Sales: going, going, gone...

I love Bloomies. I love a Bloomies sale even more. This is a good one, but it's only good online, and only good through MONDAY. An extra 40% off applicable on top of items already on sale. Total of 50 - 75% off original price.



This one may be even better. eluxury offering 70% off designer offerings. Enjoy...

File under: stuff you can't make up

Dannielynn is now ten months old and couldn't be cuter. She has six teeth, her mother's charisma, and even better, she seems to be surrounded by the one thing that eluded Anna Nicole: unconditional love.

That crazy baby daddy race seems like a distant memory, doesn't it? Yet it all came rushing back today with deliciously bizarre news from the most surreal DNA applicant. Prince Fritz von Anhalt, fifth husband of Zsa Zsa Gabor and former Dannielynn-daddy wannabe, is now pioneering new ground in odd behavior.

TMZ is reporting a heck of a wrap up to the week for this batty old guy. On Thursday the Prince was found naked in his Bentley, handcuffed to his steering wheel. He claims to have been robbed at gun point by three women, but there seems to be reason for a healthy dose of doubt. I'm guessing there is a more embarrassing explanation. The very next morning he was in court on a different matter. Apparently, the Prince is fighting Zsa Zsa's daughter, Francesca Hilton (Great Aunt of Paris. oh, the tangled web), whom he believes stole money from his wife.

Do we think this turmoil is the result of royal inbreeding or wealth induced eccentricity?

A picture says a thousand words

This past Saturday was my four month anniversary. I don't know why this seems like the right time, but I'm including a link to some pictures taken during the four days following my surgery. They're not bad at all, but if you're particularly squeamish, don't look. I have already shown them to a lot of folks - I've been surprised by how genuinely curious people are about this whole thing, and the pictures seem to answer some questions.

I never felt like sharing them more publicly before. But now I have some distance, and frankly, when I look at these today, I feel proud.

This is my brag book.

48 is not just a number

I may only qualify by marriage, but on Saturday I was very proud to be a Voltz. My husband and his sister, Mary Ann, are two of FORTY-EIGHT first cousins. On Saturday we jammed as many of them as we could into one back yard in Clifton, Virginia (it was a big back yard), and held the first ever Voltz family reunion. It was an impressive event. Truly.

With so many cousins (keep in mind, they're all from Terry's dad's side. Mom was an only child), it would be impossible for anyone to keep track of them all. So not only were there many family members I hadn't met in the 12 years I've been with Terence, there were even family members Terry had never met. In fact, the gathering was hosted by Frank Voltz (and his delightful fiance, Anita), and although Frank was named after Terence's father, these two cousins had never met.

We had an unforgettable day. Lost time was made up. Legendary tales breathed new life. Matriarchs mingled. Progeny debuted. Spouses looked on in awe, fully aware we were witnessing an important event in the history of a great family.

Everyone immediately began thinking about the second annual locale. My mother doesn't know this yet (are you reading, mom?), but Terry volunteered her backyard. She may not be a Voltz, but my mom can't wait to meet you all!

Aunt Martha and Aunt Terry. Two of the original 10 siblings. Terry's dad was the oldest (thus nicknamed Sonny), and Aunt Terry (right) is the youngest.



We need a wide angle lens!


Voltzes make good looking children.


They say you can't choose your family, but we're all pretty happy with this assignment.

What a difference 3 months and 27 days makes

Last night I met Terence after work at a casual, neighborhoody restaurant we love on the Upper West Side. (Celeste. 84th and Amsterdam. Great food, great prices. Word to the wise: cash only.)

I met Terry on the sidewalk and we walked in together. It wasn't until we were led through the dining room and I was seated that it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. This is the restaurant we went to the night before my surgery, and I hadn't been back since. Ironically, last night we were seated at the table right next to the one we were at that night which is probably what triggered the realization as I sidled into the chair.

I remember being very quiet that night, and somewhat nervous, of course - but more eager to simply get it over with. It was right after we finished our bufala frita (fried cheese. what else do you think I would eat the night before brain surgery?) when Terry called and checked the home machine. There was a message from the hospital informing me my report time had been changed from 6 am until noon. Ugh. I don't think I spoke for the rest of the meal. 6 am is one thing. You just get up and go. It's over before you're even really awake. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out how I was going to get through those extra 6 hours.

