It's been a busy social season for most of us in Miami—er, I mean like 1 percent of us—so that's my excuse for not blogging. I mean, I've been writing writing writing the memoir. Seriously though after this week I'm locking myself in my apartment for days on end till I go up to the city. My old and dear friend Meredith is heading down here Thursday, and being that she is as much of a type-A planner as I am, we've got a packed itinerary. We'll be hitting the Fontainebleau, Viceroy hotel, the Spa at Epic, The Mandarin Oriental, Bal Harbour, Prime Italian and if we're not too partied out by Sunday, Palm Beach.

Meredith and I met when I was 16 years old. We were both at a Musiker program—my fellow MOTs remember Musiker teen tours and summer programs verrrrrrrrry well I'm sure—at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. We insta-bonded over food and fashion. Somehow we initially talked about Atlanta, and it just so happened that she was raving about a restaurant that was owned by our very good family friend. When I found out she lived on the Upper East Side, attended Dalton—where my not-so-dear departed Roxy don't-call-me-grandma also matriculated—and was obsessed with Ab Fab, Versace and all things fashion, it was all over. My mom remembers me calling her and saying that I'd met my soulmate. Yeah, I was a really late bloomer in the boy department.

We've shared many good times over the years in New York, Florida and Mexico at the amaaaaaaaaazing Las Ventanas al Paraiso in Cabo. Our last trip in Florida was a spring break jaunt to South Beach, where we stayed in some little place on Ocean that probably isn't around anymore, and thought we were so cool for getting into Liquid and all those throwback places. South Beach was in the last phase of its Rennaissance back then—meaning it was still fabulous. South Beach still can be fab, but it's also often the cheesiest and most offensive place on earth, fashion-wise. (Aside from Disneyworld.) The Patsy to her Edina, I can't wait to glam it up again and have another partner in crime more than a decade after our initial SoBe foray.

And we CAN'T wait to visit The Spa at Icon Brickell Friday. Check it out. I hit probably three spas or so a month for my Juli B beauty column, but even this jaded spa-goer is really looking forward to this place.

Ugh stupid photo uploader not working so go to the web site to see the Icon photos.


I did watch the Oscars, but I need to watch the E! reviews to fully absorb the extent. The woman who made me gasp with pleasure and envy though was the elegant, intelligent and beautiful Natalie Portman. She also happens to be an MOT who was born in Israel, went to Harvard and is extrememly talented. And I've always loved her. The gown by Rodarte wouldn't be my first choice, but on her the pink and the gold and her flawless face just totally work.

Last month my friends and I were at the Gansevoort's club Louis. We had already been to a party or two and were not exactly stone-cold sober. None of us had been to this particular club yet.

We walk in and what we see is a midget dressed as Napoleon at thef helm of the doors. Orlene, Hemley and I stopped in our tracks. Clearly, this is not what you expect to see at a nightspot. 'What the fuck,' I'm sure I said. We were standing there for a min thinking and saying 'this is totally fucked-up what the hell is going here??? Hems told me later that he was so shocked he said, "Why thank you sir," when Napolean opened the door for him.

It was a topic of conversation for a while. Turns out that one of my friends had also had a run in with little Napoleon in the parking lot of the Gansevoort. There's something, well, I suppose disturbing about this little person's job to me. I'm not exactly politcally correct, but this strikes me as totally politically incorrect. What do you think the ad on Craig's List read? He's a little little person; not like Chuy on Chelsea Lately. Okay, cut to last Sunday, when I read the NYT Styles section and found this:

Cancer IS the New Black

Fucking hospital and fucking snowbird geriatrics are really pissing me off. How dare they shuttle between Sloan-Kettering and my Mt. Sinai? Don't they realize that us locals have first priority here? I kid, but not really. Yesterday was yet another clusterfuck of a day at the hospital. Went in for bloodwork. Gave Doc Schwartz some of my Cancer Is the New Black nipple coasters. He loves.

