After attending my daughter Sheri’s wedding in Florida, I headed for a week of R&R (not to mention some heavy partying) in Palm Beach. Being a devout New Yorker, I’d packed all-black garb, so when I arrived in the capital of High Society South, my body went into Toxic Pink Shock Syndrome! Everywhere I looked I was blinded (even through dark shades)—powder pink slacks, blazers, high heels, sweat suits, palazzos, even golf clubs!!! I thought I had Pink Eye!!! The only other visible color was baby blue—the ocean!

I had rushed into the nearest designer boutiques on Worth Avenue to replace my New York black duds with Palm Beach powder pinks, when I spotted security guards scanning the handbags of every single shopper—it turns out, only two kinds of bags are legal in Palm Beach—Chanel and Dior! And when I strolled out onto Worth Avenue once more totally “in the pink,” I froze in my tracks. I realized I could be arrested on the spot as an “accessory” to a crime: I’d forgotten—Pearls!!! It seems every PC (Pearl Correct) lady is showered with them: strands, earrings, bracelets, pins, clasps, buttons, not to mention pearl-studded collars and leashes—for poodles, of course—the only canine permitted in town (I did notice a few leashes on the young male walkers of the regal resort’s society dowagers).

Needless to say, I made sure to show up at my first bash in Pink ‘n’ Pearls. The Planned Parenthood fundraiser at The Breakers honored Dr. Ruth, and when she schmoozed on stage I noticed her sexual innuendoes seemed to fall a little flat with the VPP (Very Proper Power) crowd. Then it hit me—how could Dr. Ruth not realize Sex is a Capital Offense in Palm Beach!!! What society type who’s just spent long days in salons having her nails done, face botoxed, and hair coiffed would risk chipping polish or mussing a single curl with such a messy act???

I learned another very important point of etiquette at a ladies’ lunch the next day. You NEVER ask a Palm Beach socialite what she does for a living. The first time I made that mistake, I received a very chilly response: “I do nothing.” Of course! I learned quickly—you ask the ladies what their husbands do and those sans spouses you ask what fundraisers they devote their precious time to. Hard labor in Palm Beach means go-carting on golf courses, submitting to grueling spa massages, or showing up at endless rounds of charity lunches.

Table gossip in Millionaire Mecca is quite enlightening: You see, Millionaires in Palm Beach might as well be the homeless on Worth-less Avenue! It seems nobody who’s anybody here is worth less than a Billion! I found myself wowing over one mansion, only to hop over to a bigger palace on the ocean which made the last estate look like the maid’s quarters! Take note, dah-lings: Don’t even try to compete in Palm Beach. There’s always going to be someone with more than you have.

Fortunately I found Bice, a favorite hot spot packed with vacationing New Yorkers and crackling with New York energy, opinions, and humor. (Come to think of it, no wonder Palm Beach ladies don’t have as much plastic surgery as their Manhattan counterparts—there aren’t nearly as many laugh lines to erase!) I was thrilled to bump into Charles Gargano, Earl Mack, Andrea Stark, Jeff Furman, Stewart Rahr, Sandy and Larry Rosenthal, the Allman Brothers’ Butch Trucks, and Donald Trump on my visit to Mar-a-Lago.

By the end of the week, I found myself craving the sights, sounds, and smells of my hometown and getting back to Big Apple-reality: garbage-strewn streets, wailing sirens, hot dog stands, the true homeless, cabs with unique odors of drivers’ origins (a la curry, sausage, and Big Macs, etc.), and overall grime. How refreshing to get home because after all, there’s still no paradise like New York, New York … where High Alert has always been the name of our game on the front-lines of High-Society.

We Must Never Forget!!!