My new favorite thing: Cut Paper Fashion. Saw them at the Lincoln Road street fair Sunday. FAB.

The Manhattan Once-Over

Today my new partner/client/boss and his team met with a party planner for an event we may be doing. I sort of knew who the event planner was, as I'd written about her co. before. And, like any woman knows, we speak our own, nonverbal language.

Knowing that we were meeting in a family's airplane hangar with their ginormous jet, and knowing what I new about the woman, I told Tom that he needed me at this meeting to speak this woman's language.

So this is what I wore, which is completely relevant to the story—grandmother-vintage Pucci top, jeans, classic black Gucci pumps, classic black Chanel bag, Dior sunglasses and my usual day time jewelry.

Anywho, we did indeed speak the same language. In the car, Tom said something like, "Damn, she looked you up and down, like hardcore."

"Yeah, I told you. That's normal, that's what girls do."

"But she kept doing it."

"Yes, she was giving me what I like to call the Manhattan once-over. When you walk in Manhattan, especially on the Upper East Side, there's a ritual that most girls do in order to assess another girl's style. If someone was checking out my ensemble, her eyes would go from feet to handbag, up to the face, then down the entire body all the while checking out your jewelry, makeup, hair, body."

"So it's no big deal?" T asked.

"No, it's like how we judge each other at first glance. It's just what we do."

"She was being so rude, just staring."

"Nope. I did the same thing."

We get home. The blunts are lit. The Snapples are being drunk. United Content Providers, which consists of Tom and several other artists, are performing at the planetarium soon. They do video DJing that's too complicated for me to explain and if I describe it wrong, I won't hear the end of it from Tom.

Soo, I remembered that South Park did an episode about the "planet-arium."

"I have to get it, let's find it."

I Googled it and found it in the second season. The episode is called something like Rodger Ebert is fat.

Tom types Roger Ebert and then I tell him there's a "d" in Rodger.

He starts laughing. "I typed in the word Roger and corrected the word to reefer."

The Real Dream Job

I would make this a day-in-the-life entry, but each day has been quite distinct.

He tells me that I'm stereotypical in certain ways, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, as he's a stereotypical DJ.

He gets offered cameos in LL Cool J. videos and turns them down, albeit for work.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

A night at his house often means cooking, friends stopping in and out the revolving front door and lots of laughs.

He harassed me into taking the "Make a Donation" button down—I never even thought about it still being there—so I could "feng shui up" my blog.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

He is my new boss/partner/client/friend. And let me tell you, every day I spend working with him is a crazy fun, bizarro, alternate-universe kind of experience. He seriously needs his own reality show, for I can barely put pen to paper all his ridiculously funny lines.

Last weekend took us to Ingrid Casares' party at Karu and Y, and before me and the other guy knew what was up, Tom had commandeered the DJ booth and proceeded to play for a good hour or two. During the week I found myself at Mansion while it was closed, sitting on a couch that countless people have fucked on, watching T and his partner rehearse. Another night this week, he donned his chef's jacket at 11 p.m. to bring a dish to one of the owners of bar Love Hate. Did I mention that the jacket said "Love Hate?"

And then he smoked a blunt or two.
And then he drank a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

Jesus H. Now I have to go back to the dreaded mammo room to have the other boob done again. This craziness doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon. Social distractions and pseudo-work are really the only things keeping me sane right now.

A primer on my daily routine, before I share the below story. Wake up round 10:30. Go to gym. Eat lunch. Start working in the afternoon. My friends know my routine, natch. Meaning, they know I'm nonexistent before about 10:30.

The following served as my introduction to my now "partner," business-wise. Wednesday I awoke to the sound of both my home phone and cell ringing continuously. I have a text from my friend Dawn that reads "I just pimped you out." Huh? I then had a follow up text from a number that I didn't know that read, "Awake?"

I think next I called Dawn and said "What the fuck is going on?" Well, her friend Tom, whom I've never met, had called her in a tizzy that a.m. He had to audition for the Food Network later in the afternoon, and was in desperate need of someone to go over to his house and help him out with typing up the application. By this time it was about 12 p.m. He begged Dawn to help him, but she was on her way to Boca. Nothing I can do, she told him, but I have a friend who works from home and is a writer and she'd be perfect. "But I guarantee she's at home sleeping right now." Hence the bombardment of phone calls. So I'm like, okay, whatevs, always up for an adventure.

Next Tom calls me, explains (barely) what is going on and asks if I can help. He lives a few blocks from me and says he's got to get the food cooked and the questionnaire done by about 2 p.m. "Tom it's after 12 p.m. and I just woke up."

"Brush your teeth, throw on some clothes and get over here. You can impress me another time."

"Oh-kay."

"Oh, and can you stop at Epicure to get me some heads of butter lettuce and some white vinegar?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

I know Epicure—similar to Gourmet Garage but even more upscale. They're not going to have Heinz white vinegar, I know this, but he's the foodie and assures me they will. I get in the car, race to Epicure, grab two heads of butter lettuce and search in vain for the damn vinegar. No dice. I race over to Wild Oats, find some white vinegar and race to Tom's pad.

This is the first thing I see when I walk in. And chronic is the first thing I smell.