"Yeah, Dr. Love [the onco who interviewed me for a teaching CD] didn't seem to get what 'Cancer Is the New Black' meant, so I had to explain to him the whole fashion lexicon and how each season another color or accessory is the 'new black.'"

"Oh, I got it right away and think it's clever," he said. I am paraphrasing. (If only my doctors were publishers. I'd so have a six-figure deal by now. I'm even more ridiculously dramatic and amusing in person, my friends will attest.)

"I know right? Probably because you're a New Yorker."

"Yeah, maybe."

I just looooooooove Dr. Schwartz. If you have to do breast cancer, he's the man. Anywho, all the old bags were waiting in the public area. Germs were just escaping out of their mouths. And once again Michael (head nurse) said he was going to have to ask me to wait outside. So I told him to check to see if the pharmacy had blended my cocktail yet; he said no. I told him ciao, that I'd be back tomorrow. That way I'd come in, they'd call the pharmacy and I'd be in and out. So here I am hooked up to the IV.

Yesterday was a fuck of a day too. Starting with the hospital saga and culminating in me getting home, handing the keys to valet, feeling a stabbing pain in my left heel only to look down and see a piece of glass stuck in my foot! A piece of glass that was seemingly lurking inside my Walter Steigers waiting for the right moment to fuck with me. And you know how careful I have to be about infections, so there I am carrying all my groceries and sundries, limping into my building, entering my apartment, ignoring Wally while I race around screaming and searching for my medical supplies. I'm not even going to get into how long it took me to dress this pin-prick-sized cut. And then just to be safe I had the chemo nurse dress it for me again just now.

I did have a haircut yesterday and it looks good. Similar to the way it was before, but more even and piecey. Everyone seems to think my hair looks so much better—implying that my hair looked fugly before?—and I can see what they mean. BUT I feel like it makes me look older, un-sexy (if I ever were sexy I feel even less so now) and a whole hot mess of other things.

Oh, the topper on the day was that I woke up reaaaaaally stressed, longing for Xanax. All-day, Xanax on the brain. (Klonopins are nice, but they don't give you the high, la la la feeling that Xannies do.) Got to CVS—only do I go there in desparation after my lil mom and pop pharm is closed—and the fuckers wouldn't give me the pills because Schwartz forgot to write the # of pills. That wasn't pretty.

Then I got home and cut the foot. I've been at hospital all-day. I had my transvaginal ultrasound. This looks at your ovaries and your cervix. Though the radiologist will read them later, the nurses proclaimed that I have "beautiful ovaries!"

"Well, we all have different definitions of beauty, but I'll take that."

Oh, and I keep forgetting to check on my foreclosed apartment. Dad says he gave me the info to go online but fuck if I know where it is. I could be living in a box by next week! Stay tuned!

One Year C-Free

Doc Schwartz told me today that yes, one year after your most substantial/comprehensive surgery, I'm officially Cancer-free. So this is the face and the place of the Cancer-free zone. My mastectoversary photos. Some (the good ones) were taken by friend and artiste extraordinaire Tomas.






Look how they've shrunk!!!!

Woooooo-hoooo. I found 1/2 of my missing 2007 Filofax pages. Shoved in my 2001 Warhol print Chairman Mao journal. The Factory to the rescue! More later I am floating on cloud 1000.

See, the little things make this gal as happy as a day at the jeweler!

Good start to the week even though I am suffering Pristiq withdrawl. Leave it to me to pick a pharmacy that's closed on the weekends.

One More Day

I slept until 4 p.m. today and then had a massage at home. Sore throat. Bought some soup at Epicure and some turkey as a V-day present for Wally. Going to watch Casablanca, do some cleaning and get some rest. This should be a happy weekend, but instead it's way emotional. I feel like the old Stephanie died at this time last year and am fuzzy on who the new Stephanie is.

