This other blogger found my site through a mutual friend on Friendster, that bastion of wasted time and cyber-stalking. Not that there is anything wrong with that; we are certainly all guilty of it, myself included. I think that Friendster is particularly funny, entertaining and genius for several reasons though. First of all, it's a prime example of the inter-conectdedness of all people, most especially the Members of the Tribe. Because here's the strange thing—there seems to be a ton of crossover between JDate and Friendster. Two separate guys have e-mailed me on Friendster and JDate, totally randomly. I don't know if they know I am the same girl, but it's interesting. Moreover, while perusing the Friendster friends-of-friends, often I have seen a photo and thought, "Hmm, where have I seen that head shot before? Oh, JDate!"
Frankly, I use different photos for each site because of this whole crossover thing, and what can I say? I'm a little stigmatized by being on JDate. And, also, I am a little paranoid, I suppose, and worry that a potential suitor may look me up on Friendster, read my blog and be scared off by me before he even meets me or goes on a date with me. But obviously now I am outing myself; what the hell? Life is too short, and as the RENT song goes, "Take me as I am, or leave me." Any man I am with would have to accept the fact that I'm a writer who uses her personal life as literary material, as all writers do. And within minutes of conversing with me, people can tell that I'm a straight-shooter and speak my mind, so I don't know who I think I'm kidding anyway by trying to keep my personal life and "career" separate. It will all come out anyway in the manuscript I'm working on now, which incorporates the blog and various JDate/dating horror stories of myself and my friends.
Another reason I think Friendster is so fucking funny is that a couple of months ago, completley out of the blue, Friendster decides to initiate this new feature that allows members to see who's viewed your profile. Now, this would not have been so scandalous had Friendster actually given members warning that they were going to do this. But, nooo, this feature just popped up one fine day, and to boot, it was RETROACTIVE. Meaning, members logged in on this particular day and realized that they were sooo busted cyber-stalking ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends, the ones who got away and frenemies. Myself included. For about a day, we were all pretty scandalized by this new, shockingly revealing feature. And, in fact, the day it happened, my friend and I were dining al fresco at One in Meatpacking and I was telling her about the site and what it had done that day, cause she is not a member.
There were two girls sitting next to us, and they were pretty much eavesdropping on our conversation. So when I began ranting about this new Friendster feature, one of the girls butted in and was like, "Oh my God! Can you believe Friendster did that today?! I am soo humiliated and busted."
We proceeded to have a long convo with these girls next to us on the subject of this wonderful—and sometimes malicious— time-waster. Friendster eventually made this feature non-retroactive, so that now you can only see who's viewed you if you don't view people anonymously. I'm a chicken, so I have mine set to anonymous. Though luckily none of my exes, at least none of the ones I'm still interested in cyber-stalking, are on the site. Oh, the Internet age, gotta love it.
Anywho, I've been sick the past couple of weeks, unable to write, workout, go out, hangout, talk on the phone, etc. But I'm back now, ready to par-tay and be normal again. Thank God—I miss my girls! You guys rock;) And thanks again to all the randoms who take the time to read my dribble and actually compliment me on it; it means a whole hell of a lot to me, believe it or not. And more thanks to my fabulous fam for literally baby-sitting me while I was sick, malnourished and unable to function. I honestly don't know how people who don't have great families function on a daily basis.

RENT,RENT,RENT,RENT,RENT

It's not often that I am creatively inspired by external forces; for me, the inspiration to write has always come from within, as cliched as that sounds. So when I am particularly taken by someone else's art and can actually apply the meaning I extract from someone else's work to my own writing, it's somewhat profound. I saw the film RENT last night and it was fantabulous. The actors were brilliant, the music divine, but the message is what got to me the most. I saw the Broadway version years ago, probably while I was still in either grad school or college and therefore sort of without direction. But this time, what struck me most about the story told in RENT is that every single artist—wealthy or poor, painter or poet, novelist or actor—struggles to produce what their heart tells them to. Of course some artists do physically struggle with hunger or bills or disease, as those in the movie do. But it seems that the other artists, the ones to-the-manor-born, or the best-selling ones, or even the Pulitzer-prize winning ones, struggle internally on an almost daily basis.
In Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, this is somewhat of a recurring theme: how she gets depressed while thinking about her work, how she thinks she'll never produce anything as lofty as the work of her late husband, how she wakes up to write and thinks, "This is the last thing the world needs." I suppose that it's quite comforting for me to know that all artists, even the most brilliant ones, do not find the creative process to be facile. However, I do find the actual act of creating something quite easy. Words pour out of me onto the page and they are cohesive; I've been able to write in a stream-of-consciousness style for as long as I can remember. The struggle, for this particular artist, comes after the work is finished. Where does it go? What do I do with it? How do I put it out there without losing a piece of myself in the process? Perhaps I'll learn some of these answers when I finish the manuscript I'm working on now, because I don't like the answers I got the last time around . . .

