Laurie Sandell

Mom’s Day with the sisters

Met up with my mom and sisters for dinner at Extra Virgin in the West Village. Mom was ordered to open her gifts in order of lamest to least lame, so mine was handed over first. (I gave her two books and a bunch of peonies.) Not that I consider books a lame gift, but when your banker sister splurges on diamond earrings, your gift sort of falls into the macaroni necklace category. The books I gave her were Bad Mother by Ayelet Waldman–unfortunate title notwithstanding, she writes brilliantly and hilariously about motherhood, and Then We Came to The End, by Joshua Ferris. I also picked up a book for myself, Eating Animals, by Jonathan Safran Foer. I’ve been avoiding it because I understand that everyone who reads it becomes a vegetarian. But I’m ready. I ordered what might be my last guilt-free spaghetti and meatball dinner.

Happy Smashover

Not calling it “smashover” because I plan to be drunk, but because I add a “sh” to words that are almost like, but not quite, the real thing. Ie. cubic zirconia earrings are “shmimonds,” a fake Birkin is a “Shmirkin.” Normally I would be doing a seder with my family (or Ariel Foxman’s family), but this year I’m in LA, and totally forgot to make plans. Now, before you LA-based Jews get all up in arms and start inviting me to spend this Passover with your dysfunctional family, know that while I am flattered and appreciative that you would extend the invite, I’m going to politely have to decline. It’s bad enough going to my family seder and feeling all awkward around my dad; it’s even worse going to your seder and feeling awkward around your soon-to-be-ex-husband, or punishing Aunt who insists on reading every page of the Haggadah, or your out-of-control kids. Instead, I’m going to take a leisurely drive to Malibu to have dinner with my friend Merrill Markoe (another bad Jew). It will possibly involve pasta, and certainly involve bread.

Ringing in 2010

Doing things a little bit backwards, here, since Amanda just sent me these photos. Went out with Amanda, her boyfriend Dave, Sarah Jones and Melissa Gelernter to a party hosted by Carole Radziwill and her good friend Doc (surgeon for The New York Rangers.) It was a slushy, rainy, freezing night and I was scheduled to leave for LA at 9:00 AM. I figured I’d stop by the party for an hour or so. Well, the party was so much fun–one of those crowds you just can’t put your finger on: all different ages and types, a few celebs (Matt Dillon and Gerard Butler), some sports stars–of course I didn’t leave until 1:30 AM. Then I ran around my apartment doing all those last-minute things you forget to do until the car is waiting outside to take you to the airport, like cleaning out your fridge. Once I got to my gate I ran into the novelist Emma Forrest, whose birthday party I’d just attended. Sarah Jones had given her my book and she’d already read it. She’s coming out with her own memoir, so we overshared about our lives until we were called onto the plane. Then we flew into balmy climes.

A very Jewish Christmas

I had the opposite of a stay-in-your-pajamas day on Christmas. The day before, I drove to Bellport, LI, to spend the night with my friend Ariel Foxman, editor-in-chief of InStyle and my friend of 15 years. On the way, I was listening to NPR and heard Sarah McNally, owner of the wonderful independent bookstore McNally Jackson, recommend my friend Saïd Sayrafiezadeh’s memoir as one of her favorites of the year! When I arrived in Bellport, I found Ariel stuck in the snow, half-in and half-out of his driveway. He might know how to run a super-successful women’s magazine, but homeboy doesn’t know you can’t just drive up an unplowed driveway. Luckily, some dude with a truck and some chains drove by and towed him out. We spent the night feeding the homeless at a shelter and organizing a toy drive for needy children. (Or reading magazines and watching a Jersey Shore marathon.)

The next morning, I drove to New Jersey to visit my best friend from high school, Kristan, and her family. Here I am with Kristan’s amazing kids, Jacob, Ryan and Madison. Below is Kristan and her mom, Madeline, who is one of the funniest people I know. (I talk to her like she’s one of my girlfriends.) At around 5:00 PM, I took off for the city, dropped Violet at home, picked up another high school friend, the singer Ben Cartel (another Jew orphaned on Christmas), and we went to Amanda Stern’s mom’s West Village townhouse for dinner. They’re Jewish but celebrate Christmas to the max, with a Christmas tree and presents and a formal dinner. I can’t repeat 99% of what was said around the dinner table; it’s not for a family blog. Then Ben and I went to see It’s Complicated, which was mediocre at best, but somewhat saved by Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin’s performances. (The actors playing their grown children were beyond terrible, painful to watch.) Got home late and crashed. I really do love that holiday.

A holiday/goodbye gathering

Last night a bunch of friends came over to say goodbye before I leave for LA. Of course, I completely forgot to take pictures! Here I am at the end of the night with a plate of pigs in a blanket (I also made artery-slowing Devils on Horseback and guacamole.) My friends Genevieve and Ted got a babysitter for the occasion, and my LA-roomie-to-be, Carole Radziwill, made the heroic trek to Brooklyn in a floor-length fur coat, which she said I could borrow, but I told her I’d rather be naked than wearing fur. Others who stopped by include my former roommate, Paul Robertson (who insisted on regaling Carole with stories about my dish-washing prowess, or lack thereof), another former roommate, Jeff Martini, my Portland-turned-LA-friend Blake Nelson, who was in New York for the holidays (see you in LA, Blake!), neighbors and good friends Derek, Kristin and Keith, Susan Gordon and her man, Marcus, Christa Parravani and Donald Antrim, and Abby Pesta and her brother, Jesse. A fun time was had by all, especially Violet, who was on the mini-hot dog cleanup crew, as you can see.

