Settling

I have noticed a disturbing and highly pervasive trend that is spreading amongst my friends from Miami to New York and in between. This trend affects both males and females, but in general, I think it falls more squarely on women's shoulders. The issue? Settling in the romance department. I think we all have those friends whose husbands/spouses/significant others we don't care for. "They could have done sooo much better than him/her/it," we say when talking about them. "What is she thinking?" we ask.


It's really quite simple when you boil it down. Personally, I think that women settle due to low self-esteem and/or fear of being alone—esp if you are over 30—and men settle out of pure boredom and/or laziness. One thing characterizes both sexes' attitudes when it comes to settling though, and that, my friends, is a sense of resignation. "Eh, I may not be able to do any better, so why not take this schlub?" Or, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one your with?" Right?

Um, NOOOOO. I cannot imagine anything under our control more dreadful than settling. For a person, a job, a lifestyle, an apartment, but most especially a lover. Sure, we all must settle sometimes: Prada over Hermes, Bermuda instead of St. Bart's, Mercedes over Bentley. I'm kidding, but not to such a drastic degree. Personally, I can honestly say that I'm a person very reluctant to settle, and when I find myself tempted to do so, I tend to snap myself out of it and remind myself that you only live once, so you may as well give yourself everything that you truly deserve. Because you know what? Nobody else is going to. I don't know if my unwillingness to settle for a significant other is due to my unhealthy level of perfectionism, my parents' almost disgustingly perfect marriage or what. All I know is that if I had settled, like so many of my friends, I would most certainly be divorced by now.

And, I know, I know, breaking up is hard to do and being alone is hard too, but divorce, my friends, is exponentially harder. Trust me, daddy is a divorce attorney. And while I am sure he would be pleased to take referrals, I would not relish proffering them. I'm here to tell you all, esp the girls, that yes, sometimes it's a big, scary world out there and clutching onto someone sub-par feels better than being in the water without a life vest, but, actually that's a recipe for disaster. Do you really want to be 40 or 50 and look at the person next to you and think, "Gee, I'll bet I could've done better." I don't think so. At least I hope not.

This is precisely why I would rather be single than attached just for the sake of being attached. And why in answer to that uncouth question that most Jewish parents seem to think is appropriate, "Why aren't you married?" I can always confidently answer, "I just haven't me the right person." Single doesn't = leper. And on that note, I am pleased to report that after a six-month-long bad date/no date drought, I've had a rather lovely one, simply because I refused to settle for any more lousy ones.

paradise found

If there ever was a doubt about moving to Miami, it was squelched today, for I have discovered, a mere 14 miles from my lovely new apartment, the holy land: Neiman Marcus Last Call and Off 5th. That's right folks, a short drive away there exists the Prada promised land. I am home. I'm loving this city more and more each day. There is certainly not the uber-drama of singlehood down here, as my nights out since my move have mostly consisted of dinners and tame activities, but I'm rather enjoying the sedation after so many years on the merry go round. The final bit of furniture was delivered today, the apt. is almost perfectly turned out, I haven't gotten seriously lost or carjacked yet, and the leg is feeling better. I face a wall of water from both my bed and my couches and have acquired some very comfy patio furniture. So all in all, life is good. Then again, my seasoned South Florida friends tell me that hurricane season starts in a little more than two months, so I guess the shit will hit the fan again fairly soon. I'm fortunate though, that my condo came with "hurricane shutters," which are these industrial strength, intimidating-looking shutters that protect windows and doors. Apparently these things are like thousands of dollars to install, so it's a real boon that my apt. came with them. And though I am certainly missing Wally, I have to admit that it's really nice to come home and not have to walk the little booger. Tomorrow I start my mortgage broker's class, which will consist of 24 hours of classes in three days and next week I take the state licensing exam. Boring, boring, boring I know, but I'm laying off the personal stuff at the moment. Though I do have a couple set ups I am actually looking forward to. I'm done, once and for all, with JDate. Seriously. I mean it this time.

