Hey Ladies. . .

Okay, without revealing things in advance—I need to be up and running before I spread the word—this item is essentially a prototype. So you guys will get first dibs on my inaugural product for what will be a successful venture, hopefully.

These lovely and talented—yes, shoes can have talent—Manolo Blahniks were designed exclusively for Neiman Marcus' 100th anniversary.

Retail price: $595. Your price: $295 plus shipping. ($307.99) Never worn.

The added bonus? You won't have to feel guilty because I'll donate 10% of the proceeds to breast cancer research.

My photography skills SUCK. But these are a fabulous pair of gold and purple metallic flats in size 37. They are very comfortable. They're not ultra-shiny as they may appear in some of these shots. They're really lovely. I'm tempted to keep them, but I have a gold pair of Manolos, so I really couldn't justify that. If you likey and want to buy them, hit the button below. And if you have questions about them, feel free to comment or email me directly.

Hell fuck yeah

One week from today is the last time—God willing the big C doesn't have an encore in my cells—I'll be hooked up to the chemo bags of drugs! Woo-hoo.

I've actually been very nauseated the past few days. Today I had to take two diff kinds of pills for that. I'm kind of hoping it's PMS combined with chemo, otherwise I could be in for a rough round of side-effects after the last treatment.

Of course I can do anything I want that night or whatever, but I'm just SO exhausted. I mean if a jet was waiting to take me to Nice, you can bet your ass I'd be on it. But nice dinners have kind of lost their lustre, especially since I usually eat three bites and don't drink. Oooh, yay! I can drink again! Hahaha. The party girl is back!

I'm getting ready to launch a new biz venture that you guys will have first look at. Combining fashion, styling, writing and giving back, this idea may actually work and will be fun as hell too. My smarty-pants, business-y guy friend is going to help too. Teach me some business common sense.

I have such a smorgasbord of meds that I just had to Google "hydrochlorothiazide" to make sure it was the diuretic. I swear I'm retaining like 5 lbs of water from this chemo, no matter how much I sweat out. Imagine your PMS symptoms on steroids and you'll get the idea. The shrink, whose clientele is about 50% cancer-ridden, told me not to take them, that I'll be amazed how my body will bounce back right after chemo ends. But fuck, I need to get this water out. I used to piss about 8-10 times a day. Now I go about 3 or 4. Who would've thought I'd lament about not having an overactive bladder? I can't fit into my fucking jeans thanks to my water belly. And that's not a delusional an excuse I'm psyching myself into, as I've got no appetite and am at the gym at least 4 days a week again.

Sigh. I just have to remind myself that these side-effects are better than hugging the toilet.

I just returned from Sally Beauty Supply to get my "men's grooming tape" for the wig, which henceforth shall be named Roxy. The dead, diva grandmother may get a kick out of that. I'm sure if she needed a wig, she would've gone to Ralf. She made Doris Duke seem very normal.

I'm now totally addicted to Facebook. Those of you readers who use it, feel free to join my "friends."

I was walking Wally and thinking about Ralf the wig guru which led me to thinking about Doris Duke, as Ralf did her wigs like every week of her life or something. Many of my friends didn't know who she was when I told them my Ralf stories—helloooo Duke University—but basically she was the girl for whom the term "poor little rich girl" was coined. Her daddy was a tobacco tycoon who left his estimated $100-million estate to her when he died. She was 12 or 13 at the time and that $100 million translates to a billion in today's market.

Doris was one of those women everyone took advantage of for her money, and from what I've read and seen, she was somewhat of a nutbag herself. In the end, she had this creepy male butler named Bernard Lafferty, who was a total freak—gay but loved women to the point of complete, utter obsession.

I remember Ralf saying what a weirdo this Bernard guy was, as he accompanied Doris to her wig sessions. I just think it's amazing that Ralf—this rough and tumble character with a thick Queens accent—must have known Doris intimately. I can just see her in his salon rambling obscenities and him rolling his eyes and saying, "Madame" this and that. He calls everyone Madame.

So I get home from walking Wally, and what's coming on HBO but a movie with Susan Sarandon and Ralph Fiennes called Bernard and Doris. I DVR-d it and watched it yesterday. Lo and behold, it was produced and directed by the awesome Bob Balaban. Now, when I met Dr. Larry Norton at Sloan, he immediately reminded me of Balaban. Anywho, just odd that I thought of Duke, then the movie came on, then I watched it, then I saw that it was directed by Balaban.

I highly recommend watching the flick, this woman led a fascinating life. Also, if you haven't seen HBO's Recount, watch that too. Balaban gives a brill performance in that as well. Ah, the circle of life.

I've decided—per the 'rents suggestion—to go to Chicago to help Dana settle in. It'll be a nice distraction the week before my big tata swap.

So the real reason I've been in such a funk this week is not the cancer, the chemo, the future—although that is bleak for sure—but the fact that my bff recently announced that she is moving to Chicago. In about three weeks. Hubby got a better job offer, his family is there, the school system is better, and they have to go.

Dana and I have been best friends literally since birth, when we were put into the same playgroup, and have never looked back. We've been together through every pitfall and triumph of each other's lives. We lived no more than a mile away for 17 years; we were college roommates and post-college roommates. I was there for the birth of her two children and she was there for my cancer diagnosis and pretty much every doctor's appointment and chemo thereafter. Not to mention the countless times we got into trouble together, partied like rock stars, laughed cried, the whole nine. A friendship like ours is truly rare.

If there was big news to share in either one of our lives, I was the first to know about it and vice-versa.

I have had a more emotional reaction to the fact that she is leaving than I did to finding out I had cancer. Of course I am happy for her if she is happy and if they can make a better life out there. But I'm also completely, utterly shattered that she is going to be much more than a car ride away. I know that this is what happens in life; people get married, create families and go where the best opportunities are. I suppose that I've never had to do that. I've been lucky enough to pick up and move where I want, when I want. And I have to admit that I don't know if my decision to move here would have been so easy had she not been here. And I also admit that I thought she'd be here for good. But as I've learned in the past year, nothing is ever really set in stone. People move, die, get cancer, have babies and live their lives according to what happens to them. We all "roll with the punches."