Teriyaki Turkey

Thanks to all the friends, family and random people who've been reading this and complimenting me! I will be participating in the longstanding Jewish tradition of eating gourmet Chinese food on Thanksgiving. Have a happy one . . .

Another day, another death

Disclaimer: Much of this blog is fiction, much of it truth. Many of these "dead" exes are not my own—I don't like people shitting on my girls, hence the massive amount of obituaries of late. Who these victims belonged to is immaterial I suppose, but I've certainly hit a nerve . . . power of the pen and all that.

Ethan was an oil trader who readily admitted he knew nothing about oil save for when to buy it, hold its position and sell it. In an effort to expand his knowledge base in order to grow his newly formed trading firm—for his business was all he held dear to him, all that seemed to keep him warm at night—he decided to take a trip. His travels took him to Alaska, where he managed to finagle himself a tour of an offshore rig. After being guided around the rig by one of the drillers, Ethan—a curious, bookish, isolated fellow—decided to wander off on his own. Now, as most everyone knows, save for the oddly ignorant oil trader himself, oil rigs can be rather hazardous places.
It was a bitterly cold day, so Ethan was layered up sartorially, no doubt in designer duds. As he was climbing one of the decks, however, his rather expensive but functionally useless designer hiking boots caused him to trip on a slippery patch of oil. He tried to grab onto a ladder, but alas, his Loro Piana gloves provided cashmere comfort, but no grip. He fell hard on the deck and hit his head. Disoriented and concussed, he stood up and backed up several feet, right into the ice-cold (literally) water. His heavy designer clothes weighed him down and made his death a forgone conclusion, for Ethan, even though he'd grown up in California, had never learned to swim. He drowned in the freezing water with nary a scream. And since Ethan had no family and few friends, he'd never bothered to draft a will, even though his net worth, one presumes, was well into the millions. Thus his treasured material possessions that he'd spent his lifetime accumulating and cultivating in favor of love, friends and family were all donated to charities.
And as he drowned and froze, one wonders whether he was thinking of material things or of people he'd known. When his life flashed before his eyes, did he see dancing dollar signs or missed opportunities for human contact? Did he think of money, power or his myriad superficial, ostentatious pursuits or did he think of all those people he could've known and loved who he chucked in favor of insignificant possessions? We'll never know, I suppose, but one thing did manage to float to the surface of the water and survive the horrific accident: his Breitling timepiece. I gave it to my dad.

RIP

There has been yet another tragic but timely death amongst our circle of friends and lovers. This one perhaps a bit more violent than the others. It seems that our victim, let's call him, oh, I don't know, Rat Bastard, was not only stepping out on our lovely, beautiful friend, but on his multiple wives. Yes, that's right, Rat Bastard apparently had a harem of wives and lovers, one of whom walked in on him at precisely the right moment, or for him, the wrong moment, in time.
Rat Bastard was lying in his bed with one of his wives—it seems he held dual residency in both Utah and New York State—when one of his lovers decided to surprise him with a homecooked meal.
Sara walked into Rat Bastard's kitchen—for he was clueless enough to furnish her with a key—casserole and steak in hand. She picked up a steak knife from his counter and a bottle of wine and walked upstairs to bring him the food she so dutifully prepared. Platter in one hand, bottle of wine and knife in the other, she backed her way quietly into his bedroom. Suddenly startled by loud, animalistic cries, Sara dropped the food platter and turned around to find Rat Bastard shagging an unidentifiable brunette. The brunette leaped up from the bed, bolted for the door and ran out of the house buck naked.
And, Sara, trapped in a mental state that would later be described in court as "not of sound mind or body," took the weapons in her hand and got her revenge. With one swing of her right arm, she cracked the bottle of wine over Rat Bastard's head. It was a bottle of Chianti, so the vino mixed with the blood and decorated the Rat Bastard's pristine white Frette sheets. The Rat Bastard slumped down in the bed upon impact from the bottle, but Sara was so out of sorts that before she knew what was happening, she began stabbing him with the broken glass. By the time the ambulances and police arrived at Rat Bastard's home, for it seems that a buck-naked screaming woman gets the attention of nosy New York neighbors, Rat Bastard's heart had stopped beating. Sara was briefly incarcerated, but ultimately her talented attorney convinced the jury that she suffered from temporary insanity caused by her polygamist lover. Hell hath no fury...Pretty soon, we're going to be able to fill a cemetary over here.

