So even though I consider myself to be a complete failure in my career, most of my friends (who work) are indeed very successful.

And given that I was always the one pegged since birth to be famous, successful and independently wealthy by this age—and given that I'm sooooo not any of those things—you'd think I'd be jealous of their success. But I'm not. I'm very proud of my successful friends, most especially those who have chosen to follow their dreams and do what they love. Perhaps these friends can give me pointers on what I am doing wrong.

Anyway, here's another one of my friend's success stories. Really, he's my brother's friend, but mine too. He's got a fab restaurant in downtown Jacksonville that everyone raves about, and soon it will be open for dinner. It's called Chew, and for those of you local yokels, check it out.

Also, I've decided to start my own blog/web site about all the things I love—shopping, fashion, resorts, spas, beauty products, travel, parties etc. But I really don't want to do the whole Blogger thing.

So if there are any readers out there who also happen to know how to design web pages, hook a sister up and email me.

This is what my week consists of, and I have other non-boring stuff to write about, but I must protect the guilty. Let's just say it was another weekend of police-involvement, crazy ass Nicole, and waking up in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment because we were too stoned to drive home. I hadn't smoked in like a year, so cut me some slack.

Oh, and I did land myself a fall-back marriage partner. You know the whole, "If we're not married by age 40, we'll just do it," Friends thing.


Today I took my wretched, hateful, hated, hunk of Nazi steel in for a "service type B," which my dad insists on me getting even though it costs like $500. Have I told you how much I hate my car? Oh, yes, I believe I have. So to me, that $500 would be better spent on a pair of summer Choos.

Tomorrow I have three stories to write.

Thursday it's more Botox and a peel, which I've never had but am looking forward to. Then later in the day, it's head-shrinking time. Must get my meds before heading back to Miami.

Friday is my first gyno appt. in like two years. Hey, when you're practically celibate, there really is no reason to go there.

Xanax and Barnes & Noble

For about a year after I realized my book wasn't going to be published, I dared not enter a bookstore, because if I did, I would start crying like a crazy chick. I sometimes even teared up merely passing the window displays of bookstores. I would stand there and think, "Jesus, look at all this crap people sell, and I can't even sell my crap, which I know is better than their crap."

And of course the book's course of events led to the downward spiral that caused me to leave New York, forsake writing, publishing and magazines, and move to Miami to get a "real job." Which of course made me realize how I was literally soulless without my writing, and having a boring "real job" made me more positive than ever that this is what I was meant to do. (Save your catty comments, I know I'm not Virginia Woolf. I'm not trying to be.)

It was only after I left NYC that I could enter a Barnes & Noble without the fear of crying. But then when I was in Miami, and I began venturing back into bookstores, I had these weird visceral reactions. I would get dizzy, lighthearted and short of breath. I would be unsteady on my feet. I felt the need to race through there and get to my car, ASAP.

It wasn't until a few months later that I realized I was having anxiety attacks each and every time I entered a bookstore. These pretty, colorful tomes were taunting me, screaming, "We got published and you didn't, and look at how crappy our book is! Ha, you total loser."

Well, I read several books a week and don't have the patience to order online, so bookstores are unavoidable. Today I was out of books; had to trek to B&N. And before I knew it, there was the nausea, the unsteadiness, the utter sadness, the pit of dread. And when I pulled into my garage and looked at the B&N bag, I just started crying. I couldn't help it.

I am trying to live in the moment here and focus on my future and my freelance career that is keeping me very busy, but for me, the non-publication of my book is like the death of a boyfriend or a lover—the insurmountable loss of something that you poured your heart, soul, time and money into all for naught. Or, more appropriately, it is the death of my dreams.

And upon reflection, I still can't say for sure that writing it was a mistake, because some good things did come out of it. But I do think that this rejection, especially since it was on a Page-Six-level public scale, is one that I may never get over.

Or maybe I will, when I write another one, or edit the 500 pages I have into something coherent. My July respite in South Beach may be just the place to do that. Because even though I can be a whiny, sensitive girly-girl, I'm also a tough chick, unafraid to kick ass, who can conquer pretty much anything. So perhaps there's hope for my dreams yet.

Charity

Per my do-gooder brother, please read the following. And if you feel so inclined to donate, please do so.

There is this kid named Sanjay who is trying to help polio (can you even believe brother is vacationing where there is still polio?) people in India.

Read about him here.