Still though, I haven't slept well all week. When I do sleep I have disturbing nightmares. And I haven't cried this much since I can't remember when. I know that the move won't affect our unique bond, and maybe on top of this I am PMS-ing, but I can't help but feel gutted. She's always been a phone call or car ride away.

When I was in so much pain I could barely move she came over and massaged my back. She's my emergency contact on all my hospital forms. Our fathers grew up together. My grandmother used to take her shopping whenever we visited Sarasota. We are, and have always been, sisters. I guess I now know how my brother (probably) felt when I left New York. Though I can't imagine him being this emotional. And I was never as good of a sister to him as she was a friend to me.

My shrink is in the South of France for the summer. I have cancer. And she's moving. Why the fuck does everything always happen at once? What's next I can't even imagine, but I know, I know, things could always be worse. And I'm being selfish; I know they will be happy there and come visit a lot. I guess this is what being a grown up means.

Okay, so an update on the personal front. Ex-Beau finally got all his shit out of my pad. He had "given" me one of his Macs that he said he didn't use, but sure enough he took it back.

I made sure not to be here when he came—don't need the drama. I was at Neiman's Last Call anyway, which has become a ritual during chemo weeks. As I was running my errands with Wally just now I thought to myself, 'What the hell was I thinking being with Beau anyway?'
I have a weird penchant for choosing men who need to be fixed in some way. Which is odd considering that my only maternal instincts are for dogs. So my love affair with Wally continues while men are not even on my radar.

I've also acknowledged one of my biggest fears re. the cancer thing and the end of chemo: What if my previously lovely hair grows back ugly? I always took my thick, shiny hair for granted. Now I'm fretting over the fact that it may grow back hideous. Also, my hair is naturally curly and I can't get it Japanese-straightened until 6-months post chemo. What this means is I'm going to have a head full of gross, short, curly hair for 6 months; I'll have to wear the wig for another 6 months post chemo, with hair underneath making it that much hotter and uncomfortable.

Profound thoughts on the cancer front. Whatever. My curly hair has come back to haunt me.

I'm going to post some clothing and shoes for sale later for the ladies. . .

Tell me why they call it chemotherapy when there's nothing therapeutic about it. I'm feeling fatigued and am going to take a nap, but wanted to write before I go into la la land.

It was an emotionally exhausting week at home. Have I told you? I cannot fucking remember.

The chemo brain has gotten so bad that when I walked into acupuncture today, I forgot my therapist's name when I signed in. I mean, come on. That's just embarrassing. It seems I'm experiencing all the emotional and physical side-effects this week. I'll spare you the details, but I'm not feeling very happy right now.

I am, however, starting a new biz venture, which my fashionista readers will come to appreciate (hopefully). I should have that up later tonight or tomorrow.

And there are still rats! I was on the balcony last night when it was still freaking light out and one of the little fuckers was scurrying along the top of the wall on the floor beneath me.

Anyway, here are some fun pics from today's session. I asked Chad, the therapist, to snap me while I was being treated. He was a trooper.

Chemo Cakewalk

Plugged into the chemo machine right now. Got salads from Epicure, have the Bob Dylan movie I'm not There, finished a column, possibly set up my male nurse with one of my gays and am wearing "My Boobs Are Killer" t-shirt.

Don't know if we'll be headed straight to Neiman's, but perhaps dinner and Sex and the City again.

Two weeks from today, I am SOOO outta here!

CELEBRATE tonight! I just got my breast implant surgery date! On July 16, one month exactly from last chemo, they'll be swapping the tennis balls for soft, sumptuous silicone implants. Woo-hoo.

Natch I'm doing the Sex and the City thing tonight.

Our cast of characters.

Me: enough said

Dana: bitch and just-popped life-long best friend with a boy named Kobi, a cat named Kuthzy, a dog named Cubby and a daughter named Sumner--where the fuck is the "Ka" in that?

Alison: friend, daughter of one of dad's bffs, granddaughter of grandparents' bff, and mother of two adorable munchkin twin girls.

Lay Ann: friend, granddaughter of another of my grandparents' best friends and daughter of another of dad's friends from growing up

Erica: friend from college with whom I committed destruction of property. bitch deserved it though. . .

Nicole, aka, crazy-ass friend: crazy ass biatch about to pop with the child of her baby dady. The girl has more rings than 3 married woman combined.

So Barbara saged me again today. And yesterday actually. Now I'm armed with sage, a sage stick, a pink quartz Buddha, sage spray, and, brace yourselves, Holy Water. I capitalize it because it's in a clear plastic container with the words "Holy Water" written on it.

"Barbara, where the hell did you get this?" (My first thought was perhaps she bought it because she does the Kabbalah thing.)

"Oh, I just get it from churches!" (She's Jewish of course.)

"You just go into churches and take holy water?"

"Oh, yeah, honey, I just go in there and fill up my bottles."

"Did you make this container and label it?"

"Oh, noo, I bought it in the church gift shop!"

Oh good lord how I love my crazy Jacksonville friends. FYI, all my chakras were aligned. Including the "root."

(You girls were right, she calls it the root and the source.)

You commenters are both right. And I try--I know it's corny as hell--to live my life by the song from RENT, "No Day But Today."

But I'm also a goal-oriented person and I don't think there's anything but pleasure in having a girls' trip with my old friends to look forward to in a few months. Girls I've known since birth, whose grandaparents were friends with mine. So you see, for me, a small part of it is sitting on a beach somewhere lovely. The large part of it is relaxing and enjoying life in the company of my oldest friends.

I can't imagine how bleak life must be without good friends.

I purposely watched the last several episodes of Sex and the City before I left Miami, because Samantha was diagnosed with and treated for breast cancer during that season. She shaved her head, had the side-effects, boasted a kick-ass attitude and always looked fabulous from diagnosis through treatment.



