CELEBRATE tonight! I just got my breast implant surgery date! On July 16, one month exactly from last chemo, they'll be swapping the tennis balls for soft, sumptuous silicone implants. Woo-hoo.

Natch I'm doing the Sex and the City thing tonight.

Our cast of characters.

Me: enough said

Dana: bitch and just-popped life-long best friend with a boy named Kobi, a cat named Kuthzy, a dog named Cubby and a daughter named Sumner--where the fuck is the "Ka" in that?

Alison: friend, daughter of one of dad's bffs, granddaughter of grandparents' bff, and mother of two adorable munchkin twin girls.

Lay Ann: friend, granddaughter of another of my grandparents' best friends and daughter of another of dad's friends from growing up

Erica: friend from college with whom I committed destruction of property. bitch deserved it though. . .

Nicole, aka, crazy-ass friend: crazy ass biatch about to pop with the child of her baby dady. The girl has more rings than 3 married woman combined.

So Barbara saged me again today. And yesterday actually. Now I'm armed with sage, a sage stick, a pink quartz Buddha, sage spray, and, brace yourselves, Holy Water. I capitalize it because it's in a clear plastic container with the words "Holy Water" written on it.

"Barbara, where the hell did you get this?" (My first thought was perhaps she bought it because she does the Kabbalah thing.)

"Oh, I just get it from churches!" (She's Jewish of course.)

"You just go into churches and take holy water?"

"Oh, yeah, honey, I just go in there and fill up my bottles."

"Did you make this container and label it?"

"Oh, noo, I bought it in the church gift shop!"

Oh good lord how I love my crazy Jacksonville friends. FYI, all my chakras were aligned. Including the "root."

(You girls were right, she calls it the root and the source.)

You commenters are both right. And I try--I know it's corny as hell--to live my life by the song from RENT, "No Day But Today."

But I'm also a goal-oriented person and I don't think there's anything but pleasure in having a girls' trip with my old friends to look forward to in a few months. Girls I've known since birth, whose grandaparents were friends with mine. So you see, for me, a small part of it is sitting on a beach somewhere lovely. The large part of it is relaxing and enjoying life in the company of my oldest friends.

I can't imagine how bleak life must be without good friends.

I purposely watched the last several episodes of Sex and the City before I left Miami, because Samantha was diagnosed with and treated for breast cancer during that season. She shaved her head, had the side-effects, boasted a kick-ass attitude and always looked fabulous from diagnosis through treatment.



In one episode where the uber-annoying Sarah Jessica Parker aka Carrie Bradshaw is talking to her beau about Samantha's Cancer, the issue of denial arises. Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte utter the phrase "She's going to be fine," about 100 times. In one scene Carrie's beau, Mikhail Baryshnikov, basically shakes her out of denial and says, you must face the fact that she could die. Ah, but how the girls protest with the "She's going to be fine" mantra.



Well, naturally, the first thing you associate or think of when you here Cancer is death, no? So that got me to wondering : Were my friends, the ones in seeming denial, who wouldn't dream of coming to chemo or visiting me in the hospital, expecting me to die? Were they, are they afraid I'll die? And if so, how very silly.



Look people, we're all going to die. That's the only sure thing in life. And yeah, maybe this will ultimately be how I die. If so, what of it? But I wonder if my friends are bracing themselves for the worst and hoping for the best. I wonder who would come to my funeral; I always have.



Cancer, it changes you in so many ways. I've become more fearless. More bold. A little less vain. Appreciative of all I have. Appreciative of days where I feel good and am able to be a normal person. Of course I've also become a little more self-pitying, dependent and unmotivated to do much but wake up every day. I've changed in too many ways to name, good and bad. I'm uglier--bad. I'm more compassionate--good. You get the point.

But anyway, I'm kind of down this week because even though chemo is done in June and surgery will be done by July, I have nothing to look forward to after that. Nothing. No vacation, no life-changing experience, no financial windfall or career gratification. I have nothing to use at the light at the end of the tunnel except for the end itself. But July is just the end, when really, what I need is a beginning. And I need to figure out how to begin again.



No biggie.

I am in Jacksonville for a week of family, friends and hopefully, relaxation. Missed my flight Sunday morning, which caused a little tension, but managed to get home by Sunday night. Spent the last two days at our picturesque beaches sipping mojitos and having slumber parties just like the good old days, minus mojitos.