In my brother's words: "He is trying to buy a hemoglobin machine for the village. He gives free
health care to polio patients and rural villagers on the weekends. It would
be the equivalent of driving to Orlando [a two hour drive from where I am] every Sunday on dirt roads even though you have a full-time job and 2 kids. He's made children walk again
for the first time and its the only healthcare these people have. Here's my
experience with him.

Here is the link for Palms (I'm guessing that's his charity). . Click on "Special Projects."

They're trying to raise only $3,000 to send a woman to Tanzania to work with
crippled orphans, and she can't go unless they raise that amount.

I'm going to be charitable and donate; I need all the good karma I can get right now. And you cheap bastards donate too. A dollar or two makes a huge difference in India. They can like live on that for a day.

Oh and check out my brother's amazing pictures and please comment and encourage him to take this up professionally; natch he won't listen to his sister or his parents. But he very well may listen to strangers.

Best Quote Ever

You all know how much I love The Ellen DeGeneres Show, and she has this recurring feature where she calls up this 80-something-year-old woman in Austin, Texas named Gladys.

The first time she called Gladys, Gladys revealed the best. quote. ever.
She said, in response to a completely unrelated question by Ellen, "Listen, I'll be honest with you I love Jesus, but I drink a little."

Watch the video here.

And I'm OUT

Thank God, Ganesh, Buddha, hell, even Jesus Christ. I am finally out of this podunk town.

As it turns out, my very good friend with an amazing apartment in South Beach is going to Bali for the month of July. Her apartment would be sitting empty. I need a sublet. Connect the dots, and you'll find me back in Miami Beach in July, looking for a more permanent housing situation.

Hallelujah. Full-time job or not, this girl is just not meant for a town where only one place sells La Mer and not even one shop carries Manolos.

Dish's Dream Comes True

What a day/trip New York turned out to be. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Tuesday, was in the city by 10 a.m.; at Norman Landsberg by 12; and eating lunch at Bergdorf's by 1:30. Then it was dinner with the girls at Dos Caminos, where we had a grand old time as usual.

It was a fabulous New York day that was made oh so much better with the knowledge that I—after dreaming about this moment for almost 16 years—had an appointment at Conde Nast the following day.

I have been a Conde junkie for more than half of my life; it was Vogue and Allure that inspired me to want to write for magazines. My first clip was a letter to the editor in Vogue when I was 16; my cake at my high school graduation party was a mock-up Vogue cover, replete with headlines I wrote. Yes, I'm a total magazine geek.

For those of you outside the media, 4 Times Square—the Conde building—is Mecca for most aspiring magazine journalists. It's Jerusalem to me. And Wednesday I sat outside the offices of Vanity Fair, just breathing it in, wondering how the hell I got there after all these years. Sixteen years of dreaming about that very moment and six years of living in New York and not getting even a toe into the company's door, and there I was. Finally.

But let's back up and start at 10 a.m. that morning, when I had my hair Japanese-straightened at Momotaro. My dress, heels and makeup were in my Bergdorf's shopping bag. (Thankfully, I had found out about the appointment as soon as I arrived in NYC, so I had time to buy a dress.) After I finished with the hair, changed and did my makeup in their bathroom, it was early. So I went to Saks for lunch.

On my way out, on my way to Mecca, er, Jerusalem, Ted Koppel got into the elevator. Holy shit, I thought. And merely by his presence, my pre-interview nerves were settled. You all know how I believe in karma and coincidences. So there I was, on my way to the journalistic pinnacle that I had always strived to reach and one of America's most legendary journalists was literally standing in front of me. If that's not a sign, then, hell, I don't know what is.

He held the door for me on the way out. I said, "Thank you sir. You do great work, and I am a big admirer."

"Thank you," Mr. Koppel replied.

And then I hailed a cab to 4 Times Square. It was a true Mary Tyler Moore moment. If I wasn't wearing four inch heels, I think I would have jumped for joy. Moments of pure happiness like that are so rare.

Now it's back to reality; sitting at my desk, punching out assignments while my parents are leaving for their friends' home in the Bahamas on a private jet tomorrow.

I get the distinct pleasure of watching the mutts and the house in this craptastic town while they get to sun themselves in the Bahamas.

Then again, they didn't get to go to Mecca, and to breathe the same air that Anna Wintour breathes, so I guess it all evens out.

It appears that my brother may have finally lost his shit in India. If you thought you and your sibling were polar opposites; compare and contrast my brother and me.

He's been there since December, so it's only natural that he'd lose his marbles at least once, what with the malaria, diarrhea, poverty, bad water, monsoons, etc.