In one episode where the uber-annoying Sarah Jessica Parker aka Carrie Bradshaw is talking to her beau about Samantha's Cancer, the issue of denial arises. Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte utter the phrase "She's going to be fine," about 100 times. In one scene Carrie's beau, Mikhail Baryshnikov, basically shakes her out of denial and says, you must face the fact that she could die. Ah, but how the girls protest with the "She's going to be fine" mantra.



Well, naturally, the first thing you associate or think of when you here Cancer is death, no? So that got me to wondering : Were my friends, the ones in seeming denial, who wouldn't dream of coming to chemo or visiting me in the hospital, expecting me to die? Were they, are they afraid I'll die? And if so, how very silly.



Look people, we're all going to die. That's the only sure thing in life. And yeah, maybe this will ultimately be how I die. If so, what of it? But I wonder if my friends are bracing themselves for the worst and hoping for the best. I wonder who would come to my funeral; I always have.



Cancer, it changes you in so many ways. I've become more fearless. More bold. A little less vain. Appreciative of all I have. Appreciative of days where I feel good and am able to be a normal person. Of course I've also become a little more self-pitying, dependent and unmotivated to do much but wake up every day. I've changed in too many ways to name, good and bad. I'm uglier--bad. I'm more compassionate--good. You get the point.

But anyway, I'm kind of down this week because even though chemo is done in June and surgery will be done by July, I have nothing to look forward to after that. Nothing. No vacation, no life-changing experience, no financial windfall or career gratification. I have nothing to use at the light at the end of the tunnel except for the end itself. But July is just the end, when really, what I need is a beginning. And I need to figure out how to begin again.



No biggie.

I am in Jacksonville for a week of family, friends and hopefully, relaxation. Missed my flight Sunday morning, which caused a little tension, but managed to get home by Sunday night. Spent the last two days at our picturesque beaches sipping mojitos and having slumber parties just like the good old days, minus mojitos.

My back is KILLING and I don't know why I can't fuckin' remember to bring my Tempurpedic pillow with me everywhere.

I need something to look forward to in September. I must find a way to get a vacation togther, stat.
For all those fashionistas and seekers of page-turning beach books, go out and get Bringing Home the Birkin. Fabulous, true story. And I think I may have just found my next career. I've read it in 24 hours.

I'm selling my iPod Touch. I can't fucking deal with another gadget.

If one of you readers wants to buy it, we'll skip the whole eBay thing and just Paypal it through this site. It retails for $299, but I'll part with it for at least $50 less.

I've never used it, except to try to use it. If that makes any sense.

My bad

Okay I'm taking this Holocaust email fwd down, cause apparently it's bogus. This is why I usually don't read fwds unless they are funny. So stop sending me political shit, biatches.

I don't know if I've described how swollen the sides of my chest are; just below the armpits. It's disgusting, like someone has stuffed my skin with cheese or something. And the only way to get rid of it is liposuction. So natch, I'm doing it. Working on securing an appt for the silicone sisters for mid-July. Doc is gone until July 14 and it's a 10-day recovery time wherein I can't lift my arms or drive. Grrr.

So far the worst side-effect of this round is the fucking water-retention and bloating. I killed myself at the gym yesterday trying to get everything out and then spent an extra ten mins in the steam room. I'm not even trying on my jeans; just wearing dresses until my Ethiopian belly deflates. NM Last Call was so good the other day that I'm taking two friends back today.

I had a dream that I fell for another poor guy with no job. Probably because Dr. L berated me during yesterday's session about what I learned from the Beau fiasco. And trust me I learned, but this guy in my dreams was really hot. I don't remember the last time I met a hot businessman.

Feeling fabulous, knock wood.

Last night we literally went from chemotherapy to retail therapy. After we left chemo around 6 p.m., we came home, walked Wally and headed to Neiman's Last Call.

We closed the place down. Susan and I scored. She got a to-die-for Dolce dress that was 82% off the original price. And she gifted me a fantastic Narciso Rodriguez dress that was 80% off. Also snatched a pair of Zanotti peep-toe pumps for about 65% off.

I am SO bloated from this new chemo cocktail. I have to take diurects. My jeans don't fit because of the water retention. It's crazy. I usually pee about every hour or so; now I go only like 5x a day. Lovely.

Live blogging fr chemo again. Two to go! Less than a month! Blood levels are perfect, side effects a cakewalk. Mom's BFF fr ATL is in the house.

Ate amazing dinner at Prime 112 last night. We are still stuffed. I've got the first round of drugs going in now--3 hours. Then herceptin for one hour.

Also learned I can swap the tennis balls for the silicone ones in the beginning of July. Hoorah! The accupuncture has helped with the back pain so much. And my energy level is fantastic. I would recommend it to anyone who has chronic pain or is just a little fatigued.

Hitting the Neiman's Last Call tomorrow and hopefully some places tonight if it stops raining.

Just returned from engagement party at Palm Beach estate. Each time I'm at happy occassions such as this, I'm left with one pervading thought. How nice it must be for parents to have children who follow the traditional blessed course; college, grad school, marriage and children.
That's what every parent wants, lets face it.
They certainly don't dream of a single, 32-year-old daughter with cancer who's lying in her PB hotel room blogging on her Sidekick while watching "Must Love Dogs." Waiting for the klonopin to kick in and kill the demons.
I feel sorry for my parents. They did everything right and what do they have to show? No in-laws, no grandkids, nothing even to boast about their children. A waiter and a CP (no offense brother).
Nights like tonight, where I am confronted by everything I've always wanted and hoped for, just serve to highlight what I don't have.
What I never will have.
"My next mission is to find you the perfect guy," Donna said.
Wouldn't that be nice? If single, perfect men were just lined up for an aging, single, unsuccessful breast cancer bitch? Get in line guys.
I feel like some people think it's that easy, finding a life partner. Like picking out a pair of Choos. As if. Tomorrow I can go get a pair of Choos on Worth Ave. A man? Not bloody likely.
Nights like tonight, I don't see the point. Fighting for things I will never have? Searching for a man who can put up with me? Aspiring to greatness?
I have more of a chance of getting cancer again, which is like 3% or something. (And I know I'll be lucky enough to crack the top 3%.)
Really, what is the fucking point without love? What? And what the hell is the likelihood of finding 'love' when you are a self-loathing, hideous CP?
May as well pin my hopes on winning the lotto. I need a fucking joint.

