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On my way home from work today, I spotted a late-model, cherry-red, sans-hubcaps Honda Civic with an interesting shoe-polished message on its rear window:

WANTED
GOOD
WOMAN

Good lord, where am I?
I don't know what disturbs me more; the lack of syntax and grammar, the sheer desperation, the tinted windows disguising the "good man" seeking said good woman, or, or the fact that for a nanosecond I could relate just a little bit to this clear-cut cry for help in the dating department. Clearly it's a jungle out there.

Bradgelina Scooped by a Slave?

For those of you new to Dishalicious, just the facts:

It started as a novel, two years ago.
I worked as a researcher at Star, prior to writing the novel.
American Media Inc., the parent company of Star, The National Enquirer, The Globe, The Weekly World News, etc. sued me after I wrote Dishalicious, saying that I had violated a confidentialty agreement I signed upon employment.
AMI's suit, was, believe it or not, based primarily on a poorly written story that ran in the The New York Post, written, ironically by this troll-like woman who is now the editor of a publishing magazine. You can read that text, here, scroll down to SARA NELSON:

Roman a clef Cuts Bonnie to Shreds

This article was pictured in a photo grab on no less than 60 Minutes, along with a head shot of me.
I won the case. It took six months to resolve in court. It cost more than $30,000 to fight them. Under New York State Law, you are unable to recoup legal expenses. You can read about the case here.

NY Daily News

American Media Inc. vs. Stephanie Green

Gawker, April 2005

Cowan, DeBaets, Abrahams & Sheppard LLP, Legal Counsel

Despite all the media attention, my legal victory and my agent, Jenny Bent, the book was never bought by a publisher. So someone might as well enjoy it. Plus this will shut my mother and her nosy friends up once and for all.

Summary:
Dishalicious centers around Serena Gold, a morally grounded research editor at the tabloid Celeb. Serena stumbles upon a major scoop about Hollywood's golden couple, Billy Dust, of the matinee-idol-blond-haired-blue-eyed Adonis type beauty, married to Kristen Kirby, of the blonde-haired-blue-eyed-cute-as-a-button type appeal garnered by years as a major TV star. They are the ultimate Hollywood duo, until the skanky, tattooed, full-lipped Heather Hill enters the picture while she and Billy are filming a movie together. Though Hollywood is abuzz with rumors that Billy is stepping out on America's sweetheart Kristen, NOBODY in the Manhattan media has ANY concrete proof. Well, nobody, save for lowly research editor Serena, who has had just about enough of the underhanded tactics her notoriously ghastly boss Penny makes her employees use (paying sources, stalking celebs, literally digging through trash) to get scoops that may or may not be grounded in truth. Serena has always been one of those six-degrees of separation people who knows a lot of people all over the country, so it's not unusual for gossip to fall into her lap. Sometimes she chooses to share it with her superiors, sometimes she doesn't. This time, however, seeing as she's nearing the end of her tenure there (for she can only take so much muckraking), and knowing that she is the only journo in the nation with concrete proof that Billy is stepping out on Kristen, Serena bites the bullet and tells her bosses, knowing that she will walk out of that god-awful tabloid with at least a cover story.

Following is an excerpt from Dishalicious. Since it's from the middle-to-end of the novel, I've cut out the subplots and focused solely on the scoop and the adulterous couple, in this book, dubbed "HillBilly." FYI, Ed is the fab gay editor in chief and Penny is the evil wench in charge of all the company's tabloids. It's a long excerpt, so if interested, you may want to print it.


Legal Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, and none of the characters or the companies described in it is intended to portray specific living people, companies or actual events. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual living persons, companies or events is entirely coincidental.
(Link to legal counsel at right of page.)


Chapter 21: Piecing the puzzle together

That Wednesday, I had the day off because my mother was in town yet again to do even more damage to her AmEx black card. She was super lucky that card had no spending limits. Little did I know that I was about to find out the true meaning of “be careful what you wish for.” All those months I’d been waiting for the perfect cover story, I never actually thought that I would find such an elusive specimen. But as I checked my e-mail, I was surprised to see the following from a girl whom I’d tried to help find a job in the media, as a favor to an ex-college professor of mine:
Hi Serena!
How are you? Thanks for all your help over the past few months. Listen, I have some insane gossip for you! Get this shit—my good friend works as a junior concierge at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills. Heather Hill and Billy Dust recently came in together. They sat out by the pool in a dark corner for most of the night. Well, my friend walked out there to call on them and caught them in the act—making out!!! Can you believe that? And, this is a friend that I completely trust—I’ve known him for ten years and he would NEVER lie to me. I have no doubt that this story is completely true, so I just thought I’d share. Do with it what you will.
Best,
Samantha

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed after I’d read Samantha’s e-mail. “Hmm.”
“What is it Serene?” My mom and brother were sitting on my couch.
“Well, I just got a tip that Billy Dust is cheating on K.K. Kirby with Heather Hill. Jesus, this is huge. I can’t believe it! What a scumbag, how could anyone cheat on K.K.?”
“Who is it from?” Mark asked. He wasn’t one to indulge in gossip, but even he knew that this was earth-shattering dish. “Do you believe her?”
“Well, she’s not someone whom I talk with frequently, so I think she’d only contact me if she thought this was legitimate. She’s got no reason to lie to me because I’ve helped her out with advice and stuff a lot over the past few months.”
“Are you going to tell your editors?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know. I really don’t want to, because I love K.K., who doesn’t? Man what a filthy fucker Billy is. And with Heather Hill? She’s just such a trollop. Ugh, all those body piercings and her disgusting ex-husband whose portrait she had tattooed on her left butt cheek? Christ—what a letdown, this is why working at Celeb is so sleazy. I really just don’t want to know this kind of stuff. What should I do? If I tell my editors, it will definitely be a cover story. And there have been all these rumors floating around about HillBilly because they’re shooting a movie together in L.A. right now. So that’s been their ‘official’ excuse for spending so much time together.”
“Hmm,” was all Mark had to say on the matter.
“I don’t know Serene, you just have to decide whether it’s worth a byline for you,” Mom said absentmindedly.
Nanette’s thoughts were no doubt distracted by what time Bergdorf’s was open until that night. Mom and Mark left my apartment, I printed out Samantha’s e-mail and took Pucci over to Jon’s place.
“So,” Jon asked, “What’s this huge ethical dilemma that you’re in the throes of? Did your boss make you distort the truth again? Or did she try to give Madonna a Jewish last name? Or did she make a joke about September 11 or suicide bombings or something equally distasteful?”
“None of which I’d put past Penny, but no, this little conundrum actually relates directly to me and my personal contribution to the downfall of Western civilization. Let’s have a drink.”
“Sounds like it calls for one. Hard or soft?”
“You know I don’t do hard liquor unless I’m trying to forget my name. Let’s have wine, as usual.”
Jon poured us some Pinot Grigio and we went out to the patio, where I noticed Pucci had taken one of the Greenies from a package he’d torn open with his mouth.
“So, what’s up?”
I silently handed Jon Samantha’s e-mail and sipped my wine as he read it.
“Wow, is this really true?” he asked when he’d finished.
“I have no reason to think it isn’t. There’s just no motivation for this girl to lie to me.”
“Man, Billy and K.K. are like the It Couple. This would totally destroy their golden image, right?”
“Precisely my point. I do suspect that their marriage is probably just as shady as any other high-profile Hollywood union, but still, do I really want to be the first journalist to cast aspersions on it? Even if I’m just the one who passes along this information, is it worth it? I could potentially just sit on this and nobody at Celeb would ever be the wiser. Moreover, why should I give this information to them, what have they ever done for me?”
“Well first, yes, you could sit on this info, but I have a feeling it would get out eventually. I mean just between your mother and my mother, all of Palm Beach, Miami and Jacksonville will know in a few hours. And no, you don’t owe your bosses anything at all. But, wouldn’t this be a boon to your career if you slapped your name on the story?”
“Possibly. Or more likely, I’d give my editors the information and then they’d fuck me over and not give me a byline. I don’t know. I’m going to have to think about this one. I have no qualms telling my friends what I’ve heard, but telling the whole world—that’s just a different story altogether. Anyway, I have to go back to work tomorrow, so I’ll just wait it out and see how I feel.”