As though the karma gods knew where I was last night, they sent me a welcome sign of progress: the waiter seemed to notice that I was turning my head sideways to hear him read the specials. Without any prompt from me, for the rest of the meal he approached on the other side although to do so meant a more cramped place to wedge himself into. I tipped him extremely well.

Hamptons Hobnobbing

We spent the weekend at the home of a gracious friend who lives in East Hampton year round, and we had a simply delightful weekend. But wow. Every time I go out there, I think it can't get more crowded and then it does.

Our Dapper Host

Over the course of my life, I have spent a lot of time out on the South Fork of Long Island. It has changed enormously since my first trips to Montauk in the 70s, but as overrun as it's become, a lot of what I love about Eastern Long Island is still evident. But it's July, so I had to look very hard.

Spending time out there during the summer is like being in a movie. Everything is so completely over the top. I know that I am lucky, and I never feel poor. However, there is nothing like walking through East Hampton to remind me that I am not rich. The obsession with and outward display of wealth is unrelenting. Manhattan has it's share of wealthy folks to be sure. But one could stand next to a katrillionaire in line at Fairway and never know it. In the Hamptons, making sure everyone knows it has become a feverish preoccupation.

Despite the overhead whirring of private jets and helicopters, it was a peaceful weekend with beautiful weather, savory food and great company. For two days and two nights, life was good.

Weekend highs:

1. Using my igo charger in the car for the first time. Unlimited laptop use. Amazing. I used the whole trip out to organize photo folders and the whole trip home to work on tournament stuff and start writing this post. We could have driven to Florida and I would never have run out of battery power.
   
   
2. Discovery of Pimm's and tonic. How did I make it to 36 without ever trying this perky little beverage? Perfect for a girl who detests sweet cocktails. This could be a replacement for the vodka gimlets I've grown a little tired of. Try it with some lime.
   
   
3. Drinks at the AmHo. Terry and I rented a house in Sag Harbor for many years with a great group of friends. Late night at the bar of The American Hotel was a standard. We went Saturday night and it felt just like old times. It's a quirky spot that always guarantees amusing conversations with characters of all types. We caught up with some old acquaintances and met some delightful new ones. My favorite part of the evening was the precocious beagle stealthily mingling at ankle level. I have no idea to whom he belonged, but he fit right in.
   
   
4. Paying a visit to the beach where Terry and I got engaged (at sunset 9 years ago in August. Holy cow, I’m old.)
   
   
   
   
5. Celebrity sightings: we tried hard to stay out of the fray, so we didn’t have many. Just Keith Hernandez in Java Nation on Saturday morning.

Weekend lows:

1. Feeling completely deaf while trying to have a conversation with a stranger at a cocktail party. We went to a small gallery opening on Saturday night. It was a really nice event with two of my favorite things: wine and cheese. So the gallery owner flits over to us at one point and gushes, “Oh, I want you to meet Tony Curanaj [one of the artists being shown].” She introduced him and then scurried off. So I found myself in exactly the kind of situation in which I cannot hear anything. The room was pretty crowded, so there was lots of noise and the floors were wood. I had no ability to discern any words at all without violating personal space norms in a really uncomfortable way. Asking Tony to repeat would have been futile. So I just smiled and nodded. Later Terry explained what the conversation we were having was about. As a fellow hearing impaired commenter recently quipped, I know that one of these days I am going to unwittingly agree to help someone rob a bank. I just know I’ll be pulled over driving the getaway car, and I’ll have thought I was aiding in a Starbucks run.
   
   
2. Not really a low exactly, because I didn’t care, but I endured some shabby (but ultimately amusing) treatment at one point in the evening at the AmHo. Two cougars on the prowl spied our host and were clearly interested. Since I was standing next to him, I would need to be disposed of. In one of the most adept yet shockingly rude social maneuvers I have ever seen, I suddenly found myself sandwiched up against a wall with my nose less than three inches from the center of one of the cougar’s backs. The speed with which this happened was impressive, and it was masterful in its subtlety. A casual on-looker would never have assumed this as a deliberate gesture and would have attributed the whole thing to the normal jostling that happens in a crowded bar. I knew better, but obliged by finding a less crowded perch. Sorry, ladies. He’s taken anyway. By a woman with better manners, I might add.
   
