Nostalgia is a Bitch

Nature or nurture?

A happy childhood doesn't necessarily guarantee a happy or carefree adulthood. Where are my yachting excursions, my barbecues, my husband, my house, my tight-knit community of neighbors who bring by baked goods? Well, you get the picture.

I guess when you are living in the home you grew up in, nostalgia is a natural emotional experience. So I began rifling through old photo albums, had some put on a CD and uploaded them to Flickr, which you can access by clicking there or on the link with the photos to the right of this page.

Of course, while at home I'm worrying about the big things—jobs, future, failure, utter patheticism—but also the small things. Like how I simply need this silver bag for spring and my Italy trip. Must have this bag.
So if there are any secret (or not so secret admirers out there), the way to this girl's heart is through her accessories addiction.

Tennis Anyone?

So, the complete moron at Dick's who sold me my "court shoes," well, he's a complete moron. (Do not go to Dick's; their salespeople are about as smart as the ones at Duane Reade.)

My feet were hurting in the days after wearing them. Given my year of knee/hamstring injuries, I'm hyper-aware of the importance of the right sneakers. I went to Dick's to return the shoes with dad, a stellar, lifelong tennis player. As we're trying on shoes, a knowledgeable saleswoman stops by and informs us that the original Mizunos the complete moron sold me were volleyball shoes. In fact, she said, half the shoes in the "court" section were not tennis shoes. She helped us discern the ones for tennis, and I ended up with some Adidas. I'm off to my third lesson now; my first in proper shoes.

And remember that tennis court in Positano at our hotel that I was so psyched about playing on? Well, I finally found a picture of it; check it out:


Are you drooling yet? Cause I sure as hell am. Cannot. Fucking. Wait.

My name is Stephanie Green and I am a cosmetics crackhead. Do they have 12-steps for that?

Depression's Celebs

I want to discuss this: famous people with some form of depression, in light of Rosie's announcement.

So here's a list of brilliant, famous, successful people also afflicted by this horrible, incurable illness. It's no coincidence that many of history's greatest creative minds were depressives because if you're happy all the time, what the hell do you have to express through your art? View the full list here. Note how many of history's greatest writers and artists were depressives; it's simply staggering. And for those of you who suffer with clinical depression like me, both inspiring and reassuring. We are in good company, my friends.

Menachem Begin

Marlon Brando

Barbara Bush (elder)

Lord Byron

Albert Camus

Truman Capote

Drew Carey

Jim Carrey

Ray Charles

Sir Winston Churchill (!)

Kurt Cobain

Leonard Cohen

Francis Ford Coppola

Sheryl Crow

Ellen DeGeneres (!)

Charles Dickens

Emily Dickenson

Thomas Edison

T.S. Eliot

Ralph Waldo Emerson

William Faulkner

Harrison Ford

Sigmund Freud

Judy Garland

Paul Gauguin

Audrey Hepburn

Anthony Hopkins

Henry James

Billy Joel

Elton John

Franz Kafka

Larry King

Jack London

Herman Mellville

Michaelangelo

Claude Monet

Eugene O'Neill

Dorothy Parker

George Patton

Sylvia Plath

Jackson Pollock

Cole Porter

Ezra Pound

Lou Reed

Anne Rice

Mark Rothko

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Yves Saint Laurent

Brooke Shields

Paul Simon

Princess Diana

Amy Tan

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Dylan Thomas

Leo Tolstoy

Spencer Tracey

Vincent Van Gogh

Kurt Vonnegut

Mike Wallace

Damon Wayans

Tennessee Williams

Tom Wolfe

Ed Wood

Natalie Wood

Virginia Woolf

Emile Zola

Also, my newest story on Juli B—the coolest sneakers ever.

The tres chic Juli B picks for March by moi.

Had my first tennis lesson yesterday and I was shocked at how fun it was. I was fairly good, actually. Once you become a gym rat and live your life on the treadmill/elliptical/stair climber, you forget that excercising can actually be enjoyable. Went out and bought my court shoes today and have another lesson Friday.

Apparently, our hotel in Positano has one of the most beautiful tennis courts in the world, etched into a cliff overlooking the sea, so to be able to hit some balls while I'm there would be nice . . .

And the latest photos of the girls, Tessie Lou (right) and Stella (left). Wally seems to think the camera steals his soul.

Rats

I just e-mailed my (very anti-Botox) friend Jen saying how I am already losing my shit at home in east bumblefuck, but that I'd rather find a job in Miami or somewhere aside from New York because I simply cannot deal with the rodents, rodents and more rodents.