The eighth great wonder of the world: why do our parents, substantially older and more war-torn than ourselves, have more energy than us? Between Passover, the family visiting, friends and apartment stuff, the time is already flying fast. I can't believe that April is almost over and before I know it I'll be joining the force of labor. Spent all week and weekend getting the apartment together but was able to spend all day Saturday on dad's friend's boat, cruising around Miami in style. There are simply so many areas of this city that are really quite fabulous and beautiful. We saw all the major islands, many of which are well-known celebrity lairs such as Fisher and Star Island, but some of the lesser known areas are just as breathtaking. And strangely enough, I saw more celebs by sea than I saw all season in NYC. We cruised past Shaq's $29 million abode, and spotted him chilling in the backyard throwing one of his kids a party. We also saw Hulk Hogan scoping out his new ultra-modern digs with his family, adjacent to some big music producer pulling up on his 100-foot behemoth yacht. The interesting thing about the celebrity lifestyle down here is that they have absolutely no privacy. The ones who live on the water have completely exposed backyards, because if they were to erect high hedges, as they do in LA, they would block out the spectacular views. It's a catch 22 for them, and apparently the reason Shaq is looking to sell. Also saw lots of other Heat players on the water and at dinner, but I don't know their names. Honestly I didn't even know that Shaq was with the Heat now; not exactly up on the sports. Anywho, it was awesome to spend the better part of yesterday seaborn, and to take a boat to lunch as opposed to a car or train. Now I must make a friend my own age with some sea wheels.

And in another interesting twist, characteristic of the close degree of separation that is life in the South, as we were getting on the elevator in my new building Friday night, my dad ran into an old frat brother of his who lives on the 10th floor of said new building. Natch, I'm wondering if this has any consequences that may prove to be favorable to Wally...More TK on this subject. Next weekend I have my cram course for my mortgage broker's exam for the new biz, so it's back to school for me. That should be interesting.

As Nancy P. so diligently pointed out, I had to update my profile to say Miami; thanks Nance. It feels weird to call another place home after being a New Yorker for so long. Anyway Happy Pesach to everyone. The fam is coming to town this weekend so I'll be on another hiatus, but I'm sure I'll returned armed with lots of ammo as we are going apt. shopping this weekend. Alas, no Bergdorf's to be found here, but Bal Harbour is singing its siren song to me.

No Habla Espanol—but Oy seems to translate

This Spanish thing is going to be a problem, as it's not most of the worker's second language, but their first. Neither the cable guy or the carpet cleaner guy spoke English. Did some damage at Whole Foods today and I'm still getting used to having actual food outside the fridge, without the fear of little critters getting into it. I'm going to have to unlearn being an ultra-paranoid neat freak because by now it's by rote that I vacuum daily, clean obsessively after every meal and keep everything, including salt, pepper, coffee etc. in the fridge. It's bizarre not having to worry about common NY problems. But there are now others, like the fact that right now the winds are about 20 miles an hour and when I open the patio door my nic nacs are instantly strewn about, not to mention the temporary furniture that is being lifted off the ground. Gee I can't wait for hurricane season.

I am living in an unusual area called Brickell Key, which is a private island off of downtown. It's a really cool place, with lots of residential buildings, a couple of restaurants, a market, bank, florist, dry cleaner etc. You can actually walk to the marketplace, so it's a little bit cosmopolitan, which appeals to expats like me. The Mandarin Oriental is also on the Key and there's a cool bar and some fab restaurants in there as well. One amazing thing about the island, that I simply cannot fully take advantage of because I am sans Wally, and still scared to run for fear of worsening my fucking ITB, is that there is a walking path that spans the perimeter of the island, where there are dogs, joggers and walkers galore. You can see it in one of the above pics from my balcony, which, yes, I am completely obsessed with, you can see both the bay and the river and the port of Miami, hence the cruise ships. Today I got lost on my way home from Ft. Lauderdale and ended up in a lovely area called Crandon Park (I think). Ironically I missed my exit and ended up on a toll road; thankfully I had exactly $1.25 on me for the toll. I wonder what would have happened if I'd cruised up in my "luxury" automobile and professed to have no money? Do the toll booths take AmEx? I'm sure that this happens to people a lot down here....

I'm Baaaaaaaaack

A long overdue recap, for my cable internet has just been installed. In the past two weeks I have:

Become the new owner of a peppy little German (ugh) automobile, replete with cute little portable GPS thingy, for I happen to have the worst sense of direction ever. Seriously. I have gotten lost in people's houses before.

Slept on an air mattress, for the first (and hopefully last) time ever

Had a religious experience at Target. Twice. Whoever invented this superstore deserves no less than the Nobel prize for shopping.

Abandoned my loving, codependent, needy, 10-year-old dog, not without a hefty amount of Jewish guilt. I have also pondered ways to Anne Frank him into condo living, but alas, have come up with no feasible options that wouldn't result in my eviction.

