I have an hour to kill between Melnick and Dr. Laura, so here I am again. Writing, which, ostensibly is what I do. This has been one of those months where there is a lot of shit (good) going on in my life yet day-to-day I feel like there's nothing going on. Does anyone else ever feel like that?

Naturally, the biggest event of the month will be my cut with Oribe (Latin pronunciation Or-e-bay), which was rescheduled for Tuesday August 21. Meanwhile, it seems that many of my closest friends don't even know about The Cut, aka the first time I'll actually meet and hang out with one of my idols. I never quite know which of my friends keep up with the blog, and I'm sooo not a phone person. I rarely even answer my phone after 8 p.m. Hence my last month's voicemail message: "Hi this is Stephanie, please note that I don't check my voicemail regularly, so the best way to get in touch with me is via email or text."

Which Mom nagged me into changing, naturally, because a potential date was supposed to call me while I was in Jax. The rumored-to-be-gay one, who actually never even called. (Changed that stupid voice mail for nothing.)

Anyway, what the fuck was I talking about? Oh yeah, the dissemination of news to my friends. I suppose you guys know more about my day-to-day stuff than a lot of my friends. So what happens is I'll start talking to a friend on the phone about Oribe and they'll have no clue what I'm referring to and then I have to go into the whole back story of Oribe, Versace, etc. and educate them on that entire era of fashion, which is quite hard to do in a few minutes.

Inevitably I give them the short version; I get exhausted listening to my self.

I'm not even sure if Dana knows. Okay, so this Oribe thing is about as full-circle in my life as it gets. Thus, I think the 'ending' I've been working towards with this monstrous, 400-page-plus manuscript just landed in my lap thanks to Lori. And surprise—it is a happy ending after all. After all this bullshit of the past year-plus.

No man, no real job or sense of success in the concrete, definable, Jewish-parental-bragging-right sort of success, but a 'happy ending'—a seeming pre-req for all books nowadays—is in sight. (I'm uncomfortable even writing those two words though, for fear I may jinx myself.)

So that's cool. An ending. And even better? My blood work was "great," and after my August 31 nipple tattooing, I'm completely done with reconstruction. So, from diagnosis day—December 4th, 2007—to final stage of recon will be 21 months.

Nearly two years of my life wasted on this fucking bullshit. Does that seem like a long time? It was what it was. And now I simply have no excuse to get back to a Cancer-free life.

(BTW, I know some of you want the dirt behind Miami Social on Bravo. Tomorrow I will delight you with a hilarious back story about the Nice, Jewish Doctah who did my neighbor's hair transplant on last night's episode. Oh, yes, welcome to Miami.