Awanta?

Awanta: Who do they think they are? Hebrew-style.

American Media (all links via Gawker) is, once again, reading this. Is it a lackey? Is it a lawyer? Is it Bonnie or Joe? Most likely, it's a lackey, as this particular AMI slave was logged on at 9:47 p.m. last night and read for more than 15 minutes.

Sooo, because I'm in a particularly bad mood today and because AMI pretty much made my life a living hell with the lawsuit (despite the fact that I smacked their asses down in court), this is what I have to say to you American Media: Fuck off, lech lehizdayen, joda lejos and baiser de. Hebrew, Spanish and French, respectively. But cursing in phonetic Hebrew is the funnest.

There's:
zonah: whore
benzonah: son of a bitch (son of a whore, literally)
lech zayen et ima shelcha: go fuck your mom
arss: white trash

My favorite Hebrew phrase, however, is sababa, meaning cool, okay, fine. It's just so fun to say. Sa-ba-ba.

Ah, the things you learn at sleepaway camp, in Hebrew school and in Israel. I miss Israel and esp. Israeli men. Everyone thinks they are chauvinistic and sexist and maybe they are a little. But, they are hot. They are strong. They are men's men. They are also sweet, complimentary and put women on pedestals. They are, in short, much better in my opinion than American Jewish men, who tend to be coddled, prissy, dorky and often spineless due to years of thinking they are the best thing since sliced bread, thanks to their overbearing mothers.

I think I need to go back to Israel; the last boyfriend I had was Israeli, and though things would've never worked out due to cultural chasms, he was hot, sweet, hardworking, hardbodied, caring, sensitive, funny, goofy and he gave great massages.

Condo Commandos Catch Clandestine Canine!

Wally's jig is up. Seeing as how I stopped using the stupid Sherpa bag and have been walking him freely, just like, oh, any other normal dog, I'm not surprised. Alas, he was ratted out in ways of which I am not aware, but I suspect the security guys. I think they probably get kickbacks for being narcs. I mean, how could anyone possibly take offense to this face?

Anyway, I was planning on driving him back to the 'rents house this weekend so he could avoid the whole moving ordeal. After I returned from Jax a couple weeks ago with Wally in tow and told my realtor-friend, he responded with this humorous e-mail:

"I hear someone singing

Reunited and it feels so good

This breakup we had

Has left me lonely and sad

But we’re reunited, hey hey"

And then today, upon me telling him that the way in which Wally was caught was nothing dramatic--for he has since become a loyal reader and expects nothing less than high drama from moi--responded:

"I pictured the condo emperor running you down as you sauntered out with that oversized LV puppy purse. 'What whimpering...oh that?...um, that's my cellphone...got to go!"

D. I think you may have missed your calling as a writer or something;) Although I'm sure a sense of humor comes in handy in your line of work.

Check out today's Fashionosophy; I actually managed to post something. Or nothing. Eye of the beholder and all that.

Sitemeter

For those of you web newbies/old people out there, we bloggers have a function called sitemeter that often enables us to see who is reading our blog and for how long. With the exception of AOL users, we can see your IP address, your company name, your geographic location, how long you spent on our site, how you entered and exited the site, and what page you were referred from.

Sometimes this falls under the heading of "too much information."
Case in point: Today someone from the law firm of Sedgwick Detert Moran & Arnold viewed 79 pages of my blog! WTF? I didn't even know I had 79 pages. You're an atty--don't you have, like, work to do?

One of the best parts of sitemeter, however, is that when someone arrives here from a Google search, you can see the exact phrase they typed in. Usually, it's just my name or Dishalicious. But some of the funniest ones I've had are "hairy green scary," "lexapro and kicking and screaming in sleep," "seeking for 100% auth dating site in maryland in 2006," and "slingbacks adhesive" and "jdate freaks."

Leave it to Me

To be one of those idiots who never deletes e-mail addresses and enters each person into my "contacts" because I had Hotmail and otherwise it went to Junkmail. What this means is that when I sent out my e-mail today announcing that I was switching to Gmail, and selected "all" in my address book, the email went out to every ex, every potential employer, every JDater, every ex-friend, etc. etc. who was still in my address book. And now they all not only have my blog addresses, but also my cell phone #. Ah, the wonders of technology and the stupidity of moi. So, er, welcome back people. It's been one of those days.