You go Ellen! I called this yesterday as soon as I heard the gay marriage ban was lifted in Cali (HG can attest to that).

Ellen rocks. Long live lesbianism, people.

Question of the day, courtesy of gay boyfriend: (said in his thick Mississippi accent) "If you wear Depends and you buy them in bulk, why on earth would you put the box out for recycling?"

Just another funny thing he stumbled upon while walking his Jack Russells last night. I'm being spoiled today by another gay beau who's generously cooking me lunch at his pad. I love my gays.

This could be my worst flying nightmare ever. I think this guy deserves at least a million. I would've, well, jeez I don't even know. Taken down the pilot? Thrown my Wet Wipes at the crew? Jumped out of the emergency exit? A thousand and one things before I listened to the crazies telling me to sit on the toilet. I mean really, to me that's equivalent to water-boarding.

I pulled up behind a really funny Hilary bumper sticker yesterday that read: "Just vote for the bitch." Actually made me want to vote for her. And frankly I don't think she's a bitch. Just another dyke with a bigger set of cajones than most men.

I woke up again—this is like the fourth time recently—to Wally poop all over my bathroom. At least he has the decency to do it in the loo. He's really quite the intellectual, that one.

I've developed some interesting, annoying new side effects. Swollen everything, including my eyelids, which look like they do after a night of drinking. Dry, peeling, itching hands that the onco is calling in a lotion scrip for. Insurance probably doesn't cover La Mer. I actually sprayed some eucalyptus on my palms and that stopped the itching immediately. But I'll get the lotion too. Products are products and if I have to get my beauty rocks off at the pharmacy instead of Sephora, so be it. On the cancer tip, I've decided, per Elizabeth's suggestion, to continue to write about it here. As she says, it makes it more a part of my every day life as opposed to putting it over there in a box.

Looking forward to a relaxing weekend in Palm Beach, though I'm still fretting about what to wear to Lynn's cocktail party. Palm Beach exists in its own fashion microcosm. I don't own any Lilly, but I'm thinking a pink Pucci top will suffice. And mom's wearing Pucci too, now that I think about it. The reality is that tennis ball titties and process of elimination will most likely dictate my ensemble though. I think I should just start a blog called tennis ball titties.

And finally, though I've been an Idol abstainer for a few years, I've been watching this year. Natch, I'm totally into David Cook, but can we just talk about the creepy poor thing that is David Archuleta? Yeah the kid apparently has the stage dad from hell, but since the beginning I've gotten the whole child-molestation victim vibe from the kid. I think that if he wins, his life is going to come crashing down by the time he hits adulthood. And his money will no doubt go into dad's pockets. Too bad you can't make your parents sign the equivalent of a pre-nup. Okay, it's beautiful out today so I'm going to enjoy the great outdoors. Translation: I'm going to sit by the pool in the one bathing suit where my tennis balls look normal.

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.

Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go. I'm already sedated. But it occurred to me that, with three more chemos left, I've got roughly twenty-four hours left of treatment.

Natch, treatment is the easy part. Thankfully, this week's side effects were very manageable. I'm tired, but I've still managed to get to the gym. My chemo brain doesn't seem as bad (though I'm sure friends and fam who've heard me tell the same stories over and over would dispute that).

Luckily May is a fairly busy month with some fun distractions to keep me busy. Next weekend headed to PB for Lynn's son's engagement party. It's at one of those homes with a name, so it should be a hoot. Heading home for Memorial Day week, where Dana, Lay Ann and the whole old-school crew will be throwing Crazy-Ass Nicole a baby shower. The world better brace themselves for her progeny. And then before I know it it'll be June and I can celebrate the end of fucking treatment. But the real celebration will be after I get the tennis balls out. I'm growing more and more frustrated with them each day. I really need to plan a vacation somewhere for early August so that I have something to look forward to. Right now I ain't got nothing folks.

Been on a cleaning rampage this week, tackling the closet and ridding myself of scores of old clothes. Yay, I can gaze fondly at my shoes and handbags now. And when Beau gets his shit out tomorrow, I will really be free of all the baggage.

A really sick, depressing thought occurred to me today. With the price paid for my wig, I could've practically gotten a Birkin bag. Or two Chanels. All those would last me a lifetime, whereas the wig, God willing, will be history in a few short months.

My hair on the head is not growing back like the docs said. If it were, and I had a regular shaved head again, I would totally rock it. Because it's fucking hot here already. I wear the wig out and I'm sweating like a pre-menopausal woman. It's not fun in the 90-degree-heat and 100% humidity.

There's a big symphony party tonight that all my friends will be at and where I should show my face, but I'm not feeling so going-outy. One of my least favorite things to do now is to be cramped in a smoky club, with people banging into me. And the 'hot up-and-coming' 'hood down here for going out, this area near downtown, is just really fucking scary. There are crackheads—literal Whitney Houston crackheads—who don orange vests and try to get money from you to park your car. It's really scary. I don't think it's advisable to put myself in these situations right now, though I'd love a girls' night out at a civilized restaurant or bar. Really, I'm just too old for these clubs.

I've been eating very healthy this week, which actually seems to be making a difference. I'm already a veggie, but I've managed to resist my constant cravings for junk food. Veggies, fruits, proteins and dairy prods seem to lighten the load that is my body.

I'm not one of those you are what you eat people, but since I am supposed to be sticking to a certain way of eating—low-fat, high protein, lots of veggies and fruits—may as well try everything. Really looking forward to that accupuncture session on Monday.

