Continued, AKA Reasons to Head South for the Season

I'm still baffled as to the strangers who are reading this, but hey, as mom says, "We all have our mishegas."

Friday, January 13
So I spend literally a couple of days contacting the people I've put down as references on my resume, some of whom I haven't spoken to in a couple of years. I mail the thank-you notes, send the follow-up e-mail, and wash my hands of this interview process. I honestly don't give a shit anymore, as I'm like 90% on my way back to Florida. We all end up there anyway, what's the point in delaying the inevitable? My friends up here are ab fab, but I really can't justify staying here just because I love my friends and have an action-packed social life. The truth is that I can write anywhere, can fail anywhere too, for that matter. At this point in my life, if I have a potential family business to go into or an opportunity to make a career change (and actually have a "career" per se), then better now than later.

I also paint and draw, though not of late. But I do have a fair amount of skill in that area. So when it came down to choosing a career path or major, I went with writing and editing, thinking it was the safer bet. Thinking that it's easier to earn a living as a writer/journalist/editor than a visual artist. However, now, I often say and think, "Fuck, I may as well have gone to art school if I knew I was going to be a 'starving artist' type."

Anyway, back to the weekend. Friday night started out at this bar on Park Avenue South with the girls, and Mr. Devil and his friends ended up meeting us out. They all asked permission to refer to me as "Dish." Oh, what the hell? I suppose there are worse nicknames. Quite a funny picture of Scott and his friend; quite unflattering of me, but I'll always choose humor over vanity. Well, most of the time anyway. I've cropped it to protect the guilty. It merely appears as though Mr. Devil is copping a feel. As we all know too well, appearances can be deceiving.



And, as it turned out, the brother of the person whose birthday we were there for, is dating this woman who lives in my building. I was thisclose to asking her about the rodents, but she has a child, so I didn't want to freak her out.

We ended up at Home until like 4 a.m. hanging out with the guy-friends, though don't worry guys, I am not writing about you specifically cause you always give me shit about it and I don't want to hear it. Couldn't sleep again that night b/c of "the issue."

Saturday, January 14
In the morning, spoke to my friend in L.A. who I haven't spoken to in more than a year, and was so out of it and sleep-deprived that I had to check my cell phone to make sure that I'd actually spoken to him. I had. For a half-hour. Oy vey. I can't stand to be in my apartment, so I bolted in the early afternoon and saw Match Point with my brother downtown. Huge Woody Allen fan, but think this flick is terribly overrated. This guy is totally yummy though; I could stare at him for hours. And he's brilliant in the film; steals the show from the lead guy, who is just creepy.

Matthew Goode

Woody is getting a little stale and quite depressing. I mean, we all know he has fidelity issues and is sex-obsessed, but this is pushing it even for him. There is no humor to alleviate the pathos, so in the end, it's just a big downer of a film. Had dinner afterwards with brother and one of my girls, and I convinced brother and his friends actually to come out with us. We eventually ended up at Aspen, which is very cool decor-wise, but always seems to attract the worst of the worst B&T crowd/wannabe mafiosos. Retarded bouncers gave brother and his friends a problem getting in, and it was so smoky and the people so cheesy, that we split and headed to BED, where our friends were promoting a party. After climbing, literally, seven flights of stairs, we reached the roof of the club. Somehow, we'd missed the elevator.

And, for some reason, it's gotten to the point where we all know everyone at all of these clubs/lounges we end up at every week. Whether it's a matter of having met these people through friends, having seen these people's pictures on Friendster or somewhere else online, it just seems that it's almost impossible to meet people who are really new. And I didn't even grow up here, so I'm the anomaly of the group. My friends who grew up in the area, REALLY know everyone. My point with all of this, is that I'm kind of getting tired of the same old faces and places. After a while, every night out begins to blend together. So by 4 a.m., I was over BED, and we headed out of the club and into a blizzard. After getting an armchair psychology lesson from our cab driver, who was cheated on by his wife and is now threatening her with deportation—cab drivers are the bartenders of today—I finally reached my neighborhood. The snow was really coming down hard, and it was very windy, so much so that my umbrella was getting flipped inside-out. As I was walking down Second Avenue, the umbrella flipped inside-out and knocked one of my earrings out of my ear. The street was covered in snow, the earring went flying God knows how far, it was freezing, windy and dark, and it was nearly impossible to see. I looked for a little bit, then gave up. I've always had a knack for finding lost jewelry, but I went back today and yesterday and couldn't spot the earring.

And one of the reasons I was so upset after losing this earring, aside from the symbolism of it all, was that it was part of a matching set that went with a ring, both of which my mom had given me for either Valentine's Day or my birthday. Natch, though, as I was describing the earrings and ring to my mom on the phone yesterday, she couldn't even remember having given them to me. Anyway, losing a sentimental earring at 4 a.m. in the middle of a near-blizzard seems like a perfect, symbolic end to a really long, disappointing weekend and month.

