I can't approve comments at the moment, but Paige, funny as ever and loved your latest 'clumsy' entry. And Anon, I don't think eating Uranus is the solution to my current state of affairs, but thanks for the suggestion.

As a grave, profound aside, is anyone else as obsessed with Gossip Girl as I am? It's like 90210 but better cause it's all about the 10021. This week, when S. and 'Lonely Boy' were making out at an intersection in Meatpacking, I realized that I had done the same in the same location a few years ago. Sigh. I am really missing NYC right about now. Yet I find myself relating to the parents in GG more than the kids, which is totally scary to say the least. Christ, I'm old. Whoever said your 30s are so much better than your 20s must have been smoking something serious.

I miss my 20s; at least then I could write off my stupidity, immaturity and recklessness to being young. Being an adult kind of sucks in my opinion, esp. when your adulthood turns out to be less than you hoped it would regarding your career, romantic situation and what not. Sure, you become more comfortable in your own skin, but that doesn't necessarily equal happiness. When I was 17, did I ever think I'd be sitting here blogging to lots of anonymous people as opposed to being some fabulous, successful magazine editor? Uh, no. If I had a crystal ball back then, surely I would have changed courses. But you know, the past is in the past and all that BS.

Mars and Pluto

I've been thinking. I know, dangerous right? It occurred to me before I got into the shower—probably because I was debating whether to shave or not—that it's really quite simple to boil down the whole dating thing. If you're single and 'looking,' chances are you are juggling a few sets of balls in the air, literally. I'm not a talented juggler. And frankly, I like to know before I get into the shower whether I need to shave for the night. Anywho, I was thinking, wouldn't the whole dating thing be a hell of a lot easier if men were like girlfriends? Meaning, what if the qualities I treasure in my girlfriends—humor, loyalty, fun, intelligence, integrity, generosity, practicality, boldness, excitement and tolerance—were abundant in the males whom I date?

Well, natch, if guys/dates/potential mates were as easy to figure out as women are, the whole scene would be simpler. They would tell me whether I should shave, what they want to do, what their issues are, what the latest gossip is. They would be fun, adventurous, great partners in crime, animated and well-rounded. They would return or make phone calls without preamble or strategy. They would treat me as an equal. They would put a smile on my face the whole night. I would know that if I'm with them, I'll have a good time, no matter the setting. Just like my girlfriends. We could be at McDonald's—not that we ever would be—and still have a fabulous time.

My beauxfriend highly recommends being gay. I think I'd just rather hang with Wally. And my girlfriends. And my gays. And my straight guy friends, with whom I can talk about anything, no holds barred.

I suppose my conclusion is that I'd rather have one person or no person at all. All these balls flying around just makes life more confusing, not to mention dangerous. If most men are from Mars and most women from Venus, then I'm from Pluto and the men I meet are from Uranus.

Let's see what's new here. Last Thursday I was hit on by an older lesbian who has, according to her, hooked up with both Madonna and Matt Damon. Don't know how the Matt Damon thing came to pass. Friday my friend and I drove to Jacksonville for my beloved Wally's 12th birthday. Also brother is finally home from India and he was there as well. The little booger—Wally I mean—is 84 in human years and acts like a puppy. I finally have him back in Miami and it's amazing what a difference having him here makes. He's very happy and so is mommy. My mom was in NYC for like the second time this month doing damage on 5th for her annual girls' shopping trip, to which I was not invited, ahem. One of their friends got pick-pocketed on 5th and the perpetrator made off with $600 in cash, not to mention her license and credit cards. Apparently, crime is back in Manhattan.

My godson has apparently taken on a new hobby. Saturday I talked to my BFF, who informed me that Kobi had gnawed off the entire side of his wooden crib like a dog. The little guy has 8 teeth and did some serious, doggy style damage. The irony of all this, which I only thought about yesterday, is that his mom Dana has had for years this completely random analogy that just manifested itself in her son. Dana always says, upon eating something she doesn't like, "This tastes like the wall." She's been saying this since we were kids, God knows what the fucking wall tastes like.

So after seeing the photos below, it occurred to me. "Oh my God," I told Dana, "Do you realize that your son now literally knows what the wall tastes like? Maybe he did it so when he grows up he can tell you!" How ironic. The little guy really did some major damage. . .

So last night I went to Ocean Drive's party for the signing of Patrick McMullan's tome Glamour Girls. In addition to Patrick, uber-it girl Tinsley Mortimer was in attendance, along with a bazillion photogs and camera crews. No idea what for. She's teeny-tiny in person, but had on a fab pink dress and dazzling drop earrings.
Mom also managed to send my the birthday photos from my dinner a few weeks ago. . .

I've been out 3 nights this week and have a full weekend ahead. I'm becoming a bad party girl again.

I have been negligent in my photo posting.

Girls, explain this to me if you can. Though I suppose you probably suffer the same problem. Why is it that hair conditioner bottles are so impossible to squeeze? I now have conditioner thumb in addition to Sidekick thumb. My thumb hurts just typing this. . .

Uh, I suppose it's nice to have fans and all but this person is simply republishing my posts verbatim. WTF?

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

A primer on the members of my tribe, if you will. Just like anxiety, guilt and curly hair are our birthrights as Jews, so it seems is the desire mothers and fathers have to fix the youngsters up. Not just their own children, mind you, but other people's children, no matter where one of the fixees lives.

Case in point: Over Yom Kippur weekend, the big buzz in the Jacksonville community was that there was a new, Jewish doctor (SINGLE!) in town. From my mom's friend trying to set me up (despite our geographic dislocation) to my parents' friends trying to set him up with their daughter who lives in California, the yentas were peeing their pants with anticipation.