Yes, naturally, there's a fascinating story behind the Beau situation. I'm holding off for a few reasons. To protect some reputations. To distance myself from the emotional drama of the situation. To let go of any bad vibes. And frankly, I'm saving the whole story for something that, well, pays. It's a story that should be told but not necessarily here.

Plus, it's sooooooo fucking long that sitting here typing about it would just exacerbate my back pain. Suffice to say it was a dramatic, ridiculously unbelievable ending and story. We're not on bad terms as far as I'm concerned, but something did happen with him that reverberated in my whole social circle down here, making it more difficult to proceed as usual.

Anyway, I get off on the fun drama, the crazy shit that makes life interesting, but what I don't need right now is drama that brings me down, raises my blood pressure, makes me cry, etc. Dating, for good or bad, is never easy. For me at least. It would be nice if it were, but I think until I come out of this BC BS, I'm taking a much needed hiatus from relationships.

I'm hard-pressed to think of anything non-cancer related, since yesterday was chemo and today was just the follow-up shot. I need to get more of a life, which I am working on.

Natch, now that Beau is out of the picture, my 'rents are eager to get me back onto the Jewish hamster wheel that is dating. One of dad's old frat brothers called him today while we were out. He hadn't heard about the BC yet, just learned through the Jewish grapevine. Months ago, pre-BC, this friend had tried to set me up with a nice Jewish boy who was living in DC at the time. We'd spoken and left it at him getting in touch when he moved back down here.

Well, dad's friend had called to inquire about my health and to tell dad about an article in the Herald today about the BRCA gene. Next thing I heard dad say?
"Oh, okay. By the way, any word on that US attorney that you wanted to set her up with?"

Somehow it's worse coming from the dad. I mean, you expect it from the mom. But when you're dealing with the most intimate and (I'm guessing) most intimidating (to guys) kind of cancer, it's kinda weird for your parents to be focusing on your dating life.

I guess they're just proceeding as usual in their own way, as am I. And on that note, I'm retiring to the couch to watch last night's episode of The Hills. I have allowed myself to be lazy on the days after chemo. But not so lazy—I had an atty appt this a.m., then the hospital, then Publix (the most exhausting part of the day), then had to write a column. . .blah blah. I'm just trying to lighten my guilt about being lazy.

Joe's Stone Crab tonight, yum. Ran into bartender there I briefly dated.
"Hey, how are you?"
"I have breast cancer, but I'm fine."
"Are you shitting me?"
"Nope, diagnosed in Dec., blah blah blah."
"Holy shit! Is that a wig?"
"Yup. Good, right?"
"Yeah, you'd never know."

I'll call you and I can come support you during treatments. Okay. Men respond in surprisingly contrary ways to the BC news. Most of them aren't freaked out; in fact it seems that it brings out the caretaker/provider aspect in them.

Oh, I'm full. And two glasses of wine, woo-hoo.
More chemo tomorrow—happy, happy, joy joy!!!!!!!

I thought this drama queen's life couldn't get any more dramatic, until I was served with a foreclosure notice yesterday. Now, I rent, so it's my landlord's deal, but they have to serve the tenant as well.

Ugh! Just had a fabulous massage and now have to go to hospital so I'm sure that will counteract the relaxation.

More on the hospital visit later today on Cancer Chic(k).

I've created the cancer blog. Check out Cancer Chic(k). (Thanks for the name Tomas!)

The first gay terrorist

My gay boyfriend sent me this photo. Could be the funniest photo ever.


We surmised that this lovely fellow is strutting through Central Park, on his way to Bergdorf's because, "These size 13 booties are killing me do you have a 14?"

If we could read his mind:
a.) "I must get back to mystorage locker with my designer bomb inside."
b.) "I wonder if they've cleaned my room yet at the Chelsea Hotel."
c.) "Sugar, don't make me remove my bracelets when I go through the detector!"
d.) "What, haven't you ever seen a gay terrorist, honey?"
e.) "Oh, Osama don't they cell phones in those caves?"

I've decided to create another site devoted exclusively to the cancer shit. There's a lot of other shit going in my life and it will be easier to try to separate church and state.

I want your input on names. I forgot one below. Fucking chemo brain.

The one I forgot is Cancer Queen.

I'm totally open to suggestions too. . .

Which Name Do We Likey?
	Kick-Ass Cancer
	Crazy Cancer
	Cancer Chic
	Screw Cancer
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Well, I did the pastie shirt thing, and I love it so much I'm keeping these on this shirt. People didn't seem to shocked by it, perhaps because I look normal other than a really bad boob job. In fact, Dana's doctor didn't get it and I had to tell him I had cancer.

Subtlety doesn't go over too well in these parts. I think the painted head thing is a good idea. And I like CG's idea of painting on a hairdo. I could do a Betty Boop type thing.

Dana and I have a big girls' day out today. To the hospital.

"It would be awesome if I could get Jim to watch both the babies and then it could just be the two of us!"

"Ooh, that would be great! Listen to what you're saying—we are actually looking forward to a hospital date as if it's a girls' lunch."

"So pathetic."

Five years ago we were up all night partying and now we're switching off hospital rotations. Today is her appt. I have something called a MUGASCAN (sp) Friday to get precertified for my next round of chemo (Taxol) treatments.
11 a.m.
Anywho, I've hatched a plan for today's visit, natch. What's left of my hair is still coming out, and it's fucking itchy. So part of my scalp is this smooth, bald, baby skin and part of it is stubbly. It looks retarded. What I think I'll do is shave the whole head, and go sans wig or hat to the hospital. Fully made up . . .

12:15 p.m.
Scratch that. I'm not ballsy enough yet. New plan. I just shaved the head. I'm really going to start pushing the envelope and go Gonzo on the street with my video cam.

Today, I'm going to put the skull-and-crossbone pasties on my shirt where my 'boobs' are, and walk through the hospital. Later this week, I'm going to go to Ricky's, buy some body paint and paint my head something cool. Then I'll go out and video people's reactions to that. Fuck it. Makeup on the head? Why not? I could do temp tattoos, etc.