Moved into my new condo, which, given that it is a one-bedroom and not in New York, has ample room, central air conditioning, fans, overhead lighting, a washer and dryer, a large kitchen and the fattest balcony ever, with sweeping views of the Miami River (who knew?) and Biscayne Bay.

Put up my first Mezuzah ever, though it's probably against the condo rules.


Employed my veeeeeeeeery rusty college-level Spanish. It's an absolute necessity down here, so I really must brush up.

Gotten back onto the elliptical machine, because, fuck it, my ITB bullshit wasn't getting better by not exercising. So I'm finally sweating again and it feels fucking great.

Sworn off shoe and handbag shopping once again, because even though I am now proudly in possession an actual walk in closet, there is STILL not enough room for the damn bags and shoes.

Perfected my tan.

Gone grocery shopping and bought more than just one day's worth of food.

Left the house in flip-flops, tank tops and exercise pants.

Left the house with wet hair.

Pumped some $3-a-gallon gas; you guys should have seen me at the gas station trying to figure out where the gas tank release button was. Ten minutes of sitting in the car pressing every button, then calling mom.

"How the fuck do I open the gas tank? I've pressed every button."

"Well in my car (another German make) you just press on the actual tank and that opens it."

This NEVER would have occurred to me; I was about to give up trying, but alas, mom to the rescue once again.

Gone back on that ghastly Jewish dating web site that all MOT belong to much to their own dismay. However, the first chap I've conversed with over the BellSouth (or is it AT&T now) wires, was flagrantly, flamingly GAY with a capital G. He said like about 50 more times than I do. Sigh. I don't think it's happening for me on JDate. I just cannot, for the life of me, envision myself at my wedding toasting to that fabulous cyber-bastion of head shots and "about me"s. call me crazy, but I'd like to meet someone the old fashioned way—through pushy Jewish mothers and friends—or not at all.

Anywho, I am now fully set up in my new pad, sitting here with my desk positioned so that I can look at the water while I type. There's a constant stream of boats gliding by, sunsets, dolphins, manatees, all visible from both my living room and bedroom. And after all the stress of moving finally subsided, cruising in my new car on Saturday, with the sunroof open, CD blaring, sun shining, and wind blowing my Japanese-straightened-therefore-always-perfect-even-in-the-blazing-humidity hair, I thought, "Why the hell did I wait so long to do this?" Is it cold in New York? That's what I thought. Pics are on my balcony, from my first Friday night in my new home.

And I'm back. To the comforts of home. To the three barking dogs, the fully-stocked pantry and (three) fridges. The move was, as all moves are, completely draining, compounded by the fact that I got not one minute of sleep the night before. Thus I looked like the walking dead when the guys showed up at 8 a.m. Tuesday morning. They undid in three hours what it had taken me three weeks to do. Arrived in JAX last night, totally the worse for wear, and crashed for about 11 hours last night. Set up the Florida bank account and got the new cell phone today; totally loving the pink Razr. Pretty soon I predict that the big design houses will be making cell phones, why not? I will be the first on the Chanel waiting list. Anyway, more errands the rest of this week, then we head down to palm beach saturday to pick up the new car, which, no, we haven't test-driven.
When I mentioned this to mom, the test driving thing, she said, "Eh, but we got a good deal." A good deal trumps all, my friends. I'm sure it will drive fine. It didn't come with GPS, however, and I happen to be someone who can easily get lost in her own apartment. So we got a freestanding GPS thingy at BJ's tonight. BJ's, similar to Costco, is somewhere I can easily envision wasting hours and hours of time in the near future. It's really so scary how content I am shopping, even if it only entails home-goods or groceries. What the hell is wrong with me? Is consumerism an actual disease? Cause if it is, I'm damned sure infected. So Saturday we are off to Palm Beach for the weekend and then I'll be in Miami next week, relying on the generosity of friends until the furniture arrives later in the week. I have never so looked forward to just being in my own place; I've been living out of suitcases now for more than one month.
Unpacking and decorating however, dear readers, is about the most exciting my life is going to get in the next couple of weeks though I'm afraid. I certainly don't have the energy to date, and if there's one thing the past month has reinforced it's that all men are fucking nuts and just not worth wasting time on. Even the ones who come highly recommended are wackos, and if I want to spend time with a whackjob, I'll hang solo or go out with my delightfully eccentric friends. Enough is enough. Maybe I'll start my own reality show, Single in the Sunshine State. Though, trust me, it would be really, really dull and most likely would be set mostly at Neiman's and the beach.

