I woke up yesterday afternoon, read my rejection email and crawled back into bed. I haven't had that don't-want-to get-out-of-bed feeling in a while. I called Beau, told him what had happened. He consoled me. I promised to shake it off and get out of bed. I fell asleep again. He called and woke me up.

"Alright, you think your morning was bad? I woke up to about six SWAT guys pointing guns at my head. I didn't want to tell you cause you were already having a bad day."

That got my ass right out of bed. You all know how I love me some drama.

And no, he's not a "gangsta" rapper. It was some retarded misunderstanding, but totally Cops. They were literally pointing guns in his face, having gotten the key to his place from the bldg mgr.

One of the reasons we get along so well is that his life is as drama-filled as mine. He can match me crazy story for crazy story every day. I can't tell you who he is primarily b/c he is not divorced yet, just legally separated. Plus, I kind of like the mysterious element.

Anyway, I can't remember what I've written where—given my 3 Filofaxes, blog and book—but following is the latest.

Saturday night Dawn and I are throwing a "Bye-Bye Boobie Birthday Bash." It's her 30th and my last weekend with my own boobs. My beau is performing and we'll both be wearing this shirt, from my friend Sabrina Cohen's foundation.

Another friend, the brilliant photographic artist, Tomas Loewy, has offered to do a portrait of me while I'm still au natural. His work is fabulous, so I'm psyched about that.

My friends are the best in the world. Big shout out to all you guys. You rock.

My double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction is Friday, Feb. 15th. My family, at least six of their friends, my beau and my friends will all be in attendance. They'll be laughing it up while my tits are sliced and diced. Not that I'd expect anything less from them. Natch they'll be filming that. Assuming I don't croak, I'll pretty much be fully recovered from the operation two weeks after. In the third week I'll go to NYC to see the wig maker.

Well, I will be fully recovered aside from having no nips—I can't remember if I shared this here yet. Who wants to look at their boobs with no nips? Not me. (They don't put the nips back on until after chemo. Ick.) So I had Beau go to Hustler on Sunset Blvd. to get me some hot pasties to substitute for nipples.

"What are pasties?" he asked. He's as naive about pop culture as I am about hip hop.

I explained to him, but he still didn't get it. "Ohhhhh! You mean like Lil Kim wore?"

Ha. I LOVE that that's his frame of reference. So he got me some really cute pasties. A pair of cherries, some butterflies, among others. He picked the butterflies because the color matches my hair color. I'm really not making this up. And you all know how cynical I am about men, so if I can find a man like him, there's hope ladies.

And my fruitless search for a Playboy has ended. Beau told me last night:

"I did it! I found you Playboy! And it's perfect because it's all about Hooters girls so they have 10 centerfolds instead of just one! So you have 10 boobs to choose from."

"I have 20! Did you pick me out some nice ones?"

"Yeah actually I saw a couple that were nice."

Oh my God. And my life's not interesting?