Sometimes pictures do speak volumes especially if you're too lazy/brain dead to think of anything pithy to say. These, taken at about 3 a.m. Saturday night at Level V, say "perhaps some Botox is not out of the question" and "take a picture of my ass!" People at Level must have thought us completely insane, snapping away at our asses, and generally causing a ruckus. I always feel like I am at a TEP frat party at that place, so I guess we fit right in acting like animals.

The Crash of 2005

Since my friends have been taking time out of their very busy daily lives to read this dribble, and since some of them have taken to promoting the blog and the book by shouting "Dishalicious.blogspot.com" out of taxi windows and to random passersby on Little West 12th Street, outside PM and Pastis, I figured I should start posting again. Let's see—I am bored, bored, bored with life in general right now, though, as usual there is no shortage of drama swirling round me. This weekend involved a cavalcade of cops on the UES at 1 a.m. Friday night, one of whom made it his mission to ask J. out while on the job. Nice work, Rodriguez, I'm sure Briscoe would be proud. Last night took me from Shun Lee to Rosa Mexicano to GoGo, which resembled a high school reunion of the class of 1980, to Home, then PM and Level V. And can I just say that I am so over waiting in lines to get into these so-called hotspots that ultimately house people no more exciting than those in, say, a random Irish pub downtown.
In other news . . . my girlfriends and I have recently learned that all (every last one of them) of our exes have died tragically in a private jet crash over a landfill in New Jersey. Tres tragic. It's still a mystery how attorneys, doctors, traders, accountants and investment bankers all ended up on the same morbidly fated, chartered jet, but it is a significant loss to all of us nonetheless. The only things to survive the crash? Their Cartier, Rolex, Frank Mueller, Breitling, Patek Philippe and Breguet timepieces. We have, natch, dutifully saved the watches and are donating them to the brokenhearted Jewish girls fund. RIP boys.
And, oh yeah, it's now my civic pleasure to report to Centre Street tomorrow for jury selection. Woo-fucking-hoo. I plan on pulling the Larry David card—should it get to the questioning process I'll be acting like the most racist, elitist, homophobic, xenophobic woman in the entire city in hopes of being promptly dismissed.
I don't know what the waitperson taking this picture was on when he snapped it last night, but I'm kind of digging the blurriness . . .

Shout Outs

Lately some of my friends have been accusing me of not loving them enough cause I don't mention them on this here blog thingy. But they are certainly worthy of mentioning--so Schwartz, Jamie, Dawn, Deb and Kamo (if you're still reading this) this entry is especially for you! Happy Halloween;)

Priceless Evidence and Ammunition

Letters from Camp Blue Star prisoner Stephanie Green to best friend Dana:
July 25, 1988 (age 12)
Dana,
Camp is very educational; just kidding. It's okay, but I'd rather be home. When is school orientation? We have two all-Spanish speaking girls in our cabin and this one really weird girl. She's huge and fat and acts like she's a gay cowboy! She really scares me! I'm scared that she's gonna come kill us during the night. She probably will sooner or later, so maybe I won't ever see you again. So you'd better write me! And will you call Heidi at 739-0325 and give her my address here and put it on the envelope. Did I leave anything at your condo? If I did, please send it to me. You'd better write me back!
Steph