This is what she e-mailed me back; further confirmation that not only are subways truly evil, but also that I don't think I'll be back in Manhattan anytime soon except at the Four Seasons.

"Ha, I thought of you the other day as I was heading home from work—I glanced down the platform where this girl was standing and reading a magazine and this rat ran up to her and sat on her foot! She just looked down and gave her foot a shake, totally unfazed. Now, I'm not afraid of rodents, but I would definitely give a jump and girly scream if a rat took a rest on my foot."

Um, I would have screamed loud enough to call in the NYPD, hyperventilated, then passed out. That girl? The very definition of jaded New Yorker.

The God of Small Things

I don't really believe in one god per se, but I do believe in a higher power, an invisible hand that guides us along the meandering roads that determine our lives.

I place great stock in coincidences and believe that in almost every coincidental event or encounter, meaning can be extracted—whether it's something trivial or something life-changing. Think about those people who overslept and missed their subway that ran directly under the World Trade Center on 9/11. (My brother's good friend was such a person.)

I think coincidences are so important, in fact, that I think there should be a new word for them that conveys their profundity.

One of my main themes of this blog is that life is too short not to do what makes you happy. It's too short to sit in an office for 12 hours a day doing something you are not passionate about. Then again, some people are born without passions, so perhaps they are the correct beings to work office jobs.

Anyway, what to make of these latest coincidences that have unfolded in the past 24 hours?

In part due to my new "no day but today" mindset, the soundtrack of my life here at home has been the Broadway show Rent. I listen to it when I write, when I shower and, religiously, when I stretch. I haven't been keeping up with the meditation thing, but when I'm stretching and listening to Rent, I essentially am meditating. For those of you living under a rock who don't know the basic plot of Rent: Artists on the Lower East Side struggle with love, drugs, poverty, AIDS, corporate America, fitting in and producing meaningful projects by using their own differing creative talents. Some people find the show/movie depressing; I find it truly inspirational. Because essentially, the moral of the story is, "Do what you love. Love what you do. Never give up on your dreams. Life is short."

Yesterday was my dad's father's Yahrtzeit—the anniversary of his death—and in Judaism, we go to synagogue that night to honor our loved ones' lives.

I didn't know my grandfather that well; he died when I was in 7th grade. My memories of him are mainly from the nursing home. Before services, my dad called upstairs to me,

"Steph, come look at this! Hurry!"

I went downstairs and found him in front of the flat-screen, watching with glee a grainy, old video set to music. The little four-year-old boy looked familiar.

"Is that you," I asked, bewildered. My dad is sometimes on the news, but I couldn't imagine why he would be on TV as a child.

Turns out, dad took many of his very old childhood videos and had them digitally remastered.

"Um, was this just a coincidence that you got them back today, on the anniversary of poppy's death?"

"Yeah, isn't that weird?"

Indeed, weird. My dad was jubilant watching himself, his parents, his siblings, his dogs and his childhood friends, many of whom are still his best buddies, some of whom are dead or sick now.

Then we went to services. The sermon, by our very liberal and slightly off-kilter rabbi, turned out to be about doing what you love, following your heart and devoting yourself to what you were put on this earth to do. Again, weird. In Rabbi Matt's case, it's studying the Torah. In my case, it's writing and creating art. I thought this sermon couldn't come at a more opportune time, when my parents think that just because I sit at my computer all-day I am doing nothing. In fact, I am doing what I feel I was put on this earth to do. And if book publishers, magazine editors or whomever disagree—fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. (Except you guys, who obviously keep reading for some reason or another.)

As if that weren't enough . . . I stayed in last night to finish an artistic project I'm working on. At like 11 p.m. I'm scrolling through the 500 channels and what do I find on Encore? Rent, the movie. Some days more than others, you really can feel that invisible hand.

Now, I want to YouTube this video of my dad's but I've never YouTubed and I have the DVD but can't figure out how to do it. Any help would much be appreciated. It's a truly lovely video.

Ha, vindication from the New York Times.

Is Looking Your Age Now Taboo?

Like, duh. Who the hell wants to look their age? (Jen, save your comments!)