More hospital notes from mom, the day after the mastectomy. I was fairly cognizant by then despite the Dilaudin drip.

Saturday, February 16, 2008
8 a.m. Dr. Mesko changed bandages, worked on drains, everything good. [We liked that he came in on a Saturday morning and wondered if he does this for all patients. Or just those on 8 Main.]
8:30 Dad called waiting for plumber [My toilet had been minorly impaired for a month and dad couldn't deal. Ironically, they broke it further and had to return to fix it.]
9 a.m. Stephanie talked to BAM [Uggggggghhhhhh.]
9:30 Donna called
9:45 Lynn, Stacey, Kim and David called
10:20 Dana arrived with lifesaving SNAPPLE
11:15 Cookies from Ebers arrive, Bergdorf's, shoes and all [Dana and Nance customized an adorable cookie basket with all my fave things depicted.]
11:30 Dana making up Steph; hair in ponytail [I had Dana or mom do my makeup every day.]
11:45 Cheryl Kramer calls
12 p.m. Edible Arrangements from Rosenblums and Margols
1:15 Stephanie's catheter bag FULL. 3 1/3 full. 3333ccs full to empty [Dana noticed that the bag was nearly overflowing and called the nurse in to empty.]
2 p.m. Ray Ellen visits
4 p.m. Jeff and Lorelle visit, brought rugelah
4:30 Change bed linens—leaky drain
5 p.m. Neal came, Kim and David, Jimmy and Martha, Tomas and Joni arrived
8:20 Dr. Rosenbaum came—happy, happy how skin looked [Rosenbaum had grave concerns pre-op about how thin my skin was
9 p.m. Barney, Daryl and the LatAsian visit

I remember being so wiped by that point that I kicked 'em out

I'm sure you all can really tell now what a wonderful support system I have. Here's to all those people who made this year tolerable. I love you guys.

Mammaversary

That's right—another Cancerversary.

Sunday Feb. 15th is the big one. At 1:30 p.m. Feb. 15, 2008 I was wheeled off to the OR for a bilateral mastectomy with sentinel lymph node removal and immediate reconstruction. I was in a suite on "8 Main"—the Founders' Floor of Mt. Sinai—for 3 nights. Many of you have come along on this crazy scary ride with me this year. I know it has been helpful to some of you, entertaining for some of you and enlightening for (I sincerely hope) most of you. My Filofax pages are still missing. But I came across my mom's uber-detailed timeline of surgery day that I'd like to share. So here goes. I haven't looked at this in a while, and wasn't cognizant to remember much.

Friday, Feb. 15th

10:10 a.m. Arrive—Nancy, Mark, Dana and Steph
10:20 a.m. Bam, surprise! [Some of you may recall that in my PTSD, post-diagnosis state I had a rather torrid affair with a black hip-hop musician who happened to be married with three kids. Another story entirely. But his 'name' was BAM. Yes, BAM. Shock makes you do crazy things.]
11:30 Aunt Cheryl arrives
1:30 Off to surgery
1:30 Lunch—Lynn arrives. Flowers in cafeteria from the S family. Lynn: "Those don't look like orchids to me!" [I'd requested orchids from people in lieu of flowers that die quickly.]
2:30 Jeff Weil arrives
3:20 Bam called. [Christ, my poor parents. A washed-up, broke, married, freaky looking, hip-hopping Schvartze. I can't even do shock normally.]
3:30 Michael, Kim, David, Jimmy arrive
4 p.m. Dawn from work came so nice!!! Dr. Laura calls to see how we all are. Gina [a nurse I suppose] came in with update. Vivian charge nurse on 8 Main
5:30 Dr. Mesko [Thomas Mesko is the surgeon who lopped 'em off, working simultaneously with Dr. Rosenbaum. Meaning when he came out it was likely that he was done chopping 'em off and Rosenbaum would begin putting 'em back on.]
5:45 Bam Called
[Mom seems to have left off the minor detail of me waking up from anesthesia.]
7 p.m. Renee arrives
7:10 Dr. Rosenbaum
7:50 Gloria conversation—dad tried to give away dinner. [Have no idea who Gloria is or why dad was pushing food on her.]
7:55 Lynn recording [?]
8:10 Kicked out of waiting—Dad gets locked out [For reals.]
(Calls, texts, emails: Cindy, Jay, Barbi, Nancy P., Sabba Silverman, Joe Davis, Stan Blake, Buzzy, Donny, Karen and Harold, Daryl, Barney, Lee Ann, Joanne, Durrett, Faye, Susan, Leslie, Dan, Joanne and Ray
9:30 p.m. Out of recovery and into room 822.
12 a.m. Michael and dad go to Steph's apartment. Bam arrives and leaves at 2:15 a.m. Mom spends the night.