I think it's a brill idea, but then again I'm functioning on chemo brain and am crazy to begin with. Maybe I'll have Dana paint my head cause she's a fab painter.

Canvas ideas anyone? I could do something really fucked up like the Israeli flag. Then people wouldn't think I had cancer they'd just think I'm some militant Zionist or something. Then I could go up the road and freak the shit out of those ultra-Orthadox robots.

I think I've found a new career: crazy but well-dressed street person! Maybe a new way to meet guys too. Really freaky ones probably.

I neglected to mention, I think, that my brother and I watched Ratatouille while he was here. I agreed to watch it because I figured my rat race days were long behind me. I think I will these things into existence. I actually found myself sympathizing with the rodents in the flick. I don't want to jinx myself, so I'm going to stop with the rodent talk now.

And if you all think my story is inspiring—let's wait and see how my attitude is in a few months—
Elizabeth Daniels, the founder of Waiting Room has really overcome a shit ton and in the process of successfully fighting malignant melanoma, managed to create the magazine, counsel other CPs and keep up with her awesome photography. Check out the portraits of all the celebs. Elizabeth is a total rock star.

Fucking Chemo Can Kiss my Ass

I woke this a.m. (okay, this afternoon), and as I was on the phone with my gay boyfriend, who also happens to be my realtor, I decided to check the balcony for fresh rodent droppings. Lo and behold, there were a few new ones.

New readers may not know that I'm somewhat of an expert on rodents. Due, unfortunately, to my up-close-and-personal experiences with their kind. Yesterday, I got rid of all the old ones—there were a lot. Their droppings are toxic, and you shouldn't vacuum them up b/c then the toxic shit is in your vacuum or whatever. I'm even more germaphobic now than ever. Soo, I donned latex gloves and a face mask, and threw each individual dropping off my balcony.

My building manager, who bears a striking resemblance to Frankenstein, did not respond to my phone message Friday: "Hello, this is Stephanie in 604. A rat crawled into my apartment last night. I have cancer so this really isn't good for my germs."

My next step tomorrow will be alerting the neighbors and causing a ruckus.

"Only you," Dana said. "In my seven years of living here, I have never heard of anyone having a problem with rats."

I'm telling you, I'm going to get past life regression therapy to get to the bottom of this and other issues.

I'm feeling marginally better. Utterly fatigued though. Slept till 1 p.m. today, woke up nausea-free but exhausted. It's getting hot here. I haven't donned the wig since Monday. I'm really looking gross, let me tell you. My head is completely bald in the places where the wig tape is and stubbly in all the rest of the parts. My leg hair is growing back in more rapidly.

Anywho, my big adventure today, aside from a massive clean sweep, was a walk to Walgreens. The drugstores are even worse here than in NYC, b/c the cashiers often don't speak a lick of English. Not one word, seriously.

So I'm in line, sweating my ass off in my wig, wearing makeup and looking somewhat presentable for the first time in a week. The dude in front of me has a Chihuahua on a blanket in the front part of his buggy. A little girl got too close to the dog and it erupted like Cujo. I started laughing at the dog, then the power went out. It's almost 90 out. I just started laughing hysterically. This was my big outing; I needed what I was about to buy and there was only one person in front of me. The registers still were working, and I had no intention of leaving sans products. After about 30 secs, the manager starts telling everyone to go outside. Nobody moves. The cashier continues to ring up the items; the registers still worked. I don't think she was being defiant, I honestly think that she didn't understand what the manager was saying because he was speaking English.

Anyway, gay boyfriend is coming over to cook me dinner tonight. One of many reasons why gay men are so much better than most straight ones.

I thought Entourage was back again tonight? WTF? I need my dosage of Lloyd and Ari Gold. Seriously, don't network execs understand that there are bored cancer patients at home waiting for the good TV to start? Yeah, I know, pathetic, but what can I say? I have barely left the house in five days. . .

This chemo is fucking bullshit, lemme tell you. My 90210 shrink refers to it as "jet fuel." Somehow this doesn't comfort me. Let's hope it's at least fuel from a private jet.

At long last, a story about my BC not exclusively for you guys. The Upside of Cancer
in Waiting Room magazine.

Oh, while watching TV last night with the door to my balcony open, a rat crawled in. Yeah, you heard me. A rat. In South Florida. Only me. Seriously, I think I was the Pol Pot of rodents in my past life and this is my payback.

Yesterday was the worst bout with nausea I've had yet. Let's hope it's the last battle. Michael left at 5 p.m. yesterday to go back to NYC. And despite the fact that we didn't do much but hangout, go to the pool, chill with friends, eat, go to the hospital and hang around the apartment, I think it was just the type of vacay the doctor ordered for him too.

The weather was abfab, natch, today it's gloomy again. The apartment is clean, sanitized and the patio furniture is finally in its rightful place, on the patio. This means that Wally's erstwhile bed, the Pier 1 love seat, is no longer his.

So Wally is back sleeping next to his mommy, the only problem being that my bed is too tall for him to jump on and off. The little booger has me at his beck and call now.

But it feels fantastic to be organized, cleaned and ready to get back into the swing of things. After I do some stuff for Elizabeth's Waiting Room Magazine, then it's onto logging my docu footage etc.

Though at this point, I think I'll be opting for lipo at the time of the tata transition. These puffy packets of swelling around the sides of my chest are fucking disgusting. I mean my whole upper body is pretty much right out of a horror picture, but at least I can correct these blemishes.

So. Fucking. Nauseous. I guess this is what everyone was speaking of. I'm hoping it will pass by tonight. I can't do anything right now.

Thankful that the writer's strike is over in time to coincide with my bed-ridden ass. And glad brother is here to baby-sit Wally and me. Let's see if his Indian ginger tea helps.

Four down, four to go.

Yesterday was my last Cytoxin chemo treatment. The next four will be Taxol and will be less intense drug wise, but longer in time. Instead of being juiced for an hour, it will take 3-4. Luckily they have a DVD player and I'll have my dad's laptop.