Between A Rock and A Prada Place

It's not polite to speak of money, you know. Or so the motto of the wealthy and cultured goes. What that statement really translates to is the following: It's not polite to talk about money with people who have less than you. It's not polite to talk about specific amounts of money. It's not polite to speak of how much money you make, how much something cost or how much money you lost in the market. It is, however, acceptable to discuss with people who have roughly the same amount as money as you people who have much more money than you. For instance, it's acceptable to talk with X, who is in the same bracket as you, how much Y, who is on the Forbes list, paid for his Palm Beach house. In other words, it's fine for millionaires to speak about billionaires, but it's not okay for billionaires or millionaires to talk about those who have substantially less than they do. That would be crass.

I've always divided the wealthy—again, rich is simply not an acceptable word—into a few categories. There are the uber-wealthy; the $500 million+ group. There are the very wealthy; the $100-$500 million group. Then there are the wealthy; $10-100 million. And finally, the well-off set; $10 to a $5 million. I am as usual just expressing my own opinions, which are naturally colored by my own limited, sheltered experiences.

My point with all this is multifaceted. The progeny of the very wealthy typically have trust funds and therefore, even if they do choose to work, don't really have much to worry about.

But many children of merely wealthy or well off people, do not typically have trust funds, and thus, though they may be extremely spoiled, are always dependent on mommy, daddy, husband or wife. As this relates to me, again without speaking of money per say—because that would be impolite—this puts me in a precarious position.

I have always been impossibly spoiled, since I was born, first by my grandparents and later my parents, mainly my mom, because she controlled the money. I never wanted for anything; I had a clothing allowance at age 11; by age 16 I was shopping exclusively in New York and wearing only designer clothes. I was, and still am, crazy. At 31, I have more jewelry and designer clothes and accessories than most 50-yea-olds. And please don't get me wrong, I know this is sick.

Herein lies the problem—yes, I am a spoiled girl, er, woman. Yet I am not independent, precisely because I have always been so spoiled and have never had to be independent. My parents have always paid my rent, even when I worked full-time. In our defense, working full-time in New York does not pay the rent on an Upper East Side apartment.

So now at 31 I am crippled by the fact that I only know the finest things in life and that certainly isn't changing at this late point. Is it reasonable to expect me to go from Bergdorf's to H&M? No, frankly, it's not. Am I proud of what I have turned into? Noooo. The only thing I ever wanted was to be successful and independently wealthy. Yet my family are not Forbeses, meaning Daddy doesn't have the power to call up the CEO of Conde and get me a job. Nor do I have a trust fund to invest my own money in a business. And of course, there is the misconception that just because I am spoiled that I do not want to work or would not be a good worker, which could not be further from the truth. I am passionate about magazines, fashion, travel, accessories, editing and writing. And if I were offered a job at a magazine I respected, I would take it, regardless of salary.

My point with all of this is that when you are raised as I was and you are 31 and you find yourself without a job and without your own money but with a closetful of designer clothes what do you do? You could do what you have always done—the immature thing—move to yet another city, have your parents get you another apartment while you fruitlessly look for a job. Or you could do the mature (yet completely pathetic and humiliating) thing—you could move home, live rent-free, look for jobs, get your shit together, write and save your very generous parents some money. And live a little more guilt free. So I'm sacrificing my pride—I can't believe my life has come to being single, 31 and living at home in a city I loathe—to save my parents $2000 a month.

Another point with all of this is that if you are going to be the kind of parent who spoils your kids to their hearts' content, please make sure that you will be able to do this for the rest of their lives. Give them a trust fund; some independence; a business to run; something. Because if you don't, they will turn out like me: a spoiled, ne'er do well crippled by her privileged, pampered existence.

Portrait of a Life

Sleeping. Eating. Reading. Working out. Playing with the dogs. Catching up on all the movies. Writing not much of anything. Thinking. Going to doctors—cosmetic, of course. Not shopping. Drifting. Wondering how the hell my life came to this. Boredom.

The excitement factor? None. Tennis lessons. Woo-hoo. Preparing for Italy. Reading 3, 4 books a week and watching all the bad TV my brain can handle.

I suppose I'm in a "funk" cause I really don't want to do anything save for sleep, eat, work out, watch TV/movies and read. If there were shopping, I'd want to do that of course, but the closest Neiman's is about 130 miles away.

Watched Babel last night. Ugh. I know this movie carried a powerful message about gun control and illegal immigration, and Rinko Kikuchi's performance was amazing. (I simply can't imagine novice actor Jennifer Hudson being any better than her.)
However, I just couldn't help thinking a couple of things as I writhed in my chair, wanting it to be over already.
1. Why would a Mexican writer reinforce such negative stereotypes about Mexicans? I mean, Gael Garcia Bernal's character was so idiotic that the Mexican storyline made you want to become a Republican and patrol the borders yourself.