Player Hating, The Devilish Dog-Walker

I was not going to post, but I am a sucker for flattery and suppose I need a good vent anyway. A brief chronology of this week's drama follows, the cumulative effect of which has me contemplating a move down to Miami to be around my childhood friends and live a lifestyle which is more conducive to happiness, ease and success. (Do you know, for example, that you can rent a large, 1 BR apartment down there with sweeping water views for a little more than $1,000 per month? Sick. Comparatively, for those non-Manhattanites reading this, nice, alcove studios in newly-built 1BRs up here start around $2,100 per month.)

And a disclaimer—if you're one of those anony-commenters who hate me because you don't think I have real problems, don't read the following. And piss off; I'm not asking for your sympathy and I'm not forcing you to read this.


Wednesday, January 11
I have, as I previously stated, been interviewing for a job at an organization I really respect for more than a month now. It's driving me in-fucking-sane. Tuesday I spent 2 1/2 hours there speaking with four different people. They informed me that I was one of two candidates left. No pressure. I would've liked to have been kept in the dark about that. I cannot bear coming in second place, and I know you guys are just trying to make me feel better by saying, "Well, at least you got that far," but please stop saying that. I take absolutely no consolation in that. Second-best was never good enough for me. I like to win, period. Anywho, given the snail's pace at which the people at this place move with regards to hiring practices, it will likely be spring by the time they get around to rejecting me. Enough about that.

Did drinks with Mr. Devil Wednesday at our local haunt. We live a few blocks from one another, coincidentally, though before we met I don't recall ever seeing him in the hood. We had a lovely time dissecting our personal lives over a couple of drinks. It's always fun getting a male's opinion. He informed me that I was crazy re. the fact that I am still talking/thinking about The Asshole, and I informed him that he was crazy for myriad other reasons. After drinks, he walked me back to my apartment and we walked my dog Wally up and down my street.

Wally actually took a liking to Mr. Devil, which is highly unusual—he usually hates anyone I bring into my apartment. He's jaded and cynical just like mommy. It occurred to me as Mr. Devil was walking Wally, that he was not only the first, male, non-family member to walk my dog in ages, but also the first, straight, male, non family member even to come up to my apartment in ages. Jeez.

Interestingly, Mr. Devil told me that there is a way to track the anony-commenters. I have not yet had time to install/research this, but haters beware. I kind of don't want to do this, for fear that all the nice commenters are either my mother or friends of my mother's. Anyway, my anxiety was pretty high to start with this week, given the job situation and the fact that I had a completely blind date scheduled, so it didn't take much for it to shoot through the roof. To wit ...

Thursday, January 12
Nobody really calls my home phone save for my family and close friends, and usually it doesn't ring during the day. So when I awoke to see my neighbor's name on my caller ID, a good friend who has a day job and lives 10 floors down from me, I knew instantly something was amiss. I live in a very nice, newly built, "luxury high-rise" on the UES. My building is, in fact, nicer in appearance than any of my friends' buildings, save for the trust-fund babies. Therefore, when I had what I refer to as a "rodent issue" over the summer, I really flipped out. I had moved to a newly-built building precisely to avoid this issue. I thought, idiotically, "Oh, it will take several years for them to borough their way into this building. And even more time to crawl up to the 15th floor." Eww. I am getting skeeved out just by thinking about it. Since I had "the issue" over the summer, I have been terrorized by thoughts of the little motherfuckers. There is steel wool in every nook and cranny in my apartment, no matter how minute. "The issue" is, in fact, one of the reasons I am never home. Men do not realize the extent to which this is bothersome, but girls do. Also, I am from Florida, and therefore have absolutely no qualms about roaches, spiders, etc. Mice and rats, Oh my God, kill me now.

When I first moved to Manhattan almost six years ago, I had to find an apt. in like a week. I had a broker, and at the time the real-estate market was sky-high. Having lived in Florida, Atlanta and Los Angeles for the better part of my life, mice and rats were not something I was on the lookout for. I'd spent a lot of time in the city growing up, but nobody I'd hung out with—mostly UES private school kids—spoke of this issue. I was thus under the (mistaken) impression that NYC rodents were the exclusive domain of, let's say, economically challenged domiciles. So, after having unpacked and settled into my first NYC apartment in Midtown, which I'd paid through the nose for, I was completely unprepared for a visitor of the Stuart Little variety. Wally was not yet in town. My 25th birthday was approaching and I was in the first couple of weeks of NYU grad school. I was actually on the phone with the operator from Pottery Barn, ordering furniture when the little motherfucker sauntered out into my living room. I shrieked, the mouse retreated, and the Pottery Barn operator nearly had a coronary, probably thinking I had a real "intruder."

I remember specifically the operator saying something like, "Eww, what kind of building do you live in?"

"Um, a nice, doorman building," I replied in shock.