What's with the clothing pyramid is my first question? (Clothes he's getting rid of.) Tom's in the kitchen amid a pile of food. We make brief intros and he sits me down at his computer. I type away while he dictates, he smokes and cooks, we hit it off like two old friends. When I'm done, I read the app and it says he needs two photos and a copy of his license.

"Okay, ready to print," I say.

"Yeah, that's the thing. I have no way to print."

"Uh, Tom why the hell did you wait till today to do this shit?"

"That's a whole other story," and natch, the chronic wafting through the apt. rendered my question moot anywho.

"I need you to go to a copy shop, print this, copy my license and print the pictures and meet me at the Hotel Astor."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Please Ms. Green, I'm begging you," he pleads, "I can't do this without you."

He offers me money and a bag. Take the bag, leave the money. Race out again to the closest copy shop. Closed. Call him in a panic—I think by this point I was more concerned than him—he tells me another shop to go to. I race into the shop; they don't do copies or print anything and can't help. They point me to another shop around the corner. I'm now running down Washington Ave. in SoBe, parked illegally. I tear into the shop, they do it for me, then I race to the Astor. I run into the lobby and Tom is nowhere to be found. I ask a guy sitting at the counter if he's seen Tom. No, he hasn't, he says, but he may be in the casting room already. I run upstairs and knock on the door of the casting room.

"Hi," I pant, "Has Tom arrived yet?"

"No, he's late and should be here any minute," CD says.

"Okay, I have his paperwork, he's on his way."

Go back to the lobby and wait. Even when I'm a complete mess, I'm always early.

By this point the CD is pacing in front of the door. Tom ambles in, shades on, chef jacket on. I run over to him and hand him everything.

"Thanks, assistant," he says.

"You're welcome." I make my exit.

While in his apt. earlier he had asked me if I'm organized—hello—and decided he needed someone like me to help him organize his career. Sure, I say, I work from home and have some time on my hands. Tom is a deejay, video artist and private chef. He needs a publicist, manager and assistant all in one.

Meanwhile, he'd promised to cook Dawn and me dinner that night. . . . To be continued, as we had another episode yesterday.

But his You Tube videos—especially the Marley one at the bottom—will give you some idea of this unique character who's entered my life.

I had the craziest day ever, which I will discuss later when I have time.

In the interim, when I spoke to brother yesterday, he told me that this well known psychic in India said "your sister needs to have her breasts looked at in the next few years," in so many words. Uh, brother could have told me this a little sooner, but weird nonetheless.

The psychic also said that I would marry someone very wealthy, with long hair and a substance abuse problem. As if I would marry someone with long hair.

Breastesses

I've been debating on whether to divulge this information to the public. And I've decided to only because I think it's important for women to know about. This is not a ploy for sympathy by any means. And I haven't even gotten any retail therapy out of it—ahem, mother.

A few months ago, I found a lump in my boob while in the shower. I had just had my annual exam the previous month and the biatch didn't find anything suspect. I kept putting off going to the doctor, but with the constant bombardment of BCA month stuff, I finally bit the bullet. It's a nasty old thing—mushy, moves around and right where the underwire of my bra hits. Instinctively I didn't think it was a big deal—it's not hard or round or stagnant. Whatever. Long story short, 2 klonopins and a best friend and godson in tow, I saw the doc. He did an ultrasound, found the "mass"—isn't that a comforting term?—and thought it looked okay. You know the doctors and malpractice, they really won't tell you anything definitive.

Yesterday I had to go for a diagnostic mammogram in the Mt. Sinai Cancer Center; I was not comforted by the fact that I was by far the youngest person in the entire building. I had a series of mammograms done; like six total I think. This time it was Xanax—I have major white coat syndrome and find it impossible to go to a doc sober without having a panic attack. So the radiologists read the thingys, and they say the same fucking thing as the first doctor. "Well, you definitely have a mass on your breast." No fucking shit, biatch, I can feel the damn thing. However, apparently ultrasounds and mammos must be done; the mammography was to rule out any other suspicious spots. There were no others.

Now the next step is a biopsy, wherein I will have the doc remove the cyst or whatever the fuck it is. They won't truly know whether it's CANCER until after the biopsy. But, shit, if I'm going under and there's a long recovery time, these girls are getting lifted too.

Here's the thing ladies, I have NO history of BC in my family. I am 32 years old. That BS you always hear about starting mammos at 40? Not true. You should have your first one at 35 and then yearly ones at 40. I don't think everyone knows that.

The main result of all of this is that I am not sleeping well and popping benzos like Tylenol. Oh, and I've also made my things to do before I die list. This a.m. I looked in the mirror and I have the most hideous, darkest bruise I have ever had on the side of my rib cage where they jammed my left tit into the damn machine.

When I was in the first doctor's office with Dana, completely fucked up, I made her do the medical Q&A while I interrupted the cute, single, Jewish doctor with vanity questions.

"If it's what I think it is, you can just leave it in there forever."

"Doc, I'm single. The last thing I want is some guy feeling me up and feeling that."

"You're going in for a biopsy, you're taking this nasty thing out. And can you do a lift while you're at it?

Anywho, please forward this post to all your 30-ish friends and tell them to start getting mammos at 35; earlier if they have cancer in the family.

I will keep everyone posted. And seriously, don't feel sorry for me. I've done more in my 32 years than most people have in a lifetime.