My back is KILLING and I don't know why I can't fuckin' remember to bring my Tempurpedic pillow with me everywhere.

I need something to look forward to in September. I must find a way to get a vacation togther, stat.
For all those fashionistas and seekers of page-turning beach books, go out and get Bringing Home the Birkin. Fabulous, true story. And I think I may have just found my next career. I've read it in 24 hours.

I'm selling my iPod Touch. I can't fucking deal with another gadget.

If one of you readers wants to buy it, we'll skip the whole eBay thing and just Paypal it through this site. It retails for $299, but I'll part with it for at least $50 less.

I've never used it, except to try to use it. If that makes any sense.

My bad

Okay I'm taking this Holocaust email fwd down, cause apparently it's bogus. This is why I usually don't read fwds unless they are funny. So stop sending me political shit, biatches.

I don't know if I've described how swollen the sides of my chest are; just below the armpits. It's disgusting, like someone has stuffed my skin with cheese or something. And the only way to get rid of it is liposuction. So natch, I'm doing it. Working on securing an appt for the silicone sisters for mid-July. Doc is gone until July 14 and it's a 10-day recovery time wherein I can't lift my arms or drive. Grrr.

So far the worst side-effect of this round is the fucking water-retention and bloating. I killed myself at the gym yesterday trying to get everything out and then spent an extra ten mins in the steam room. I'm not even trying on my jeans; just wearing dresses until my Ethiopian belly deflates. NM Last Call was so good the other day that I'm taking two friends back today.

I had a dream that I fell for another poor guy with no job. Probably because Dr. L berated me during yesterday's session about what I learned from the Beau fiasco. And trust me I learned, but this guy in my dreams was really hot. I don't remember the last time I met a hot businessman.

Feeling fabulous, knock wood.

Last night we literally went from chemotherapy to retail therapy. After we left chemo around 6 p.m., we came home, walked Wally and headed to Neiman's Last Call.

We closed the place down. Susan and I scored. She got a to-die-for Dolce dress that was 82% off the original price. And she gifted me a fantastic Narciso Rodriguez dress that was 80% off. Also snatched a pair of Zanotti peep-toe pumps for about 65% off.

I am SO bloated from this new chemo cocktail. I have to take diurects. My jeans don't fit because of the water retention. It's crazy. I usually pee about every hour or so; now I go only like 5x a day. Lovely.

Live blogging fr chemo again. Two to go! Less than a month! Blood levels are perfect, side effects a cakewalk. Mom's BFF fr ATL is in the house.

Ate amazing dinner at Prime 112 last night. We are still stuffed. I've got the first round of drugs going in now--3 hours. Then herceptin for one hour.

Also learned I can swap the tennis balls for the silicone ones in the beginning of July. Hoorah! The accupuncture has helped with the back pain so much. And my energy level is fantastic. I would recommend it to anyone who has chronic pain or is just a little fatigued.

Hitting the Neiman's Last Call tomorrow and hopefully some places tonight if it stops raining.

Just returned from engagement party at Palm Beach estate. Each time I'm at happy occassions such as this, I'm left with one pervading thought. How nice it must be for parents to have children who follow the traditional blessed course; college, grad school, marriage and children.
That's what every parent wants, lets face it.
They certainly don't dream of a single, 32-year-old daughter with cancer who's lying in her PB hotel room blogging on her Sidekick while watching "Must Love Dogs." Waiting for the klonopin to kick in and kill the demons.
I feel sorry for my parents. They did everything right and what do they have to show? No in-laws, no grandkids, nothing even to boast about their children. A waiter and a CP (no offense brother).
Nights like tonight, where I am confronted by everything I've always wanted and hoped for, just serve to highlight what I don't have.
What I never will have.
"My next mission is to find you the perfect guy," Donna said.
Wouldn't that be nice? If single, perfect men were just lined up for an aging, single, unsuccessful breast cancer bitch? Get in line guys.
I feel like some people think it's that easy, finding a life partner. Like picking out a pair of Choos. As if. Tomorrow I can go get a pair of Choos on Worth Ave. A man? Not bloody likely.
Nights like tonight, I don't see the point. Fighting for things I will never have? Searching for a man who can put up with me? Aspiring to greatness?
I have more of a chance of getting cancer again, which is like 3% or something. (And I know I'll be lucky enough to crack the top 3%.)
Really, what is the fucking point without love? What? And what the hell is the likelihood of finding 'love' when you are a self-loathing, hideous CP?
May as well pin my hopes on winning the lotto. I need a fucking joint.