My mom immediately calls her friend to get the scoop on the new guy.

"Nancy," her friend says, "He's not even Jewish!" His last name is Silverman. Honest mistake.

Holy heaven Batman. One of the biggest draws of my current digs is the bathroom. I think it's as big as my sleeping alcove was on the Upper East Side. I've got a fab shower with two shower heads, plus this amazing Whirlpool tub.

Natch, I had yet to try the jacuzzi tub until yesterday. What the hell was I waiting for? This thing is like spa-quality. Forget men, forget massages—this tub is my new best friend/boyfriend all in one. Hello hot tub. . .

Birthday Day Round-Up

Receive legal letter from dad to proof—don't ask, can't tell. Get passionfruit facial, as skin is a mess thanks to stress. Have lunch with friend at Ritz (thanks J)! Meet friend at gym, shower there, go to dinner. Run into other friend on street walking back to car. Go back to apartment, hangout with friend and watch the brilliant Weeds. Slept like a log last night. Back to reality now, which is still a bit murky at the moment.

I was just walking across the street to 7-11 in my post-beach getup—flip-flops, sundress and bikini. This fellow outside says, "I was watching you cross the street; let me get the door. Girl, your toes are so sexy. Love those feet." Uh, okay. I guess foot fetishes are alive and well.

My birthday, which is tomorrow, natch has been a weekend-long celebration. I suppose "the season" for the locals has begun. It's still hot as sin and the Snowbirds won't arrive for another month or so, but the social season down here is swirling.

Living room



Bedroom


Boat


Satiated godson

Shana tova! Guys are still douches, I still can't find my diamond stud that is somewhere in my apartment and I seem to have neglected to make Rosh plans. On the plus side, I'm looking forward to a great bday dinner Friday with mom and my friends—sans the douchebag obv., but with all our common friends, ahem—a big symphony party Saturday and lots more retail therapy.

I have to say though, I'd love to run into Dr. Douchebag this weekend with mom and dad in tow. Dad would throttle him and mom would slap him with her Chanel bag. Now that would be FUN.

Thank God for Retail Therapy

FYI, major retail therapy was needed yesterday—my haul:

1 pair of strappy, sparkly Stuart Weitzman stilettos
1 pair of black Zanotti pumps with a silver-and-crystal embellishment at the toe
Diane von Furstenberg black, silk dress
Embroidered and embellished bronze Rebecca Taylor skirt
Cosabella night gown
Bailey 44 black capelet.

Hey, I was in a really bad mood. I haven't been dumped in a long fucking time.

How's this for the start of a week?

Lost job Friday, got unceremoniously dumped by guy on Sunday. And it's my birthday Monday. I am soo back to celibacy once again. I've covered every market—Jew, Goy, young, old, dark, light, creative, book smart, poor, wealthy—and you know what? They ALL suck. Thank God for retail therapy. And friends. But seriously, I'm now confident that all you guys are douchebags. Even the "nice" ones. So once again, I am done.

More TK on the job; let's just say it makes the Star saga seem boring.

The Psycho in St. John

I don't quite know where to start regarding this last "job" of mine. So let's just jump right in. Past "employees" have been coming out of the woodwork to swap stories with me about the publisher and her husband. Each one has a nickname for her better than the next: The Charlatan in Chanel; Abnorma; and mine, Luna, as in LUNATIC. That's just a primer.

Webster's defines nouveau riche as: "a person newly rich." Duh.

But its definition for parvenu is much more apt for Abnorma: "one that has recently or suddenly risen to an unaccustomed position of wealth or power and has not yet gained the prestige, dignity, or manner associated with it." Humph. That about sums her up.

Well, some people say new money is better than no money at all, which is entirely dependent on the possessor of said new money. Yet when a tacky, classless, evil couple use their new money as a means to the end of buying their way into "society,"—and treat their employees like cockroaches, flaunt their wealth as if others care—and engender such loathing within the very circles they have tried to infiltrate, what do we call these people? Social climbers, sure. Trash, no doubt.

But I like the good ol' fashioned term poseur best, such a great word, no? For, Abnorma and her hubby might as well have tattoos on their foreheads that read, "I am new money! Pay attention to ME!" And from what I've garnered recently, the new money is not that substantial. Natch, it's all an act. She buys her Pulitzers at Marshalls and demands substantial discounts from everyone.

The dumb wench did NOT have me sign a confid. agreement, but apparently after I left, she made EVERYONE sign them. Ha!

My Godson and me at his first birthday. How precious is he? He finally knows my name, therefore I shall reward him with a fabulous designer birthday present!

Hoo boy, when I have good gossip, it's hard not to reveal it, let me tell you. Rest assured when the time comes, I will share, natch.

Finally a relaxing, do-nothing, gym, friends and shopping filled weekend. Boat time tomorrow. Can't freaking wait.

How fun do you think it is for your AC to be broken in your apartment when it's 100 degrees outside and you have floor-to-ceiling, water-view, west-facing windows in your living room? Let me tell you, it ain't pretty folks. In fact, I've probably ruined my precious Yves Delorme linens with sweat.

Thankfully, after five days of house-hopping and sweating, it seems to be marginally better. Sleep has eluded me until last night, as has the gym, personal time, etc. Looking forward to a day of massages, the gym and dinner with friends. I have turned into one of those boring rat-race pod people.

When the hell is an enterprising doctor going to invent a cure for PMS, seriously? Personally I hate going batshit like clockwork every 28 days.

If someone could invent a pill to cure this thing, they would be a very wealthy person indeed. I suppose this is what Valium is for. I am stressed, exhausted, sleep deprived, gym deprived and the PMS is just the cherry on the cake of my day.