Glamour has a holiday party

Last night I attended Glamour magazine’s annual holiday party. But this one was a little different, because editor-in-chief Cindi Leive held it at her house! I love when people hold parties in in their homes, particularly in New York, where checking out real estate is one of my favorite pastimes. Plus, who doesn’t want to see the inside of their boss’s home? It was cozy and pretty and cool, with exposed brick and an eclectic mix of mid-century modern furniture. Though I left with a twinge of brownstone envy, it wasn’t so fancy or over-the-top I felt I’d have to run a magazine if I ever wanted to own a place like that. So I popped a good-luck candy dish into my purse to get myself started. Just kidding, Cindi, if you are reading this. Here I am with my editor, Leslie, who works on the cover stories and the popular Dos, Don’ts, News and Views section. We’ve just been having an intense conversation about Tiger Woods, Mario Batali (she had dinner with him recently), the upcoming season of The Bachelor, and my other editor, Lauren Brody’s, boots. (Tory Burch. Want them.) Oh, and string theory.

I learned my lesson with triplets

When you buy Hannukah gifts for a set of triplets (in this case, my nieces and nephew), you are supposed to buy them the exact same gift, in the exact same color. Or face WWIII. Here they are, looking angelic just before they had a full-fledged meltdown. Also, apparently you are supposed to look at age label on the box. I got Chase a set of Sea Monkeys (Ages 5 and up); Ellis a Wooly Willy (ages 4 and up) and Sydney a 3-D Drawing Pad (Ages 6 and up). Whoops.

Happy Hannukah from the worst Jew ever

Jew, me?

Look, I appreciate my Jewish heritage. We’ve got Woody Allen movies. Matzo Ball Soup. Hollywood. Sex appeal. Doctors. Frankly, we’ve got all the good jokes. But I’m not going to lie to you: Right now, I’m listening to my friend Paul’s “Classic Christmas” playlist, while bathed in the twinkling lights of my Christmas tree, and burning a Dipthyque “Evergreen” holiday candle. Why? Because Christmas smells good. It’s cheerful and pretty. It inspires songs that aren’t in the key of D Minor (I’m talking to you, Ma’ Nishtana.) And I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to enjoy it, just because Santa skips over my house like it’s a Swine Flu quarantine center.

If it makes you feel any better, I did buy Hannukah gifts for my triplet nieces and nephew, which I will be presenting to them tonight. And I do have a menorah set up in my kitchen–a cool lucite one from the MoMA store. But don’t expect me to turn my nose up at roasted chestnuts, or bacon-wrapped dates, or that sad stop-motion animation movie Nester the Long-Eared Christmas Donkey, just because my birthright is guilt and not a beautiful Christmas tree.

Holiday party season has officially begun

Last night I went to Jesse Pesta’s holiday party in Brooklyn, and, like last year, it was my favorite party of the year. Jesse is a Page One editor at The Wall St. Journal, and the older brother of my good friend Abby Pesta, who is deputy editor of Marie Claire. His party is great for a number of reasons:

1. He lives in a stunning loft and has impeccable taste. His home is filled with furniture and treasures he’s collected from all over the world (he spent a year-and-a-half in India, time in London and Hong Kong). His bathroom looks like it came from the set of Out of Africa; I took an inordinately long time in there, admiring his clawfoot bathtub. He’s also a photographer, so his loft is filled with gorgeous photos.

2. He has tons of interesting friends. Last night I met a number of Wall St. Journal writers and editors; a woman named Padma who is an anthropologist; and a woman who is writing a memoir about learning to cook, by moving back in with her family in Singapore (she is also headed to Yaddo in March, so we became instant friends). Plus, my friends Derek and Kristin were there, which made me very happy.

3. I have a car and he lives in the middle of nowhere, so I was the hit of the party when I offered to drive people home.

Yay, holiday parties!

Where do the bad seeds go for Thanksgiving?

Today I read that MacKenzie Phillips was uninvited from her family’s Thanksgiving dinner because of the memoir she wrote. Her stepmother, Michelle Phillips, said she “should have written it when her father was alive, so he could defend himself.” Trust me, Phillips family, people who are the subject of memoirs don’t prefer you to write the book when they’re alive. I didn’t go to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner, either, though I wasn’t uninvited; in fact, my father isn’t even in the country. But I did just see my entire extended family at a Bat Mitzvah in October, and experienced some of the tension and weirdness of having a memoir out in the world, and decided I was going to make this holiday worry-free. So instead I had Thanksgiving dinner with a group of people who are also estranged from their families–some more spectacularly than others–and we just sat around, eating turkey and pumpkin pie, and chatting about books and survival courses and the military and art and items in the news. And do you know what? I had a wonderful time. There was no gossip, no whispering, no strange looks, no ducking around corners to avoid certain people…it was just a nice night in with friends. I’m not suggesting I’ll never go back to another family function, but I might wait until I have a partner who can act as a buffer. Now I’m headed out to the stores. I keep hearing about this thing called Black Friday. Are the sales really as good as they say?