Chapter 22: Leave Your Friends at the Door
Things got so complicated the next day at Celeb that I pushed the HillBilly tip to the back of mind, where the morality of the issue could be debated by my unconscious. Naturally, being the true gossipista that I am by nature, I had already told a few friends at work about HillBilly. Their first question was whether I was going to tell the editors. But I still had yet to decide. The following Thursday, however, my decision was essentially made for me.
Brooks and PMS called a cover session around 9 p.m. The closing day for that particular issue had been pushed from Friday to Monday due to some kind of printing snafu. For some inexplicable reason I decided to attend the cover session, which I hadn’t done in months by that point. I’d gotten sick of commenting on which shade of neon orange was less jarring to the eyes, or which photo of Renée—chunky or thin?—was more riveting. But I felt oddly compelled to go to the meeting that night. And, to my utter horror, I realized that I was right in feeling the urge to attend. I saw two mock-up covers, each with photos of Billy Dust and Heather Hill side by side. Each cover had screaming headlines such as, “Sizzling Sex Scenes Rock Tinseltown: Are Billy and Heather Steamy Off-Set?” As I stood among the other staffers and read the headlines closely, I became increasingly flustered. My face flushed. I picked up on certain keywords including “suspicions,” “rumors” and “reportedly,” which to me indicated that Celeb really had no specific information on Heather and Billy actually doing anything. All Celeb had at that point were suspicions and rumors to rely on.
See, when a publication uses the word “reportedly,” it really means that the publication has literally gleaned its information from a “report” in another publication. Celeb uses the word “reportedly” more than any other word in the English language, indicating that most of its information is lifted from other publications, be it the Star or The New York Times. Now, only a well-trained eye would know this. I only knew because it was my job to add the “reportedly” whenever required. That was a large part of my duties, in fact. The mere use of the word “reportedly” could potentially save Global from a damaging libel lawsuit. That’s why I knew instantly that the juicy HillBilly information I was concealing from my employers could make or break their cover story. I could make or break the cover story.
Sadly, this had turned out to be my moment—again, not what I’d pictured and dreamt about, but my moment nonetheless. Would it be irresponsible and unprofessional of me to let Celeb proceed with a cover story that was pure speculation? Or would it be more reprehensible for me to add lighter fluid to the brewing fire that Brooks and PMS had set? I decided to say screw it, once again. There are simply no rewards without risks and I needed the damned byline. And I knew that in order to get a byline at Celeb I’d have to do something shady anyway. Whether it was the HillBilly story or another article down the road, it inevitably would be tinged with vulgarity; that was simply the nature of the business. I went into Penny’s office an hour after the meeting ended, with a copy of Samantha’s e-mail in hand. I was confident, as I knew that I possessed more information about HillBilly than any of her well compensated editors did. Brooks was sitting in Penny’s office with her, which made me a little more comfortable.
“Ed, Penny, I have some information for you about Heather and Billy, and it’s big.”
Brooks looked at me skeptically and with a hint of amusement, while Penny just stared at me blankly, probably trying to place my name. Brooks respected me precisely because I am extremely blunt, as is he. I saw the two of us as kindred spirits—our brutal honesty ricocheted off one another’s egos seamlessly. Also, I’ve always been a total fag hag, à la a Jewish version of Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous.
“Tell me your big news then, Serena. What is it?” Brooks said sarcastically, which I relished because I knew that as soon as he read Samantha’s e-mail, he would be my new best friend. I was undeterred by his good-natured doubt. Penny continued staring at me blankly.
“I’m serious, Ed, this is really big,” I said. “So, if you use this I want you to swear to me that I will receive a byline.”
“Okay, sure you can have a byline,” he answered.
I handed him the paper. Penny scooted her chair closer to Ed’s and read over his shoulder. I watched them both read it, waiting for their expressions to change. Natch, as soon as they reached the juiciest bit, they both looked up at me with sheer glee.
“Holy shit, Serena! Who is this from?” Brooks squealed. “Who is this girl’s friend and can we get him on the phone right now? Oh my God, this is great. Penny, isn’t this fabulous? What else do you know? How much can you get? Tell me everything. Now.”
He was giddy and she was, well, astonished that the research editor and not one of her over-compensated minions had stumbled upon the celebrity scoop of the year. I explained the situation in its entirety—that I didn’t know Samantha very well, that the info had come from her friend on the West Coast, whose name I didn’t even know, and that I wasn’t sure how much more this concierge guy would even tell us.
“Serene, are you willing to work this over the weekend? Since we’re not closing the book till Monday this week, this could work out brilliantly for us.” Brooks said this without giving me a chance to answer, because the question was rhetorical anyway. “I want you to track your friend Samantha down and either you interview this concierge guy or you have her do it. But please make sure that you track this kid down one way or another. I’m counting on you, Serena. And, remember—this story has to close Monday night!”
“Listen Ed, I’m not even sure whether her friend will speak to us, he seems to be afraid of losing his job.”
“Well, offer each of them like $600 as a reporting fee. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll take it from there,” Brooks instructed.
Ohh-kay. Reporting fee my rotund, alabaster ass. I headed back to my desk. Only a couple hours to go until Saturday, when I’d have to get up and work for Celeb again. Ten minutes later, Brooks and Penny called me on speakerphone.
“Serena, we just want to make sure you know that we’re depending on you for this story,” Penny barked.
“Of course, Penny, don’t worry about it.” Duh.
Twenty minutes later, Brooks and Penny appeared in my section and asked me to follow them into the hallway. The copy girls shot me ‘Ooh, you’re in trouble’ looks.
PMS closed the door behind her. “Listen, Serena, I just want you to know how important it is for you to come through on this,” she said gravely and a little condescendingly.
“Penny, Ed, trust me, I get it. You only have to ask me to do something once.”
“I thought so. Great. Thank you,” Brooks said.
“You’re welcome.”
Brooks then told me to call both him and Penny at home over the weekend to give them updates. I immediately called Jon to tell him that I’d be unable to go to the beach house with him that weekend. He seemed happy that I’d taken the plunge and given my editors the information I possessed.


Chapter 23: Money Brings Out the Worst in Those Without It
Shit, was my first thought upon waking up that Saturday. I hated working on the weekends, especially when Celeb had already gobbled up my Friday night, as it had each week for the past eight months. Shit, shit, shit. I just had to get this over with and call Samantha, beg her to put me in touch with her friend and let me interview him. A simple plan on its face, but nothing attached to Celeb ever turned out to be simple. Ever. Weeks had passed since Samantha had sent me the e-mail, and I hadn’t actually seen her or spoken on the phone with her in ages. I prayed the number I had for her worked. It didn’t.
Double shit, fuck. I then had to call my ex-professor who’d originally introduced me to Samantha. He was of no help in finding Samantha’s number. But he did give me the e-mail address of Samantha’s cousin, who I’d actually grown up with in Jacksonville. She didn’t respond. I tried my next option: my folks. Coincidentally, my dad had recently worked on a case with Samantha’s aunt, who was a doctor of some sort. I then had to have my dad call Samantha’s aunt in Jacksonville. No luck there either, the aunt was out of town. So my dad had to leave a message with the aunt’s answering service. I prayed that the answering service in Jacksonville was more on the ball than the ones I’d dealt with for my doctors in the city.
Miraculously, Samantha’s aunt picked up her messages from her answering service and called my dad back immediately. Like the 20/20 reporter had stated, somebody up there loved Penny Sapp. By Saturday night, I had Samantha’s new cell phone number in hand. But I decided to call it a day and start again on Sunday. I was tired and I wanted to relax with Jon. I changed out of a Juicy jumpsuit and into slim jeans and a clingy, black wrap top. I put on my wooden platform Chanel sandals, grabbed a matching purse and said bye to Pucci. I wanted a proper date with Jon, without canine companionship. I told the doorman not to ring Jon’s apartment, and I knocked on his door.
“Hi! I’m taking you out to dinner tonight. No arguments. It’s high time I did something for you. Aside from merely gracing you with my presence and putting out, I mean.”
He smiled.
*****

