In Dreams and Power

Fucking Ambien CR does not work. Don't waste your $120. Now I am awake before 10 a.m. and hating it.

I often have psychic dreams; nothing major, but prescient nonetheless and always relating to my life. Last night I had a dream that is perhaps worth sharing in light of the crazy, muckraking week I've had.

First, my week.

On Monday, I received a tip from a reliable source about shady goings on at a satellite branch of a very famous, very good, legendary NYC eatery. I had to investigate, for I love this restaurant and the allegations are disturbing. (Not in the spit in your soup sense, but troublesome nonetheless.)

I went through the usual PR channels at first, then remembered that a close family friend knew one of the partners. Within minutes of me emailing my friend, who then forwarded my e-mail to the owner of all the restaurants (they are expanding, Spago-style, too much too fast in my opinion), I received a call on my cell.

It was the owner of all the restaurants, "the main partner," as this mogul in his own mind referred to himself. He kept me on the phone, nude, having just gotten out of the shower and trying to race to my new shrink appt., for like 15 minutes, nearly shouting at me in his rapid-fire New-York-power voice. He was alternating between shaking in his boots that a (said with real disdain) blogger could bring down his precious business—if not to its knees then at least it's thighs—and pulling attitude out of his ass trying to intimidate me into not writing the story. The story is not for my little blog, but a massive, widely-read New York one, that has indeed brought down many powerful people and places.

As most of you have gleaned, I'm rarely if ever, intimidated by so-called powerful people. People of power are my natural milieu—nobody's intimidated by what they've always known and been surrounded by. And if this person thinks that intimidation and degradation directed at moi are going to make me want to ease off the story, well, he's going to be eating his own words off the page.

Anyway, I took the high road and assured mini-mogul that I would hold off on the story until I got his side and his team had a chance to investigate the allegations. 20 minutes later, he called me back and informed me that he was flying a manager to the out-of-state location the next morning to investigate.

The saying the power of the pen is not meaningless, not now and not ever.

This is why I became a journalist: to bring the truth to light, in the tradition of the great muckrakers: Jacob Riis, Upton Sinclair. Albeit I'm digging up the dirt in the worlds of fashion, entertainment and dining, it's still a service. People always ask me how I can be so honest on my blog and in my writing. And I always think, what is life without honesty?

Now the dream. I hurt my hand and needed to go to the emergency room of a public hospital. They had me waiting in the disgusting lobby with all the derelicts, and I threw a hissy fit at the cop who was patrolling the room.

Somehow my hissy fit devolved into a threat: "I know Dr. so and so and I know his secret." Dr. So and So was, apparently gay but married. This got the cop's attention and I was ushered in.

Again, having information few people have is a powerful tool. The doctor—who did he look like??
Barak Obama.

All I'm saying is that if Barak comes out, you heard it here first. When I worked at Star, they had "gay" files thicker than the Church of Scientology's (think of their most vocal male stars) on many of Hollywood's most powerful stars, and this is how they wielded power over them; that vault on Dirt? Not so off-base.

So the dream, natch ties into little ol' me having this power of this restaurant mogul, and just chomping at the bit to get his side of the story before I leave Saturday. Mr. mini mogul, if you're reading, call me today cause this story will go to print with the comments you already gave me or it can go to print with more well-thought out, less abrasive and condescending comments. FYI.

Any commenter who guesses which restaurant I'm digging into gets a free copy of my manuscript. But you must include your email in your comment, as I won't confirm or deny the name until the story breaks.

Erin this one is for you

So in keeping with my "blogging for donations theme," Erin is the lovely patron of today's post. I've actually sold two copies of Dishalicious in two days. Um, yay? Erin is a friend of yesterday's patron, and they seem to have a rowdy, fun bunch of girls down in Macon, GA. They have kindly invited me to be the guest of honor at one of their "nooner," drinking fests. Hell, I may just take them up on it one of these days. So thanks girls, for the support and the invite!

In other news my tailbone is feeling a bit better, but I am still going for my deep-tissue massage, and I have a feeling if that doesn't help I won't be able to play on that dreamy, surreal tennis court in Positano. I also have a facial and the slim wrap tomorrow. Big beauty day; let's hope the results are worth it. Friday I go for my Botox touch-up on the crow's feet that will be free thanks to a barter—I'm helping them rewrite their web site.

Bartering is one of the best reasons to be a freelance writer, in case you haven't figured that out already.