2. Cate Blanchett—though I worship her style—gets an Oscar nod for lying prostate and moaning a few times? And, oh yeah, pissing herself?

3. Again, another movie that just makes you wonder about Muslims. Only this time, Moroccans? Why Morocco? That's the one Muslim nation I've actually always wanted to visit. Couldn't they have picked somewhere truly evil like Syria or Lebanon? I mean, I know why—b/c Morocco is not neccessarily a terrorist haven so they wanted to illustrate the point that even though the shooting was not terrorist related the international media automatically assumed this. But still.

4. American tourists are just idiots when they are in a truly foreign land. Why would they be on a tour bus ostensibly in the middle of nowhere? Tell me that. And without one cell phone between the entire group? Please. Now mom and dad understand my penchant for first-class travel.

My brother, on the other hand, is, as I type this literally in the backwaters of India with no means of communication. So as Cate was suffering in the mud hut, I kept thinking, "There's my brother. God forbid he gets hurt. He's miles away from civilization; probably does not have the number of the American Embassy or a first-aid kit, etc. Why on earth do people travel like this?

Anyway, this movie made me really mad. Maybe that's the point, but I'm certainly glad it did not win best picture.

For lighter fare, please see Fashionosophy.

Best- and Worst-Dressed List

Okay, my best/worst dressed Oscar list is now up on Fashionosophy. I know you are all peeing in your pants with anticipation.

Oscar Wrap Up

Okay, somehow my audience has become more international by like 10x over night, so hello to all you Swedes, Germans, Spaniards, Brits, Brazilians, Greeks, Chileans, Chinese, Czechs and Middle Easterners. I'm just curious how this lot found my little site.

Anyway, how utterly boring were the Oscars? Ellen was funny, natch, but oy, what a snooze fest. I couldn't be happier that Little Miss Sunshine won best screenplay and Allen Arkin best supporting actor, plus Forest Whitaker as best actor. But you know how disappointed Eddie Murphy was. Poor guy. Plus I kind of wanted Peter O'Toole to win, just cause he's like Peter O'Toole.

And let's just talk about the divine Helen Mirren for a moment. Sixty-one years old and her boobs are more vertical than mine. And she was wearing Christian Lacroix couture people. Couture, meaning the dress was designed specifically for her by Lacroix himself, hand sewn and embroidered in France and basically made to order for one Lady Helen Mirren. This divine dress probably cost, I'm guessing, around $40,000-$60,000.

For those of you out there not familiar with the correct definition of haute couture, as the term gets misused a lot—the French government actually decides which designers and houses of design can be labeled as haute couture. Lacroix is one of them.

Anyway, the dress is to-die-for. These pics are not the best, but were the only ones I could find right now.





I'll post my choices for best and worst dressed over on Fashionosophy later today.

And I'm outta here . . .

Oh, good lord. Reese, saved the best for last. Absolutely flawless. Love the extensions; love the dress. Love everything. Simply divine.

Wow. Meryl Streep just admitted she was a size 14. Women all over the U.S. are rejoicing and promptly gorging themselves.

This is Exhausting

I'm tired already. And the bigwigs haven't even arrived yet.

God, Cate Blanchett can do no wrong this award season. Again divine in Armani Prive and those stunning earrings. My god, what a year for her.

Loving Gywenth's Zac Posen dress. I think the lips could have been a little more complementary to the color of the dress. I'm never a fan of red lips. And she's reaching that age when the hair needs to be clipped by about 4 inches. She's as much of a fashion icon as Anna Wintour, so she should look flawless.

Okay, where is Reese? My hands are hurting. . .

Oh, Penelope Cruz, my abiding girl crush, clad in my favorite designer of all time (when he was alive) Versace. She can do no wrong by me; well, except for that minor Tom Cruise transgression.

Maggie Gyllenhaal divine in Proenza Schouler. My god, can you believe she was pregnant only four months ago? Jesus.

Oh, oh, oh, Jennifer Hudson, honey, your stylist should be shot. If she wins—and I think the odds are in on her—she's going to be looking back at the footage in ten years and thinking, "What the hell was going through my mind when I was talked into that hideous gold capelet?" The dress would be fab without that thing on top of it. And not a big fan of sideswept hair.

Cameron Diaz is always a mess, but I'm digging the new haircolor.

J. Lo. Ugh. The woman simply has no taste; never will. She is living proof that money can't buy taste. And, though I hate to sound like a Star headline, could she be hiding a baby bump?