On the plus side, I've gotten to chat with lots of old peeps who I haven't heard from in a while, so it's all relative.

Dog Day Afternoon

Wally and Cubby's second playdate, in which Wally, trying to establish his dominance, ignores Cubby, and Cubby tries fruitlessly and relentlessly to engage Wally in a little lighthearted play. Wally wasn't having it.

The Bitch Must Die

Is it justifiable homicide if I, say, accidentally murder my upstairs neighbor with one of her stiletto heels because she wakes me up repeatedly? No? Well, what if, say I have major sleeping problems and treasure those sleepy Saturdays and Sundays as if they were platinum laced with D-colored diamonds? How about then? I'm about to leave a note on her (see #9) door that says:

¿Habla inglés? No? Bien entonces, gracias para despertarme otra vez. He tratado de ser próximo tiempo cortés pero llamo a policía o inmigración. Espero su Visa o Tarjeta Verde está en la orden.
la mayoría del sinceramente suyo,
su colinda abajo

Translation:
Speak English? No? Well, then, thank you for awakening me again. I have tried to be polite, but next time I am calling police or immigration. I hope your Visa or Green Card is in order.
Most sincerely yours,
Your downstairs neighbor

I am not kidding here people; I will photograph the sign and scan it in for your pleasure later. This nifty online translator rocks; it translates whole paragraphs at a time.




And this site, making fun of Page Six on my behalf, is pretty groovy too: Swanky Beast.

More TK later after I've taken out my frustrations at the gym, posted my nifty sign and taken Wally and Dana's dog Cubby for a walk. It's about time the little beast made nice with other canines. I also have some more post Botox and Restylane pictures to share. I'm sure you're all just oozing with anticipation.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

OK girls, I've stumbled upon the singleton's version of a registry and fabulously, it's courtesy of Neiman's.

In light of the overwhelming response to my post about the cost of being in a friend's wedding, consider this the singletons' revenge or something like that. So here's my Neiman Marcus Wish List, and naturally it's far-fetched (hey, isn't that what wishing is for?) and I expect to get nothing from it, but it's a fun diversion. And, um, this is very addicting; once I started, I just couldn't stop!

So girls, (and guys, if you're so inclined) I encourage you to do the same, and please post your link in the comments section so that everyone can see what you've registered for! If you don't already have a Neiman's online account, you simply have to register with your e-mail and a password. And to view each other's, we need to have one another's e-mails, so include those in your link. Happy shopping, er, wishing, hoping and dreaming!

And visit Fashionosophy for a glimpse into the inner-workings of my designer-diseased brain.

Twatwaffle, Tee-Hee-Hee

It's a dry day, please visit Fashionosophy. But, oh, am I loving this: Gawker's smackdown of the twatwaffle. That's not my word, it's Gawker's or one of its commenter's but oh what a brilliant word. I'm adopting it. The comments are the funniest part, so be sure to read those . . . The fact that this twatwaffle has a book deal is just beyond.

Update: My ongoing love affair with the word "Twatwaffle" has taken a new turn. Gotta love Gawker for their contributions to the lexicon of low-culture. And I mean that as a compliment Gawkers...

Singles Versus the World

There is an ongoing, pervasive war being waged between the women in this country: It's the singletons versus the fiancées, and it's getting bloody people.

What I'm speaking of is the showers, the parties, the destination weddings, the hideous bridesmaids' dresses, the endless shelling out of dough that it now costs to "celebrate" your friends' happiness. In the good ol' days, at least according to my mom, there was simply. . . an engagement party thrown by the parents, preferably at the yacht club;a wedding and reception; and a honeymoon. Period. The end. There was minimal "cost" involved for the celebrants and atendees. You wore a pretty outfit, you showed up, you toasted, you sent the couple on their merry way and that was that. Hurrah.

Oh, but for the good ol' days. It was quite a bit more civilized then, no? Sure, there were registries, but mainly for bone china and place settings, not for, say, cappuccino makers, bread makers, ice-cream makers, nic-nacs, picture frames and things that have nothing whatsoever to do with weddings, per se. And there was simply Tiffany, Bloomingdale's, Bergdorf's, Neiman's, Jacobson's. There was, thankfully, no Bed, Bath & Beyond. And then, I am almost positive, the registrants did not return your gifts for store credit.