You go Ellen! I called this yesterday as soon as I heard the gay marriage ban was lifted in Cali (HG can attest to that).

Ellen rocks. Long live lesbianism, people.

Question of the day, courtesy of gay boyfriend: (said in his thick Mississippi accent) "If you wear Depends and you buy them in bulk, why on earth would you put the box out for recycling?"

Just another funny thing he stumbled upon while walking his Jack Russells last night. I'm being spoiled today by another gay beau who's generously cooking me lunch at his pad. I love my gays.

This could be my worst flying nightmare ever. I think this guy deserves at least a million. I would've, well, jeez I don't even know. Taken down the pilot? Thrown my Wet Wipes at the crew? Jumped out of the emergency exit? A thousand and one things before I listened to the crazies telling me to sit on the toilet. I mean really, to me that's equivalent to water-boarding.

I pulled up behind a really funny Hilary bumper sticker yesterday that read: "Just vote for the bitch." Actually made me want to vote for her. And frankly I don't think she's a bitch. Just another dyke with a bigger set of cajones than most men.

I woke up again—this is like the fourth time recently—to Wally poop all over my bathroom. At least he has the decency to do it in the loo. He's really quite the intellectual, that one.

I've developed some interesting, annoying new side effects. Swollen everything, including my eyelids, which look like they do after a night of drinking. Dry, peeling, itching hands that the onco is calling in a lotion scrip for. Insurance probably doesn't cover La Mer. I actually sprayed some eucalyptus on my palms and that stopped the itching immediately. But I'll get the lotion too. Products are products and if I have to get my beauty rocks off at the pharmacy instead of Sephora, so be it. On the cancer tip, I've decided, per Elizabeth's suggestion, to continue to write about it here. As she says, it makes it more a part of my every day life as opposed to putting it over there in a box.

Looking forward to a relaxing weekend in Palm Beach, though I'm still fretting about what to wear to Lynn's cocktail party. Palm Beach exists in its own fashion microcosm. I don't own any Lilly, but I'm thinking a pink Pucci top will suffice. And mom's wearing Pucci too, now that I think about it. The reality is that tennis ball titties and process of elimination will most likely dictate my ensemble though. I think I should just start a blog called tennis ball titties.

And finally, though I've been an Idol abstainer for a few years, I've been watching this year. Natch, I'm totally into David Cook, but can we just talk about the creepy poor thing that is David Archuleta? Yeah the kid apparently has the stage dad from hell, but since the beginning I've gotten the whole child-molestation victim vibe from the kid. I think that if he wins, his life is going to come crashing down by the time he hits adulthood. And his money will no doubt go into dad's pockets. Too bad you can't make your parents sign the equivalent of a pre-nup. Okay, it's beautiful out today so I'm going to enjoy the great outdoors. Translation: I'm going to sit by the pool in the one bathing suit where my tennis balls look normal.

Have we discussed how much I am loving the term 'hot mess?' Genius. I'm having a torrid affair with this phrase. And Chelsea Handler too. Love her.

I find it utterly fascinating, and shocking really, that I'm getting hit on by street people left and right when I have no wig on. By street people I don't mean homeless people, I just mean those dudes on the street who pass you and talk to you, whistle etc. You know, those people. (They are another topic entirely.) Today I walked over to Equinox in a black hat and gym clothes and it was disconcerting to me that men were still hitting on me. Maybe there are dudes who are into sick chicks just like there are chubby chasers. Cancer chasers? Hmm. It's weird. Then again, maybe all they see are my tennis ball tatas. I don't wear baseball caps though; I wear hat-hats. Stylish ones that mom handed down to me. Baseball caps would be a dead giveaway. So most of the hats I wear have brims that cover the back of my neck and my head. Clearly I'm not adept at describing hats. I was never a hat person and I'm sure I won't be after this either.

But it occurs to me that if these construction-worker type men still think I'm hot, then it's possible that more suitable men may feel the same way. Naturally the people I know tell me I look great, but you never know if that's the sympathy thing or whatever. Hypothetically, I could meet a man somewhere when I'm dressed up and in the wig, he could dig me, ask for my number and never be the wiser. Now, the chances of this happening are slim to none, but this could be a good plot line/short story/film/something. Or a really sick, twisted reality show.