I leave Saturday for Italy and am back the following Sunday. Then I'm off again Thursday to cover Miami Fashion Week (hopefully it's not an oxymoron), the FedEx World Polo Cup and a beauty treatment at the new RikRak Beauty Bungalow at the fabulous Sagamore Hotel.

I know, tough life. But the only way to handle living in hicksville with your parents is being able to escape, frequently.

I've received my first donation (for the book) so now I can write. How it came about is funny: I received a random email from a woman who said:

"I just realized I spent a long flight home from Jackson Hole next to a very high-maintenance women who was no other than Bonnie Fuller. I am an avid reader and gossip whore and I found your blog while researching today. I love what is on your site about your book..How can I get it?"

Ask and ye shall receive. Another, hopefully satisfied, reader.
Soo, you all know what a huge Ellen DeGeneres fan I am. Not only do I find her hilarious, intelligent, courageous and generous, but she's an incredible role model and the charity work she has done for her hometown of New Orleans is nothing short of staggering. Natch, you all must also have gleaned what a type-A, control freak I am when it comes to my appearance, beauty regimes, exercise rituals and eating habits.

And of course I wanted to be in stellar shape for my rapidly approaching holiday to Italy. (Think of all the pictures I will have to see for years to come. Sister needs to look her most fabulous.) When the pounds weren't shedding as quickly as I wanted them to, despite 6 days a week of 60-minute cardio sessions, twice weekly tennis lessons and 3-4 days of weight training (not to mention an hour of stretching every single day), I decided to try something rather drastic, a la Ellen.

Before the Oscars, Ellen endured this as a last-ditch effort to shed those unwanted inches. And from her mouth to my ears, what she says is the gospel to me. She said that this actually worked and that the inches actually stayed off! Why is this not the hottest thing out there? Tyra Banks has also admitted to doing it. As Anna Nicole's autopsy proves, those diet drugs will kill ya. So I'm booked for Thursday. And if it really works on me, as it did on Ellen, then I will definitely spread the word far and wide. What else?

In a middle-of-the-night-pee-break haze Sunday, I stumbled into my bathroom, fell into the tub and landed on my tailbone. Swear to god, I was thisclose to cracking my head open. Not only am I the world's biggest klutz, but I somehow managed to basically fall like this: back of calves hit side front of tub, ass falls on top, back bends at odd angle, I topple over backwards and land on tailbone. Crash. It took me a minute to recover and I am still sore. I think my unbelievable flexibility helped me in this situation. The silver lining? Deep tissue massage Thursday.

In other news, hmm, not much. I'm off to Italy Saturday, with a 7-hour-layover at JFK. Soo if any of my fabulous friends with cars want to come say hi, put it in your day books.

I have a blind date this week with an older man. Older men are where it's at for me now.

I had a dream that the maid ruined my La Mer.

My tennis game is improving, though not so much so that dad won't whoop my ass in Positano. My pro sent me home today because the first swivel motion I made caused me to wince in pain in light of the tailbone.

I need good, fiction, paperback recs for my trip, so please comment if you've read anything great lately.

Oh, and a pic of my godson and me, just so you don't accuse me of being inhuman. Us high-maintenance, tough-talking fashionistas have soft sides too.

That's all.

I have been doing some serious muckraking today kids, and it feels gooooood. Give me some Loro Piana gloves and I'll get down in the trenches with the best of them.

Fashionosophy: A Writer's Revenge

I know you all thought I was talking smack when I said I'm not writing anymore unless I receive donations, but I wasn't. Henceforth, this blog will consist only of photos with captions and links. Until someone actually ponies up some dough. Diamonds and Djimon

Buon Giorno Balenciaga

What to pack when you're a princess pressed for space.

Photoblogging

Il San Pietro di Positano—10 day countdown begins.

Hotel exterior:





Sun deck:


Room:


Restaurant:

Amalfi Hotel, Santa Caterina:

Private gardens:



Room:




Exterior view:

Okay Folks

I know I'm going to get a lot of flack for this, but tough shit.

I am henceforth blogging on a per-donation basis. It can be $1 (the cost of a newspaper) $4 (the cost of a magazine), what have you.

My theory is this: Time is money. I'm trying to launch a legitimate freelance career and this blog and its stories take time away from those efforts.

Writers get paid to write just like lawyers get paid to counsel. (On that note, I had a dream that my atty daddy charged $1,850/hour last night. As if. Then I'd definitely have that trust fund.)

Anyway, I'm not just some schmo off the street who started blogging to vent her feelings. For those of you who don't know my history, I have a bachelor's in journalism from the University of Florida and a master's in journalism from NYU. I have written and edited for magazines and the web for more than 11 years.