I woke up early on Sunday, which for me translates to before 12 p.m. on a weekend. I like to sleep—a lot. Lots of sleep means no raccoon eye-bags. I called Samantha first thing. I got her voicemail, left a message and crossed my fingers that she was still interested in talking to me about the HillBilly incident. I was prepared to sweeten the deal, but I wasn’t sure how exactly I was going to accomplish that. I suspected that Brooks and PMS would pay way more than $600 for this information—despite his and PMS’s constant denials that they didn’t pay “sources”—but I had no idea how much more. The only thing Ed had mentioned about money was that $600 “reporting” fee. Frankly, I felt that since Samantha was an aspiring magazine girl she should be more than happy to get a byline on a cover story in a major celebrity publication—regardless of money—even if it was a smut-rag like Celeb. I offered her that option on the message I left. Samantha immediately called me back—thank God—because by that point she’d heard from both her cousin and aunt that I was desperately trying to contact her. I’d very soon regret getting Samantha’s extended family involved at all.
Like I said earlier, Samantha was sort of a friend-of-a-friend. I’d been friends with the younger of Samantha’s two cousins as an adolescent, when we’d been in school together. Although I’d been friends with Tiffany Miller, the younger sister, I was several years younger than her older sister, Kara, so I didn’t really know her. Kara had ended up in New York and had become a fairly successful newspaper writer and sometime author. I had no reason not to trust any of them. So when Samantha had first e-mailed me the tip about her friend walking in on HillBilly, I jumped to the conclusion that she had no ulterior motives save for possibly getting a byline in Celeb, which I completely understood. Naturally then, I took her tip at face value. When I finally got Samantha on the phone, I gave her two options. First, she could let me interview her concierge friend myself. Or, second, she could interview the concierge herself, report back to me and take a byline.
I also told her, per Ed Brooks, that we’d be able to pay her a $600 “reporting” fee. Not bad money for about an hour’s work—she could buy herself a cute little Gucci bag with that. Samantha assured me that she would spend all day tracking down the concierge, which was more complicated than it sounded because he was in L.A. and probably not even awake yet. We made a plan to touch base at 5 p.m. regardless of whether she got in touch with the concierge or not. I then left separate messages for Brooks and Penny on their cell phones, assuring them both that everything was under control and that Samantha was working on getting an interview with the concierge-eyewitness to the HillBilly make-out session. Everything was rolling along seamlessly, which of course was cause for concern when it came to Celeb. Little could I have predicted that in the span of a couple of hours on a sleepy Sunday Samantha would go from sweet, innocent, up-and-coming reporter happy to get a byline, to shameless, money-grubbing bitch.
Samantha’s entire demeanor had changed by the time she called me at 5 p.m. I could discern the transformation merely by the tone of her voice. It had gone from extremely accommodating and eager to downright smug. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I thought that I knew what was coming next. Things started out pleasant enough, but then quickly went downhill.
“Hi, I have good news. I got the interview and I got some really good quotes and descriptions about what exactly Heather and Billy were doing when he walked in on the two of them.”
“Okay, so why don’t you tell me what you’ve got? You can either e-mail it to me or just tell me over the phone and I’ll take notes.”
“Well, er, there’s kind of a little problem,” she replied.
Of course there was.
I sighed. “What’s the problem?”
“Well, um, I’ve been talking to my cousin Kara, who’s been talking to her agent, and they both seem to think that this information is worth a lot of money.”
I was silent. She continued speaking.
“Well, they, um, say that Penny Sapp is like famous for paying a lot of money for this kind of juicy gossip.”
Well, I never! Was this person I barely knew really trying to extort me? Seriously, when did everyone in the world start caring only about money? I did a quick search on-line for the legal definition of “extortion” and found it described as “forcing a person to give up something through the use of violence, fear or under pretense of authority.” Okay, so maybe it wasn’t technically extortion—and maybe she really needed the money—but still.
“Well, actually Samantha,” I began awkwardly, “Maybe Penny used to do that at Who, but she’s said publicly several times that Celeb doesn’t pay sources.” Okay, so I resorted to spouting the party line, but desperate times . . . “So, as far as I know, Celeb doesn’t actually pay sources the kind of money you’re thinking of. Your cousin is clearly a little out of the media loop.”
And in all honesty, although I knew that Brooks and PMS did, in fact, pay some sources, I had no idea how much money these people actually received. Moreover, from what I’d gathered over the past several months, payments were almost exclusively reserved for family members and close friends of superstars.
“And,” I continued, “I’ve already offered you $600, which is as much as Brooks authorized me to offer you. Moreover, $600 for a couple hours’ work is a lot more than regular reporters usually get. So, what exactly are you getting at with all of this?”
I wanted to pressure her into giving me a number, because if she was going to assume the role of greedy girl, she should at least have the decency to be honest about it.
“And you know what?” I began again, “If you have heard about Penny paying for things while she’s been at Celeb, it’s most likely been in regard to photographs. So, unless you have a picture, I really don’t think you’re going to get very far. And, you haven’t even told me anything to indicate that the information your friend gave you is even worth money. Exactly what did your friend witness?”
“Er, I’m afraid I can’t really tell you that until we work out a payment arrangement.” She uttered a nervous laugh, which sounded like, “har, har, har.”
Ugh. This girl was totally fucking insane. “Look, Samantha,” my tone was now annoyed, verging on rude, and I didn’t much care, “Frankly, I don’t want to be involved in any discussions of money. I simply do not want to get my hands dirty with this because like I said, I’m really not privy to any kind of behind the scenes stuff that goes on with Brooks and Penny.”
“Oh, sure, I understand that.” She was back to being nice and accommodating.
But it was way too late for that. She was no better than Mickey Dees’ uncle or Holden Mays’s ex-girlfriend.
“The only thing I can do is put you in touch with our editor at large Ed Brooks. I will call him and leave him a message to call you later today. But please try to be professional, because Brooks is a very big editor, and if you want a future in magazines, you do not want to get on his bad side.”
We hung up, and I was reeling. I immediately phoned Brooks and Penny and left them messages explaining what was going on. I broke my no-abusing-substances-during-the-day rule and took several bong hits in an attempt to rid my brain of the sordid exchange that I’d just engaged in. I turned on an old Sex and the City and screened my calls for the rest of the night. At 10:30 I picked up a message from an irked Brooks.
“Hi Serena. Thank you for putting me in touch with Samantha. But I have to say, she’s really aggravating me. She won’t tell me what her friend saw without me committing to a sum, and frankly, she just doesn’t know what the fuck she is doing. Who does this girl think she is?”
I smiled, because as much as I hated Celeb, I did adore that Brooks. Still have a bit of a gay crush on him, actually. At least he seemed to be on the same page as me, which was fortunate since I wanted a byline and I wanted to remain on his good side. Complicating matters even further was the fact that it was Sunday night, and we essentially had about 24 hours to close this story.
Additionally, there were still many pieces to this puzzle that had to fit together to ensure an even passable cover story. First, assuming the money-grubbing girl got her “reporting” fee, there was still the matter of her concierge friend, whose job might be in jeopardy for talking to the press about the Peninsula’s celebrity clientele. A legitimate concern—I was willing to give Samantha that. However, in order for Celeb to use the interview and quotes from the concierge, he would need to sign a contributor contract with Global. That meant that he would have to sign a company document using his real name, which most normal people were extremely wary of, mainly for fear that their name would end up in print. Of course, anyone who has ever read Celeb would know that 99 percent of its sources remain unnamed, otherwise nobody would ever talk to its reporters. Or sign those damn agreements. Now, not all sources have to sign the contributor contracts, but this story had the potential to be defamatory because we were alleging that Billy Dust had cheated on his wife.
What all of this meant was that in less than 24 hours, Samantha had to convince the concierge to sign the agreement with Global. She also had to convince the concierge that there was no way his name would end up in print. And, Samantha had told me that the concierge had been the only one who’d been in the area that HillBilly was making out in, so that added even more weight to his fear of losing his job. Before I went to bed that night I called Jon to fill him in on my afternoon slumming it with the scum of the earth. And he had some insightful comments, which were the result of a lifetime of being on the receiving end of reverse elitism.
“Well, I hate to be the one to have to break this to you, Serene, but the term ‘money is the root of all evil’ does have some validity to it. People without money, it seems, will do anything to get it, even if that means compromising their morals. I mean you just witnessed that firsthand. People lie, cheat, steal and even kill for money on a daily basis. We’re lucky enough not to have to worry about money. But for those people who aren’t so lucky, money isn’t a trivial matter. It’s literally a matter of life or death.”
“I know, you’re right. Samantha definitely turned into a green-eyed monster once she heard the word ‘money.’ I just assumed that because I knew her cousins that she was a trustworthy person. Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson. I’m exhausted from all of this duplicitous activity. I’m going to go to bed, but I have Tuesday off, so I’ll come over.”

Chapter 24: Bitchy, Bothered and Bewildered
I arrived into work early that Monday morning, knowing that I’d have to deal with Brooks and PMS on the HillBilly cover story. I headed straight to Brooks’s office. Brooks was sitting in his large, airy office with Gary Worth, another office fave of mine in light of his status as a preeminent gossipist and his superb sense of style. G.W. is hands-down the chicest straight man I’ve encountered in Manhattan. He actually wore a pocket-handkerchief and suspenders on most days, how retro cool is that? And he’s Jewish to boot—love him.
“Hi guys. What’s the latest? I want to apologize for Samantha’s behavior. I’m completely appalled that she is acting this way. Please don’t think that she’s a friend, merely an acquaintance and if I had any inkling that she would turn on us like this, I never would have sent her to you. I’m soo sorry!”
“Darling, it’s okay,” Brooks drawled in his baritone voice, which according to Darren was a dead ringer for Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island. “It’s totally not your fault, but she’s really fucking annoying, that girl. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and she refuses to tell us what exactly the information is. And for her to ask me for $20,000—”
“WHAT?!” I shrieked. “She asked you for that much? Is she completely fucking insane? Oh my God! I’m soo embarrassed!”
“Serena, calm down, it’s not your fault. But $20,000, I mean that’s like a quarter of my budget for the entire issue. It’s just not happening. And, that agent her cousin has is a complete idiot.”
“I know, I know. I’m beginning to think anyone even associated with this family is mildly retarded.”
“Anyway,” Gary jumped in, as he was going to top-edit the story, “The bottom line is that we can’t offer her a figure without her telling us at least a little of what she found out from the concierge. And she’s pretty much refusing to do that.”
“So, what’s going to happen is that I’d like you to call Samantha and explain to her that she’s acting ridiculous and that she’s never going to get that kind of money from me,” Brooks said to me. “I mean,” he continued, “Tell her she could maybe get a couple thousand dollars. But that’s it. We need to move this story—make sure you tell her that we have a deadline TONIGHT. And Gary, you will work on having Samantha get the concierge to commit to us, to sign the agreement so that we can move forward.”
A couple thousand?! Damn, they really did pay sources a lot. I went back to my desk and breathed. Thankfully, nobody was in my department yet because it was only 8 a.m. I phoned Samantha. I planned on making no attempt to disguise my disgust at her behavior. She didn’t pick up.
“Samantha, it’s Serena. Ed told me everything that’s going on, and he told me how much money you asked for. I’m going to be honest with you—that sum is ludicrous and I can’t imagine what you are thinking. You are not going to get that kind of money out of them. Period. You may be able to get a couple thousand, but only if the concierge signs the contributor contract. From now on, you’ll be dealing with Gary Worth. Please try to be professional with him, he is extremely capable and the former editor of GQ.”
I hung up, and tried to concentrate on my real work. I was after all, still a research editor. I had to leave early that day, and when I stopped by Gary’s office to see what the deal with Samantha was, he still hadn’t gotten the concierge to sign the contributor contract. But he assured me that he was making progress. That night, I received no frantic phone calls at home. So I reasoned that everything must have gone swimmingly—meaning that the concierge had signed the contributor contract.
The magazine hit the stands on Wednesday that week due to the printing problems. I popped into Gristede’s before heading to the office and saw that my byline was attached to the story, along with three other writers’ bylines. All of the info from Samantha’s source was in the story—including a play-by-play of the HillBilly make-out session, a physical description of their surroundings and quotes about what exactly they were and weren’t doing to each other. That meant that the concierge had signed the contributor contract. Brian the lawyer wouldn’t have let the concierge’s info make it into print without a signed contributor contract—he was an extremely conscientious attorney.
Ironically enough, as someone who’d aspired her entire life to be a magazine editor and writer, I wasn’t that excited to see my name attached to a cover story, though my friends and family were. For me it was somewhat anticlimactic, probably because I’d had to go through eight months of career hell just to get my name into the smut-rag. When I really thought about the past eight months at Celeb and what it had taken to get to this point—the point of merely having one measly little clip to attach to my résumé when I went looking for another job—I realized just how utterly naïve I had been about what my job would be like. And although it had been only eight months, that was years, perhaps decades in Penny-time. Her staffers had an extremely high burnout and turnover rate. The average career span of her staffers probably was eight months. Walking into the office that Wednesday, I had no concrete reason to suspect that everything wasn’t on the up-and-up with the HillBilly story. But, after eight months of dealing with the bullshit that wafted through the Celeb office on a minute-by-minute basis, I should’ve fucking known better. As soon as I sat down at my desk, I checked my inter-office e-mail and saw that Brooks wanted to see me as soon as I got in. I walked over to his office.

