After the UPS debacle, Ben informed me—and calculated online—that FedEx could do the whole overnight shebang for $56 including insurance. But I got lazy today, haven't unpacked the $8 UPS box yet and will postpone the dyeing till after the holidays.

I've been using a flatiron on the Jewfro with excellent results. A choppy, Sally Hershberger-esque 'do that is so cute that I'm tempted actually to go out at night sans wig. Scary Walgreen's tranny told me the straightened, choppy 'do looked "fierce, like a rock star," and trannies—especially crackhead ones—speak the truth. I tipped him for his kindness and as I was walking away heard him say, "Girl, you so fierce! This is enough to buy a Whopper." You must picture these words coming from a six-foot-tall, reed-thin, black he/she with a weave longer than my wig. (How does he afford to maintain that weave, I wonder?)

But I digress. I spent the early part of today writing for Juli B. in bed. Don't know why I don't do that more often. My bed rocks.

Now—listen up ladies—I finally am confronted with a BC issue that doesn't merely involve hairy nipples or chemo. Rather, I must figure out how to tell a blind date about this little thing called Cancer. A doctor, no less. A plastic surgeon actually. I should've just told Laura to tell him about the whole thing to weed him out. . .

Ooooh, Wife Swap where the husbands switch. Forgive me, I must watch. More on this issue later.