I received a package from the jeweler today with a lovely diamond necklace but no card. Obv. it was from mom, but apparently the card was supposed to be read first. No idea why.

Everyone keeps asking me how I will feel on the anniversary, but how can I know? I've been all-right mentally this week, despite PMSing. I get emotional reading this stuff; I'd be inhuman if I didn't. What a year. It's indescribable (except in book form of course), but if you've been reading you know how it's affected me.

I can offer photos in comparison. Taken Tuesday Feb. 10


To my surprise, I ran into one of my oldest and dearest friends I went to elementary and high school with—it'd been about 16 years!


February 2007 in room 822.


That's all.

Well, I never found the fucking Filofax pages, but on the plus side I did find a troop of little roaches crawling out of my dishwasher. And brother found his first apartment mouse in NYC. The rodents are back and just love torturing the Greens.

Seriously though it will be a good week. Tonight I'm heading to a fab pre-Valentine's fete at the amazing Acqualina Resort, and tomorrow I'm going to an early screening of Confessions of A Shopaholic. Loved the books and have a total girl crush on Isla Fischer. She's Sascha Baron Cohen's wifey, aka Borat. So jeal.

Tomorrow I have my second post-chemo haircut at Cutler Salon in the Gansevoort South, in an attempt to tame the Jewfro and even out my bangs, which I singed off with the flatiron. Thursday I have a facial at Spa Chakra, Friday I finally have my transvaginal ultrasound with Dr. McHottie. This oncological gyno is seriously George-Clooney-level sexy. So it's a little bizarre having his hands shoved up my nether-regions, but he's the best. Saturday I'm treating myself to a relaxing V-Day with a massage at Equinox. (I found out that Barack Obamamama worked out there recently. Gah!) And Sunday is the one-year cancerversary of my mastectomy. Can you all believe it's been a year? My God.

I have a group on FB that some of you are members of called "I Am a Warrior." (You're totally going to have that song in your head all-day now.) Last night I sent a message to all the members, who range from cancer chicks to luminaries like Ross Bleckner. (When I saw that he'd joined the group, I was both floored and honored. One of the greatest living artists and someone I admire immensly; his father died from prostate Cancer.)

So this is the letter, and I'm sooo happy that it's inspired a few women to go out and get mammograms! If you haven't joined the group yet, please do so. (I have no idea what's with all the slashes, but rest assured I'm not responsible for that glitch.)

Sunday Feb. 15th marks the one-year anniversary of my bilateral mastectomy. I\'m a perpetual singleton, so my cancerversaries are what I choose to celebrate. What. A. Year. Natch, the craziest, most educational and character-forming year out of 33.

Everyone asks me how this experience has changed me. My personality, my outlook, my blah blah blah. My friends and shrinks ask me. Doctors ask me. Family and family friends ask me. My loyal blog readers don\'t ask though, as they\'ve shared every surgical scar, side-effect, up and down with me. There\'s no simple answer that will satisfy all of those who ask. It\'s not made me religulous. Or less interested in fashion, entertainment, beauty and other pretty things. Yes, I wore Chanel to chemo, what of it?