Hairy Scary

I've been a prisoner of my newly Japanese-straightened hair all weekend, so men, you may want to skip this beauty entry. I've been doing this every six months for 3 years, as I have majorly curly hair and I hate it, natch. Japanese straightening (thermal reconditioning) is, quite simply, a Jewish girl's savior. One six-hour-long treatment every six months, and you have shiksa-straight locks—no frizzies, no blow drying, just wash and go.

Do you know how much time and money and products this saves? Sure, it's pricey, about $600 twice yearly, but soooooooooo worth it. Anyway, upon the advice of a friend who tried it for the first time (ahem, Schwartz) I went somewhere different six months ago in the city to save a measly $150 bucks. I was never happy with the results, though it looked good on Schwartzie. Well, yesterday I found out that the new place I tried in the city, which claimed I was getting thermal reconditioning, did not even DO thermal reconditioning. They merely do a curl reducer puh-lease.

What makes it thermal reconditioning is the use of the flat iron, which sets in the product. So girls, pony up the extra money, do not go here: SEI Tomoko, and go here: Momotaro. Momotaro rocks; they do this every day, all day, and to boot, they are on 5th ave across from Saks and a few floors above Jimmy Choo;)

And if you live in Florida, go here: Vincent J Salon.


The results from Vincent J:






And on the way home from Vincent J, stop here, Cafe Martoranofor a true, legit, Mafia run Sopranos-style Italian feast, replete with neon lights and The Godfather playing on TVS. Though word to the wise: you must secure a reservation via the assistance of someone with a name like Johnny Meatballs, or endure an hour long wait. Florida is sooooooooo bizarre.



SEI Tomoko

Momotaro

Vincent J Salon

More to come later

Welcome to the new readers courtesy of the brilliant Not Chosen, Just Posin' and the vomit-inducing, debutante diatribe Belle in the Big Apple.

And a big holler to the reader from Orange Park??? I grew up over the bridge in Jax. I didn't know people in Orange Park read, so kudos, my friend.

I will post more scintillating stuff later, once I've done my morning exercises. Today I think I'll reveal how I was one of the first journos in Manhattan to have incontrovertible proof that Brad was stepping out on Jen with skanky Angelina. This knowledge led directly to my demise at Star.

***Update: in a fit of self-destruction/self-pity/hatred of the publishing world, I seem to have deleted all drafts of Dishalicious from my e-mail. I will dig something up this weekend. In the meantime, I thought I would post this embarrassing picture of my dad and his buddy on the boat. LOVE the hat dad.







I have my long overdue Japanese straightening session tomorrow, which means SIX HOURS in a salon chair being poked and prodded. So I could use some good book recs...

Southern Style Smackdown? Bring it on

Um, I haven't read this yet, but this could be interesting/horrifying/funny/anti-Semitic:

Not Chosen, Just Posin'

And Re: this lovely Brooke Parkhurst/moi smackdown, Gawker put it best. My only point is that the fashion media, the most notoriously judgemental, bitchiest niche of the media (GOD LOVE EM ALL:) will eat this 'genteel Southerner' for their liquid lunches. And call me crazy, but I'm a Southerner as well, but I was brought up to keep at least some of the twins to the imagination sartorially speaking.

Radar on Gawker


OK, Jason Binn. Utter douchebag. I interned for him at Gotham and he had me lie repeatedly to Christina Greeven Cuomo, who then ran Manhattan File magazine, so that he could snoop on her publication. He's actually a good friend of a good family friend, who may or may have not met him in a certain Anonymous group. I don't quite know whether it's AA or NA...

Day three on the Lexapro; the only of the myriad antidepressants I've tried that has no withdrawl effects. That, combined with the fact that I can run again and therefore get my body back into the shape I so desire, may equal, if not happiness (God forbid), then at least contendedness. Fucking drugs. Can't live without them, yet people who are able to think they are a bad invention.

Jason Binn is such a pansy ass gay boy. Why would this probably nice Jewish girl marry him? He is such a schmuck. When I interned for him, he had me lie repeatedly to Christina Greeven Cuomo, who then ran Manhattan File magazine, just to snoop on then. Oh, and he's an alcoholic and a drug addict. I know it's supposed to be AA/NA, but a family friend met the douchebag in either and NA or AA meeting and now they are good buds. If you have an addiction, own up to it dude. Or just keep drinking. Life is too short to be substance free.



Party Pictures 8/17/06 - Good for All

Counter Stalking

In case you can't tell, I'm in a really fucking shit-ass mood of late, so I thought I would call some people out.

For those of you who don't know, the site meter I have ENABLES ME TO SEE WHERE YOU ARE READING MY BLOG FROM.

AOL users, I can only see AOL.com, so you are safe, though I do have a good idea which AOL users are e-stalking me (ahem, asshole exes and wanna-be exes).

However, most other IP addresses reveal more. And since I have access to how long people view my pages, I have concluded that I seem to have several creepy e-stalkers from companies and places I've never heard of. To wit: Please reveal yourselves. Most of these people check everyday, sometimes for disturbing period of times. Check yourselves, freaks:


Proskauer Rose, 13 minutes 27 seconds, today
Grey Advertising, 27 minutes, today
Proskauer Rose, 21 minutes, yesterday (do you not do ANY work at that law firm of yours anonymous lawyer stalker????)
M. Shanken Communications, nearly daily, I'm pretty sure this is Scott's stalker. If so, get a life, girl and move on.

Then there are the regular stalkers, only whose locations I can identify, including one in Gaithersburg, Maryland, who spends hours, upon hours reading my drivel.

It would be one thing if I actually wrote things of interest, however, given that I have THE MOST BORING LIFE IN DADE COUNTY, I really can't understand what the hell you people are looking at or reading about. Seriously. Get lives.

The one light at the end of my interminable, miserable, morose tunnel is that I can FINALLY run again. The orthopedist gave me the okay yesterday and it felt soooooooo fucking good to get on the treadmill again after SIX months. There is simply no comparable way to burn calories when it comes to using treadmill by running or walking on an incline.


Tomorrow I promise to post more of my second "novel," a term I use completely loosely, as even that must be more interesting than this drivel.

The Passion of Percocet

I had my wisdom teeth removed Friday and am still under a Percocet induced haze. It really is a pretty miserable experience, but luckily mom came in to hold my hand and dote on me. I did look like a chipmunk the first two days, but now the swelling has gone down and I can talk somewhat normally. This was actually my first-ever surgery, and though there are certainly no pleasant things to note, I have to say that local anesthesia is niiiiiiiiiice. I seem to recall asking the doctor if I could take the IV home with me. Nothing exciting to report. Maybe things will pick up later in the week when little bro comes to town and I have an excuse to party again.

Post This, Biatch

Chapter 3
As I mentioned, I did not take the job at Celeb with the intention of writing a “tell all.” My book is not a tell all, it is a roman a clef—there is a world of difference between Dominick Dunne and Julia Phillips. Dominick can eat lunch wherever he pleases, while Julia is, well, dead. And while she was alive, she found it very hard to eat at The Ivy after her tell all was published. But, just for the record, I took the job at the sleazy Celeb because I needed a job in magazines, bottom line. I actually wanted to work for Penny, as I thought I could learn a thing or two. I didn’t learn much, but I witnessed a lot. Too much, in fact. It would have been one thing if the things I was privy to were on the up and up, par for the course of objective journalism or even “journalism” loosely defined—then I would have just gone on my merry way. But I have this little affectation; brutal honesty. When I see or hear things that I think are wrong, I have this silly moral compunction to bring things to light. While it’s true that I never worked for The Wall Street Journal or the New Yorker, I am no less of a journalist because of that. I have, in fact, never aspired to be anything but a writer and editor. I have devoted my entire life to journalism and magazines. I have two degrees in journalism, and I take the business very seriously. Yes, my areas of expertise may be fashion, travel, jewelry, society, entertainment and the arts, but that did not make me any less serious about the industry I served. As cheesy as it sounds, I did become a writer and a journalist to disseminate the truth, and when I see the truth being obstructed or obscured, I consider it my duty to intervene. I can be one nosy biatch.
For nearly eight months, I did my job at Celeb mostly without incident, though I hated the job from the start. I loathed what I was witness to—lying, deceit, paying, bribing and threatening in order to get stories—but I did nothing about it. But then around month seven I started to get itchy and resentful. I started hating this bitch called Penny for infecting the lives of her staffers. I saw that nobody had the balls to stand up to her, I suppose because they were fearful of losing their dreadful jobs. But I was born with no such fear, did not possess that silly, prosaic Protestant work ethic, knew that there would always be another job and more money to be had. I had no desire to waste 60 hours a week at a job where I made no creative contribution. So one day in late April, 2004, I gave notice to my direct supervisor. But here’s the catch, I gave more than six weeks’ notice, reasoning that in that six weeks I would figure out what my next move would be. And within a week or two, I had my next move figured out—I would write a novel, and this time, I would see it through till the end.