good-bye to all that, part three

the bags, as they say, are packed and I'm ready to go. well, almost. still have one more marathon day of packing left tomorrow, one more "last supper" at shun lee, and a few loose ends to tie up. but the car has been bought (on ebay, nonetheless) the going away party has been thrown (thank you guys so much:) and the good-byes have been said. I'm still a little in shock, but very excited and thankfully the leg actually feels better. cannot wait to have daily access to a pool, as I'm def. suffering from exercise withdrawl. I'm posting a few pics, but as I abide by the "all of us must look fab" rule, the choices are few and far between given the level of alcohol consumption and debauchery of last night at BED.

on another note, even though I have indeed taken a hiatus from divesting too many personal details here, I am happy to report that I now have a little bit of closure with regards to the asshole, and even better, have further evidence that he is indeed quite literally certifiable. it feels good to be right.

A Series of Lasts, in Photos

It's now my official last Friday in NYC and I'm getting a little maudlin. Saturday night is going to be very hard saying good-bye to everyone, so I'm just going to have to drink my face off in order to cope. You guys are gonna have to peel me off the floor and make sure I get home OK. I'm feeling nostalgic, so I thought I would post some "last" pictures. Tomorrow night is another last dinner, then Saturday the big farewell fete, Sunday I have a dog-walking date with Mr. Devil and then Monday, my official last night in the city, I'll be dining at Shun Lee, my favorite restaurant ever. Not a bad way to go out, but sad all the same.






Last round of drinks at the Four Seasons, my fave Manhattan haunt





Last girls' dinner at Dos Caminos, another fave





Wally's last walk in the snow. Can't say I'll miss that too much...





Last Halloween in the city.





Last birthday at Pastis. For some reason I've ended up there on many birthdays. Brother is rocking the chest hair in this one.

Good-bye to all that, part deux

OK, so I have not been body-snatched, kidnaped or fallen into a drug-laden coma. I have, rather, drowned in a sea of brown boxes, suitcases and bubble wrap. I'm in the homestretch of packing, saying good-byes and getting my house in order. The movers come Tuesday a.m. and I leave that night for Florida. The past week has been spent negotiating the murky waters of packing, stretching, physical therapy and car shopping, the latter of which is an extremely arduous task. Who knew? Apparently, "find me a nice car," is not a sufficient command. Make, model, year, mileage—the fuck if I know. I'm pulling numbers, makes and models out of my ass, handing lumps of coal over to my dad's car dealer and hoping for diamonds. So far, this is not working too well and I am still sans automobile. This is when taxis really do come in handy. Yesterday I had to run some errands on Fifth Ave. and as I passed Bergdorf's I caught myself tearing up; yes, I know this is abnormal, but I can't help it. I have some bizarre, unhealthy emotional attachment to this retail establishment, and God damnit, I'm going to miss the hell out of New York shopping. However, this is what I will most miss about Manhattan, aside from my friends, therefore I know that it's a healthy decision to leave. I mean, if the retail establishments are what's keeping you somewhere, chances are this is not the right place for you. Anywho, my ITB is still raging, my stress levels are at a maximum, my patience has deserted me, and Wally is going utterly insane. I packed Wally's dog bed an the majority of his toys, so he sits here and yells and claws and cries at the foot of the box they are in. If I were Frank Costanza, I would be chanting the mantra, "Serenity Now."

Tonight was the first in a series of farewell dinners. My going away fete will be this saturday at BED for those of you who I actually know. Feel free to email me and i'll add you to the list.

In response to the post about mediabistro: nice, very nice. I sent it to the HR people. Sadly, though, the pathetic fuckwit will continue to be employed there until they are hit with a sexual harassment lawsuit. Hopefully that's not too far off in the future.

Good-bye to all that, part one

When I am utterly overwhelmed and stressed to the max, I simply cannot fall asleep. In lieu of some Ambien, I've been compiling a mental list of things that I most assuredly will not miss about Manhattan. Of late, these things outweigh the elements I will miss, an occurrence I never could have previously predicted. So here goes; my laundry list of things I will not ever miss about living in this city.

