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Doggylicious

Ummm, I changed my posting thingamajig, and now all my comments have evaporated. I'm too over it to try to get them back, and what's the point anyway, but this new commenting apparatus seems to have actually posted an entry on my behalf. OK. Fab. Spent a sedate weekend with the family and the dog in northern Fla. Though I am loathe to admit it, Wally actually seems happier, or, shall I say, less neurotic/anxious/psychotic, while living with the folks. I guess that with two sprightly bitches to play with, he's considerably more relaxed and just generally more upbeat. He was less clingy, calmer and seemed less despondent when I made my exit. Ahhh, the good ol' days--when Wally was a crazed bat out of hell and mommy was a neurotic, rodent-phobic freak. Where does the time go?

Seriously though, it's nice to return home to a place without the, albeit perhaps slightly irrational, fear that critters will have invaded in one's absence. And the folks' home is now just a short flight away. I hopped on the 7 a.m. flight this morning and drove straight to work from the airport. Of course, I woke at 5 a.m., and, the last time I glimpsed those numbers on a clock I hadn't yet gone to bed, but I made it in one piece. And the Fort Lauderdale aiport has valet. Sweet.

Speaking of dogs, mental health, etc., In the Styles section of the NYT this weekend, there was a really funny piece. It seems that if I were still a Manhattanite and the Wally issue arose in a non-pet-friendly building, I could hire a lawyer and get him into the building by saying he was a "emotional support dog." Those of you who know me, know that I would surely not hesitate to do that. Anywho, the funniest part of this story is that the DOT apparently cannot discriminate against the mentally ill who insist, via doctor's letters, that their pets are "emotional support" pets. Sooooo, the airlines have their fair share of "emotional support" goats, monkeys, and the best--an "emotional support" duck whose owner dressed it in clothes! Can you imagine? Boarding a plane and seeing in the cabin a duck decked out to the nines? Yeah, sounds like that pet is doing A LOT to improve its owner's mental stability. The story is LOL funny though and worth a read:
Wagging the dog

Socialite Stories

I have to say that for the amount of "fake" bloggers/people/media creations out there, it's the bona fide people who are the most fascinating. Case in point, "socialite" Melissa C. Morris, nee Stanley,
Melissa C. Morris, who, recently married man about Manhattan "socialite" Chappy Morris. I've never related to the whole May-December thing, but, hey, whatever floats your yacht.

Slipping into Suburbia

Nothing too exciting to report on this end. I've become a housewife with no house and no husband. It seems most of the drama has faded; could it have been a New York thing? I've somehow slipped into a decidedly domestic routine down here, though I am sans significant other or even cuddly canine. And on that front, some bad news that I am only now digesting. Despite the fortuitous sighting of an old friend of dad's who resides in my Nazi-run building, it seems that smuggling Wally in is simply not an option. So I suppose I will have to make do with frequent visits to Jackassville and my upcoming volunteer sessions at the North Miami Beach Humane Society. I went there for an orientation session this weekend, and it's quite an impressive facility. Privately run, not a stench of urine or feces to be found. Of course I wanted to adopt each and every one of the barky boogers, but my condo restrictions prevented yet another impulse buy. Working, sleeping, eating--I think I am now like most other humans. Boring.

And I love it how I've gone from being intimidated by the whole driving thing, to being another crazy, bat out of hell on the road, blaring my horn at all the old grannies. I'd been driving around with a temporary plate, and since I got the car on eBay, yes, eBay people, the license plate that was mailed to me was without screws. Somehow I knew this would be a problem. I was perfectly content to let the metal plate rot in my trunk and cruise around with the paper one in my window—hey, the expiration date had rubbed off, so who would be the wiser? Surely a traffic cop would let me off. But uncle insisted I run to Pep Boys on my lunch hour to get the screws. It took, literally, an hour of me and this very kind Pep Boy's employee, opening up several packs of screws, making several trips out to the car, asking several people for screw specs for Mercedes, in order to find a measly two screws. When I returned to the office, I commented that it had actually taken me longer to find and secure license plate screws than it had to purchase the damned car. Oh, the joys of life in suburbia. Don't worry, once hurricane season begins I'm sure I'll have more exciting stories to regale you with.