But now, there simply must be a party for everything. And let me tell you, for us singletons, esp. those of us who will never marry, this gets to be a huge pain in the ass and causes a major dent in the wallet. It's even worse if you are the maid of honor.

So let's do a case study of a destination wedding in which I am the maid of honor.

First, the phone call.
"You know, of course, that I want you to be my maid of honor," says the best friend, gushing.

"Oh, um, thanks?" I reply, knowing that this was coming, but also thinkingfabulous. I'm unemployed, the wedding is in Napa Valley, not an easy or inexpensive place to get to, and we also live in different cities.

So here's what is on the table over the next six months celebrating her engagement/wedding:
1. Engagement gift: Jay Strongwater decorative box: $135

2. Engagement Party, thrown by my parents and me, at my childhood house in our hometown:

• Invitations: $125
• Food: $200
• Alcohol: $200
• Plane ticket home for Wally and me: $350
• Shirt to wear to party: $200

Total Cost, Engagement Party: $1,075

3. Bachelorette Party:

• Transportation to Miami for Wally and me: $350
• Hotel Room: $100-200 (I don't remember)
• Food/Alcohol: $100

Total Cost, Bachelorette Party: $600

Shower:

• Thrown by other bridesmaids; I didn't attend. Enough was enough.

4. Wardrobe:

• Bridesmaid Dress. Not something I would ordinarily buy: psychedelic print, strapless, shiny silk, multicolored, ruched and knotted, asymmetrical hem.

Let's lowball it at $150.

• Handbag for Ceremony: Prada black nylon, mini shoulder bag with silver chain, about $300.
• Dress for Rehearsal Dinner: Classic, black Max Mara dress, $500 or so.
• Jewelry: Borrowed from mom, free.
• We won't go into mom's dress for the wedding, or her shoes, but suffice it to say that the dress was Luca Luca (retail) and the shoes were crystallized Manolos from the evening collection. My target audience knows what kind of digits we are talking about here.

Total cost, my wardrobe: $950

5. The Actual Wedding:

• Plane fare, NYC to Sacramento, CA $450
• Rental car, Sacramento to Sonoma: $340
• Hotel: $900 for three nights
• Add to the above the fact that my mom, dad and brother also went, so triple the cost. But this is about ME.

Total Cost: Wedding: $1,690

6. Wedding Gift: Jay Strongwater candlestick, shared by another family, don't know the cost.

Grand Total, Best Friend's Wedding, Cost to Maid of Honor and her family: (exclusive of the rest of the family's plane fare and the actual wedding gift): $4,600.

Why, I could buy my very own Monique Luhllier gown for that cost. Or perhaps my own Jay Strongwater piece. Or maybe even a Chloe Silverado Satchel and a Fendi Spy. Or a Chopard Happy Sport watch that I've been coveting for years. Or a few days in Italy. Or actually, that would've covered two months' rent in my Manhattan apartment.

Oh, but it's the right thing to do, right? Cause (and this is what people always say) "She would do it for you in a heartbeat." And she would, except here's the rub: I'm not getting married. And most likely never will. I'm not getting the parties, the gifts, etc. etc. etc. The singles, my friends, get shafted. Big time. Remember that episode of Sex and the City where Carrie registered at Manolo Blahnik because of all of the above reasons? Well, it's not so far fetched, after all.

But here's the worst part about being a maid of honor--you don't actually get to enjoy the wedding or the party like you should because you have to worry about bustling the dress, making the toast, making sure the bride is taken care of even though there is a wedding planner. Oh, the endless joys of being single in a married world.

And before you comment, yes, I'm bitter. I'm bitter that single people aren't recognized as whole individuals. We may as well be mutants--we are pitied, poo-poohed, fixed up, fussed over, worried about. Hey, we're not the ones asking our friends to shell out thousands of dollars to make us happy, so tell me, who, really are the screw-ups? Singles or Marrieds?

Fashionably Late

OK, people, move on over to Fashionosophy and check out my first post. It's really scary how much more I enjoy fashion than almost anything else in life aside from Wally. I will continue to post here as well, but since my sartorial life is much more exciting than my social life, I wouldn't hold your breath.