I can just hear Chris Harrison doing the v/o now.
"Stephanie is your typical 32-year-old single woman looking for love. But she has a dramatic secret that won't be revealed until she chooses the man of her dreams. Stephanie has cancer. Will the man she picks be sincere enough to stay the course? Or will he run for the hills? Stay tuned."

There are a lot of good stories that can come out of this. Too many for me to edit down. Which is why they are all posted randomly here instead of somewhere else that requires actual organization. I need to focus my story, cater it to one publication and go from there. Problem is, the only magazine I read cover-to-cover is Vogue. And while they do have a first-person slot, who am I kidding? Actually, I take that back. My philosophy should hold true here too. I always start from the top so why not with this as well. Emailing my Conde contacts is going on tomorrow's list.

Brother passed Larry David and Woody Allen shooting something in NYC today. Can you imagine a collab between those two? Off the charts comic brilliance ensues.

I'm going back for accupuncture Friday. I still have a needle in my ear BTW. It's on purpose. More on that later.

I'm feeling fantabulous too. Really about 90% normal save the mouth thing and the back pain/skin stretching BS. As miserable as I was after the last Cytoxin chemo, I'm truly thankful for my 'health' at the present.

On another note, you wouldn't believe how much drawer space I created by shelving my bras. (Don't worry Nancy, they're safely stored.) Now I think I'll need to fill that space with something else. God how I can't wait for normal titties so I can shop again. I can tell you firsthand that painkiller withdrawl is a hellovalot easier than Neiman's withdrawl.

Chemo braniac's moment of zen:
Arrived home feeling amazing from accupuncture--refreshed, healthy, energized and pain -free. Loverly. I had two Publix bags, a shopping bag, a handbag. The pharmacy had left my meds downstairs; they deliver. I got into the lobby, realized that I'd left the house keys in the car. Asked valet to get. Unpacked pharm bag, checked meds. Five.

Thirty minutes later, I have every one of the meds but the fucking Klonopin. Irony: I was scheduled for phone therapy with DR L. in L.A. We spent the whole hour retracing steps, going through the garbage, trying to find those little round fuckers!!!!! I still haven't found them. I fucking threw them away, I'm sure of it. And that, my friends, is what we call chemo brain.

Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go. I'm already sedated. But it occurred to me that, with three more chemos left, I've got roughly twenty-four hours left of treatment.

Natch, treatment is the easy part. Thankfully, this week's side effects were very manageable. I'm tired, but I've still managed to get to the gym. My chemo brain doesn't seem as bad (though I'm sure friends and fam who've heard me tell the same stories over and over would dispute that).

Luckily May is a fairly busy month with some fun distractions to keep me busy. Next weekend headed to PB for Lynn's son's engagement party. It's at one of those homes with a name, so it should be a hoot. Heading home for Memorial Day week, where Dana, Lay Ann and the whole old-school crew will be throwing Crazy-Ass Nicole a baby shower. The world better brace themselves for her progeny. And then before I know it it'll be June and I can celebrate the end of fucking treatment. But the real celebration will be after I get the tennis balls out. I'm growing more and more frustrated with them each day. I really need to plan a vacation somewhere for early August so that I have something to look forward to. Right now I ain't got nothing folks.

Been on a cleaning rampage this week, tackling the closet and ridding myself of scores of old clothes. Yay, I can gaze fondly at my shoes and handbags now. And when Beau gets his shit out tomorrow, I will really be free of all the baggage.

A really sick, depressing thought occurred to me today. With the price paid for my wig, I could've practically gotten a Birkin bag. Or two Chanels. All those would last me a lifetime, whereas the wig, God willing, will be history in a few short months.

My hair on the head is not growing back like the docs said. If it were, and I had a regular shaved head again, I would totally rock it. Because it's fucking hot here already. I wear the wig out and I'm sweating like a pre-menopausal woman. It's not fun in the 90-degree-heat and 100% humidity.

There's a big symphony party tonight that all my friends will be at and where I should show my face, but I'm not feeling so going-outy. One of my least favorite things to do now is to be cramped in a smoky club, with people banging into me. And the 'hot up-and-coming' 'hood down here for going out, this area near downtown, is just really fucking scary. There are crackheads—literal Whitney Houston crackheads—who don orange vests and try to get money from you to park your car. It's really scary. I don't think it's advisable to put myself in these situations right now, though I'd love a girls' night out at a civilized restaurant or bar. Really, I'm just too old for these clubs.