I was so utterly freaked that I slept on top of my dining room table that night. I am not kidding. At all. I then had to go to class at NYU the next day and was forced to hire my own exterminator in order for "the issue" to be taken care of the next day. After the exterminator came, I hightailed it to the Royalton hotel for the weekend. Damned if I was going to sleep in a mouse-infested abode the weekend of my 25th birthday. I spent the next couple of weeks sealing every crevice in that shithole, but there was a perpetual problem in the building. And I was only on the second floor, facing an outdoor courtyard. It was to the point where, when I walked Wally at night, I would see them everywhere on the street. I had nightmares about the creatures the entire time I lived there. So it was with a very heavy heart that I encountered the same problem in this building, 15 floors up and like 50 years more recently built. (FYI, that old building was 333 East 49th Street. Avoid it like the plague. And all of 49th Street on the East Side, for that matter.)


Back to Thursday. Once I saw my friend's name on Caller ID and knew that she was home from work, my first thought was, "Oh, shit, rodents." My radar has been up because of the construction in the area, and I have been extra vigilant of late. Any food-like matter has been in my refigerator since the summer. This includes: Gum, vitamins, cold medicine, dog food and treats, cough drops, wine, alcohol, etc. etc. etc. I clean religiously and am a complete neat freak to begin with. I even contemplated getting a cat, but I do not like cats, so I decided against this in the end.

Back to my neighbor. Sure enough, she'd found droppings and was as terrorized as I was. We became friendly in the gym originally, so after speaking with her on the phone and telling her all the insane steps I'd taken to rodent-proofing my abode, I went down to the gym and we then kvetched for another hour-and-a-half about the absurdity and creepiness of it all. We know it's completely irrational and, as people love to say, "A part of the city," but still. Fuck that shit. It's disgusting and it's preposterous to think that these little spineless creatures can so terrorize us. But they do still. Every noise I hear freaks me out. And, I'm utterly convinced that they are in every, single building in the city, old and new. If you haven't seen 'em yet, you're just not looking hard enough. They're there. Plug your holes with steel wool, and for god's sake, keep all your food in the fridge.

To make matters worse, I had a blind date scheduled for that night. It was truly blind; I had not even seen a picture. I have never done that before. We all have our own tastes and mine is disturbingly specific: tall, dark hair and eyes, not too skinny, not too built. I can't help it; that's just my type. What turns my head on the street. So I completely understand men who have types, be they blonde, skinny, tall, huge knockers, tight ass, all of the above, whatever. I get it. Girls are no different--at least the honest ones. Frankly, there is just too much to worry about without having to fret about physical attraction. There should at least be that at the start. Anywho (and Mr. Devil, I did NOT steal that phrase from you, ahem), after discussing the "rodent issue" for so long with my neighbor, I was so drained and exhausted that I wasn't even nervous about the date.
Will pick up on Friday tomorrow. Must get to bed—the exterminator is supposed to come tomorrow morning.

Responding

In response to two recent comments. No, I definitely do NOT tell potential employers about my blog and hope that they do not have the time to Google me or ferret it out on their own. Since my name is so commonplace, I think that works in my favor in such instances. Additionally, I do not have my book on my resume, so unless they are very careful media-watchers, people I am interviewing with usually do not know who I am or what controversy I may have caused. At least, that's what I hope. Though, really, I suppose you never know what determines whether or not you get a job in the end. I am a little concerned about potential employers stumbling across this, but frankly, I don't know how to remove this from Google or whatever.

Secondly, Greg, thanks for the compliments. And, no, I really do not let other people's negativity impact my life. But I think that humans in general have an initial, gut response to insults or character assaults. So if someone insults, rejects or bashes me, then, yeah, my initial reaction is to put my dukes up. And since I am a writer, I guess that this vehicle is my first line of defense. I am definitely going to ignore these people from now on.

If you don't have anything nice to say ...

JT Leroy is a tiny, emaciated fake!

Freaking fascinating and yet another example of how asinine, gullible, naive and mindless most members of the media are. I mean, what, his lack of an Adam's apple didn't clue you in to the fact that he was a she? Unbelievable. Further evidence that the NYT is overrated and not to be trusted, as, according to the above-linked article, if there had there been factcheckers on the prior travel story written by "JT Leroy," they would have probably unearthed the myriad discrepancies in this person's identity. In light of Jayson Blair, it's simply incredible that each and every one of the stories in the NYT are not thoroughly vetted. There have probably been many Jayson Blairs over the years who have flown under the vaunted Gray Lady's radar.

This is what a lot of non-media people, who worship the NYT as if it were the printed, reincarnated version of Jesus Christ, do not realize: Most of what is written about in newspapers and many other publications is, technically, unverified. And, ironically, it is the scandal sheets that have better, more libel-proof fact-checking devices in place. It's virtually impossible to check facts when are you are working on daily deadlines at newspapers. It's easier, and more commonplace, to check facts for weekly or monthly publications. So, even though I am legally prohibited from writing about my experience working for Star magazine as a researcher, let it be said that tabloids have teams of people dedicated to fact-checking pursuits, whereas the NYT doesn't employ full-time researchers/fact-checkers.