UPDATE: Cartier has lost my Tank. What the HELL is going on today? Seriously? Maybe I'll get a new watch out of all this if those morons can't find my three-year-old one.

Fashionosophy It Is...But I Need Some Tech Help

OK, the votes are in, and by that I mean, like three of you. But Fashionosophy it is. I'm working on a prototype now and trying to figure out why my damn camera has such a hard time taking close up shots of jewelry. If I were smart, which I never accuse myself of being, I would have lugged the camera to Cartier in Bal Harbour with me today, where I drove to pick up my watch. Come to find out that my watch, which I'd left there for an estimate and had subsequently balked at the $789-repair pricetag, was located in the "repair shop" upstairs, which isn't opened on Sunday. Oh well, at least Wally got to see Bal Harbour. And he wasn't the only Poodle in Cartier either, which is the truly sad thing.

Anywho, check back on Fashionosophy in the next couple of days.

Shit, can someone please tell me how to change my profile on each blog separately? My Dish profile is now the same as my Fashionosophy profile, God forbid. There's gotta be one tech-savvy reader out there...

Reader Response Required

OK girls and queens, this one's for you. I'm going to start another blog that deals exclusively with beauty, fashion, accessories and jewelry. I'm trying to think of a cute, snappy, one word name. I want the title to include the word "fashion," or "fash."

Which do you like best, or, if you can think of something better, please feel free to comment.

1. fashionabulous

2. fashionosophy

3. fashionfesto

4. fashtastic

Things That Make Me Go Grrrr

My car.
It insists on having its oil changed, tires rotated and aligned and likes to leave me "messages" on the dashboard. E.G. "wiper fluid out, please refill," except the wiper fluid is not out, thank you very much. And this one: "service type 2 required in 24 days." What, do I speak Latin now? I'm supposed to thumb through the 290-page manual to figure out what "type 2" is? God, words cannot express how much I loathe driving and specifically my car. Take a lesson from me people, do not let your parents buy your car from eBay, especially if you have not driven in six years and therefore don't understand the significance of taking it for a test drive. Oh, and I have I mentioned that the schmancy CD player won't play burned (or in Mercedes lingo, "copyright protected") CDs? That's why I listen to audio books. Well, that and the fact that I'm a completely lame geek.

Publix and Grocery Store Clerks.
Now, Mich, maybe you can answer me this question or start a campaign or something against grocery store baggers. Could the country's recycling issues not be resolved merely by grocery store clerks just cutting down on the sheer volume of bags they insist on using? Does each item really need its own separate bag? Do my soy chips really require their own plastic entity? Are my bananas really going to be irreparably damaged if they touch my frozen dinners? The overuse of grocery bags infuriates me irrationally, I think because I have to carry them from my car to my apartment, so I insist on consolodating everything into as few bags as possible in my wretched car. This results in the front seat of my car looking like a Publix shopping bag repository.

Network TV Executives, Nielsen TV Ratings and The American Public in General.
Oh, you're yanking Studio 60 already? Big surprise--it's smart, engaging, culturally relevant and cutting-edge, just what America doesn't want. Aaron Sorkin's brilliant and beautiful dialogue is just a little too smart and witty for you? Four episdoes weren't enough to garner high ratings? Do you think that perhaps it has to do with the horrible time slot it was shoved into, as lame-ass, overeducated peeps like me, who are probably the show's target audience, are tired at 10 p.m. cause we are now old and lame? Oh, and I'm still smarting over Arrested Development. Perhaps the most brilliant show ever created. Ever. As much as I hate my car is how much I love AD. Love, love, love it. Why didn't HBO buy it? Why am I still obsessed with it? Maybe because it's brilliant and I'm lame and need to get a life.

Desk chairs.
Why are they so uncomfortable? Even now I have to quit typing and get up and stretch because my desk chair and my damn car aggravate my tendonitis. That's my rant for today.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Nothing Special

OK, first of all Restylane freaking hurts. Bad. As compared to Botox, which requires a few mere pinpricks, Restylane requires about ten on either side of the mouth and it's painful. You have to sit there with numbing cream on for about 45 minutes and then come the injections and then you have to ice it. I was pretty swollen walking out of the derm's office last night. Today I'm a little red and a little swollen, but overall, the pain? Sooo worth it, ladies.