Jessica Biel has arguably the hottest bod in Hollywood right now. Digging the simple fuchsia gown, with an uber-stylish belted waist. One cannot make a misstep in Oscar de la Renta, the king of dresses, or Valentino.

Harvey Weinstein's Phallic Mess

You know, as utterly senile as Joan is, at least she's acutally seen all the nominated films, even if she can't remember everyone's names.

I have to admit I haven't seen many of the nominated films, but I adored Little Miss Sunshine and am hoping that wins Best Picture. I think Abigail Breslin just may win too. And I think Forest Whitaker is a cinch, as is Eddie Murphy. Good year for the blacks; always a good year in Hollywood for the Jews. Oh, and the Brits. Helen Mirren is a shoo-in. You regular old gentiles are getting shafted.

Speaking of shafts . . . I think Marchesa will be a red-carpet fave this year, not only because the dresses are gorgeous, but because Georgina Chapman, 1/2 of Marchesa, is dating hideous mogul Harvey Weinstein.

Good Harvey Weinstein gossip? A couple of years ago, he was admitted to New York Hospital for a disgusting growth on his penis. Had a nurse friend who worked there. Ewww. I don't care how powerful you are, I think Marchesa could stand sans-Harvey and Georgina is simply beautiful. What the hell is she thinking?

Men, Glorious Men

Djimon Hounsou has been a favorite (and object of lust of mine) since his riveting turn in Amistad. He is simply virility personified. Sizzling hot. And I'm loving the salt and pepper beard and the sunglasses. Can't wait for that Calvin Klein campaign. He should have been Oscar-nominated for Amistad and won the Golden Globe. If you haven't seen Amistad, see it; it's one of Spielberg's finest works.

Have never been a Leonardo DiCaprio fan, looks-wise, he always was too boyish for me. But finally, he seems to have grown into his own. I'm digging the scruffy facial hair and the beefier physique.

Sacha Baron Cohen. Yum. Yum. Yum. And Kosher.

I'm now flipping b/t E! and TV Guide, and can I just say again what a moron Seacrest is. Hate, hate, hate him. Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that when I was living in L.A. and we were both on the VIP line for the opening of the W hotel in Westwood, he literally pushed me out of the way with nary an "excuse me," despite the fact that I could take him down with one arm.

Switching to TV Guide Channel for Joan and Melissa. Joan cracks me up and Ryan Seacrest is such a pompous moron who never asks, "Who are you wearing?" Four words, Ryan, not that hard.

Live Blogging the Oscar Pre-show

Can someone please shoot Bobbi Thomas and Jay Manuel? These are fashionistas? Jay with his hideous bleach blond hair and Bobbi with her less-than-zero knowledge of fashion?

Getting to Know Me

I'll bet you thought there wasn't much you didn't know about me, but, ha! There is. I'm bored and can't sleep. So here goes. And, oh yeah, I'm going to live-blog from the Oscar pre-show on Fashionosophy, cause I'm. Just That. Lame.

What do I suffer from? Constant insomnia (trouble falling, but not staying asleep—it's 4 a.m. right now), which only began once I moved to NYC and begun having mouse problems, random anxiety, slight OCD when it comes to germs and cleanliness, clinical depression.

What do I want to do before I die? See the world by big, private yacht or big, private jet. Either one will do.

What do I not have, materialistically, that I would like? A fabulous full set of luggage, preferably T. Anthony or Goyard.

What is my greatest fear? Not being successful enough to satisfy myself. Given my impossibly high standards, my greatest fear will likely be realized.

What can I not live without, in terms of objects, on a daily basis? My SSRIs, lip balm, face cream, hand cream, my Filofax, a computer or mobile device with access to email, my cell, a book or two, a pen and note paper, contacts or glasses, Wet Ones or Purell, 64 oz of water, two cups of caffeine, either Diet Snapple or coffee, and my everyday jewelry—watch, earrings, dainty diamond necklaces and a diamond bracelet. This is a comfort-level thing, not a showy thing. I feel naked without my watch and jewelry. My friend Adam once was at my gym with me and said, "Are you wearing all those diamonds to work out?" I said, nonchalantly, "Um yeah, why?" "Are those real diamonds?" "Of course, I said. "So why do you wear them to the gym?" "Why not? I never take them off, not even to sleep; I always work out in them." "You're crazy," he said. "Why? This is my everyday jewelry." "Ha. Everyday jewelry. Your crazy."

Yes, maybe, but again, not being able to live without Purell is most likely crazier than wearing jewelry all the time.