Brother went with me yesterday. My nurse, Audrey, had left, so I was a little nervous about who I'd get. They were incredibly understaffed, so I lucked out and got the supervising nurse, a lovely gay fellow also named Michael.

The good news: Since my eyelashes and eyebrows have not fallen out yet, they won't. Yaaaaaaaaaaay! My hair is still growing in, slowly, so it will start to grow more rapidly after the other treatments. I'll probably rock the shaved head when the weather gets sweltering. The other side-effects—nauseau, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diahrreha, Pepto!—will lessen.

All in all, I think the worst may actually be over. I know I've said this several times. But there are a lot of worsts, so bear with me.

Tom and I made nice last night. And Beau is no longer on the premises. Don't ask, don't know.

My life is too complicated right now to be entangled in someone else's complications.

The documentary footage is coming along nicely, it's just the sitting in front of the TV logging it that gets tedious. I'm one of those people who is always doing something when I'm 'watching TV'—painting my nails, typing, cleaning, cooking etc. So sitting in front of the TV with pen in hand, paying strict attention is very problematic for me.

Anyways, the weather here has been absolutely gorgeous. My balconies are done. Wally's got his bed out there and I've got my chaise. Bro and I are taking advantage of chemo week to go chill by the pool.

Later.

Oh, P.S. I'm going to sell my never-been-used iTouch iPod on eBay. If any readers are interested, lemme know and I'll sell directly to you via PayPal.

I had my last inflation session Thursday. It was not fun. In order to make room for the new silicone tatas to be inserted in mid July, doc has to over-inflate these here tennis ball titties. Now they are probably a full-C/small-D cup, though since they are up to my chin it's very hard to tell.

What's even harder is finding suitable sartorial choices that do not expose the ginormous grapefruits. Luckily I have plenty of camis, but many of those are not even high enough to cover the pseudo-cleavage.

The bad news from the doc: The swelling on both sides of my rib-cage area is permanent, as is the complete numbness under my left arm. Lovely. The numbness—a result of nerves affected by the lymph node removal—I can deal with. The swelling, not so much as it's—wait for it—superficial. Meaning, I have about a-quarter inch of extra padding along either side. Making the clothes fit even weirder. The only way to eliminate the swelling? Lipo. Yep, liposuction at the time of my silicone implants is now on the table. No pun intended. It's elective and therefore not covered by insurance. However, if we do a simple cost-benefit analysis, we'd calculate that lipo is MUCH cheaper than buying new clothes.

We'll see.

Brother flew in yesterday to take this Monday's chemo shift and grab a mini vacay from NYC. And last night was another historic moment—two mojitos with dinner! And I wasn't under the table! Felt good to be able to go out and have drinks with dinner like a normal chick. It was Monica's birthday—hollah—fete, so we did a girls' dinner (plus bro) and then headed to a lounge where the whole crew turned out. Was abfab to be with the whole crew again, and this Cancer Chick lasted until about 1:30 a.m. Sad that I'm very proud of myself for partying again. Natch I made everyone feel the boobs. Actually, I make people knock on them. That's how hard they are folks, you can knock on them. Seriously. It freaks the guys out more than the girls. So now most of my guy friends have felt the tatas au natural at the Bye-Bye Boobie Bash and plastic in present.

Anywho, the back is not feeling so good at all, but I'm going for a deep tissue at 12, so that will help immeasurably. I found this great therapist who lives two buildings down and only charges $75 per hour. That's roughly half the price of a posh spa on the beach. She's so good that she does most of the work with me on my back, going under my body. I so love massages.

My friend Funke had the best line of the night. We were gabbing about how all the girls in our group had big balls, bigger than most of the guys we know.

"But you," she said, "you're the queen of female balls!"

I rather like that. The queen of female balls. Thanks L;)

Hag Sameach. Matzo ball soup here I come.

So this breast cancer study is in the news this week about the correlation between alcohol and hormone-receptive breast CA. I called my onco's office and they hadn't heard about it, which makes me think it's not v. impt, but I'm bringing the story by the office tomorrow to get Dr. Schwartz's opinion. It's not on the Sloan Kettering site, nor the NCI site, giving me more pause about its validity. And this example just strengthens my belief that instead of taking the "news" as gospel, we all need to dig a little deeper for the real truth. Natch, as an 'insider' myself, I've always known this to be the case, but just wanted to share. The New York Times, WSJ, CNN—none of them are independent, completely factual, unbiased or even totally accurate on a regular basis. It's all BS, so take it all in, but always do your own research and draw your own conclusions instead of completely putting your faith or health in the hands of talking heads.

That's all. I've been completely lazy and tired today and instead of exercising have been sitting around watching The Rose again. What a fantastic performance by the Divine Miss M.

Hallejewyah—they have finally finished my balcony, a mere six months late. For Miami, this is pretty much on time. Things move so slow in the South, from the drivers to the old folks to the damned construction projects.

So, on a balcony-related note, another bizzaro story courtesy of my building. Let's be honest here, I seem to choose the oddest buildings on the planet in which to reside. It must be something I do unconsciously, to keep the drama alive. Monday night when I was doing my stretches at 11 p.m. or so, I got a knock on my door. I had Bam come with me to open and it was my neighbor. She'd locked herself out of her apt and wanted to know if she could climb over my balcony to reach hers. My balcony had been locked from the outside again, so she had to go door-to-door asking others. We went to the window to watch her progress. Sure enough, like a cooler, less pasty Toby McGuire (sp), she was heaving herself up from the floor below onto my other neighbor's balcony. She landed, hurdled her way onto my balcony and we clapped. We motioned for her to remove the wood plank from by balcony so we could get out. We joined her out there, and we all realized that between my apt and hers, there was no floor dividing the balconies. We thought surely she was foiled, but with Bam's assistance, she hopped over the railing, walked over the balance-beam like ledge, climbed over and landed squarely on her patio. She totally rocked it. Now, if it were me—who can barely walk down stairs in my Chanels without tumbling—I would have fallen and broken my neck. Not to mention the fact that even when my arms were totally cut—a long fucking time ago as now I have just started using free weights again and am disgusted by my lack of tone and flab—I could never do a pull-up. Anyway, quite a cool sight.