That rancid smell that characterizes and permeates most bodegas and grocery stores—it smells like a horrid combination of burnt ham and fried bacon and it sticks to everything I purchase in the bodega; even to the plastic bags the wares come in. Where is all the pig-frying going on? Who knew that bodegas were such bastions of burning bacon? Or maybe it's actually the stench of rats being incinerated...

The Manhattan once-over. For those who do not know of this female phenomenon, I shall clarify. The Manhattan once-over is a time-honored tribal ritual practiced by Manhattan women of a certain class. The female's eyes travel from your shoes, dart to your handbag, run up the length of your body, stop on the face, taking in the ears and then run back down the length of your body. The duration of the once-over depends on the season. It's shorter in winter, obviously, because all the looker can really discern is your coat, shoes, handbag and maybe earrings. It's more extensive in the warmer climes, when she can fully take in your jewelry, pedicure, manicure, brand of jeans, etc. Think of it as the human, female equivalent of dogs sniffing one another's asses, except a lot less civilized.

The fucking subway. Tonight was my last subway ride ever. Mark my words; and tonight was probably my last time in Brooklyn, the fact that those two events coincided fills me with pride—I had not done either in months.

The "wildlife," which, in my estimation, includes rats, mice, roaches and that crazy crackhead woman who wanders around Fifth Avenue in a garbage bag.

Those signs posted everywhere with the drawing of a big rat and the blaring warning that says "poison" or "rodenticide" or whatever it says. Truth is I get so skeeved out by the rat illustration that I fail to digest what the sign actually says.

Spit and feces on the sidewalks.

Scooping Wally's poop with Gristede's bags and those bags from the bodega that reek of burnt ham. His shit smells better than the ham.

The subway.

Duane Fucking Reade and all the people who work there. Every last uneducated, slow-witted one of them.

Yorkies and their ridiculous sweaters. For that matter, all doggie sweaters/coats/boots. One of the little dogs in my building not only has a Vuitton collar, but an actual shearling coat.

The subway.

Grocery aisles too narrow for two people to pass one another without turning sideways.

Constant construction on every corner block at all hours of the night.

Mediocre, $50+ meals.

The bloodsport that we refer to as "dating."

Having to put on 30 lbs of clothing and accessories just to leave the house in this season.

What the winter does to the poor, delicate skin on my hands.

The subway.

Idiotic doormen and even dumber supers.

Parades for holidays I never even knew existed.

Taking Wally out at 4 a.m. in the bitter cold.

The smell of Chinatown.

The crush of bodies in Times Square.

The list seems to go on and on, so much so that I'm beginning to relate to those country bumpkins who refer to NYC as a concrete jungle and profess their hatred for this city. I certainly don't hate the city, but I certainly don't love it anymore either. I think of it now as most people probably do—a lovely place to visit, not the best place to live.

I have discovered eBay. Darling, where have you been all of my life? I have no explanation for why I'm so late to the game, but I'm now addicted. However, seeing as I leave a mere TWO WEEKS from today, I am vowing to step away from the computer and back into the NYC social swirl. I have only a handful of days to bid New York bye-bye and I've barely made a dent in my packing to boot. Need to put in some serious face time with friends; endure more physical therapy; pack; clean; visit those outer boroughs I'm always hearing so much about (I think they start with "Bs"); spend some serious quality time with Wally, who I am heartlessly abandoning; and generally just stay busy so that I don't get too maudlin about leaving Manhattan. I will be back soon enough though—after all, a girl's gotta have her hair cut and Japanese-straightened. And hit the Bergdorf's shoe sale, natch. And eat Chinese food; I don't think I'll be finding too much of that down South.

One of the most infuriating aspects of Manhattan life is a little store called Duane Reade. It's the most ubiquitous drugstore in the city, and is like Starbucks in that you can find one on almost every corner block. Sure, there are the random Eckerd's, CVSs etc., but Duane Reade is just more convenient because they are literally everywhere. I try to avoid this place at all costs, but usually end up there once a week to stock up on the necessities. Not only are the cashiers slower-moving than any 90-year-old yenta, but they are usually thick as posts and seem to like to keep people waiting. Also, their favorite sentence is, "Do you have a club card?" Yes, I fucking have a goddamned club card, but is it worth me taking off my gloves, sifting through my purse and presenting it to you in the hopes that I MAY save $.10 on an item that is specially discounted? I don't think so. Anywho, each time I go into Duane Reade, not only do I spend more money than I need to be spending on toothpaste, deordorant, etc. but I always end up waiting on line for at least 10 minutes, and usually, I am laden with shopping bags from other stores that I have hit before DR. So I'm always standing there in line, under the unforgiving flourescent lights, feeling woozy and about to pass out from the combination of heat, the weight of my shopping bags and the general level of annoyance that a trip to Duane Reade engenders. By the time I get up to the register, I'm just ready to pay and be on my merry way. I do not, therefore, wish to chit chat with the cashier. So yesterday, weighed down with bags from Gourmet Garage, leg hurting, in a hurry to get home, I'm unprepared for the cashier's question. I step up to the register with various sundries, among them, a bag of hard cat food and a container of soft dog food. Yes, Wally is now enjoying the mix of high and low cultures.