Chapter 4
Like any other lifelong writer, I had made several previous attempts at novelizing. I always got off to a promising start, always had a powerful introduction and plot, but never saw a book through to its conclusion. At the same time, I had long believed that my first successful novel would be reflective of my life and my experiences as Stephanie Green. “Write what you know,” is the invisible hand that guides both journalism and literature. From Hemingway to Didion, this rule applies. I would have no better luck at writing about politics than I would in running for city council. I don’t know how to do either, and I have no interest in learning. What had always captivated me was fashion, media, society, jewelry and familial relationships. These were the subjects I had mined since adolescence and these were the subjects I knew I could write on with authority. The problem was that up until I left Celeb, I had never had the thread of a story that I could weave throughout the tapestry of my life. That, and only that, was what Celeb gave me. A brief episode to tie my life story together. Sure, Serena Gold, the main character in my Dishalicious, worked for a fictitious, evil editor at smarmy tabloid for a mere eight months. But for the previous 27 years, the inspiration for her existed and led an interesting, humorous, creative life that provided the main foundation for the novel.
One day shortly after I’d given my notice to Celeb and before I’d begun writing, an old college friend was in town staying with me for a few days. As we were walking up Lexington Avenue past the antique shops and I was telling Hank of my tribulations in the media, he made the offhand comment, “You know, you should really write a book.” And in that one remark, although I’d said the same thing to myself at least 100 times, I found the external validation that I needed to light a fire under my ass. “Yes,” I thought, “I should write a fucking book. What’s stopping me? I finally have a compelling story, one that people might actually be interested in.”
I started writing the next day and didn’t stop for the next three and one-half weeks. I wrote at least ten pages a day, following a rough outline that I composed the day that Hank inspired me. I know that people think I’m exaggerating when I say I wrote a book in three weeks, but it’s the truth. Like I said, I’d always had the skeleton of the story I was telling, all that had been missing was the salacious element, which was quite easy to insert once I’d been at Celeb for seven months. The story literally poured out of me in a cathartic flood of creativity. Dialogue which I never knew I had the creativity to craft erupted from my consciousness, and my photographic memory finally came into good use. I’m the type of person who remembers every conversation I’ve ever had, can recall every snub, every embarrassment, every incident with startling clarity. And though I’d never before had any tangible use for such a talent, apparently this skill comes in handy when writing a book. I was inspired like I’ve never been before, and I finally was able to “write what you know.”
I was able, with very little effort, to gather all of my meaningful life experiences into a compelling narrative. I was able to bring to life long-dead relatives, to put my family’s hysterical history to paper, to express my heretofore unexpressed fears and sentiments—I was able to write freely for the first time in my life. See, after six years of journalism schooling, I’d been bogged down by rules, AP Style, grammar, punctuation, objectivity—so much so that I felt I couldn’t write a creative article to save my life. I had felt that journalism school had murdered whatever talent for creative writing I had once possessed. What a relief and a pleasure it was to discover that I could write unrestrained and unconfined for pages and pages without having to worry about AP Style and objectivity. During those three writing weeks, I had more fun writing than I had since I’d penned short stories in the sixth grade. I felt free and so relieved to know that my talent hadn’t evaporated once I’d enrolled in NYU journalism school. That my professors hadn’t been able to squelch my innate creativity, despite their best efforts.
I finished the first draft of Dishalicious while visiting my parents in Florida over Memorial Day weekend. For the first time in my short life, I felt a true sense of accomplishment. Because I have always been a controlling, wannabe-overachiever, nothing I’d done had ever been good enough for me. It wasn’t enough that I had a master’s degree in journalism from NYU; it should have been Columbia. It wasn’t enough that I was a magazine writer and editor; it should have been Vogue I was writing for. But I actually felt a real sense of accomplishment with this book—I’d written a novel! I’d always wanted to write a book but never actually believed I’d do it, and yet I had. I was happy, for a few brief moments anyway.
I am not necessarily endowed with much self-esteem or pride, so to feel a sense of accomplishment so great was a true achievement. Of course it was a fleeting experience. Happiness, for me, has never been a sustainable emotion without copious amounts of prescribed and/or black market drugs.






Chapter 5
After I finished the first draft, I still had two weeks left at Celeb. I was practically jubilant around the office, knowing not only that I was getting the hell out of there, but that I was leaving with this great project, something that I had done all on my own. During those two weeks, I did the bare minimum at the office and devoted all my spare time to revising the first draft. My goal was to find an agent the week after I left Celeb, so as not to waste any time. Although I do come from a privileged background, I do not, have a trust fund or anything like that. So the lack of financial freedom meant that I had to sort of get approval from my parents to go off on this whole novel adventure. I explained to them over and over how I saw this playing out. First, I would get an agent quickly. Then I would plant items in Page Six and Gawker and other places to stimulate interest. Then a six-figure book deal would fall in my lap. Easy peasy. What can I say? I was a young, naïve idiot. At the wizened age of 30, I now know better. This is what I honestly thought, with Plum Sykes, Lauren Weisberger and the nanny girls influencing my beliefs. I thought my book was as good or better than Devil Wears Prada. My parents, though dubious that this money should easily fall into my lap, were supportive. They were, natch, helping with my rent; on the Upper East Side, a $40,000-per-year job just doesn’t cut it. Surprisingly, things went exactly according to plan over the next few weeks.
The week after I left Celeb, I contacted the agents whose names I’d gotten from friends, relatives and acquaintances. The first agent to get back to me loved the manuscript, so I agreed to sign with him, not giving the decision much afterthought. Obviously, that was ill-advised, but I was under the impression that it was usually very difficult to get an agent, so I figured I should jump at such an opportunity. The same day I agreed to sign with my agent, I got a call from Paula Froelich at Page Six inquiring about the book, tipped off by an anonymous source. Naturally, I was the anonymous source—I’d concocted a fake e-mail address and identity and sent her a “tip.” To this day, nobody, not even my agent knows that I was the elusive tipster. Being a media insider does have its advantages in situations like this. My agent advised me not to talk with Paula, but I did send her an e-mail detailing the book’s plot against his advice. On July 4th, the following item appeared in Page Six, the country’s pre-eminent and most widely read gossip column. It is absolutely required reading for those in the media.

Bonnie Seeing Stars
Bonnie Fuller may have thought the worst was over—Star magazine’s numbers are up, the staff upheaval has stemmed and the magazine finally went glossy—but she has one more nightmare to look forward to. Former researcher Stephanie Green left Star two weeks ago and, in that short time, has penned a “scathing and hilarious roman a clef about a sleazy tabloid and an extremely evil and notorious editor who tries to use the researcher as a scapegoat when a cover story involving Hollywood’s ultimate perfect couple goes horribly awry,” a source reports. The world’s favorite gossip column, Page Six, is said to also figure prominently in [the] novel’s plot as “the lead character [the tabloid editor] (sic) considers the gossip column required brain food for anyone in the media.” The character may be evil, but she sure sounds smart to us! Green has just begun shopping the book to editors and agents. She didn’t return calls but a Star rep said: “Stephanie did work here but she is contractually forbidden to write a book—fact or fiction—based on her experiences here.”

Couldn’t have written it better myself. Actually, I did write the majority of it, as the quotes and descriptions were all from me, via the “anonymous source.” However, because this item ran on a Sunday, July 4th nonetheless, it went largely unnoticed. Gawker (a widely read media blog) didn’t pick up on it, and most influential media types do not stay in the city on a holiday weekend. So, while it was gratifying to see my name in boldface in the world’s most famous gossip column, it did little for the book, save for alert my former employer, to the book’s presence. A couple of days after the item ran, I received a letter from the HR department stating that I had signed a confidentiality agreement and that it would be enforced. I largely ignored the letter and wasn’t the least bit worried about my former company; the book was fiction after all. Hello?First Amendment? My father is a litigator and before I began to publicize the book, he and a team of his paralegals researched the confidentiality agreement, deemed it unenforceable, and gave me the go ahead. That was all I needed. Plus, I knew that even the worst-case scenario—getting sued—would result in a cavalcade of publicity for the book.
I spent the next month editing the book, per my agent’s suggestions and according to my own judgment. He advised me to tip off another media outlet and I settled on the fashion industry bible, Women’s Wear Daily, because it had a widely-read media section. I tipped off the section’s editor in the same way I had tipped off Paula Froelich. This time, I consented to an interview. The item ran on August 24.