For those of you who don't know what it is, Restylane is a filler that goes around the frown lines around your mouth, or technically into the "Naso labial folds," which run from the bottom of the nose to the bottom of the lip. Anywho, I'm icing my face at the office today. I don't have my own before and after photos, but take a gander at these:

Restylane before and after photos

On a completely unrelated note, my friend Daryl's You Tube video that he compiled for the guys, has me cracking up today. These are the guys I grew up with, and after watching the video, you'll probably realize what an awesome crew it is and what I mean when I say that I'm truly blessed with regards to my friends, family and family friends. Young Yearly Video

Also, completely unrelated, I seem to be having dreams about people whom I have absolutely no conscious relationship to and/or haven't thought about or seen in years. Last night it was this very nice fellow also in the crew I grew up with who apparently is a rising music star. Mutual friends have been telling me to listen to his stuff for a while now, and I just got around to it. I'm not musicially inclined nor do I pretend to have good taste in music, but I dig it:

Ashton Allen on MySpace

I think it's funny how the ad at the top of this site this morning was "What Really Attracts Guys." Oh, the irony. How about "What Really Repels Guys?" Yesterday it was, "How to Attract a Wealthy Guy." Yeah. Now it's "Put Your Face on Ice" and "Lip Fat Injections." Man, Google does a good job of targeted advertising.

The ad from this a.m., "What really attracts guys," brings me around the subject of modern women versus traditional women and parental role models. As I have said before, my parents are very modern. They share almost equally in the responsibilities of the marriage. They both work hard and play hard. And they don't keep secrets from each other like many of their friends do. Secrets mainly such as, "Oh, I was really bad at Neiman's today and I'm just going to intercept the bill before hubby sees it."

We don't play like that in my family. Anywho, I know that in most marriages in the Jewish community the women do play like that, or they're on an allowance or the husband goes over the bills with a fine-tooth comb. Well, where am I going with this? Oh, OK, even though we don't keep secrets like that in my fam, mom is the one who buys me pretty things. Dad stays out of the shopping picture with regards to me. Sometimes dad doesn't know to what extent mom spoils me, because she's spending her own money.

His curiosity factor usually goes something like this. I'll see him and be carrying a new Chanel bag or something. "Oh, that's pretty honey," he'll say, "Is it new."

"Yes, I got it in New York last time we were there, remember?" and then I'll catch mom's eye. For some reason he notices handbags but it takes him a while to notice jewelry.

Up until I saw the "Go girl" comment from last week, I was unaware that dad is a regular reader. So I got a little flack when I went home this weekend about the Botox, fashion stuff, jewelry, etc. etc. that I just didn't think daddy knew about. I was going to write more on this subject and how it all ties into my mom's traditional friend berating me this weekend b/c she thinks I am too upfront with men, how they don't need to know about my botox, my jewelry, my clothes, that I should be more subservient, less intimidating, but now I'm tired so here's the short version. Mom's good friend, whom I am very close to, ALWAYS tells me this stuff, and I love her to death but we do not see eye to eye on this subject. I know I need man advice, and perhaps I should even listen to it, but, let's face it, I'm not going to. I'm going to continue to be me.

My response this weekend, to mom's friend's comments that I should not blog about my Botox, jewelry, etc. was as usual, "A man can take me as I am or not take me at all."

And if there are no takers, then that's just dandy by me, cause at least I'm keeping it real.

Enquiring Minds...

OK, Anon, this one's for you. We all have some questions for you, so I figured instead of speculating with my friends and family and other bloggers, I'll just put 'em out here into the great cyberspace void.

1.) How old are you?

2.) Where in NY do you live?

3.) How did you find my blog?

4.) If we played Jewish Geography, would we come up with some common names?

5.) This one is from the moms and the yentas, what do you do?

Feel free to respond via the comments . . .

Wally Is Back

OK, first an update, dear readers. Tomorrow I will go into the details of my weekend and last week. I arrived home from Jax last night around 9:30 with a petrified Wally in tow. I smuggled him into and out of the building in his new Sherpa Tote Around Town bag (thanks for the rec, Mel).

He is a little skittish, but was playing with his toys last night and seems happy to be with me again. I have the bark collar on him today while I'm at work, because he tends to howl when I leave.