"So how do your dog and your cat get along?" the cashier asks me innocently.

It takes a moment for her question to register, a long, protacted moment during which I am looking at her like she's ET's long , lost, stoned cousin. Oh, right, I think. The Duane Reade cashier is not privy to my fucked-up brand of rodent repelling. She actually thinks I'm sane and have two different species of pet, as opposed to one, very confused dog with cat breath.

"Oh, good," I reply. "They get along well." I flush crimson and bolt the hell out of there. Relating the story later to my neighbor Heather, we're cracking up, as the very same thing happened to her in Gristede's. Except that she was busted buying a huge bag of cat food by an old friend who knew that she had only a dog. "Oh," the friend had remarked, "did you get a cat?"

"Oh, yes, I got a cat. Siamese, she's very sweet. Nice seeing you..."

Less than three weeks left in the big apple. The days will be filled with physical therapy, eating, drinking, packing, talking on the phone, saying tearful good-byes and generally sucking as much marrow out of the city as I can whilst hobbling around like a cripple, wearing, thank you very much, Mizuno sneakers. Apparently, I not only have "soft tissue" damage, but tendonitis and iliotibial band syndrome (ITB) or "runner's knee." Looooovely. The prescription? Twice weekly physical therapy plus two hours of prescribed stretching per day. Oh, yeah, sexy.

Update

Well, I've gotten the approval of the mysterious, all-powerful board, so I'm good to go. The movers are booked, the plane ticket is set and the going away party is planned.

(For those of you I actually know, you are invited to BED on March 25th to bid me farewell and buy me mass quantities of alcohol.)

Yes, I am sad to leave NYC and my fab friends, but I'm also ready to redecorate, rest, relax, enjoy the sun and start an actual career. Regarding Wally, whom I will dearly miss and feel much guilt for having forsaken, I've decided that I will visit him monthly. It's only an hour flight home to where he will be and my office is very close to the FLL airport. The "To Do" list keeps expanding daily, and now I must add "buy car" to it, which is no easy proposition. In fact, I am completely clueless as to how to do this. When I first discovered that I would need to buy a car, I actually Googled "Cars." I've been here for six years and prior to that had been the recipient of cars from my folks, so what the hell do I know about buying cars? This is a man's job as far as I am concerned, so a big part of me just wants someone to do it for me and then I will just hop in and drive away. Though the chances of this actually happening are slim to none, it's a nice, escapist fantasy. Then again, it's been done this way twice before, so the third times a charm, right? Dad? He's chortling in outrage as he reads this.

But I've said this before and I will say it again: Cars are to Miami women (and L.A. for that matter) what shoes and handbags are to New York women. Meaning that, you have a much better chance of meeting a hot guy if you are driving a hot car. Period. Sad, superficial, shallow, stereotypical, yes, but sooooooooo true. And any guy or girl who argues with this fact is just in denial. I have hard evidence: I get scoped out MUCH more often cruising in dad's Lexus than in brother's Toyota.

Anyway, a list of things I must do before I leave this fair isle, in no particular order. For my own clarification and I'm taking reservations for partners (from friends, not random readers, obv).

Eat at Shun Lee Palace, on the East Side. If you've never been, run there. Now.

Drink at the Mandarin Oriental and the Four Seasons hotel bars.

Take Wally to Central Park.

Do one last marathon lap around Bergdorf's and Barneys.

Visit the Met.

Go to Columbus Ave. flea market.

Visit brother's apartment and friends in Brooklyn. (Brother this is scheduled for Friday the 17th I've decided today.)

Go to the Bronx Zoo. Maybe. Probably won't happen unless accompanied by male. I'm still scared of the Bronx and Harlem, what can I say?