I started this blog as a way to promote my long-dead novel, and since that is no longer the purpose or the effect of this place, well, then it should have some purpose. I am a goal-oriented person.

And here on blogspot, there is no other way to make money off blogs but by accepting donations.

So please, save the "greedy," "shame on you," "you have a lot of nerve" comments.

If you like to read me, donate a dollar or two. The first donation I receive will get the honor of prompting my first post after this. If you don't like me, then now's the perfect opportunity to stop reading. It's that simple darlings.

The donation button, through PayPal is at the top right of the page.

Now that I've turned in my article for the magazine, I'm off to the beach.

Me and My MJ

I had the most delightful dream last night—hence the early awakening.

For those of you who know me well, you know that since my hormones kicked in around age 13, I have had an inexplicable, abiding, curious crush on the one, the only Michael Jordan. Still do, 14 years later. The perfect specimen of human beauty in my opinion.

If Michaelangelo were alive today, he would cast MJ in marble and tourists the world over would gawk. When I was 13 and above I was obsessed. I remember us going around in Hebrew (or was it Sunday school) one time when our parents were present. The rabbi asked us who our heroes were. Everyone in the circle, without fail, said their parents. (Shameless nice Jewish kids.) I said, "Michael Jordan," then when I noticed the horrified faces around me hastily added, "and my parents."

I had the T-shirts, I had the posters adorning every inch of my wall space, I had the Spike Lee Mars Blackman 6-foot-tall, black-and-white poster plastered to the outside of my door. This was not normal, but I couldn't help myself. I was obsessed with the Bulls, the Flight logo, McDonald's commercials, anything and everything MJ. I bought his cologne and wore it. I bought his book. I stopped short of buying a pair of Air Jordans, but that's about it.

Years later, I came to know people who knew MJ. Our good family friend, whose own family is prominent in the restaurant business, advised MJ on opening his steakhouse in Grand Central. He played golf with him, he talked on the phone with him, he gambled with him, he dined with him. And I berated his wife for not taking a napkin he'd wiped his mouth on, gotten me a souvenir, something. Sick.

I also came to know another insider who told me, upon finding out about my obsession, that MJ ain't such a peach after all. Gambling addictions, adultery, etc. As if I cared. My crush continued. When I found out he and Juanita were divorcing? Happy, happy, joy, joy. I mean the woman looked like a pancake. I've encountered many celebrities in my life and frankly, yawn. He is the one (plus Anna Wintour) in whose presence I might actually be rendered speechless. One night, while I was living in LA and my friends and I were drinking in the bar of the Peninsula Beverly Hills, they decided to have some fun.

I'd just gone to the ladies' room and passed Ben Affleck on the way there. He was the bee's knees at that time. I got back to our table, bragged about my sighting, and they hatched a plan. An hour later, Dana went to the bathroom, came back to our table, harnessed all her acting skills and said, "I just saw Michael Jordan walk outside the hotel!!!"

I was up and out of my seat like the space shuttle upon liftoff. I ran outside, looking this way and that. Asking the valets, "Donde es Michael Jordan? Donde? Donde?!"

"No, no Michael Jordan," they replied, eyeing me like a common crackhead. Then it dawned on me. I marched right back into the bar and was fuming; wouldn't speak to them for the rest of the night.

Anyway, to this day, my crush abides. I worship him; would take up golf for him; would be at his beck and call, day or night. Well, maybe just nights.

So my dream: I was at a star-studded SoBe party when someone introduced me to MJ. He was sitting alone at a table. We started chatting and he was complaining of back pain. Natch I offered my assistance. Then, again natch, as I was massaging his rippled, long and lean back, I started rattling off the best places for him to get a massage in the area. After all, I would know, before I left I was up to about a massage or two a week thanks to my freelancing.

And that's about all I remember. But all I know is I woke up with a smile.

Also, some fashion picks for spring, were my budget unlimited instead of severly restricted: Fashionosophy

Must, Must, Must-have

Okay peeps. I must have this bag. I am now dreaming about it, which in the truly fucked-up language of my family, means it was meant to be mine.

I am now going to do something I have never, ever done before: accept donations.

Just think of all the hours (and through my site meter, I know it has literally been hours for some of you) of entertainment, laughter, sadness, empathy, amusement and diversion I have provided for you. And then pull out your AmEx. The amount is up to you, but this (now bona fide) writer needs to get paid;)

Okay, Art Couture is finally functional, though in a totally ghetto way. I have three stories due this week, myriad doctors appointments, tennis lessons and preparations for Italy, so not much to say really. . .but please check out the new blog and buy if you like what you see.