And, on a completely unrelated tangent, seriously, if you don't have anything nice to say, shut the hell up. Some anonymous fuckwad posted an incredibly vicious comment about me on someone else's site. The fact that he/she posted it on someone else's blog and not here, shows me that he/she doesn't even have the guts to insult me directly. And the vitriol with which he/she writes, leads me to think that he/she must actually know me and have some kind of personal animus towards me. Thus, it follows that:

He/she is an ex/spurned boyfriend or date with an incredibly small penis.

He/she is an ex-friend/frenemy with a major inferiority complex.

He/she is some weird, pathetic, unhappy ex-coworker of mine who harbors some resentment toward me for some reason I cannot, nor care to, imagine.

He/she is a member of the media, a notoriously snarky, jealous, resentful bunch.

He/she is a bitchy gay guy, as no hetero man writes in CAPS for emphasis, as far as I can tell.

He/she is a foreigner, for the word he/she uses doesn't exist in the English language.

I don't know why people think that I am fake. Furthermore, I don't know why it bothers me. Apparently, JT Leroy and James Frey are phonies, and they both have bestsellers. So perhaps it would behoove me to be fake. OK, you got me, I am fake. This is being written by a robot with a fabulous wardrobe and manicured nails. And, this retard accuses me not only of being fictional, but of lying about my age. I am Jewish, therefore, if I were lying about my age, I would not be 30, you moron. If I were lying about my age, I would shave off a couple of years, at least. My deceased grandmother turned 49 like five years in a row. I learned all the really profound life lessons early on.

Again, I am wasting too much time here. I have an interview tomorrow. Or, rather, "Stephanie Green" has an interview tomorrow. I'm sure the interviewers will be quite surprised when nothing/nobody shows up, because I do not exist.

People are so insane. Between Mr. Devil's stalker and these nasty, pitiable commenters, I'm just going to stop reading other people's blogs and comments. Thanks to all the positive commenters though, you guys are fab.

Life Lessons at 4 a.m.

OK, girls, I will not take a hiatus, as you have all insisted that I actually entertain you. So I must please my fans. Ha. And, yes, should I ever be on Oprah, you guys will def. be in the audience. I think you should all submit your own aliases for the second book, as I know Shartz ain't gonna cut it.

This is what I was thinking after getting home last night at 2:30 a.m., after yet another eventful night with the girls.

1. Bergdorf's during sale season, is definitely the happiest place on earth for a Jewish girl. The fact that I am thinking this at 2:30 a.m. is really twisted, but there it is... I never claimed not to be twisted.

2. Anything manufactured in Jacksonville, aside from the people I know and love, sucks ass. I go to watch a football game for the first time in years and that is what I get? Come on.

3. You can never have too many shoes, too many pairs of jeans, too many cell phone minutes, too many girlfriends, too much fun, too much sleep or too much time. You can, however, have too much to drink, too many guys named Scott, Jason, David, Ben, Mike, too many parties, too much to eat and too many bases/places to cover in one night.

4. The two worst smells in the city are cheap air freshener combined with a taxi driver's rampant BO and sulfur/eggs/farts in a bar or club or confined space.

5. All MOTs know eachoter in some way, shape or form. I'm still convinced we should start our own Friendster...Jewster? Jewography? Jewtastic? There's already a Jewhoo...

6. There is absolutely no reason, whatsoever, to go to a nightclub such as Pacha once you are over the age of 25. I repeat, no reason whatsoever. Blacklight? Hello? Oh. My. God. And girls dancing in showers? Oy vey, now I've seen everything. Thank God we didn't pay a cover! Doesn't this girl have a mother? And if so, does she know what her baby is doing? I just don't get it.



7. There is absolutely no way to avoid the subject of JDate when you are speaking to a Jewish single.

We may as well all have our profile numbers tattooed on our persons somewhere. (Speaking of which, you should all go see my friend's play, Jewtopia, if you haven't already; it tackles the subject admirably and it's quite funny. And as far as I know he's single! And Jewish! And successful! Well, you get the point. Actually, I have no idea if he's still single. But check it out, nonetheless. Jacksonville boy makes good; yada, yada, yada.

And to illustrate my above point about us all knowing one another, the opening page of the play's site is a riff on MasterCard's "Priceless" ad campaign. A family friend is chief in-house counsel for MC, and last I saw him, he was saying how one of his primary duties is to prosecute people who rip off those ads. Ah, the circle of conectedness. Discuss amongst yourselves.