Here\'s what Cancer did do: It showed me that I am as strong as I suspected but never really believed. In other words, it proved to me that if I can make it in the chemo ward, I can make it anywhere. I don\'t know why I\'m messaging you guys. Though many of you don\'t know me personally, you probably know Cancer. Cancer is a total douchebag if you ask me. But we have weapons now. Powerful ones.

In less than a year I successfully completed treatment and am \"Cancer-free\" as they like to say. I was C-free after the lumpectomy; I had a bilat mastectomy and chemo preventively. I\'m not asking you guys to do anything but remain aware, and if you know anyone that you think could benefit from my story, forward this, send them to my blog, give them my email, tell them to FB me. I like to pay it forward. (And I pay reaaaally well.)

Tell your Jewish girlfriends to get BRCA tested if they have a family history of breast, prostate or ovarian cancer. Get a mammogram as early as you like; begin mandatory ones at 35.
Let\'s try to show people that there is no reason for Cancer to carry a stigma. It\'s 2009. Got Cancer? There\'s no need to whisper about it. If you or a friend or family member is affected by breast Cancer, I am happy to give doctor recommendations, referrals, advice, names and numbers—whatever I can do within reason. I mean, I\'m not going to buy you a $4,000 wig or anything, though I will call Ralf to get you a coveted appointment with him;)
xoxo
Stephanie Green

If It's Monday, I Must Be in Hell

God fucking damnit. There's a reason we all hate Mondays, right?

I spent this entire weekend—seriously all-day Saturday and Sunday—organiz-izing my work and Cancer materials. One in the same basically since my memoir is mostly centered around the past year. My friends make fun because instead of relying on electronic organizers, I still take notes in my Filofax, old-school style. I think many writers still prefer to take notes.

I have the Filofax Pocket model for day-to-day organization.


One week covers two pages:


Jotted down on these pages are to-do lists as well as what I did that day—from doctor's appointments to workout recaps to social events to things that happened or quotes I want to remember. Basically, my entire life resides in note form on these sacred pages. Has for years. In terms of a daily online journal, the blog has replaced any type of electronically stored diary.

Once a new year comes around, and whenever the book becomes too thick, I remove the pages and stash them somewhere safe so I can go back, look at the pages and write from these notes. One line or event will jog my memory and then I can input the stuff into my Word docs.

In short, these pages are absofuckinglutely fundamental to my memoir; they serve as an intensely detailed outline of the year. Well fuck me hardcore right now because I can't find the pages anywhere. I organiz-ized all my Cancer closets and baskets. Sorted through all the medical paperwork, hospital souvenirs—wristbands and gowns and compression garments, oh my. Made neat my two dresser drawers full of my clips; climbed on the kitchen counter to reach all the messy cabinets; tore up my jewelry drawer thinking the pages were hiding under the containers. Even removed all my books from my bookshelves only to re-shelve them neatly. I even ransacked my clothes closet. The pages are nowhere. Nowhere. I even called mom to have her excavate my bedroom at their house. Nada. The only two places left are under my bed and in some of the kitchen cabinets. I'm putting that off because if they are not there. . .well, I am sans-Xanax so the conclusion to another fruitless search would not be pretty. (As I'm editing this I'm calling Dr. Melnick to have him call me in a Xanax scrip. Have I mentioned that Xanax are both fun and useful?)

I even tried to will my subconscious into revealing the answer to me in my dreams, but that didn't work either. I suspect they are in a very obvious place, but I fear I threw them away. Anyway, any suggestions on where I may have stashed these fucking pages would be appreciated.

On another stressing-me-out-and-pissing-me-off note, I called Plastic Surgeon's office today and once again found out that he'd glossed over the details of tattooing in the color of the nips. He'd told me I'd be in and out, a simple in-office procedure done by an aestetician. So I called Nora to schedule the appointment. Nora is a lifesaver when it comes to the recovery details the doc sort of mentions in passing.