Mentor Mania/Fateful Encounters

I have always been fortunate enough to have magnificent mentors. My first mentor was my high school yearbook teacher, Jill Johnson, who inspired me to be creative, write what I felt and essentially taught me how to edit a book. Because yearbooks, when you think about it, are just really bad, big magazines in a way.

Miss J., as we called her, was one of those teachers that would've had a movie written about her if we went to an inner-city high school. She inspired all her students, some more than others. But this student never forgot her, and I credit her for not only instilling in me a passion for editing, but also for pursuing magazines as a career.

Anyway, I hadn't seen Miss J in 14 years. And when I went to NYU grad school to get my master's in journalism, I found another mentor in a man I'll call GB, cause he's humble like that. A top editor at the magazine where I just landed a freelance story, GB again always inspired me, nurtured my talent, put me in touch with his editorial contacts and was (is) a great friend, person and editor. He's always believed in my talent, even when the chips were down. I love him as a person and as a teacher and am so thankful that I had him as a professor. I often tell people that he is the only good thing that came out of my stint at NYU. In short, he was worth that $100,000 in tuition. He is that good.

Yesterday, I went out to buy a copy of GB's magazine at B&N so I could see what section I would be writing for. In front of me in line, I heard a voice I had not heard in 14 years, but recognized instantly.

"Miss J?" I said, in a stupor.

She didn't turn around.

"Jill?" I said louder.

This time, she turned around. I looked at her open-mouthed. "Do you remember me?" I asked.

"Stephanie Green! Of course!"

We hugged, chatted, caught up on the last 14 years in 10 minutes. I told her how she continued to inspire me and how I always thought of her as my mentor, but that the really strange thing was that I was there buying the magazine that I was writing for thanks to my current mentor.

Now if that's not fate, I don't know what the hell is. If I had browsed through the new books for one more minute; if I hadn't stopped in the driveway on the way out to talk to dad who was pulling in; if I'd been off by mere seconds, I wouldn't have made contact with good ol' Miss J.

Yet I did. Like I've said before, I don't believe in God, but I believe in the god of fates.

Halleluja!

Today, my friends, has turned out to be the best day I've had all year. What can I say? It's been a rough year. No, I didn't get a surprise in the form of the coveted Tods silver bag.

What I got was invaluable to me—a b-12-like boost of self-esteem, self-confidence and a bit of vindication in the form of a freelance article for a major, awesome, widely read national magazine. I am so grateful for this opportunity and plan to kick some major ass. This will be the first time in like 3 years that I've written for a national publication instead of being written about. Seriously, I'm over the moon, because now I'm officially a freelance magazine writer again.

See? It doesn't take much to make this high-maintenance girl happy.

Juli B Beauty Picks for March.

This was in my gmail spam folder this morning: "RE: Your penis looks too spongy? Make it beautiful with Penis Enlarge Patch."

God, I've heard of shrinkage, but sponginess?

In the inimitable word's of Elaine Benes, "I don't know how you guys walk around with those things."

I'm off to the beach club. It's 80 and clear. Just wanted to make you Northeasterners jealous . . .

My point of view today. Just love those private beaches. . . .

It's not you, it's me

It occurred to me this a.m. as I was woken up before my usual time of 11 a.m., that I have a serious issue with men. Natch, this realization is nothing new; I've been in therapy for 10 years.

But, it dawned on me that I have yet another issue to add to the list, and that is this: I'm one of those people who has no internal radar that picks up on whether or not a person feels the same way about me as I do them. Translation: You know those guys who hit on you, pursue you or stalk you because they genuinely think you like them, when in truth you have no feelings for them? That's me, sans the stalking.

Perhaps it's that my celibacy is at a year-and-a-half and all the dates I've had in-between have been comically tragic. Or perhaps it's my myriad Freudian issues. Or perhaps it's the old saying that you can't expect others to love you if you don't love yourself. Or perhaps it's my looks. Or perhaps it's the fact that I'm just a little too brash and opinionated for any man under the age of 40. Whatever it is, when I thought recently that I had an actual, muli-faceted connection with someone, once again, boy was I mistaken. That's all.

In other news, I've been doing lots of artsy stuff, most of which I would like to sell. So my friend Nicole and I and hopefully my friend Kim who is a bona fide, genius, uber-talented artist, have set up a selling blog.

It's called Art Couture, and there's nothing there yet, but maybe by the end of the week. So keep checking back.

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?