Aug. 5, 1987 (age 11)
Dana,
How's life? Well, I can tell you one thing, it's not too great here. Today is Tish'Bav, the Hebrew holiday where we remember the two temples that were burned down and we remember the 6,000,000 Jews who were killed in the Holocaust. Can you send me stationery with lots of envelopes? Me and Kelly have been getting into lots of trouble. Our cabin is the worst in the unit. Nothing is new. Say hi to everybody in Jax.
Luvya,
Stephanie

Dear Dana (Date unknown; summer I was forced to stay 8 weeks instead of 4 weeks; probably 13 years old)
I am so pissed at my fucking mom. Everybody in the cabin gets letters and packages every day and I wrote nine letters and she has not gotten one! I hate her. She writes the gayest letters. I'm sick of her shit! Have you gotten my other letter? Will you write me and send me food? I'm going to come home after one month! It sucks shit here. Do me a favor and call my mom and tell her to send me food and tell her I've written her nine times!
Love,
Stephanie

Even Didion Gets Down

Direct quote from Joan Didion's reading last night at the 92nd Street Y, regarding her thought process when she wakes up to face a day of writing: "The last thing the world needs is another novel--certainly not this one." Well, then. She also says in her latest tome that depression is a normal part of every writer's existence, including her own and that of her late husband John Gregory Dunne. I find both these conclusions comforting, not that I'd dare compare myself to Joan...

What Does 30 Feel Like?

Absolutely exhausted from Miami, but in a good way. While in Bermuda, on my own 30th, my parents and brother came up with a rather funny, sardonic list entitled "30 Reasons Why We Love Stephanie." Dana suggested posting it here. Parentheses are my footnotes. Enjoy.
1. She's beautiful outside (Frankly, it's kind of scary that this is reason #1 for my parents loving me, um, hello?!)
2. She's beautiful inside
3. She is a good mother to Wally (And that's about as much of a mother as I'm willing to be.)
4. She is stylish and fashionable (Again, what the hell?)
5. She always lands on her feet (Um, yeah, not so much really.)
6. Her family is very important to her
7. She is an excellent writer
8. She makes good reason for a family vacation
9. She is cool and even-tempered (Enter the sarcasm from here down.)
10. Her fashion sense is so poor, when she's with Michael, she makes him look like Versace
11. She has an affinity for the finer things in life
12. She has cable and the Internet (Michael's contribution.)
13. She never bothers me with the details of her dating life (Michael again, sarcasm in full effect.)
14. She has the best public shitter north of 14th Street (Michael, it's not public. Personally, I like the Four Seasons.)
15. She has a knack for picking out the New York apartments with mice
16. She knows how to work the American Express Concierge system
17. She loves children and can't wait to have them (Again, enter the sarcasm.)
18. She can lead you around Bergdorf's blindfolded (Thanks to you mom.)
19. She has a lot of sympathy for the lower class (Oy, swear, the folks are not elitists. Nor myself. Most of the time.)
20. She evokes fond family vacation memories, e.g. Hawaii
21. She runs the best B&B in NYC, with a smile on her face
22. She has inherited qualities such as lack of patience, expensive taste in clothes and jewelry through no fault of her own
23. She is well educated, well read and well bred
24. She will sacrifice comfort for Manolos any day
25. She will help Michael and Mom take care of dad when he turns senile any day now
26. She can't wait to come back and settle in Jacksonville
27. She is able to find humor in most situations
28. Her next boyfriend won't have an Air Jordan tattoo
29. She has always been focused on her goals
30. She is the youngest official member of the Girls' Shopping Trip and a Great partner in crime

Screw You Guys, I'm Going Home

Heading to Miami for BFF's big 3-0. Recent pics for sharing with friends and family...

Books are for kids

So I've been on another writing binge and it's about time, cause I've been too busy with my social life to devote enough time to writing. I've got nearly 100 pages already, and let's just say that this book is much more literary and more in line with the type of book I've always wanted to write. Kind of a Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing meets Sex and the City. It feels good to be writing again, though I'm hoping this one won't require the services of my talented but expensive attorneys.