8. This blog has caused to me to elevate the art of proscrastination to an art form; before I started doing this and before any of my friends were reading this, I was getting quite a bit of my novel written. Now I am doing this. This is a part of my second novel, but now it's becoming a larger part than I anticipated, as writing this truth is easier than writing a cohesive, fictional narrative. Though I'm still a firm believer in the fact that our single lives in Manhattan are really much more colorful than what I could make up, cause, we rock. Like, totally.

9. There are myriad benefits to being single, namely, not having to shave anything but the pits. You'd be amazed how much time that shaves off the showering routine. No pun intended.

10. My dog is extremely. Fucking. Annoying. Especially at 3 a.m. when it's freezing and I have to walk him.

11. Related: The third worst smell in Manhattan is my dog's breath. I can now smell it from ten feet away. I have tried everything; but his halitosis persists. I wonder what would happen if I gave him some gum. I'm guessing the result would be amusing, but would probably require veterinary assistance.

12. Apparently, it is medically possible for "post-nasal drip" to last for the duration of winter. I simply do not understand how in this day and age we can combat AIDS, certain types of cancer, depression, schizophrenia, etc. and cannot cure the cold. What the fucking fuck is up with that. Those God damned humidifiers don't do a God damn thing, either, so don't waste your money.

13. There are, as evidenced by our recent meals at Wollensky's and Angelo and Maxie's, apparently lots of nice, cute, well-educated Jewish boys toiling as waiters. Who knew and what is the origin of this phenomenon? Anyone?

14. I do not, and probably never will, understand people who don't drink, don't go out, don't shop, wake up early for no reason, don't worry, don't feel guilty or don't feel down, though I would very much like to be one of them.

15. Hilary Duff should be shot merely for existing, and I should be doused in lighter fluid and inflamed for ordering "The Perfect Man," on OnDemand at 3 a.m. OnDemand is the drunk-dialing equivalent of cable TV. It is pure evil.

16. Sex is like food—the less your body becomes accustomed to, the less it needs. Or perhaps that's just me. Either way, I think there could be parallels drawn between celibacy and anorexia, at least regarding women.

17. There simply are no female comedic equivalents to Larry David, Woody Allen or Albert Brooks. I think the closest we have are Tracey Ullman, Jennifer Saunders and perhaps Ellen DeGeneres. And they are, respectively, British and lesbian. Sad, really.

18. I wonder how our social lives would be different without the Internet and cell phone technology? It's simply unfathomable; I am sooo dependent on e-mail and the Internet. I know one thing, I'd get a lot more work done, but then again, I would have less material, as many of my friendships and funny stories are Internet-related.

19. The wage gap/disparity in income of women versus men simply doesn't make sense when you take into account how much more money it costs to be a woman, what with beauty products, clothes etc. and time spent maintaining our physical appearances.

Soon—I've been saying this for years now—I am going to calculate the monthly cost of what I spend in "product." My mom once counted the number of products she used before leaving the house and it was something staggering like 20 or 30 different things she used while getting ready. Whenever she's up here and we stock up on products at Saks or Bergdorf's, the bill can—"Don't tell dad!"—climb up toward the $500 or $600 mark. That's probably a per-month estimate, or perhaps a two-month estimate. And we don't even use La Mer or any of that overpriced crap. Another lovely thing about being a woman.

20. I have, once again, wasted entirely too much time on this blog. I am now going to write in my book. I think I may have come up with an ending—thanks for your input, Manch—and it's not happy. It's not sad, either, it's just real. And reality is not a bowl of cherries. (Where did that expression come from? Why not a bowl of ice cream? Much yummier.)

Fuck that chick-lit bullshit formula; I think that's why the first book sucks ass. I listened to my agent's advice about following a bullshit "formula" that all chick lit books have to adhere to, and in turn, lost my voice. You always have to follow your gut, even if it may get you into serious trouble. At least, then, in retrospect, you can say you did it your way and you'll have nobody to blame but yourself. If there's one thing I don't want, it's to regret, at the end of my life, that I didn't follow my dreams or my instincts. I would much rather be creative and fucked-up than conservative, boring, successful and sheep-like. At least I think; I really have no basis for comparison.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary?

I've not posted about crazy mary in ages. and as far as I know she's not internet savvy. besides, truth is stranger than fiction, always. and as long as you guys don't tell her about this blog—I have an inkling who you are anyway, as not many people, except those men who have, ahem, been intimate with her would jump to her defense—ignorance is bliss. This blog is taking up way too much of my time. I need a break from myself, I have real, actual work to do, so I don't think I'm going to post for a while.

Clarifications

For the record people, as my trusty friend J. pointed out in response to yet another snarky comment, The Asshole is not a college flame. It was only a few months ago, so the way I see it, I still have some time to get over him. Jeez.

I find it incredibly disturbing that the god damn miners are the main story everywhere when Ariel Sharon is near death. As much as I think Sharon is too hawkish and has aliented both Palestinians and Israelis, I find his demise troubling. I miss Netanyahu, I always found him very sexy. Maybe he'll run again, I don't know whether they have term limits over there.