That's about all I can think of at the moment, but I'm sure I will come up with some other things, hopefully less superficial ones.

Farewell to Fifth

Farewell to Fifth
Today was a tragic, momentous, historical day for the Green girls. Today was the penultimate episode of a six-year-long running series. Today will forever be mourned in the hearts of women from New York to Palm Beach to Miami to Jacksonville. For today was the last day moms and I shopped on Madison and Fifth while your's truly resides here. I have long been saying that what I will most miss about Manhattan is Bergdorf's, but I was exaggerating a little. I will also terribly miss Barneys, Madison Ave., Fifth Ave., The Four Seasons bar, The Metropolitan Museum, Park Avenue, the park, the Plaza, looking at life go by through the window of a taxicab, and I may just even miss Saks too. Not that they don't have great shopping in Miami, in fact, save for Bergdorf's, they have all the same stores. But there's something about shopping in New York that is just so intoxicating, on an almost narcotic level. I wonder, does shopping produce the same amount of endorphins as exercising? Or is it just those heroin injections? Kidding.
Anyway, we went out in true comical fashion. Dad was here too, which means we didn't get to do as much damage as sans papa. And there wasn't much time, so we actually only hit the big three, Bergdorf's, Barneys and Saks. And we did the Columbus Ave. flea market this a.m., and the stores didn't open till 11 a.m. today. Sooo, after we had lunch with the rest of the fam, mom and I had A HALF HOUR before her plane left. Now, most normal people would spend this half-hour packing, chilling, getting coffee, whatevs. Mom and I, however, jump in a cab, head to Saks, and spend 30 minutes sucking in the shoe and handbag departments like junkies in a methadone clinic. She takes down the name and style number of a Prada bag; I try on some Louboutins in record speed. I'm practically yelling "STAT" to the poor shoe salesman. Alas, the time constraints were such that both of us left empty-handed. We're so sick; we should really be studied by the fashion doctors.

OK, regarding the previous post's comments: A.) There simply are NO guys here I even have the desire to makeout with; that's the problem. B.) Do they even have hockey in Miami? I'm not much of a sports person unless there is a sky box involved. C.) Mom, for the love of God, step away from the fucking computer. It takes you five hours to figure out how to upload photos but you can comment on a blog no problem? I've created a monster. Pics of the balcony of the new pad, which technically isn't even mine until I get board approval, but I am so in love with the view and the balcony, I simply must share. $500+ less a month, people!

The first two are the balcony, which stretches from the living room to the bedroom. (I don't think BFF is touching herself; I think I caught her mid-gesture.) The second pic is of the pool, with the sister building (and BFF's building) visible behind it. (There are 3 buildings in this group.) And the final picture is of the lobby. If it's possible to be in love or lust with a piece of real estate, then I'm definitely crushing big-time.

And other random notes:

Wally's breath, after having actually been fed dog food for more than two weeks, is on the mend.

Heather, my fab friend and neighbor, was on rodent-patrol while I was away, so, dear friend that she is, went into my apartment every two days and stomped around with her dog to scare the little motherfuckers away.

Due to some miscommunication with moms (I still maintain that I heard you say, "I've got your coat.") I arrived at the JAX airport yesterday, wearing a tee shirt, jeans and sneaks, only to realize that neither my mom nor I had taken my coat or my gloves. Since I was heading back to NYC, which was apparently enduring a cold snap, this was slightly problematic. Therefore, I had to go into the restroom and trade clothes with my mom. Now, mom is quite chic, and ordinarily I'm happy to borrow her clothing. But it just so happened that yesterday she was in a rather conservative suit. So I emerged from the bathroom clad in a baggy pink turtleneck, an oversized pin-striped blazer, blaring white sneakers and glasses, paired with trendy jeans and a trendy handbag. I looked like a "What Not to Wear Victim." It was not pretty. Mom found it so amusing that she snapped some digi pics; you will not be seeing them here. I looked like a 40 year old. I looked like a secretary straight out of "Working Girl." I looked, in short, like I actually belonged in Jacksonville. God help me.