A question: Do we think that if we could actually, legally and morally, buy husbands or wives of our own choosing, that the divorce rate would still be roughly 50%?

If you could buy your beau on eBay as easily as I did my car, would matters of the heart be easier or more straightforward? This train of thought is, of course, prompted by the below joke, not any other sort of malicious intentions.

And, in response to the peeps who will say that you can pretty much already do such a thing on JDate or Match.com, in my ideal spouse-buying world, material misrepresentation would not be an issue. There would be, like, fines and shit. I am clearly sleep deprived.

A Recurring Theme

As the saying goes, those who can't do teach. Or write about it. Or whatever. My good friend sent me this forward with regards to my recent theme of settling...it's pretty dead on. check out her blog, too:



Always Double Back/SquirrelFishin

The Husband Store Is Now Open!

A store that sells new husbands has just opened in New York City, where women may go to choose a husband. Among the instructions at the entrance is a description of how the store operates .

You may visit the store ONLY ONCE! There are six floors and the attributes of the men increase as the shopper ascends the flights. There is, however, a catch: you may choose any man from a particular floor, or you may choose to go up a floor, but you cannot go back down except to exit the building!

So, a woman goes to the Husband Store to find a husband.

On the first floor the sign on the door reads: Floor 1 - These men have jobs.

The second floor sign reads: Floor 2 - These men have jobs and love kids.

The third floor sign reads: Floor 3 - These men have jobs, love kids, and are extremely good looking.

"Wow," she thinks, but feels compelled to keep going.

She goes to the fourth floor and sign reads: Floor 4 - These men have
jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous and help with the housework.

"Oh, mercy me!" she exclaims, "I can hardly stand it!"

Still, she goes to the fifth floor and sign reads: Floor 5 - These men
have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous, help with the housework,
and have a strong romantic streak.

She is so tempted to stay, but she goes to the sixth floor and the
sign reads: Floor 6 - You are visitor 31,456,012 to this floor. There
are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women
are impossible to please. Thank you for shopping at the Husband Store.


A New Wives store opened across the street.

The first floor has wives that love sex.

The second floor has wives that love sex and have money.

The third through sixth floors have never been visited....

I miss my dog. Waaaaah. Mommy is going to visit him for mother's day though, which will probably be excruciating for both of us. I would soooo try to sneak the little booger into living here—I'm having perverse fantasies of just buying a Vuitton dog carrier that looks like a handbag and toting him around in that, after the fucking "board officers" have vacated the premises daily—but getting caught would mean eviction and the thought of moving again is a huge deterrant. If anyone reading this who knows me thinks of someone who resides in my Nazi-like condo building, please share.

Anywho, people continue to solicit my relationship advice for reasons unbenownst to me—hellooooo, single, perpetually?— and while giving a friend said advice about her latest beau, we were discussing how the pace of most relationships/dating scenarios we've encountered lately seems to be completely skewed.
In my experience, it's either too much too soon, e.g. calling every day or several times a day, wanting to see you/smother you all the time, or not enough, e.g. not calling for extended periods of time then popping back up and thinking everything is kosher. I think I'd prefer the too much too soon approach b/c then at least you can write them off for being stalkers, whereas the never-callers tend to have a way of worming themselves back into your life just when you think they are done with you or you are done with them.

And, oh yeah, I'm now a state-certified/licensed mortgage broker—how the hell did that happen? I'll bet those of you out there who know me well could have NEVER predicted this path...

Listen, I am probably the last rightful person to be doling out relationship advice, since it seems that I am the embodiment of the toxic bachelorette, but ask and ye shall receive anony-commenters.
I think that if you surmise that you are in a dead-end relationship, then you have probably answered your own question. What are we talking about here—you want to marry or move in and he doesn't? I just don't know if I buy into the whole commitment-phobe thing; I think that when you meet the "right" person, that so-called phobia probably evaporates. So if you want something and he's not giving it to you, then I guess you are at some sort of dead end. For, if you are not getting what you want or need out of a relationship or even a friendship, then really what is the point? I don't believe in ultimatums, because, who the hell wants to force someone's hand into marriage or commitment, but if you feel it's shit or get off the pot time, and he's not shitting, well, then time's a wasting and perhaps you should explore your options. Then again, as I've said before, I'd rather be alone than be with the wrong person. But I am the exception and I think that most humans are ensconced in relationships that are probably less than what they dreamed of, each for varying reasons. But take this advice with several salt grains, as it's emanating from someone who has maybe one decent date every six months and is destined for spinsterhood.
And also keep in mind that the grass is always greener; singlehood really isn't as much fun as it may look from the vantage point of someone who feels that they are "missing something" by being in a relationship. Trust me, you're not missing anything—it's a jungle out here.