I think this other blog is pretty funny: Gawker linked to it today.

Trophy Wives Anonymous

Real, faux? Inquiring minds....

Aliases, Libel, Speaking Ill of the Living

Mr. Devil made a good point the other night when he said that he never writes negatively of people on his blog, though he definitely goes into more personal details than I do. So I told him that I only speak ill of people who have done wrong by me or my friends. And if that's the case, they have it coming in my opinion. I'm a huge believer in karma, hence The Asshole entries and the obituaries. Yes, dating, living, working is hard; but that is no excuse to treat people poorly. Or to be just plain crazy. So if you're a raving lunatic, a pseudo-sociopath, or just an old-fashioned asshole who shits on people, and one of those people happens to be me, then, yeah, chances are you'll end up on my PC, whether on this site or in my book. As long as you treat me right though, you have nothing to worry about. I can assure you of that. Shit on me, however, and you'll get diarrheaed upon. That's all but guaranteed. I love that word; it's so descriptive.

And I'm definitely using aliases from now on, which I think I've been doing well with, but I can't be too sure. And, for the record, I'm not speaking of mere dating rituals, e.g. not calling, breaking up etc. That's all par for the course and doesn't even merit writing about or register high on my radar. You have to do something really grievous to inspire my wrath, if that's any consolation to anyone. And The Asshole is the only person in recent years who qualifies for such characterization. And he didn't even know what a blog was until his grandfather told him. Cool he would not be described as, so the chances of him reading this dribble are pretty slim. I suspect that had he read this, I would've been served with papers in yet another lawsuit already, so I think I'm out of the woods on that front. Though I don't remember signing a confidentialty agreement with him, so there. I'm going to quit wasting space on him. Make that another resolution.

Oh, yes, I thought of another resolution. I must go to bed earlier than 4 a.m. Someone in the medical profession told me today that the best way to do that is to shave off a half hour each night so that in one week you will have shaved off I guess 3 1/2 hours? Sounds a lot like the formula for weaning yourself off of pills without suffering from withdrawl. Not that I'd have firsthand knowledge of that or anything.

Resolutions, Revolutions, Closet Solutions

I'm not so big on New Year's resolutions, as what I set out to do, I usually do, regardless of the season. That is, everything that I can control, I do. Natch, I want certain things that are beyond my control, namely a job, a book deal, career success etc. But all the other variables in my life, I am quite content with. Aside from being unemployed, I consider myself extremely fortunate and there are very few things I would change. A date that isn't excruciatingly painful would be lovely, but, hey, I'm not holding my breath.

On that note, I've taken myself off JDate for good, as I'm convinced most of the men on there are unbalanced or defective in some way. (Present readers and friends excluded of course. You guys are just mentally ill, and I can live with that.)

Since getting back into town, I've resolved to clean out and organize my closets, as I've actually lost track of what I own. I have a wedding party to attend at the end of the month, and while shopping with mom, I just kept thinking, "I know I must have perfectly fine things to wear hanging in my closet that I've forgotten about." It's not that I'm so overloaded with clothes, it's just that due to the lack of closet space that characterizes a New York apartment, one often forgets or overlooks what one has. At least I do. And it's also that each time I go home, I pilfer mom's closet, and return home laden with goodies. Free goodies too, the best kind. Soo, I added some screws to my closet so that I could view all my handbags. My handbag collection has gotten rather sickening, even to me. I've been saying this for some time, yet it was not until I reorganized everything that I truly realized how out of control the situation has gotten. The shoes, too. I only have room in my bedroom closet for two racks of shoes, so the rest are in the hall closet. Thus I often forget what kind of shoes I own, too. Anywho, one of my foremost resolutions is to Stop. Fucking. Buying. Shoes and Handbags. I mean, enough is enough already.

My name is Stephanie Green and I am an accessories addict. If some Jewess somewhere, preferably Manhattan, were to start a secular version of AA that was called "Accessories Addicts," it would be sooo successful. I think my friends and I—or perhaps my mom, her friends and I—could fill out the inaugural class.

And so it was with amusement that my BFF in Miami, who rarely does the e-mail thing, sent me this link yesterday after I'd organized my handbags. She knows me better than anyone and knows my fashion addictions, so I think it's quite funny that she thought I wouldn't know about Bag Borrow or Steal It's a genius idea, but I think I could start my own, similar site. I really should start my own version, as I end up wearing the same things over and over again. So I sent her this photo in response to her e-mail. The really sick part is that this is just one closet. I need serious sartorial help.



