I'm not feeling so hot, after a typical pre-BC style Stephanie night out. Headache, sore throat, runny nose. I have the Daschle press conf on now, and I can't help but mentally compare Obama's cabinet to the Olympic basketball dream team that included MJ, Magic etc. I'm counting on my acupuncturist to help knock this cold out of my system.

Anyway. The girls. They're always instigating trouble. E.G., after my workout, I had plenty of time to get ready for the 7 p.m. Friends of the New World Symphony exec committee meeting. Now that I have jeans again, I'm finally able to go into Wardrobe and liberate my frilly tops that have hibernated for a year. But trying on said tops is not that much fun. It goes a little something like this.

Put said top on, try to zip it up in back over the girls. Realize it's marginally uncomfortably tight.

"God damnit you fucking dick-nipple motherfuckers! Why, why, why? Fit, for fuck's sake, fit! I'm so fucking sick of this shit!"

See, I plan wardrobe ahead of time, so when the shirt don't fit, you must acquit. Sorry, couldn't help it. But when the shirt doesn't fit, then the bag, shoes and jewelry must be changed as well.

Top #1 was a no go. It fit, but was just a little too snug. Threw it back in the closet along with its accompanying accessories. I select another Nanette top that I remembered had always been a little loose on top.

"Please, Nanette, please make it work!"

(I do talk to my clothes I'm afraid. Lots of sicko fashionistas do. I won't name names, but you know who you are. Sometimes I even pet them—shoes, bags, etc. Like plants, they need love to flourish.)

Nanette made it work. The girls were quite prominent, insisting on seeing the daylight. Okay, wardrobe done. Makeup—well, leave it to me to get Shu Uemura liquid liner all in my left eye. My eyeball was leaking black. I fucking hate that liquid liner and need some new YSL. Natch, that set me back several minutes. So now I'm shvitzing like a motherfucker and I haven't even put the wig on yet.

I finally make it out of the house and hop in a cab to the Lincoln Theatre, where I thought the meeting was. Yeah. I get to the theatre and look into the room where we usually meet and see a bunch of people doing yoga. Hmm.

I call Lisa, who tells me the meeting is at the Catalina hotel.

"Fuck, I can't believe I did this."

"I can." Lisa says.

Now it's 90% humidity out and my Jewfro is frizzing beneath the wig. Lisa has no idea what cross street the hotel is on and in case you guys don't know, I have the worst sense of direction ever. Plus, I have no cash and must totter in 3-inch heels on the Lincoln Road mall to find an ATM. But then I call Stace and she tells me it's close enough to walk. So I do ten more minutes of tottering and I arrive at the hotel hot as a motherfucker.

"I need a drink," I say by way of greeting Rene and Stace.

I chug a glass of Chard and begin fanning myself with the menu. I have yet to look in a mirror for visual confirmation of what kind of hot mess is going on in my hair. I go to the ladies' to check the do. My (new fave) Jennifer Oullette headband (the kind that Blair on Gossip Girl is always donning) is askew, the wig hair is curling up (ew) and the Jewfro beneath the wig is also frizzing and poking out. Ugh. I rearrange, but know it's futile. I really must see Ralf or get a hair net or something. Gaaaaaaaahhhhh. I want my Jap straightening already.

After we all schmooze and booze, we sit down for the meeting and we have to intro ourselves, as we seem to do every meeting. (Is everyone taking Vercet and getting retrograde amnesia here or what?)

"I'm Stephanie. A writer, blogger and unwitting breast cancer research advocate. A lot of you probably know me from my blog and if you don't, then read it. I'm a recent BC 'survivor' so you'll see my girls a lot and you'll have to excuse me. I can't help it—they pop out of everything. I'm a cyborg from the waist up and I have no control over these things."

"They just want to say 'hi,'" someone says.

I don't think most people intro themselves at board meetings like that. But I'm amongst friends. And I feel compelled to tell people that my cleavage is not a la South Beach, but a la reconstructive surgery.

A couple of glasses of wine at the meeting, another at Nobu, little food and now feeling the pain, my friends. So I think I'll take it easy and try to work on the book.