Women's Wear Daily Tuesday, August 24, 2004
THE DEVIL SHE KNOWS: When it comes to thinly fictionalized magazine memoirs, Stephanie Green is a lot less coy than Lauren Weisberger. Whereas Weisberger, a former assistant to Vogue editor in chief Anna Wintour, doggedly insisted her novel, “The Devil Wears Prada,” was a work of pure fancy, Green describes her new book, “Dishalicious,” as a roman à clef — defined by Merriam-Webster Online as “a novel in which real persons or actual events figure under disguise.” The book’s main character, Serena, is a researcher at a celebrity tabloid run by “this evil editor in chief whom the New York media loves to hate,” said Green, herself a former researcher at Star magazine, which is run by Bonnie Fuller. Citing a confidentiality agreement, Green declined to comment on her eight-month stint under Fuller, which ended earlier this summer. “The best I can say is that it was an interesting experience,” she said. Green dashed off the 300-page manuscript in just three weeks. Her agent, Jim McCarthy of Dystel & Goderich, will shop the book to publishers next month. Green said she’s aware the book could earn her some enemies (although, given Fuller’s reputation, it could earn her some friends, as well). “I know that there will be some backlash, which is fine with me, because my experience at Star taught me that celebrity journalism is not for me,” she said. “I’m not easily intimidated, and I’m not worried about offending people that may have inspired characters in the book, because it’s well deserved. It’s not like I’m picking on angels here.” — Jeff Bercovici



And I wasn’t picking on angels, but demons. This item got considerably more attention, as Gawker did pick it up:
Bonnie Fuller Gets 'Devil' Treatment

Oh, goody: another roman à clef for the media elite is on the way. While the title, Dishalicious, takes the retarded cake, author Stephanie Green's book just might be entertaining in the same way that made The Devil Wears Prada tolerable:
The book’s main character, Serena, is a researcher at a celebrity tabloid run by "this evil editor in chief whom the New York media loves to hate," said Green, herself a former researcher at Star magazine, which is run by Bonnie Fuller. Citing a confidentiality agreement, Green declined to comment on her eight-month stint under Fuller, which ended earlier this summer. "The best I can say is that it was an interesting experience," she said.

Honestly, we can't believe it's taken this long to produce a thinly-veiled account of life in Fuller’s house, but we imagine those standard-issue titanium ball-gags are rather silencing.

Now, while I wasn’t happy with this girl calling my inventive title retarded—what grade is she in, anyway?—the Gawker blurb had the effect I intended. My former agent, who was essentially having his job done for him by me, was flooded with inquiries from publishers, translators and film scouts. I was already making his job incredibly easy by garnering my own interest and coverage. It was my feeling that after all this press, a monkey could sell this fucking book. Now, it should be noted that while all this was going on, the book had yet to be sent out to publishers on my agent’s advice. He seemed to think that it’d have a better chance of selling in September. This agent, on the other hand, also advised me against having an attorney vet the manuscript by doing what is called a libel read. I decided, regretfully, to trust his advice and not my instincts on that one.






Chapter 6
I spent the next two weeks readying the manuscript to go to publishers. I was under the impression that having an agent meant that I wouldn’t have to worry about the little things. I was wrong. It was up to me to print out 10 copies of the manuscript and deliver them to the agent’s office on September 7. Nine would go out to editors the following day via a messenger. All did not go according to plan, however. The next day, my agent informed me that one of the manuscripts has gone missing and did not reach the intended editor. I had a brief, paranoid vision of a journalist intercepting that missing copy and my fear was confirmed when I got a phone call the following day from a raspy-voiced reporter named Sara Nelson at the Post. My agent had e-mailed me that morning to say that Nelson would be calling, he did not, however, although I would later find out he already knew, warn me that Nelson had snagged a copy of the manuscript. The one that went missing perhaps? I’m certainly no conspiracy theorist, but it all seemed rather suspicious.
“Stephanie, I’m sitting here looking at your book. It’s so scandalous and nasty and hilarious. I love it,” Nelson said in her pack-a-day, husky voice.
“What do you mean you’re reading it? How did you get it?”
“I have my ways,” she chuckled.
She proceeded to “interview” me, though I suppose that particular journalistic term has a much different meaning at the Post than at a reputable media outlet. She asked me to send her a jpeg of myself, which I happily did. She said she’d run the story in the business section the following day.
I woke at the crack of dawn, literally, the next morning and read the piece online. After the initial sharp intake, I don’t think I breathed for the full time I read it. Why. That. Little. Bitch. It ripped me and the book to shreds in places, and Nelson’s words seethed with bile, shedding journalistic objectivity and accuracy. I was misquoted, the manuscript was summarized inaccurately and the journalist didn’t bother to check her facts. She even went so far as to ask point blank whether publishers would pay six-figures for this.

ROMAN A CLEF CUTS BONNIE TO SHREDS



New York Post - New York, N.Y.
Author: SARA NELSON
Date: Sep 10, 2004
Start Page: 040
Section: Business
Text Word Count: 474



Document Text



(Copyright 2004, The New York Post. All Rights Reserved) This Devil may wear Prada, but she somehow manages to make it - and her Manolo Blahniks - look "cheap." She also "carries last season's handbags, has adult acne . . . and talks with that hideous working class Canadian accent."So says a new novel called "Dishalicious" that has just gone out to about 10 New York publishers.The 281-plus page manuscript by former Star magazine employee Stephanie Green won't keep the media world guessing about the clefs to this roman - the book is painfully obvious.Editor-in-chief Penny Mother#$@*ing Saxe - PMS to her disgruntled employee - is clearly Bonnie Fuller, former Cosmopolitan, Glamour and Us Weekly editor who now runs the Star.If the Canadian digs, body image insults and descriptions of the editor as "one of the most hated women in Manhattan media" aren't enough, there's the fact that Green was a researcher at the Star until June of this year.She cheerfully admits she was working on the novel during her eight months at the first full-time job she had in New York. And while she signed a confidentiality agreement with Star parent American Media Inc., she's not concerned that her writing a tell- all book breaks that agreement."My dad is a lawyer," she says. "I've done my research. Yes, it was inspired by my life, but I haven't talked about what went on at the Star. The book is obviously a work of fiction."Well, yes - except that the descriptions, and even the names - seem awfully close to reality.David Pecker, Fuller's boss at American Media, is here called Harvey Dick. The magazine that Saxe/Fuller runs is called Celeb (Star), and she came there from "People." (Us Weekly) Like Fuller, the fictional PMS lives - horrors! - in the suburbs, has several children under 16, and is married to a more or less stay-at-home husband. She's also widely dismissed - and secretly envied.Bonnie Fuller was unavailable for comment, but staffers say she is well aware that Green has written a book, although it's unlikely she has seen it.An American Media spokesman says, "We wish [Green] well and hope her book sells as well as Star does every week on the newsstand."Will some publisher pay six figures for this hatchet job, which dresses the dish with a meager chick-lit plot line about a young staffer's romance and her ill-fated quest to get a byline on a cover story, no matter what?---Bad BonnieA new novel by former Star researcher Stephanie Green is supposedly fiction - but some think its boss from hell bears strong resemblance to Star Editorial Director Bonnie Fuller.'One of the most hated women in Manhattan media.'Carries last seasons handbags, has adult acne . . . and talks with that hideous working class Canadian accent.'[Illustration]
-Stephanie Green -Bonnie Fuller [N.Y. Post: David Rentas]

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Abstract (Document Summary)



Editor-in-chief Penny Mother#$@*ing Saxe - PMS to her disgruntled employee - is clearly Bonnie Fuller, former Cosmopolitan, Glamour and Us Weekly editor who now runs the Star.David Pecker, Fuller's boss at American Media, is here called Harvey Dick. The magazine that Saxe/Fuller runs is called Celeb (Star), and she came there from "People." (Us Weekly) Like Fuller, the fictional PMS lives - horrors! - in the suburbs, has several children under 16, and is married to a more or less stay-at-home husband. She's also widely dismissed - and secretly envied.A new novel by former Star researcher [Stephanie Green] is supposedly fiction - but some think its boss from hell bears strong resemblance to Star Editorial Director Bonnie Fuller.






There was a huge, hideously unflattering picture of my former boss and a small picture of me. I was gratified that I looked decent and reasoned that maybe a hot Jewish guy would see it. Hey, I had to find a thread to hang onto. My agent kept insisting that any press was good press, but I knew better. I do believe that the Post story, coupled with the fact that the characters were indeed thinly veiled—hey nobody bothered to tell me to disguise them better—scared off publishers. In the first week after the manuscript went out, the reaction was generally positive. In my former agent’s words, this is how things progressed over the next couple of weeks.

September 13, three days after manuscript went out:
Hope you had a great weekend. Wanted to let you know where a few people are:
Warner brought it to editorial board. They're getting a few more reads. The editorial director read the first 100 pages and liked them. They are "seriously interested."
The editor at Atria was out sick last week and is jumping into the game late. She's planning on reading tonight.
The editor at Broadway really loves the lead character and is very, very positive about the book. She has to get some more reads and is trying to do everything as quickly as possible.
Haven't heard from the other 6 editors yet this morning but will keep you up to speed.

September 16, one week after manuscript went out:
Interest is still high with three publishers. Two I haven't heard from in a few days but know the interest is high. Four have passed. Since a significant portion of the industry is out of the office until Monday for the holiday, I don't think we're going to hear much until then. I'm going to call around today and see if there are other publishers who want to take a look and can get us an answer quickly. We're still in a very good place but (ugh!) have to wait. Don't worry about following up. I'm just as impatient as you are. If I don't talk to you before tomorrow, have a wonderful birthday!