   
3. Visiting our old summer house and being shocked at the state it was in. This was truly sad. I’ve rented many summer houses in a few Hamptons spots. But the one that I really think of as “my old summer house” is the one we rented for years in North Haven (just outside Sag Harbor). We had the perfect group of friends in that house with wonderful chemistry all around. The historic house had belonged to a whaling captain who sailed out of Sag Harbor. In fact, the creaky pile of planks is haunted by the ghost of Captain Corwin himself. I’m serious about this – Terry encountered the old spook while reading in the parlor one evening. Others had similar experiences over the several years we rented this house and adjoining cottage. Much fun was had, despite the uninvited guests. We had many feasts with excesses of wine at a dining table that could seat well over a dozen (and we always pushed the limit). We solved countless Sunday Times crosswords around the oversized island in the kitchen while gossiping about the happenings of the night before. I made a lot of life-long friends in that house. So we were all very sad when we had to stop renting it because the owner was selling. (Interestingly, it was sold to Spalding Gray who infamously committed suicide a few summers ago by jumping off the Staten Island Ferry.) On Saturday afternoon Terry and I decided to drive by and see how the old homestead was doing. I imagined it was going to look great. I guess I assumed it must have been sold again after the Gray tragedy and that since it had been bought and sold twice now, some renovation and TLC must have been applied. Well, when we turned the corner we were shocked. The house is in complete disrepair. The grounds are completely overgrown with weeds. The cottage in the back looks like it is no longer habitable. There was literally an arm chair out on the side yard and a clothesline in the back with tattered looking clothes. I don’t know what is going on there, but it looks like there are some hill-billies renting the place, and there is obviously no one managing the upkeep. So sad.

A stolen glance at a house gone to seed

In the end, the lows were far surpassed by the highs, and it was an extremely successful weekend overall. Thanks, JB! We're coming back soon...

Movie Commentary: The Devil Wears Prada

Not a full review, but just a comment. This movie is being regularly aired on one of the movie channels right now - can't remember which one. I am Hamptons bound this afternoon, so I watched while I packed my weekend bag last night. It reminded me how much I love this movie.

If you saw the trailer way back when and thought this wasn't for you because it's a ridiculous chick flick about fashion, you should reconsider. Meryl Streep's performance is so deliciously complex and the result is thrilling to the core. She is the master of communicating a range of emotions with a subtle arch of the eyebrow, and this film showcases her prowess. Adrien Grenier's character is a little mopey and annoying - but pretty to look at nonetheless. Stanley Tucci is adorably lovable. The inside look at fashion is a healthy dose of vicarious glamour. It's all good.

Even my husband loves it (most likely due to the fact that Anne Hathaway is corseted to within an inch of her life almost entirely throughout, but still.)

A personal homage: I was dressed as The Devil Wears Prada at our Oscar party this year.

Hey, trainwreck

I couldn't stand the thought of going out in the heat on Sunday, so I spent a large part of the day doing paperwork for my upcoming charity tournament in front of the TV. One of the ridiculous things I watched: an HOUR AND A HALF of "Hey, Paula". This show is documenting the trainwreck that is Paula Abdul, and it is pure, vapid entertainment. Perfect summertime drivel.

Mindless pursuit aside, I have to acknowledge the show may have held my attention due to some recent personal experiences. It turns out, I can relate to Paula on an unexpected level. I have been acutely aware and increasingly amused by the fact that some of the strangers I interact with nowadays think I'm drunk. I am not being facetious.

I am fueling this perception with two behaviors:

1. I don't always answer questions appropriately. "Miss, what size would you like?" "Yes, please." "Would you like to hear our specials?" "I'm fine, thank you. How are you?" After a few missteps, the clerk/waiter/salesgirl suspects I have a mental problem.
   


2. After laying the groundwork for the insanity defense, I then turn to walk away from the counter, table, etc., and inevitably the wobble kicks in. A barely perceptible stumble that would go unnoticed if red flags had not already been raised.
   

I can see it in their faces. A mix of sympathy and amusement. Schadenfreude, perhaps. They're thinking, "This poor girl has been hitting the bottle and it's only 9:15 in the morning. It is going to take more than a grande latte to get her to quitting time."