Like the fucking fact that the tattooing is done in two stages over a (now) three-month period of time. So, let's see—a simple 'in and out' procedure has now turned into yet another extended period of life interrupted. Monday, Feb. 23 I go in for my first tattooing. The color fades, Nora says, so I must go in again after for a second tattooing in of color a month or so later. In between those sessions, I go in for the "snipping" session for the right dickle. You thought I was exaggerating about my dick nip? Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a circumcision also referred to as 'snipping'? Well, fuck. So in March he snips the dickle. And then in April I go back for the second tattooing. Three more months of boob drama I so do not need.

For just one day I would like to wake up to some good news. Just one day, that's all I'm asking. And people wonder why I wake up so late. Well, if I woke up early like normal people then that's just more hours in the day in which bad things can happen, okay?

Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Now I'm off to ransack the few remaining places in which my diary pages can dwell. After that, depending on the outcome, you either can reach me in bed doped up on pills and drooling, or celebrating in the streets. I have a sick feeling though that it will be the former.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Pube Boobs, Dickles and Such

I'd nearly forgotten about the pubic hair nips. See, I look at the boobs in the mirror, however, I'm nearsighted so from a few feet away I can't see the short and curlies.

So yesterday I looked down at them in the shower. I laughed out loud—and screamed, natch—when I saw that more pubes had sprouted on the nipples. More!? Could you just die? (I realize I'm totally sabotaging romantic prospects by discussing my pube boobs with a side of dick nips. Frankly, I'd rather entertain you guys than bother with dates anyway. Clearly.)

So I looked down: I have 15 pubes on the left nip. That's the non-dickle. The left ones aren't so curly but they are long and black. And since the last time I looked, they've multiplied like mice in a NYC apartment's radiator. The right boob just seems to exist solely to spite me. That's the one with the dickle that plastic surg will correct when he tattooes in the color. And in addition to the dickle, I have 17—ironically my lucky number—long and curlies. It's really gross you guys. Really fucking nasty. I'm beginning not to be so amused by this, although since it makes for great material, I suppose I'm not totally displeased. I'm tearing up a little as I type this while simultaneously throwing up a little in my mouth whilst looking at them. Jesus fuck me Christ. Who gets hairy dickles except for me? If you guys know of anyone else, do share.

For new readers, hairy dickles are not unheard of during nipple reconstruction. I'll let the surgery post explain that whole thing. (Why oh why did I shave? Fucking vanity, that's why.) I'm supposed to get color tattooed in first, then laser hair removal after, but I think I may see if I can do it in reverse. Fucking pube boobs are worse than a faint shade on the nipples.

Only me, only me, only me.

Oh and on an unrelated note, have you seen the new iPhone commercials where it says they have an app that let's you read MRIs??? What the fuckity fuck fuck? I'm sorry but I DO NOT want my doctors reading MRIs on a screen that small, while at dinner perhaps? That is just not kosher in my book and I can't even believe the AMA or whoever regulates this shit is down with that. Seriously, that just isn't right.

D, what the hell is your opinion on this as a radiologist? I can't deal.

This Is Why I Hate Driving

Weeeeeeeellllllllllll. Can you believe a rear-end collision wherein I hit the dude's pickup truck going 15 mph max resulted in $8,000+ in damages?! Quell surprise. Jesus.

So now, get this—my rental car is a pimped-out, gold Cadillac. Seriously. The car is so big that my arm can barely settle on the driver's side armrest. I think these cars are engineered with obese, old Jews in mind, no? It was either that or some kind of subcompact I'd never heard of. So picture me cruising around SoBe in this granny yenta car until Feb. 20th when mine is repaired. It's so much bigger than my car that I can't really gauge the girth in terms of parking, backing up and turning. Which resulted in me driving over the newly-planted flowers in the driveway median at the 'rents' house. Oops.