A hot topic of conversation among my parents' friends who read this blog was the anony-commenter who seems to have a slight crush on me, against his better judgement. My mom wants to know who he is and my mom's friends do as well.

I got to hang with Nancy P., my biggest fan amongst my parents set--it was great to see you too--and found out that indeed, my dad did leave the "Go girl," comment. Truly frightening. I also have some pre- and post- Botox pictures to share later when I upload this weekend's pics. Tomorrow I go back for some more in the forehead and Restylane around my frown lines.

Thanks to Lynn and Alan for being such great hosts in Palm Beach as always. And I do have some funny stories but I will wait until later for those. For now, I thought I'd amuse you with excerpts from my diary, circa 1985, when I was 9 years old. I don't remember exactly what I looked like at that age, but I'm pretty sure I was in a lovely awkward, fat phase. And in the throes of my first-ever true crush. This is verbatim, spelling and all:

April 23, 1985
Dear Diary,
Today wasn't too bad. Guess what? Bryan sat next to me at lunch. He talked to me without making fun of me. I guess I still like him. But I think he likes Jessica and Cecelia. I had piano today. I hate it! I'm not sure if I want to quit or not. Mabey Bryan does like me! Bye!

Same Day
We wrote limericks today in school, here's mine:
There once was a girl named Jane who knew she was a pain. She bumped her lip and cut her hip and from then on she used her brain.

Like it? I do. Bye!

April 24th or 25th [The dates seem to jump around a lot. I guess I wasn't as type-A at age 9.]
Today he was mean to me. I don't think I like him anymore. I hate my teacher. She's a pain in the rear end! Yesterday we got our report cards. I only got one C+ [probably in phys ed]. Want to hear my grades? B, B+, A, B, B+, A, B, B.

April 26
Dear Diary,
Someone died in our class. His name was Tarek John. He died of a blood vessel in his brain, it popped. He was Christi's boyfriend. He was nice to people. I am sad he died

Questions, Questions

There is one annoying, offensive, bothersome, anger-inducing question I am asked that seems to pop up repeatedly from all kinds of sources: Why is a cute/nice/smart/flattering adjective girl like you still single?

Why do people insist on asking this question of us singletons?

From now on, my answer is going to be, "Why not?"

It's always off-putting when someone slams you with this question in-person, for what are you supposed to say? That all the men you meet are creeps? That most of the good ones are taken and the ones who aren't are like you--single because they are not yet ready to settle down?

OK, so here are my answers, because I had my bimonthly phoner with my therapist last night and she asks me this damn question every time I talk to her. And I tell her the same things, over and over and over again.

1.) I refuse to settle.

2.) I have very a specific physical type to whom I am attracted: Dark hair, slightly Semitic looking, not short, decent body, full head of hair, handsome face.

That pretty much rules out a large part of the single, over-30, Jewish male population. And I'm not being a snob here and I'm not saying that I think I'm so good looking that I think I should be with a hottie or anything like that. What I'm saying is that I am simply not physically attracted to other types, and physical attraction is obviously an important factor in any relationship.

3.) I am actually quite chaste and do not sleep around. At all.

4.) I hate the process of dating. I would rather go to the dentist or dermatologist (esp. if Botox is involved;) than on a first date.

5.) I have been told that I can be slightly intimidating--with brains, good jewelry, designer clothing, a fabulous family, solid opinions, a good sense of humor and sophistication actually working against me.

6.) I don't cook, and I never will.

7.) I don't believe in the traditional male-female gender roles wherein the woman stays home and caters to the male's every need. That's not how it works in my family and any guy I fall for would have to be the type of guy who carries the burdens of a relationship equally, e.g. cooks, cleans, runs errands, tends to the kids, the dogs etc. as much as the woman. My dad is a case in point, and in my family, the roles were divided equally, period. My dad wants dinner? He cooks it himself. He wants his dry-cleaning picked up? He gets it himself. My mom works as hard as he does, so why should she have to go home after work and do more than he does? She shouldn't and she doesn't. Period. The end. This is a rarity in upper-middle-class Jewish culture, where many women do not work and instead go shopping all day and are completely dependent on their spouses. That's not how it works in my family and that's not what I want.

Sadly, I think most Jewish guys want a subservient woman, whether subconsciously or consciously. I am not her.