In other news . . . I joined the force of labor today and as a consequence am very tired. I am still enjoying Miami and the weather, but the wind on the key is absolutely out of control, my poor, sad, little plant is getting whiplash. Also, I looked up the sale price of the condo I am renting today in the real estate thingy and realized that the landlord is making a pretty penny of my rent. The value of this little place has doubled over the past ten or so years, so I can certainly see why so many people buy down here.
Though that is one area where I can claim to be commitment phobic—real estate. How can one commit to living in a place for longer than one year? THAT scares me, not relationships...

How humorous is it that in light of the recent posts and controversy this settling subject has stirred up, my mom comments to ask what I bought at Neiman's? The apple falls very close, my friends. I have one more point with this whole not settling thing though—it seems highly probable that those of us who don't settle will end up alone. And I think that must be weighed against everything else I suppose. I've sort of made my peace with this because I am the type of person who just can't even kiss or be really intimate with someone I'm not gaga over. Hence my near celibacy and my tendency not to date a lot. Different city, same issues it would seem.

settlement issues

Okay, so we're not in Gaza therefore the issue of settlements is a litttle less grave, but I think this post has certainly stirred up some strong emotions. In regards to the anony-commenters, a couple of points. When I proclaim that I won't settle for anything less than ideal, I am most certainly NOT referring to a "good on paper" brand of quality. I'm absolutely not on the hunt—nor do I advocate others to be—for a wealthy, Ivy League provider. I have learned through experience that good on paper rarely translates to good in the flesh. By not settling, I mean not settling for anything less than nice, sweet, loyal, devoted, funny, kindhearted, generous, moral and down-to-earth. Money, alma mater, car brand, height and hotness have very little to do with what or whom I am looking for. Any of my friends will attest to the fact that I am the last one to date someone simply because they take me to nice places. If I want a dinner at Daniel—or now, I suppose, Joe's Stone Crab—I'll buy it myself. Period. So please do not misinterpret me. When I refer to my friends who are settlling, what I mean, precisely, is this. They are with men who do one or more of the following: play around, belittle them, tell them they are fat, treat them like housekeepers, disrespect them or fail to recognize their beauty, strength or character.

I've said it before and I'll most likely have to shout it from the mountaintops until the day of my demise: just because I like nice things and shopping, does not mean I am without character, morality, integrity or intelligence. If anything, that is my message inherent in this blog. I am a firm, FIRM believer in a woman providing for herself. I have become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, therefore I plan on keeping myself in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Hence the change of careers to a more lucrative field. When I hear women discuss men in terms of their bank accounts or wallet size or car, I shudder, because, let me tell you, these things mean almost nothing at the end of the day. Again, I am wasting too much time here, I must go paint.

The Neiman's outlet, I fear, has turned into my Ben & Jerry's. Yes, it's a lot less caloric, but a lot more expensive. This is my last week before rejoining the working world again. After a nearly year-long hiatus from such a mileu, it should be interesting.

Last night while out at a local haunt, I ran into a guy I met at a society thing in NY way back in September, so, it seems, the world is just as small down here as up there. He lives two buildings away from me here. Weird. I did two very foolish things today, my jaunt to Neiman's notwithstanding—hey, cut a girl some slack they were having a handbag and shoe "event," I'm supposed to say no to that?—neither of which I feel comfortable disclosing here, but the perpetual question is: Why, oh why, does romance make such fools out of us, no matter the age or circumstance? WHY???????? I'm chalking today's behavior up to the paint fumes I've been inhaling all day.

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.