What is my morning routine? Well, given that I have no office job, it's surprisingly basic. I really am not high-maint in that sense. During the day before leaving the house, I shower, brush my hair, let it air dry, brush my eyebrows—ladies, you know what I'm talkin' about—and put on moisturizer. That's really it. Obv. my evening/going out routine is a lot more complicated and time consuming. Luckily, there is nobody to impress right now. And I always do my own nails and toenails and always get compliments on them. I have very steady hands. Always French.

What is my fitness routine? I do about an hour of cardio 5-6 days a week, usually the elliptical. I stretch for 30 minutes each time, twice a day. I do weights/strength training 3-4 times a week. I like to run, but since my tendinitis, I can't do so without causing a flare-up, so I've stopped. And it's so bad for the joints anyway. Now that I am where I am, I'm going to start taking up tennis again. Lying in front of the TV at night I do core Pilates exercises for the abs. Though they don't seem to do much.

What are the most important things to me? My family, my friends, my dogs, my therapist and my life experiences. Also, my intelligence, my resilience and my sense of humor, which has pulled me through many a tough situation. I'm not an optimist, but a sense of humor and the support of my family have gotten me through the toughest situations I've been in.

What don't I have that I wish I did in general? The love of a good man and a job that I enjoyed and could be proud of.

What are my greatest regrets? I know it's unhealthy to have regrets, but I can't help it—I have a lot. Let's start with high school—I passed on an opportunity when the then-editor-in-chief of Mademoiselle, Gabe Doppelt, (who now works at W), invited me to visit the magazine and meet the staff, after I wrote her a heartfelt letter and she wrote me a very heartfelt one back. Then, in chronological order, not going to an Ivy League school or, at the very least, NYU, which my parents wouldn't let me attend, even though I'd gone to NYC every year since I was old enough to walk practically. Then not going to NYC for summer internships. Then going to NYU grad school—perhaps to spite mom and dad for not letting me go there undergrad—to get my master's degree in journalism when really I should have taken a job as the low person on the totem pole at a magazine I liked. See, all my regrets have to do with my career.

What is my greatest aspiration? To be successful—so successful that I am slightly famous. 1% famous. Or famous to the people who matter. You see, I never aspired to marry and have kids. I aspired only to be successful. I do want to get married, but I want success even more and would choose the latter if it was an all-or-nothing decision. I want to leave my legacy on the world not with a child, but with a great body of work.

What has been my biggest disappointment? Not getting my book published, obv. This was such an earth-shattering, gut-wrenching, publicly humiliating disappointment that this is the reason why I cannot bring myself to actively pursue publication when my agent failed so miserably. I cannot put myself through it again.

What has been my biggest achievement in recent years? Kicking the shit out of American Media Inc.'s ass in court; working at a job I loathed just to prove I could be (semi-self) sufficient and as a result coming to the realization that writing and editing is the only thing that truly makes me happy job-wise.

If I was stuck on a deserted island, what would I need? Books, water, lip balm and a dog.

What is my philosophy? Life is short. Do what you want. Be real. Have fun. Be yourself. People either love me or hate me and that is fine by me because I'm always real. If I don't like you, you'll know it and vice versa. Life is too short to hide from who you are. If you're gay, be gay and come out of the closet; if you're an idiot, be an idiot; if you never want to work and just need to travel the world, travel; if you don't want kids, don't have them just because society thinks you should; if you don't want to get married, don't; if you waste 12 hours a day at a job you hate, quit. You could die tomorrow; in the words of my new mantra and RENT, "no day but today."

What have I always known about myself? Since about age 11 or so I have always thought three things with certainty about myself: that I would be famous, that I would die young and that I would never marry. Of course, these things are ludicrous, at the same time, they are all self-fulfilling prophecies. And I still kind of think all three are true.

And finally, the most important question of all, What are your favorite TV shows? This has been a good year for TV and I'm sorry to say, I'll watch just about anything when I'm bored or lazy. But my never-misses are: Curb Your Enthusiasm, Entourage, Extras, Ellen DeGeneres, Grey's Anatomy and Friday Night Lights. If I'm home, I'll watch Gilmore Girls, America's Next Top Model, The Apprentice, Lost, Without A Trace, What Not to Wear, all the Law and Orders and any sort of celebrity oriented reality show. Now that I have DVR, I'm kind of in trouble.

I think I'll try to go to be now; meaning I'll toss and turn and then sleep until 1 p.m. tomorrow.