8.) I like my independence and a lot of the time, I like being alone with my thoughts. It would be nice to spend some quality time with a quality fellow a few nights a week, but I think that the other nights, I would just like my space.

9.) I am easily annoyed and like to be in control of my environment.

10.) I take up the entire bed and often talk in my sleep. Loudly.

11.) Guys suck. Girls are crazy. Stereotypes are true.

12.) I think I actually like being single, as much as I bitch and moan about the lack of decent men. Because the truth is that I think like a guy most of the time and have this "what if I could do better/the grass is always greener mentality."

13.) My parents are the perfect couple--looks, brains, success, kindness, love, respect the whole nine yards. And, as we all know, our parents are our primary role models in everything. And I don't think it's a coincidence that my younger brother, who is a perfect specimen of physical beauty and is also kind, cool and smart, is also still single. So until I find the perfect guy for me--perfect for me, not "perfect"--I shall be single, OK?

14.) And, oh yeah, I don't want kids. I'm not a baby person; I prefer dogs. Apparently this makes me some kind of freak of nature. I'd like to think it shows that I am self-actualized enough to recognize the fact that I would not be a good mother. If Roxy, my grandmother, had recognized this, she would have saved my mom and her sister a lot of grief. And a lot of money paying for hired help.

15.) I want someone smart, well-educated, funny and successful. At best, I think most guys I meet have three of the four. OK, so I only have three of the four at this point in my life too, so maybe that's part of the problem. Whatever. That's my bitch session for today.

New York Dreaming

I had a dream last night about a boy I worked with and had a brief, but fun tryst with for a while last year in NYC. Things ended poorly, for we both were using each other for our own reasons, none of which seem to matter anymore. Also, the saying "Don't shit where you eat," really is a wise one, because after things end, it's always bound to be awkward at best, humiliating at worst.

But given my past year of experiences with utter douchebags, drug addicts and, well, sociopaths, this particular fellow now seems rather sane and sweet. I watched The Break Up last night, which ends with Jen and Vince's characters having a pleasant random encounter on the street, despite the bitterness of their breakup. Time healing all wounds and all that.

My dream was very similar to this scenario, wherein I had an encounter with this boy and all was well. He looked cuter than ever, was kind, as was I, and I actually woke up smiling. It took me a couple of minutes to remember his role in my dream, but once I did, I suppose that what I thought was this: It actually is possible to meet someone nice, have some fun with them for a while, delight in one another's company while the relationship/affair/whatever lasts and then move on without bitterness or baggage.

I haven't thought about this boy in a very long time, but I do admit that in retrospect, I behaved badly toward him and am a little embarrassed by my actions. He entered my life at a particularly odd juncture—I was in the throes of my lawsuit and my anxiety was more than a little heightened. He also was around for the zenith of The Rodent Issue, and, let's face it, I was driven absolutely insane by that whole episode that summer. The Rodent Report

Anywho, today as I was editing my new book, rehashing the rodent stories and reading over my account of one crazy night we had at the Four Seasons, I remembered him fondly. And though we both, I think, treated each other at times with infantility, I wonder how he is doing and what he is up to. So if you're reading this, and I'm sure you'll know who you are, drop a line and let me know.

The Final Countdown

Eight days till the big Georgia-Florida football game and the even bigger annual Green party in honor of the Gators' victory.

Seven days till I am reunited with the love of my life, Wally, and my crazy-ass friends in Jacksonville, Crazy Fun Weekend.

Six days till I go to Palm Beach, one of my favorite locales and stay with Lynn and Alan, two of my favorite people. Haters and Lovers

Five days till I have at least 50 clean pages of my second book completed and edited.

Four days till the Botox fully kicks in. Already I have no more crow's feet and can barely scrunch my eyebrows together and that pleases me immensly. Alex Kuczynski be damned. My ass she's given up cosmetic dermatology. Her face doesn't move at all.

Which means 10 days until I can go back for more botulinum toxin in the hideous horizontal line that spans my forehead and get Restylane in my frown lines to boot.

And speaking of Wally, apparently, once he turned 11, his testosterone skyrocketed and he's been humping Stella and Tessie, of Tangled up in Tessie Lou Blue fame, like there is no tomorrow. Now I'm about to render him celibate again.

I got nothing else. I gotta go write.