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.