Their driveway is notoriously long, and over the years, the lights lining it have been the victims of many a vehicle, especially back when mammoth vans were all the rage. I think Dana's mom smashed about 10 of them as their family vans grew larger.

This car is a real fucking gas guzzler too. Took me a tank-and-a-half to get to Jax this weekend each way.

It's been a busy couple of weeks here during 'season.' Season—gah, the reason for the interminable lines at the Epicure deli, the clogged streets AND, most importantly the episode last week at the chemo ward.

Mom's 60th birthday was a blast, though dad and I ruined both surprises at the last minute. We're just cool like that; the two of us foil any surprise by accident.

The first was that Susan, mom's BFF from college, was coming in from Atlanta with hubby Ray, the Jell-O shooter. Dad kept it in the bag for SO long. And then. . .

"Yeah, Jeff's coming in town for the party," dad told her.

Jeff's one of our oldest family friends and one of the people from a family we've had relationships with for three generations. Jeff's daughter is one of my good friends and frequent baking partner. Our grandparents were best friends, our fathers, etc.

"Oh, that's so sweet of him!" mom said.

"Yeah, he's going to play golf with me and Ray Saturday." D'oh!

Yeah, so Susan and Ray, not so much of a surprise anymore. Secondly, I had been working intensely with Lynn on mom's bday gift from her girlfriends. Lynn makes me look like a Type B; this Type A strives to be so organized and perfect! Remember she was my cancer project manager and has been my mom's shopping partner in crime for 30+ years. She knows mom's taste as well as me, so they often shop for each other. Lynn was thinking jewelry from Landsberg, but I suggested that any jewelry they'd give her within their price point she'd either already have or likely not get too much use out of since the woman has so much damn jewelry.

My suggestion was a classic Chanel evening bag in black with gold hardware, which mom actually needed. So we settled on that, and Lynn ran around from Worth Ave. to Palm Beach Gardens scouting out the perfect one. And I was receiving picture messages of the bags from the Chanel sales girl's phone.

Meanwhile, some of the peanuts in the gallery thought jewelry more appropo, but I held fast in my Chanel stance. Which resulted in me putting the final kaibosh on the jewelry debate on the day of the party. I texted one of the peanuts and told her that the present was settled and that mom had been wanting this bag for a while. I was in the car with mom, and she knew that this whole gift had involved a lot of peanuts and opinions. So she wanted to hear the text I sent to make sure it was diplomatic—as if I am ever undiplomatic. I read it to her and when I said the word 'bag,' well, you know. Double d'oh. But she loooved the bag and I'm sure Lynn breathed a big sigh of relief after it was opened to much ado at 1:30 a.m., when Ray decided to take his Jell-O shot induced nap pictured in yesterday's post.

This is the bag. She's got the strap doubled up here; it can be worn long or short. Perfection. Like I've said before, Chanel is the perfect go-to label for investment pieces. Two of mine are hand-me-downs from mom bought in the '80s and I wear them all the time.




Consequently mom, I'm assuming I'll receive your vintage, camera, leather Chanel in the mail soon now that you've upgraded?

Ta for now.

I've just arrived home from Jacksonville for mom's 60th birthday. I've got some vv important Gossip Girl DVRing to do, so let the photos suffice for now and I'll try to post something in the a.m. There's one in particular photo, however, that sums up the festivities and our wonderfully amusing, entertaining, endearing, fun and lovely friends.

The master of the universe meets the Jell-O shot(s).


(Brother and I still have no idea why our parents and their cadre of 60-year-old-ish friends have latched onto Jell-O shots as we did 10 years ago in college.)

And although I did indulge in a Jell-O shot served by a very amused catering staffer, I made sure we started off the festivities with a bottle of Tattinger.



And now behold Ray by the end of the night. Not that I'm saying he can't still party like a rock star. . .

In his defense, by the time mom got around to opening presents—she adored the classic Chanel bag her girlfriends and I gifted her with—it was about 1 a.m.