I do have other, more profound things on my mind, but as I've said before, the more complicated my life gets, the more relief I find in superficial diversions. The past couple of days my time has been spent on this editing test for a job I'm in the running for, but like I told one of my friends last night, "Job prospects for me are like men: I never get my hopes up." Sad, but very, very true. Especially in editorial, the interviewing process is incredibly time consuming because there are always tests involved. I have probably wasted at least a couple months of my life doing editing tests for jobs I haven't gotten. I'm so sick of it. Often, before I bother with the editing or writing tests, I have this overwhelming urge to say to the interviewer, "Look, level with me, are you seriously considering me for this position, because if not, I don't really feel like wasting my time on your damn test." I never have the balls to do that, but since I've only had one legitimate, full-time job since moving here, I can't see how it would hurt. I'll be rid of the test tomorrow and then it's back to pounding the pavement.

So that's my main resolution: Stop buying accessories. I really have more than enough to last a lifetime. I can recognize this. And you know what they say, admitting you have a problem is the first step. And, ironically, as I am writing this, they are talking about the Hermes Birkin bag on Gilmore Girls. Heh.

Editor's Note: Please do not take this post so seriously. It's not. I do have real problems, but those are for me and my shrink, not public consumption.

And to my NYC girls who are reading this, you're all more than welcome to bag, borrow or steal from me;)

New Year's Dishes

Waaay too hungover to write, so I'm posting pics of my girls and I from New Year's Eve. And we're all single—imagine that.

I will say that I overdid it a little bit on the wine last night; I suspect the plastic cups threw off my perception of how much I was drinking, but by 1:30 I had the spins and headed home. Also, I had a true Carrie Bradshaw moment for the first time—no, no meeting of a Mr. Big—the heel of my stiletto boot actually broke off as we were leaving our friends' party. Insane. (See last photo.) And, since the heel was, oh, about 4-inches high, I was limping like a gimp out of K's building. Given my blood alchohol level and impaired gait, it was time to call it a night.

The Devil and Ms. Dish

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Art, Anyone? (AKA Shilling for Friends)

I am extremely fortunate in many respects, as I have previously stated. One of the things I am most grateful for is my parents and their amazing friends, all of whom, as I have also said before, rock. I consider many of my parents' friends, especially the lifelong ones, my own friends. They love me, they always have my back, they put up with my bullshit, they set stellar examples in life, love, morality, attitude. I in turn, adore them, admire them and have just as much fun hanging out with them as I do with my own friends, my own age. Now, it should be said that my folks and their friends are a whole hell of a lot cooler than most other parents I've encountered. They're funny, down-to-earth but sophisticated, intelligent, worldly, laid-back, and they all like to have a good time.
My dad's best friend since college, let's call him Ben, is like my uncle. A more quality person you could not find, and, my dad and him are so close, that we all refer to them as one another's boyfriend. They are like female best friends, in that they speak on the phone at least once a day, often more. Ben was actually the first man to see me after I was born, as he beat my dad to the hospital. And, throughout my life, Ben has been like a second dad to me and has always been a part of my family. This is a man who, each time he visits the city, throws $100 bills in the cab at me; who, on the occassion of my 30th birthday, called our restaurant in Bermuda, had the maitre d' send over a bottle of Jordan wine, and then, along with his wife, proceeded to sing "Happy Birthday" to me on the phone. Anywho, Ben married a woman who my dad grew up with in Jax. Let's call her Jen. (For some reason, I find coming up with pseudonyms one of the most challenging aspects of writing. Go figure.) I am also very close with Jen, and consider her one of my girlfriends. Jen happens to be one of the most talented, amazing artists I've ever known. I've always been her biggest fan. Jen is typically self-deprecating about her talents, but trust me when I say that she is incredibly gifted. I've always thought she should show in New York, but I don't believe she ever has. So when I was at their beach condo this week, I decided to take some photos of her work to post here. She's given me permission and if anyone who happens to read this would like to know more about her and her pieces, please feel free to contact me. Her main medium is collage, and she is quite well-known locally in Fla. for her work, but I happen to greatly adore her paintings. She gave one of them to me as a college graduation present and it hangs proudly in my living room here. And, in the scheme of the art world, her prices are quite reasonable. Enjoy. Pics posted below in separate entry.

Tangled up in Tessie Lou Blue

As promised, better pictures of my parents' new shih tzu tangled up by her leash thanks to their ingenious, revolutionary potty-training method.

Water, Water Everywhere and Too Much to Drink

So I have not been feeling well and thought I was extremely dehydrated. Genius me decides to combat this "dehydration" by sucking down water like, well, wine. I go from drinking my normal amount--probably about 75 ounces a day, I've always drunk a lot of water--to like 200 ounces a day. Just yesterday, during the course of my 50-minute session on the elliptical trainer, I consumed literally 75 ounces. I kept sending dad to refill my bottle. I wasn't sweating, and normally I'm a sweater, so I figure, the more water, the more likely I am to sweat it out. This has been going on for a few weeks now; I work out, I don't sweat a lot, so I drink more water. Then after I workout, each time, I begin to feel really lightheaded, like I'm on drugs or something. I've been chalking it up to dehydration, cold medicine, etc. I could not have been more wrong. Go to the doctor today, a family friend, so I totally trust him, unlike my ghetto, HMO docs in NYC. He tells me I've been drinking TOO MUCH water and THAT is why I'm feeling so weird and lightheaded after my workouts. The point here, cause I know nobody gives two shits how much water I drink, is that it is actually possible to drink too much water, FYI. I never knew that. You learn something new every day. Yes, Jacksonville really is this boring. And apparently, 64 ounces a day really is the magic number. Girls, this is why I've been feeling so weird when we're out!!! Phew!