Paula has found similar accusations hurtful. I find it amusing. Maybe I can do a reality show and Bravo can pay me a million dollars to follow me around for a couple of weeks?

In case you missed it, here's a link to Paula's promotional interview for this season's Idol. Trainwreck.

The natives are getting restless...

It's soooo hot in New York City today. Some of us are going a little crazy. This morning on the traffic report I heard the announcer say, "Stay away from the southbound Westside Highway. There is a man on the side of the road at 30th Street trying to balance a watermelon wedge on his head and everyone is slowing down to look. You might think this is part of a promotion, but it's not. It's just a guy balancing a watermelon on his head."

This is why I love living in New York - we have a special brand of crazies.

Obituary: Liz Claiborne

I just love the opening paragraph of this obituary from The Economist. I've been there.

It's true her label lost its panache a long time ago, but it's hard to deny that Ms. Claiborne's story has no lack of inspiration.

Anne Elizabeth Jane Claiborne, a fashion revolutionary, died on June 26th, aged 78

Paris overload

Two Paris posts within 20 minutes is excessive - even for me. I get it. But I can't resist sharing this one.

The folks at Funny or Die have done it again, setting an excerpt from Paris' journal read aloud on Larry King Live to an 80s style rock ballad. Calling Poison, here's one for the next reunion tour...

A Process, A Gift, and a Journey. Lyrics by Paris Hilton

I told you not to call me here...

CNN is reporting that a college student has been assigned Paris Hilton's recycled cell phone number and has been fielding calls and texts intended for the platinum jail bird since February. That sounds worse than brain surgery.

The story as reported on CNN:

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- For months, Shira Barlow's cell phone was flooded with wrong-number calls and text messages, mostly between 2 and 4 a.m. on weekends. Told they had reached a college student, callers refused to believe it.

CNN's Larry King interviews Paris Hilton shortly after her release from jail.

"Baby girl, how are you?" one man purred in a foreign accent. "Why are you doing this?" a woman asked. "This is so rude." And there were several seemingly random references to "Paris."

As in Paris Hilton.

Barlow's story began on Valentine's Day during a night out with friends. She was carrying her phone in a back pocket when it fell into a toilet. When she replaced it, her wireless company insisted on assigning the San Francisco native a new number with a 310 area code rather than 415.

Barlow had been given a recycled phone number that used to be Hilton's. The practice stems from efforts to conserve phone numbers to minimize area-code splitting.

Just after Barlow got her new phone close to Hilton's February 17 birthday, a flurry of calls and texts arrived. "Oh my God," one caller said. "Where's the party?"

Then came the day Hilton was sentenced to jail after violating probation in an alcohol-related reckless driving case. Messages about parties were replaced by dozens expressing condolences.

"People were scared for her," Barlow said.

The phone traffic trailed off when Hilton entered jail last month. But when Hilton was released, a new crop of messages flooded in.

"It's disgusting how they treated you in there, but once again you have showed the world that you can do anything," one wrote.

Barlow said she has resisted the temptation to pose as Hilton to get into exclusive parties. But she did message supporters "thanks so much," believing Hilton would appreciate it.

Barlow plans to keep the number because she says it has been a greater source of amusement than a hassle.

"It was really out of convenience," she added. "I didn't want to switch again."

Lunchtime shopping?

I don't yet have my full fix of summer shopping. A believer in "it's not what you spend, but what you save," this sale on eluxury may help sate the craving:






There are some crazy bargains in here. (Thanks for the tip DR)

Circular logic

They say the first step toward overcoming an addiction is admitting you have a problem. It's been pointed out to me that I may have an issue (thank you DM), but I don't think I have the strength to face it. Do I need an intervention?

My friend has a good design eye, and when he recently visited my apartment, he noticed a certain circular proclivity.








Do I have to stop the madness or should I embrace this tendency? Maybe it's just my thing. A signature, if you will.

Here's the problem. I love this deco inspired mirror with beveled edges and etched CIRCLES, and want to buy it for my bedroom. Should I just say no, or can I put my head in the sand and act like I don't have a problem?


Before you answer, you should consider the pattern on the last two dresses I bought:

JAV on NYC MTA: LOL

14th Street Station