On an even more shocking note, it appears that I actually can have fun in this ass-backwards, podunk town. Last night went to dinner with a fun group of girls—holla—at Ruth's Chris out at Ponte Vedra Beach and then onto a cheesy bar, where we danced to cheesy music. And I ran into an old high school crush in line.

He recognized me right away, which is a little offensive, since I like to think I am a lot better looking now. Then again, in the inimitable words of Elaine Benes, it's entirely possible that I'm not as attractive as I think I am.

Oh well. I try my best.

I will write up my NYC adventures when I feel it's safe to do so, which, if there is a God out there should be soon. I. Really. Freaking. Hope. So. Really. My life is completely in limbo right now and it would be nice to stop swinging.

Diamonds

Hey, I actually posted on Fashionosophy! Hail Mary. Or Ruth. Or whomever this Jewess is supposed to hail.

You know, God damn. Whoever said "the waiting is the hardest part" sure knew what the hell they were talking about.

Anyway, go get yourself a tanning butler or a facial: Juli B Beauty Picks.

World Weary

Note to self: Do not ever, ever again take a night flight from LaGuardia. What the hell was I thinking? After six years of traveling this route, this gal should've known better. Oy jet lag.

Anywho, I will write up my experience when it is safe to do so. . .I think I need to keep things on the DL for now.

I got to see most of the girls though, most of whom are now single again. Figures, when I move away they are all coupled up; when I go back to visit they are all single.



In the meantime, amuse yourselves with this Juli B Swimwear story. And I cannot remember whether I already linked to this, so whatevs, I will do so again: Juli B June Picks.

Leaving for NYC tomorrow at 5 a.m. (don't ask) to see friends and get my hair fix. Back late Wednesday night and then another deadline. Eventually, I'll find some time to do something.

Surprise!

As per usual, my parents' friends threw a great party, this one for my dad's best friend (and 2nd father to me) David's upcoming 60th birthday party. David, who prides himself on never being one-upped, was truly, utterly shocked.

I have posted all the photos on Flickr. But below are some of the highlights.

Uncle David, making his entrance, utterly stupefied.

Me, at home pre-party, as I promised Suhani I would take a pic of me dolled up donning her fabu necklace.

Me and loyal reader and suddenly slimmer Nancy P.

Me and David's youngest, Leah.

Me and David's older daughter Lindsay.

The girls and a very happy, anonymous (as requested) captain of industry. And how fab is Debbie's Missoni dress? Also ordered off the Internet, sight unseen!

Mom, Lynn (my Palm Beach mom and fashion/jewelry partner in crime and one of mom's best friends) and me pre-party. Mom is in Armani, and Lynn may be too, but I'm sure she will correct me if I'm wrong.

Me, mom and Uncle David.


Dad and me.

David and his 85-year-old mom, Kosher Kate, who is not only sharp as a tack but is always dancing on stage with the rest of us!

And for my fashionista readers, my ensemble: the dress, some designer I've never heard of, bought sight unseen off eluxury; the necklace by the fabulous suhani pittie; the earrings antiques from great-grandmother on my dad's side; the purse Marc Jacobs; the watch Roxy's much coveted and borrowed vintage Chopard; and the shoes, which you probably can't see anywhere, Manolo, natch.

Oh, yeah, here's my little contribution to society for today: Juli B June picks.

I'm sure great-grandfather would be oh so proud.

My dad wins an award for his volunteerism today, and I punch out stories about beauty and fashion. My dream assignments, don't get me wrong, but I must find a way to give back that doesn't actually cost any money. Cause I ain't got none to give. Only myself and a tiny bit of time.

And buy this sports book by one of my dear friends—hello, father's day! If it's as awesome as its authors then it's, well, awesome.

Family Facts

As I've said before, my family is not so great about keeping its history, but apparently some of its members are. Thank God, because my maternal family is fascinating. The following are things my mom learned at my uncle's funeral, fascinating stuff really. (Mich, you'll get a hell of a kick out of all this.)

• While still living on Long Island, my great-grandfather Martin—who worked his way up from taxi-driver living in the Bronx to real-estate magnate—owned the first gas station outside NYC, in Nassau County where you could buy fireworks.

• He then went on to create some kind of tire/rubber business and manufactured some kind of rubber part that helped during the war.

• While still in NY, due to his and my great-grandmother's (Millie) philanthropic endeavors, they befriended Eleanor Roosevelt. (!) She later stayed at their house when she visited Sarasota.