Jesusville

Above are the photos of the doggies, the urn, and my loner dog, Wally. I'll post better ones of poor Tessie Lou tangling herself up when I have some more time and patience.
One of the few reasons I love coming home--my folks are up in Manhattan every month, making it unneccessary for Michael and I to visit Jackassville/Jesusville often--is that I get to dig for treasures, not only of the gemalogical and sartorial sort, but of the "literary" sort. I've always kept journals; probably since the age of 10 or so. Yesterday I found my journal from my first trip to Europe, when I was 17 and had just graduated from high school. I went as part of a group tour organized by a friend from sleepaway camp. It was one of those whirlwind, 7-countries-in-two-weeks kind of trips. Lori and I were the only Jews on the trip, and it wasn't exactly an Abercrombie & Kent-level sort of journey. It's kind of scary to realize just how little my personality has changed in 13 years.
"32 Things I Learned in Europe"
1. How to flush a toilet in six different ways
2. That I prefer to stay in the Ritz-Carlton as opposed to the Hotel de Belfort (a piece of crap hotel in Paris)
3. That I am more mature and just as intelligent as many adults (even then, I was humble;)
4. That I miss my dogs
5. That people in Europe are "in touch" with their sexuality
6. That Van Gogh is God (We visited the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam)
7. That most teenagers are immature and ignorant
8. That I don't give a shit about cathedrals (We visited cathedrals in every, single city and town and not one synagogue)
9. That I am dependent on bellmen, maids, hair dryers, sleep, irons, taxis, elevators, telephones and my car
10. That uncultured people do not suddenly become cultured by going to Europe
11. That Lou Lou is not just the name of my dog (I think one of our guides was named Lou Lou)
12. That everybody should be multilingual (And yet, I still am not, sadly)
13. That some people DO still wear acid-washed clothing
14. That most people have atrocious table manners
15. That I belong in taxis and not on subways (Again, sadly, still true)
16. That even the people in McDonald's in Paris are chic (That's probably highly debatable)
17. That I am doing my junior year abroad in London (Never happened)
18. That I am a snobby bitch and proud of it (Probably, some would say, still true, but I am certainly not proud of it)
19. That I can never forgive the Germans
20. That I hate looking like a tourist
21. That most people who should read Vogue don't
22. That finding hair in your food is repulsive no matter what part of the world you're in
23. That every man who works in a Versace store is gay (Yes, I started buying Versace in high school. So sue me. Oh, wait, somebody has.)
24. That I will have an apartment in London (Don't know quite what I was thinking with that one.)
25. That my parents spoil me waaay too much (Still do)
26. That a good shower is really hard to come by
27. That I have found myself and from hereforth shall only improve upon myself (Oy, remember when "finding yourself" actually seemed to be a legitimate task?)
28. That the Mona Lisa is truly overrated
29. That I shall return to Paris, stay at The Ritz and do the same in London
30. That I am an absurdly large tipper (Most likely because I couldn't figure out the exchange rates)
31. That I am most comfortable in a large city
32. That next time, I will stick to Musiker or American Trails West (Members of the tribe know whereof I speak.)

More Dog Drama; Early Evidence of my Elitism

Mom has just informed me that Lou Lou, our deceased Lhasa Apso, is "on the desk."
"What do you mean?" I asked reflexively, as I'd just woken up and the coffee had yet to kick in.
"She's on the desk," She said again. Then it hit me; her ashes are on my mom's desk.
So I walked over to the desk, in our kitchen, nonetheless, and sure enough, there was a small, black, urn-type thing. Oy vey, could my family get any weirder? Yes, actually.
"We have to put them outside around the big oak tree," she said, seriously.
The big oak tree is where we scattered both my grandmother and great-grandmother's ashes, whilst saying the Mourner's Kadish. Nevermind the fact that Jews are not supposed to be cremated.
I just asked mom whose ashes were out there in our backyard, and she replied, "Just Roxy and Schwalbe; It's not like we have a big cemetary out there or anything."
No, cause that would be REALLY weird.
I've unearthed some priceless journal entries from my inaugural trip to Europe when I was 17; will post them later. Don't hold it against me ... BTW, Jacksonville is in the heart of the Bible Belt, which means that everything, from gas stations to grocery stores are closed today and tomorrow, therefore I am essentially homebound. Mom and dad are having a party tonight for all the lonely Jews.