TattJew

I finally have the date after which I will be ineligible to be buried in a Jewish cemetary: The nipple tattooing is set for August 31st. Woot fucking woot. (I blame 26-year-old Laura for putting that expression into my vernacular.)

They're still hairy, okay? I don't look at them much but I happen to be typing this topless, since I just walked to Whole Foods in the 90+ degree, stifling heat and humidity. And I just looked down to check the hirsute state of the aureolae, for you, dear readers. But we're hoping—Dr. Rosenbaum and I—that the tattoo will kill the gnarly hair follicles. (Do regular tattoos kill the hair growth in the area though? I don't think so. . . .) Anyway, I like that it's set for August 31, mentally and physically enabling me to make a completely fresh start in September.

Since getting back from three weeks on the beach, I've been less than enthused about being back here. Like maybe I need to be elsewhere for a few months. I dunno. Does Manhattan count as a sabbatical? Or do I have to go somewhere in the Third World. Kidding. For a while, medical obligations were one of the things keeping me here. But now I'm healthy, I'm single, I look like myself again, feel good and moreover, feel ready to be back in the big pond. Anyway, in abstract terms I'm kind of pondering a few months in the city—so if anyone would be into an apartment swap or something nifty like that, holler. Or even a sublet or whatever.

It would be during 'high season' here too. Maybe October, November and December. My furs are collecting dust and that's just not kosher at all.

So tomorrow is my three-month checkup with Schwartz. It's been more than three months since I finished Herceptin/had bloodwork. Seems the checkup protocol is perhaps six months, but I don't see why I should wait. I also have my consult with Mesko, the non-plastic surgeon. Kind of don't know why I'm going to see him, but whatever.

More photos of the beach and my first weekend back in Miami. And I can't believe that for the first time in my life I am actually missing Jacksonville. You didn't hear it from me.

This was one of my favorite houses on A1A in Ponte Vedra.

From the balcony

All three dogs decided to roll around in a big pile of shit so mom and I improvised—I ran into the shower, grabbed my Sephora shower gel and we scrubbed the shit out of them with the outdoor hoses.

Typical 3 p.m. thunderstorm rolling in:


Mom and dad on their last night at the beach house, still holding hands—and red wine—after 38 years of marriage. Can you imagine?

Friday night back in South Beach, I took Ben to Gigi Levangie Grazer's book party for her new tome, Queen Takes King at the W.


Actually really liked the W, as did Ben, a married man now.
Lobby of the W


And from the W we went to 8 oz in our hood and, unfortunately, I was reminded that I am still in Florida: Note the rat tail on the side of that guy's head at the bar. Seriously? Maybe I should bring this snap in to see Oribe? I don't care if the 80s are back—please, people, just stop the madness.

Note that my Japanese-straightened hair fucking frizzes down here. I'm so in need of Oribe it's not even funny. In fact, I should shut up about the above guy cause pretty soon I'm going to have a whole head of rat tails.