Slumming it with Society

I didn't even know Arnold Scaasi was still alive, but there he was, kicking it with all the boldfaced names at the Second Annual Fete de Swifty on Monday night. A circus-themed (?) charity gala held in a tent between 3rd and Lex on 73rd street, this party was chock full of the most powerful, most photographed people in New York society. It made for more interesting people-watching than an afternoon in the Bergdorf's shoe dept. Not too many Jews running around, either, or, certainly not many my age. We did manage to find some young guys to hang out with, most of whom were perfectly nice and fun. Some of whom needed to have the poles surgically removed from their posteriors. The more I get to know these "society" types, the more apparent a few things are: 1. They are all pretty much miserably unhappy 2. They are almost entirely artificial 3. They are utterly bored and utterly boring 4. They are insecure and insulated.
So we go to the official after party for the junior set, held in one of those Eurotrashy private clubs, and hold down the fort until about 1 a.m. Then we head to another, even more "exclusive" private club on the UES, save for the fact that nobody is manning the door at either one of these places so really anybody not wearing a garbage bag can gain entree. And, oh yeah, I have absolutely no clue what the Paris Hilton cutout was all about!

Birthday Adieu

I REALLY loathe my own birthdays, but this year both my birthday celebrations were fabulous, thanks to my fantastic friends and my family. In Bermuda, the actual night of my 30th was characterized by much debauchery and included a group of rowdy Canadians skinny-dipping, hotel security for two separate resorts and a search party sent out by my parents involving the mother of a bride whose wedding was at our resort. What can I say? I like to have fun, and I ushered out my twenties with quite a bang. Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way. My NYC celebration was much more tame and just included dinner and drinks in the Meatpacking area, but was a good time nonetheless. The party continues tomorrow night at the Fete de Swifty, which will be a different kind of good time altogether.

Karma, Schwarma

I used to believe in karma, until the last couple of years. And until I started working for this particularly pervy, malicious, unhappy, deceitful sexual harasser. After finding out he'd been slandering my (fairly) good name around the office, I was forced to resign this week. Behold my fiery resignation letter, in response to which the company says it will not investigate this fuckwit because of my "vague" accusations, and the fact that I didn't complain while I was there (though I did, some years ago, along with legions of other young, attractive females). Also, on a happier note, more Bermuda pics.

Enjoy!
I, Stephanie Green, a longtime editor and writer who has been with XXX practically since the company's inception, will be resigning as of today due to a hostile and disciminatory environment created and carried out by Mr. XXX, managing editor.
Mr. XXX, during his tenure, has been responsible for driving out several (at least six or seven by my count) female employees due to his inappropriate office behavior and manner of dealing with subordinates.
In addition to doing such unacceptable things as asking out, hitting on and touching his female subordinates (myself included), over a period of four years, Mr. XXX has used his position of "power" to manipulate people's schedules and positions, punitively demoting editors to writers or loggers due to personal animus on his part. In this day and age of class action lawsuits and stringent sexual harrassment policies, it is simply unfathomable how Mr. XXX has continued to maintain his position within your company, Mr. YYY, given that he presents an extreme liability should myself and other employees he has negatively affected decide to take action against him.
I will, in the immediate future, be sending a letter to you, Mr. YYY, detailing the long list of greivances myself and other former employees have against Mr. XXX, in attempt to bring to light his misdeeds perpertrated under the guise of his position as an editor.
It should especially concern you, Mr. YYY, that the very editors and writers Mr. XXX has been responsible for driving out, are the most qualified, well-educated and dedicated employees your company has had on the production side. Given the overall disorganization of the nightly production staff, one would think that a company such as yours would put a premium on retaining the most talented and knowledgeable staff. I hope that in the very near future Mr. XXX will be investigated, as he is directly responsible for any decline in productivity, data and functioning of the nightly production staff.

Boozy in Bermuda

Drinking, eating, sunning, swimming, scandalizing, laughing and partying (perhaps a little too hard at the end) all made for a fabulous week in Bermuda. And I certainly left my twenties with quite a bang. Aside from the fact that I may have caused an island-wide scandal, it was a pretty relaxing vacay, so relaxing, in fact, that for the first time ever I found myself dreading returning to the hustle and bustle of NYC. But now I am back, running around like crazy, with no time to spare, and it feels like I never left. Now I'm glad to be back with friends and crazy street people and smells and shopping and the media and all those heady, scary, wonderful things that make New York New York.

More pics