I've been eating very healthy this week, which actually seems to be making a difference. I'm already a veggie, but I've managed to resist my constant cravings for junk food. Veggies, fruits, proteins and dairy prods seem to lighten the load that is my body.

I'm not one of those you are what you eat people, but since I am supposed to be sticking to a certain way of eating—low-fat, high protein, lots of veggies and fruits—may as well try everything. Really looking forward to that accupuncture session on Monday.

Yes, naturally, there's a fascinating story behind the Beau situation. I'm holding off for a few reasons. To protect some reputations. To distance myself from the emotional drama of the situation. To let go of any bad vibes. And frankly, I'm saving the whole story for something that, well, pays. It's a story that should be told but not necessarily here.

Plus, it's sooooooo fucking long that sitting here typing about it would just exacerbate my back pain. Suffice to say it was a dramatic, ridiculously unbelievable ending and story. We're not on bad terms as far as I'm concerned, but something did happen with him that reverberated in my whole social circle down here, making it more difficult to proceed as usual.

Anyway, I get off on the fun drama, the crazy shit that makes life interesting, but what I don't need right now is drama that brings me down, raises my blood pressure, makes me cry, etc. Dating, for good or bad, is never easy. For me at least. It would be nice if it were, but I think until I come out of this BC BS, I'm taking a much needed hiatus from relationships.

I'm hard-pressed to think of anything non-cancer related, since yesterday was chemo and today was just the follow-up shot. I need to get more of a life, which I am working on.

Natch, now that Beau is out of the picture, my 'rents are eager to get me back onto the Jewish hamster wheel that is dating. One of dad's old frat brothers called him today while we were out. He hadn't heard about the BC yet, just learned through the Jewish grapevine. Months ago, pre-BC, this friend had tried to set me up with a nice Jewish boy who was living in DC at the time. We'd spoken and left it at him getting in touch when he moved back down here.

Well, dad's friend had called to inquire about my health and to tell dad about an article in the Herald today about the BRCA gene. Next thing I heard dad say?
"Oh, okay. By the way, any word on that US attorney that you wanted to set her up with?"

Somehow it's worse coming from the dad. I mean, you expect it from the mom. But when you're dealing with the most intimate and (I'm guessing) most intimidating (to guys) kind of cancer, it's kinda weird for your parents to be focusing on your dating life.

I guess they're just proceeding as usual in their own way, as am I. And on that note, I'm retiring to the couch to watch last night's episode of The Hills. I have allowed myself to be lazy on the days after chemo. But not so lazy—I had an atty appt this a.m., then the hospital, then Publix (the most exhausting part of the day), then had to write a column. . .blah blah. I'm just trying to lighten my guilt about being lazy.

Joe's Stone Crab tonight, yum. Ran into bartender there I briefly dated.
"Hey, how are you?"
"I have breast cancer, but I'm fine."
"Are you shitting me?"
"Nope, diagnosed in Dec., blah blah blah."
"Holy shit! Is that a wig?"
"Yup. Good, right?"
"Yeah, you'd never know."

I'll call you and I can come support you during treatments. Okay. Men respond in surprisingly contrary ways to the BC news. Most of them aren't freaked out; in fact it seems that it brings out the caretaker/provider aspect in them.

Oh, I'm full. And two glasses of wine, woo-hoo.
More chemo tomorrow—happy, happy, joy joy!!!!!!!

I thought this drama queen's life couldn't get any more dramatic, until I was served with a foreclosure notice yesterday. Now, I rent, so it's my landlord's deal, but they have to serve the tenant as well.

Ugh! Just had a fabulous massage and now have to go to hospital so I'm sure that will counteract the relaxation.

More on the hospital visit later today on Cancer Chic(k).

I've created the cancer blog. Check out Cancer Chic(k). (Thanks for the name Tomas!)

The first gay terrorist

My gay boyfriend sent me this photo. Could be the funniest photo ever.


We surmised that this lovely fellow is strutting through Central Park, on his way to Bergdorf's because, "These size 13 booties are killing me do you have a 14?"

If we could read his mind:
a.) "I must get back to mystorage locker with my designer bomb inside."
b.) "I wonder if they've cleaned my room yet at the Chelsea Hotel."
c.) "Sugar, don't make me remove my bracelets when I go through the detector!"
d.) "What, haven't you ever seen a gay terrorist, honey?"
e.) "Oh, Osama don't they cell phones in those caves?"