• Martin had a heart-attack at a young age and decided to retire. They took the boat down to Boca Grande, Florida, near Sarasota, and were going to settle there. Then they discovered Sarasota and Martin fell in love and decided to relocate there.

• Never having been in the building/construction business—and remember he moved there to retire—he was unhappy that the Sarasota marina did not have bathrooms. So he built them. And thus Paver Development Co. was born.

• They started with the residential development Paver Park, in which streets are named after my mom, aunt, grandparents etc. They went on to develop 6,700 residential homes in Sarasota county, and owned a utilities plant, a sewage plant and the land that is now the outlet mall there.

• They patented some kind of element in the pantry where you open the door and then there are multi-level shelves and called it the "Paver Pantry." Alas, the patent expired and people just copied them.

• They supposedly invented the "villa" type of housing, where you have two homes one lot.

• This is my favorite one, as it illustrates the wild streak that runs in my family: During the war Martin was arrested for rum-running. Millie had to go to the police and beg them to let him out, as he had children to take care of. Ha!

• Way back in the 40s, Martin built the first synagogue in Sarasota, Beth Shalom, as a gift of course. Later, when the synagogue moved to its new location, the firm gave them the land it now sits on and built the property for them at cost. When we were young, we would go into the Martin and Mildred Paver religious school, where there is a metal bust of great-grandpa, who we never knew, and rub his nose. He had quite a prominent nose.

• Millie's parents were from Vienna, where apparently they were the photographers for the royal family. And although when it was time for Millie to be born they were in the U.S., her mother wanted her to be born in Vienna. So she went there for Millie's birth and died in childbirth. Millie and her sibling were then sent back to the states to live with their dad.

• What else? So much more, they were such benevolent people to the Sarasota community, which is evident if you read the comments in the guest book of Uncle Paul's obituary.

And then there's me, who sits at her computer all day, typing drivel. I'm sure they would be so proud. I have to say, we have not lived up to the legacy of our forefathers.

I am breaking up with my therapist. It's the longest relationship I've ever had, six years.

How does one do that? The "it's not you it's me speech?" The Seinfeld episode where he breaks up with the friend?

Or how about: "I've been speaking with you for six years and last night you tell me you think I may have this mental illness instead of the one I've been being treated for?"

Are you kidding me?

Screw her, and in fact, screw therapy. It's obviously done a lot of good. Could've bought a freaking condo with all the money put in her pockets. I don't think I've ever felt so betrayed by someone who I came to trust with, literally, my life.

Paul Leonard Paver
Paver, Paul Leonard May 6, 1924 - May 26, 2007 Paul Leonard Paver, 83, Sarasota, formerly of Great Neck, N.Y., died May 26, 2007. Services will be at 11 a.m. today at Temple Beth Sholom in Sarasota. Toale Brothers Funeral Home handled arrangements. Saturday, May 26, 2007, saw the passing at the Siesta Key family home, of Paul Leonard Paver, a wonderfully beloved and preeminent Sarasota pioneer and philanthropist. Paul came to Sarasota in 1949 soon after his father, Martin, and mother, Mildred Paver, arrived in Sarasota. Together, along with his brother Stanley, the brothers formed Paver Construction Company. Over the next half century they built over 6,000 homes in Sarasota and developed numerous commercial properties. Paul was born in New York City and graduated from Great Neck North High School in Great Neck , N.Y. He attended Hofstra College before joining the Army. He was a veteran of World War II and served in both the European and Pacific theaters. Paul served in the Army's 480th Ordnance as staff sergeant and was in Paris on Victory in Europe Day. He so enjoyed being part of and contributing to the greater Sarasota community and was a member of the Sahib Shriners, Temple Beth Sholom, and the YMCA. He was a charter member of the Sarasota Power Squadron, and was a supporter of the Wellness Community and the New College Foundation. He served on the board of directors for SunTrust Bank. Paul was a board member and supporter of Temple Beth Sholom for 55 years. He and his brother Stanley founded the Martin and Mildred Paver Religious School at Temple Beth Sholom. He and his wife, Doris Morrow Paver, were married 54 years ago in Temple Beth Sholom. He is survived by his wife Doris, daughters: Randa Paver of Alexandria, Va., Andrea Paver Kaine of Sarasota, Pamela Paver Barton of Fort Lauderdale and Diana Paver of Sarasota. He also survived by his sister, Sydelle Paver and his grandchildren, Judith Kaine and Daniel Kaine. He will always be remembered by everyone who knew him as a wonderful gentleman and a kind and generous friend who loved life, people, travel, learning, and most of all - family. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the Martin and Mildred Paver Religious School at Temple Beth Sholom: 1050 S. Tuttle Ave, Sarasota FL 34237. Paul's brother, my grandpa Stanley. I don't have any photos of Uncle Paul. But who knew that nowadays you can sign online guest books for obituaries? What an amazing concept. I had no idea this web site existed, but I think this was our family's second residential development. The tribute is apparently the work of my cousins. Very cool, girls! The History of Kensington Park.