Movin' On Up

So I have finally arrived back at my parents' place after 10 days in Miami. It actually took that long to get things settled down there, but it was a fruitful journey--in that amount of time down there, I managed to find an apartment that I adore and a new, promising job. Two things that I've never been able to accomplish over my six years in New York. Things, as they say, are falling into place seamlessly in South Florida. My new pad--fingers crossed I get "board approval" by that elusive entity known as the condo board--rocks. Huge balcony with sweeping bay views, fabulous condo building on a private island, granite kitchen, washer and dryer in the unit, on the same floor as the gym and the pool, 1 and 1/2 marble bathrooms (with, God knows why, a bidet), dining room, walk in closets, and hurricane shutters, which I am told is quite a boon. The best part is that the building is literally right nextdoor to my best friend's building. The worst part? No Wally. That's right, Wally is not welcome. By the time the "board" alerted me to this fact--that renters are not allowed dogs, only owners--I was too in love with the apartment to give it up. So Wally will be residing with the 'rents and their two dogs until I decide I miss him too much.

This is precisely why I know I shouldn't procreate; I'm willing to give up my 10-year-old baby in lieu of a fat pad. I barely gave it a second thought, actually, as I was prepared for this scenario, and frankly, could use a break from the incessant barking and squeaky-toy noises.

So now all that's left, essentially, is to hire the movers, get a car and say good-bye to my NYC peeps. I'm not going to do the whole big going away party thing, as I think it would be too emotional. I move in April 4th and will be out of Manhattan by March 29th. And I have to admit that while I was in Florida for the past two weeks, I have not missed Manhattan at all. Not in the least bit, actually, because while you guys were donning 30 pounds of clothing just to walk the dog or go to the bodega, I was chilling in my bikini at the pool, looking at the water and reading a book. I was walking around in flip-flops, tank tops, jeans, sandals and the like, even at night, even at Neiman's. It's quite liberating.

Oh, and did I mention that my new place, with the most awesome balcony and view EVER is more than $500 less a month than my rodent-infested, shoebox studio on the Upper East Side? And that the rent includes cable TV? And that I never spent more than $40 out at night when I was there, including food?

I am a little worried about the men down there, though. My single friends keep telling me how much the guys there suck, but, what the hell? It's not like I've met any good ones in New York. I am back tomorrow in Manhattan, pretty much just tying up loose ends until it's time for the move. Cannot. Fucking. Wait.

Killing me Softly

After two flights, the second of which I made with seconds to spare after they held the plane in Charlotte due to the previous day's blizzard, a 6-hour drive down to Miami, approximately 50,000 muscle spasms, 200 yoga poses, 20 packs of ice, 30 Naproxens, and, as of today--thanks to an interstate call from my Park Ave. general practitioner to the CVS pharmacy nextdoor to the family biz in South Florida--four painkillers, the Dish has officially landed in Dade County.

It's been a crazy, combustible, stressful, hazy week of family, pain, doctors, dogs and work, yes, that's right, work, but things are finally falling into place. Spent the past two days observing the family biz and plan to start work down here in April sometime. Going to scout pads tomorrow in Miami, with the intention of signing a lease by April 1. All the buildings in the area I am looking in are condos, which means even to rent one needs board approval. So we'll see; on the plus side, you don't have to pay broker's commissions down here.

The leg/soft-tissue damage/sciatica/fuck-if-I-know condition is fucking killing me, and the driving doesn't help. And I'm now safely ensconced at my BFF's pad in Miami, but she is preggers with indigestion, heartburn, nauseau and the like, and I'm limping around like a gimp, so the two of us make quite a pair. 13 years ago we were raising hell, turning our parents' hair prematurely gray. Now, we are turning in at 11:30 p.m. and quite content with that. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Popped two painkillers when I got the scrip today, promptly got double vision and woozy so had to hitch a ride to meet BFF in Aventura, leave the car at the aunt and uncle's and limp into BFF's condo. Hoping a good night's rest + two more painkillers will do my leg and nerves some good. Otherwise, this here 30-cum-80-year old will literally be wheeled back to NYC.

On the positive side, did I mention that the hours of the family biz are roughly 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.? And that it's like 75 and gorgeous here right now? And that there is no state or city income tax in Florida? And that my new apartment will most likely be at least 1,000 square feet with a balcony, water view, tennis court, gym and valet parking? And that I have not seen even on rodent? Even in as much pain as I am in, life is so much sunnier down here. Girls, what are you waiting for? The men aren't so bad either. And don't even get me started on closet space...

From the Blizzard to the Beach

And people wonder why I am leaving? How appropriate I am heading for the hills the day after the first big blizzard of the year; here's hoping the airports reopen by tomorrow. The view from my apartment and evidence that even Wally has had enough of this fair city. Imagine trying to take a dump in the snow...