My 29th birthday fell on a Friday that year, Rosh Hashanah Friday actually. Apparently, our people are quite predominant in the publishing industry, but leave it to me to pick a Goyim agent. I was scheduled to fly home to Florida on September 22, as I had not heard from my agent since the e-mail on the 16th, I asked him to give me an update before I left. He called me, and I immediately detected notes of both resignation and detachment. I knew bad news was coming.
“I know you wanted an update before you leave for Florida, and I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he said.
My heart went to my throat and I sat down and braced myself for the worst.
“All but one of the publishers have passed.”
From there, everything else he said was a blur. I remember being almost relieved that my destiny had caught up to me so quickly. It’s simply amazing, isn’t it, how quickly the tides can change in life?
Obviously, this was quite a disappointment. I had counted on a bidding war in the first round and so had my agent. In fact, in retrospect, I feel that my agent didn’t do a hard sell because he felt that the publicity would do his job for him. Bottom line was that my agent didn’t know his head from his ass and that the book had not been ready to go to publishers. I didn’t see the rejection by 9 publishers as a slight bump in the road or an obstacle to overcome—I saw it as the end. I saw it as my public humiliation, the end of my writing career before it had even begun. Because, let’s look at the facts here: I had no job, no money of my own, no plan for the future except one that had just gone up in smoke.

Serialization

OK, so this isn't THE book that you guys have been bugging me to post, but this is a fictionalized account of what happened after I wrote the book. This is basically the nascent form of my second "novel," which upon opening again for the first time today I realized is 400 pages long. So I think I'm going to edit it and then post it as I go along. I'm not even going to try to publish this time, so I figured what the hell...Also, this is kind of a no-holds-barred look at the publishing/agenting process, so it may even be helpful in showing people what pratfalls to avoid.

Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, but nearly everything in it is true. This is a work of fiction because the truth is too painful, too revealing, too dangerous and too personal. This is a work of fiction, because the truth is stranger than. This is the very real yet heavily edited story of my life and how I managed to survive the most trying year of it.

















Chapter 1
My life has always crumbled around my birthday and my 30th was shaping up to be no exception. In the week leading up to the big 3-0, I’d had my heart shattered by the first man I’d met in more than five years who’d given me butterflies; I’d been dumped by my supposedly stellar literary agent; and pushed out of the only steady editorial job I’d managed to hang onto since my entrée into the Manhattan media. What a wonderful world. But then I was off to Bermuda for a week with my family, in an attempt to forget my utterly disappointing life in New York. For seven days, sitting on a beach, perhaps I’d be able to push to the back of my mind the fact that I was single, unemployed, broke, notorious, a failed author with no hope and even fewer prospects. But hey, at least I was looking better than I ever had—a small but important consolation for a single 30-year-old woman. Hard to fathom, but last year at the same exact moment, the outlook had been bleaker still.
One year prior, on the eve of my 29th birthday—an easy one in retrospect to turning 30—my brother and best friend practically had to drag me from my apartment to “celebrate.” Because, in the week leading up to that birthday, my career, hopes and emotions had been on one hell of a roller coaster ride. In that one week, I’d gone from three possible book deals to being rejected by every single house my roman a clef had been submitted to. My name had been skewered in The New York Post, Gawker and Women’s Wear Daily. I’d had six-figure dollar signs dancing in my head and then seen them vaporize. I’d been up, I’d been down, I’d been elated, then suicidal. In short, I was a huge fucking mess, as was my life and my career. See, I’d written the first draft of this little chick lit book that ended up causing a huge scandal, which resulted in me being sued by America’s largest tabloid publisher. It was a novel, but I’d named names, pointed fingers, exposed dirty little secrets, aired soiled laundry and attacked an industry that I found to be morally bankrupt and deceitful. It was a breezy, cheery, fast-paced, romantic comedy type of novel, but it was not without depth and was as much of a social critique as a beach read. It was not the great American novel; it was not the book I’d always dreamed of writing; it was not, by any standard in fact, the best book I had the ability to write. It was a novel that I had thought would be an easy sell, would make a splash, give me a name and enable me to follow it up with something much more substantial. Of course, in my life, nothing ever turns out as I intend.
The novel was called Dishalicious, and in the words of my second agent, it was summarized thusly:

"Dishalicious is the story of Serena Gold, who reluctantly works at Celeb: the most notorious magazine/tabloid (depending on who you’re talking to) in the business, for the most notorious editor in the business, Penny Sapp. When Serena gets a hot tip about the breakup of Hollywood’s most gorgeous and revered golden couple, she needs to decide: does she use the story to get her coveted byline or does she bury the tip and rise above the muck that is Celeb magazine? And will she ever manage to bring down Penny and get her dream job at Vogue—inquiring minds want to know….
Along the way, Serena finds love, helps found a fabulous doggy rescue charity, and goes shopping, shopping, shopping. Dishalicious is “chic” lit in the tradition of Nanny Diaries and Bergdorf Blondes, chockfull of references to the very most glamorous side of life—from Chanel to Choo to Cavalli."


I didn’t take the job at Celeb with the intention of writing a tell-all, which is what most people seemed to think. The unadorned truth is that I’d really wanted the job; was, in fact, desperate for an editorial job, any old job. It was shortly after 9-11, and most everyone’s creative career prospects were dismal. I thought it would be a sort of grown-up adventure. A lark even. Me work sixty or seventy hours a week? Sure, fine, bring it on. I’d be one of those productive mopes with a right to complain about how much I worked. So I took this job as a research editor for this Godawful tabloid that routinely wrote ridiculous stories based on information gleaned from drug-addled tipsters, celebrities’ trash bins, so-called friends of stars and spies sent out to stalk the superstars. I hated every single drawn-out second of working at Celeb. It was the type of job where, if you wanted to get through the day, you had to check your morals at the door and accept the fact that you were contributing to the downfall of Western civilization.
So I sucked up my pride, my highfalutin morality for eight interminable months and then I simply had enough. I’d gone to work there at the time that a very famous, yet hated editor had taken over, so things were insane from the day I was hired. I’m the type of person who’s always kept a diary and written down nearly everything of interest in my life. In May, I went on what the media later dubbed a “three-week writing binge.” Actually, it was more of a month-long purge. I purged my mind and body of all the words that had accumulated over time and come to make up my being. I poured them out into a story that I always wanted to tell—a story that encompassed my family’s history, my philosophy and my social critiques of the media and New York society in general. And, much to my own surprise, I ended up with a cohesive manuscript. Surely the writing was the hardest part, no?


Chapter 2
So then, I was trapped in a hurricane-induced blackout, rejected by nine New York publishers and sued by a multimillion dollar corporation within the same week. Happy fucking birthday! The week had sprouted tinged with optimism, but had concluded with me completely gutted and utterly despondent. Not to mention shocked, overwhelmed and anxious. I was a 29-year-old, unemployed, Jewess, completely dependent upon my generous parents, how could I possibly handle a serious legal and fiduciary matter that had the potential to derail not only my novel that the lawsuit was centered around, but my entire professional persona? Yes, I’d wanted the press. The stories in the Post, Women’s Wear Daily and Page Six were nice mementos. WWD was especially meaningful, as fashion has always played a significant role in the lives of the women in my family. I courted the controversy at first. I knew I would have to in order to generate buzz around my dime-a-dozen chick-lit tome. I knew how the press worked and I manipulated it to the best of my ability, and then, natch, it backfired. And now I found myself with a manuscript and a life in limbo, my fate in the hands of the Hon. Joan A. Madden of the New York State Supreme Court.

Necesito un vacacion

If I weren't such a pacifist, I would have strangled my upstairs neighbor by now. The woman insists on clomping around her tile-floored condo at all hours of the night in high heels. Same thing in the mornings. So much so that despite my earplugs, I'm being woken up on weekends, to which I do not take kindly. I have complained to no avail. The next step, I suppose, is trying to get out of my lease via what is called a "quiet" something or other clause.

Sigh. I need a vacay, and I can't seem to get Bermuda out of my mind since having gone there for my 30th last September. It is perhaps the most relaxing destination I've been to, save for Cabo. Last time we stayed here: The Reefs





But we did the big birthday dinner at the Mandarin Oriental's Elbow Beach, Elbow Beach
which was picturesque, and I'd love to stay there next time. So on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, which was I was tuned into cause it's on after my new reality tv obsession Work Out, they sent this honeymooning couple to Elbow Beach. I've taken this as a sign. Bermuda anyone?

Crazy fun weekend from which I am still recovering — aren't those the best kind? But the rhetorical question of the day is when, when, when will I learn that hard alcohol and wine just don't mix well in my system? Two degrees, six years of higher learning and yet I still can't seem to grasp this fact.

Saturday we hosted a baby shower for my BF, so the party started early and continued well into the night. During the evening, me and a longtime childhood friend crazy ass Nicole, who was staying with me, hungout with two of our guy friends at the Mandarin. One (or possibly four) too many cocktails later, we all end up passing out back at my place. The guys wake up in the middle of the night and drive back north to make a flight the next day. I go back to bed. Nicole is, as far as I know, sleeping it off on the sleep sofa. Except. Except, when I exit my bedroom around 10 a.m. and head out into the living room, Nicole has vanished and her bag is gone. I cannot process. I call her cell phone. No answer. My first thought is that for some reason she left with our friends, which makes no sense, but is the most logical explanation anyway. I call Dana's cell phone bewildered.

"Um, question — where the hell is Nicole? She's, like, gone."