RIP

Lots of stuff to catch up on, but first I would like to take a moment to remember my Great Uncle Paul, my long-deceased grandfather Stanley's brother. Uncle Paul was a kind, generous, warmhearted, loving, charitable husband, father, brother and man. He will be greatly missed by his family.

Most of you know I've been wanting and meaning to go over to Sarasota, where he lived, knowing that he was ill, and that I would like to see him before he passed. Sadly though it happened too quick, which, I suppose is always the case unless you are like 106.

On the flip/yin-yang side, my uncle on the same side of the family, my mom's half brother, won the lottery on the same day that Paul passed. So perhaps in the same way that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, for every truly terrible thing that happens, there is a truly miraculous thing that occurs as well.

That it should occur in the same family is a bit mystical though, no? In that vein, my brother brought me a present from India to Italy; it's a small carving of the God (?) Ganesh, who Indians (Hindus) believe is both the placer and remover of obstacles. Somehow, Ganesh managed to fall the floor and break recently, but I glued him back together, as I need all the obstacle removal I can get.

Soooo, onto the party portion of the program, which I know is why you guys read anyway, as I have little to offer in guidance/wisdom. This weekend was the first time since moving here that I actually went out and had a fun time. Perhaps because Crazy-ass Nicole and I don't go out that much together, I really didn't think such a thing could be accomplished without being around all my old friends who are still here and have yet to (AHEM) get back in touch. But meeting new people is always fun.

And though the first part of my evening was tarnished by the news of my Uncle's death and a disturbing conversation with the Chicago asshat addict, who is once and for all finally out of my life, my phone book, etc., it was salvaged by crazy-ass Nicole, and her friends who I'd never hung out with before. We had a grand old time this weekend.

I learned more about Christianity than I think I ever have; I got way too much sun, which I made up for today with some lovely Botox and Restylane; I partied; I met some very nice people, who though extremely different from myself, were nonetheless absolutely fabulous to hang around. And, as is always the case with my crazy fun weekends, I lost a little something in the sartorial department. A friend of a friend accidentally stumbled into me and broke my favorite pair of Chanel sandals. Sigh. Lesson learned: bars and high fashion just don't mix.

Now, onto the asshat addict and my ongoing battle with celibacy. (If you are reading this asshat, I had previously chosen to spare you the poison pen, but frankly you've really pissed me off and you are deserving of every single word I am writing.) Though I suppose I should thank you, asshat, as you taught me a valuable lesson in the "don't-have-sex-unless-you-are-in-love" dept. It's just too difficult for women; once that wall is breached, our emotions are involved, period. No matter what we say.

I am once again re-dedicating myself to celibacy until I am actually in love. That, of course, means that I will most likely never have sex again. Ever. But you know, there are lots of other things that you can do, without actually having sex.

Finally, a plea, a beg even directed at my friends and acquaintances new and old of the male variety, I really need a date this weekend for a rather big party that I can assure you will be filled with fabulous people, food and fun. And no strings; I just need an escort. I don't think I can handle another event where the main comment will be, "So are you dating anyone? You know, my 45-year-old son is available and single."

And now, for the photographic evidence. I will post the rest on Flickr, which you guys can access by clicking the link on the right of this page.

Nicole and me, when she was just her normal brand of crazy.


Yet, as the evening progressed, she was in full, crazy-ass Nicole mode.



The group.


The fabulous view from the bedroom of the house I stayed in this weekend.

Memorial Daze

Thank God for friends with beach houses, and thanks to Jared Paul Stern for my awesome, huge Skull & Bones tote that makes the perfect weekend bag in this casual town.



Happy Memorial Day. I'm checking out until Tuesday.

Well, this willing thing seems actually to work. I just landed another steady freelance job writing for a magazine (yay, magazines, how I've missed thee!), after nothing more than a phone interview.

LOVE the phone interviews.

Now let's try this one:

I will have a date—even a friend-date—to this big party I must attend next Saturday. If that works, I'll faint.