Dana starts cracking up at my confusion, but by now I'm completely mystified. Well, as it turns out, it's no laughing matter. She woke up shortly after the boys left and had a stomach attack, called our family friend after being unable to wake my inebriated tuchas, and was rushed to the hospital at 4:30 a.m. By the time I woke up, they were in and out of the hospital and brunching in South Beach. Never, ever a shortage of drama with me and my friends. Especially with this particular group. Nicole is fine and on the mend, but let me tell you that for a few waking moments yesterday I couldn't decipher what exactly had happened to my missing houseguest.

art therapy

I have been feeling under the weather lately; long story short, I need to get the wisdom teeth removed. Yes, I still have them. Shut up. So this weekend I took some much needed me time and caught up on housework, errands, made advance preparations for the baby shower me and some other girls are throwing next weekend, and, finally, did some art. I've always had two creative outlets—writing and doing art/crafts. I have long neglected my crafty cravings. So this weekend I got back into the swing of things, first creating a gift for the BFF's baby shower, and second, creating a gift for moi.

I've been absolutely obsessed with all things coral and beachy lately, so that was my inspiration for this. The boxes are older, and are more in line with my signature style. Please excuse the awful photography skills.







I would love to open up an eBay store sometime soon to showcase the wares of me and my talented friends, but I surely must create the inventory before I begin. So this is a slow start, and it will take a while to get back into the swing of things, but it only took a couple of hours.

Also happy birthday to the little brother, who is an aged 27 as of tomorrow.

Boys and Baubles

It's my personal philosophy that men have a complicated relationship with jewelry. In fact, I think most men fall into one of four categories regarding women and jewelry: 1. They are appreciative connoisseurs 2. They are mystified and/or intimidated by it. 3. They think it's silly 4. They just don't get it

Appreciative connoisseurs have grown up around women who are impressively bedazzled and have learned by osmosis the importance and the beauty of diamonds and other jewels. Typically, while on a date, these men will take note of your jewelry and compliment you on it. These are the best kind of men. Case in point: On a recent date, the gentleman noted my jewelry, which, like 90% of my collection came from dear, departed grandma, and said, "Is that jade? It's quite unusual for a girl your age to be wearing such lovely jade." OK, so he was in the diamond business and was a bit more specific than most, but still.

Men who are intimidated by jewelry, or a single girl who wears nice jewelry, probably have grown up in families where the mother either does not have good jewelry or doesn't much care about it. These men will take stock of the jewels you are wearing and a look of panic will cross their faces. "Does she think I'M GOING TO BUY HER THOSE THINGS?" Well, no, if we needed you to buy them, would we already be wearing them?? Case in point: On a date once, one of these category 2s actually asked me, "Are those real?" Seriously, I've been asked this question on a date, and yes, it was in reference to my diamonds.

Men who think jewelry is silly, well, why waste words on them? Certainly, handbags and shoes are sillier than jewelry, which, can be kept in a family for generations and generations.

Men who just don't get it, well, they just don't get it. And what I mean is this: Every girl, no matter how down to earth, unassuming, low-maint, whatever, would like at least one nice piece of jewelry. Nothing, simply nothing, makes a girl feel more special than being able to wear something that sparkles, especially if it has come from a place of love.

So where am I going with all of this? I have, on occasion, been told by friends of my mother's that I shouldn't wear certain pieces of jewelry on dates, so as not to MAKE THE MAN THINK I DON'T NEED HIM or to intimidate him. And, granted, I certainly don't break out the vault pieces on dates, however, I'm sure most of you can figure out how I feel about such sentiments. A. I don't need him to buy me things. Sure, gifts are always nice, but I have always thought that the whole notion of finding a man to take care of you is just so antequated and gauche. My mother has never expressed such sentiments, being that she's a major jewelry aficionado and has always shared the wealth.

However, this weekend, she gave me a belated 30th birthday gift in the form of some diamond earrings that she no longer wears. And to my utter horror, before handing them over, she actually said, "Well, I don't know Steph, don't you think that if you go on a date with a guy and he sees a 30-year-old with such big diamond earrings, well, what will he think?"

I merely rolled my eyes and snatched the rocks.
See, our jewelers on 47th Street,
GIA Diamonds,GIA Certified Diamonds,Diamond Rings,Designer Jewelry,Jewelry Designers-Norman Landsberg Inc.

And, previous family jewelry debacles:
Jews and Jewels

Independence Day Forward

I'll write more when I have time. In the meantime, these are for the Jacksonvillans. Holler. And, dad, if you've got the nerve to drink a Cosmopolitan in public for God sakes, then you'd better expect to be called out on it.

Tag and I'm It?

Oh, what the hell? I'm bored and I don't want to be jinxed. I'm off to see the fam tomorrow, so happy 4th to everyone.

"It appears other bloggers occasionally play a game of �tag�, where you have to answer some question(s) and pass it on to five other people."

Scott tagged me and I just plagiarized his text cause I'm uber-lazy right now.
Instructions:
1. Go to Wikipedia.
2. In the Search box, type your birth month and day (but not year).
3. List three events that happened on your birthday.
4. List two important birthdays and one interesting death.
5. One holiday or observance (if any).


Events of September 17th:
1. 1787 - The United States forms and becomes a country.
Duh, even I knew this. My birthday is, like, soooo cool.

2. 1928 - The Okeechobee Hurricane strikes southeastern Florida, killing upwards of 2,500 people. It is the third deadliest natural disaster in US history, behind the Galveston Hurricane of 1900 and the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.
This seems apropos given my new locale of a million hurricanes.

3. 2001 - The Late Show with David Letterman is the first TV talk show to return to the airwaves six days after terrorists attack the United States in New York City and Washington D.C.
Not so significant, but since it was my birthday and I was in NYC during the attacks and actually saw the towers aflame from the Village where I was in grad school, I remember this day particularly. This day of that year was the first time I had gone out to dinner since the attacks and I recall precisely the eerie sort of calm that was still pervading the city. People were finally eating out again, but everywhere, even the most social of places including Serafina on Madison, where I was, felt somber and rightfully so.

Birthdays:
1. 1931 - Anne Bancroft, American actress (d. 2005)

2. 1935 - Ken Kesey, American author (d. 2001)

Death:
1996 - Spiro Agnew, Vice President of the United States (b. 1918)
Grasping at straws here.

Holiday or Observance:
United States - Constitution Day (observed on the previous Friday if it falls in a weekend)
Or, how about my freaking birthday? Kidding, I actually loathe my own birthdays. Though last year's in Bermuda was the best I've had yet, as it involved a group of naked Canadians and the Bermudian police. Awesome.

You're it:

Always Double Back

Pan Kisses Kafka

May December

Mimi New York

Happy Anniversary to You

OK, usually I pay no mind to the spineless anony-commenters who for some reason have nothing better to do than read a stranger's drivel, but sometimes these people require rebuttals. I received this comment today:

"I have a very hard time reading your blog due to your incessant blasphemy...can't you be charming or funny or brilliant without cursing God? I just can't read this sort of stuff anymore....it breaks my heart when someone I love is spoken of cruelly."

Well, first, why the God damn hell are you reading my Semitic, un-Godly blog? For Christ's sake, I wore a shirt that says "Heeb" on the chest to the gym yesterday. If you are looking for God honey, you are clearly on the wrong page. Religion ranks about as high in my book as say, ice hockey or dodgeball, and I'm one of those left-wing commies who believe that organized religion is truly the opiate of the masses.
So I have a few things to say to you, oh mighty proselytizer: Get a life. Get an independent mind. Get a hobby that doesn't involve immolating your own autonomy to a faceless, ethereal, "being." And go read someone else's thoughts.

On a more pleasant note: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to mom and dad, who have been happily--truly--married for 35 long years. Jeez. I can't even imagine it. Some pics of our lovely family from Dana's wedding last July 4th in Napa. My parents, as I've said before, and as anyone who knows them will readily attest to, are pretty hard to beat. They're fun, they're cool, they're generous, they're smart, they're cultured, they're successful, they're liberal, they're tolerant, they're nice and they have set great examples. They're are a tough act to follow, but they rock.

Spa Daze

Jeez I am tired. What's that Rilke quote about inertia? I am too wiped to look it up. I had a very relaxing weekend, having spent the better part of Saturday at this spa with some of my girlfriends.

Standard Hotel Miami

Had a nice massage, chilled by the pool and sweated in the Turkish baths and steam rooms. They have this rather hedonistic sort of room, pictured above, called a Hammam room, that "encourages group relaxation." It's almost impossible not to conjure up orgiastic images while in there. It's coed and one chick was topless, though all the men were thankfully fully clothed. It's a pretty cool hotel and spa though, and for $25 per day, you can access the Hammam, steam rooms, pool etc., so I think I'll definitely go back.

Our fair basketball team seems to have clinched the NBA title, a spectacle that I both witnessed (from the vantage point of a barstool) and heard (through my windows, which overlook the bay, not far from the American Airlines Arena).

I also began physical therapy, which, contrary to what most people say, really isn't a big deal. The PTs say that I was OVERSTRETCHING, so folks, beware of stretching yourself silly, as I was doing. I'm finally back in the gym regularly, thank fucking God. The weather is still nice, though approaching the triple digits rapidly. The storms have yet to begin. Some recent pics of the Miami crew.

And whilst Googling today, I discovered that I've made it into some random blogger's dictionary thingy. But if I wanted to get picky, I would say, "Dishalicious" as I conceived of it, translates into something like: dishy + delicious, or deliciously dishy.
Celebrate Today