I'm totally back in gear this week in type-A mode, kicking my own ass to get my documentary ready to go by June, which not only coincides with the end of my treatment but will leave me enough time to earn some of my own dough and bring a little to the table when my lease expires in August. I'd love to buy this pad, and the market is so in the toilet that it just may be feasible. Right now I'm trying to save what little disposable income I have to take myself on a vacay when I'm done with all this cancer bullshit. Don't know where I want to go yet; somewhere on the water, not too pricey or dangerous. Maybe Jamaica, the Ritz there always has really good deals. But I think Mel stayed there and it wasn't so hot. Then again Mel, I am probably totally wrong about that. I have sucummed to "Chemo Brain," which is like early-onset old-person forgetfulness. I'm now in competition for the 'rents, saying things three times and forgetting when I did what. Luckily I'm so anal I write everything down.

I've pretty much stopped writing aside from this here blog, for many reasons. A., it's too time consuming and requires me to sit at my K-Mart- (seriously) bought desk. B., it's just annoying and honestly I'm so over expending energy re. agents, editors and all those bullshit people. Frankly, life is too short to rely on people with no creative vision, who are boxed into the formulaic, B&N-dictated publishing world. Screw 'em. C., video is much easier, allows one to be mobile, and merely requires me to log footage in front of the TV. What do you know, my one hellish semester in broadcast journo at NYU grad under the dictatorship of Marsha Rock (makes Bonnie Fuller look nice) has actually paid off. Moreso than my magazine track, which yielded me Gary Belsky's guidance, but little else. (A word of advice, NYU grad school in journalism is a total fucking waste of money, so go for Columbia.)

Anyway, I'm mining my family connections from Hollywood to cancer orgs to documentarians. I'm tres fortunate to be blessed from birth with stellar contacts. A major advantage of being a Heeb with very outgoing and plugged in parents, family friends and other Jews. Being a Jew of a certain type of background is good. And being privileged is also good, I won't pretend it's not. I'm not ashamed of it, so save the hating comments. It's just a fact of life. Instead of having to climb the ladder, I can pick up the phone. Now, this also means that when I fail, it's even more humiliating. But I'm more confident in this project than in anything else I've done before. Maybe it's because it doesn't so much involve writing, which I am naturally insecure about. It also helps that I look decent on camera, have funny people in my life and am always swirling with drama. And the whole camera-adding-ten-pounds thing doesn't really seem to hold true. And if it does, woo-hoo I'm thinner than I look in the mirror.

On that note, I'm eating like a pig since the BC. I just found out last week that on chemo weeks, one of the drugs I'm on is a powerful steroid—the nurse said I could get good dough on the street for it—used to stimulate my appetite. The fact that I've always got THC-loaded baked goods may be a factor too. All in all though, my increased appetite hasn't led to that much visible weight gain. When I do cardio now, my heart rate is much higher than before chemo, requiring me (or leading me to surmise) that I can do 30 minutes a few times a week instead of my previous routine of five days of hour-long eliptical sessions per week. Granted, my body is softer and more cellulite-ridden, but frankly I don't much care. I mean, when you have rocks in your chest, three ports above your ribs, no nipples and are bald, it's kind of hard to be as vain as one once was.

Which transitions nicely to a story idea that my photog friend proposed. Cosmo is doing this massive photo shoot tomorrow of thousands of women in bikinis on the beach. Don't really get the point, but then again I don't read that rag so I'm prob missing something. Anyway, Tomas suggested doing an alternate shoot with photogenic BC chicks such as myself, and pitching that to them. Well, even though the lovely publicist seemed receptive, the editors don't appear to be. (Big surprise right?) So we'll do it at another time, pitch it to other rags and pubs, and if they don't bite, fuck 'em, I'll find a home for it somewhere else. Brill idea right? All credit goes to Tomas though. I was going to do the shoot Friday, but it's an all-day thing and brother comes in that day. Plus, I'm not into the sheep-herding aspect of it just to be one of 1,200 faces. Not my thing, y'all know I prefer to be a leading lady as opposed to an extra.

Anywho, I've spent the last coupla days at Sinai with Dana and Cunty, so I'm taking a day for myself, catching up on some chores, and heading to the shrink later this afternoon. My shrink is so cool that I actually look forward to the sessions. He's this genius dude who's my age with five practices under his belt. Makes me feel like a total loser in that respect, but our sessions are more gossipy than usual therapy sessions. I love therapy. I think everyone should be in therapy instead of buying those craptastic, Oprah-endorsed self-help books. What's the deal with those anyway? Can't people examine themselves instead of reading other people's 'wisdom'? At least in therapy these people are actual medical professionals instead of those Eckhart Tolle (sp)-types who, as far as I know, have no professional background.

And lemme make it clear here to anyone that rant offends, as you seem to extract granules of wisdom from my dribble, which I find very rewarding. However, I'd like to think that I don't preach so much as just keep it real and vent my personal bullshit. I do enjoy reading other people's memoirs, as I think that's how you can really glean useful knowledge. Two of the most impactful such books I've ever read are Elizabeth Wurtzel's Prozac Nation and Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. If you've ever struggled with depression or the loss of a spouse (or are a writer), read those books. Prozac Nation was what led me, at age 20, to discover that I was clinically depressed as opposed to just another miserable biatch.

Okay, I'm out. Hag Sameach to all my fellow tribe members if I don't get back here before Passover. Not that I'm a devout Jew, but it's a fun holiday involving food and family and fun. Who knows about that whole wandering the desert thing? Whatever. I'm going to go stuff my face now.

Introducing Cunty (aka Sumner Violet) Silver—eight pounds, three ounces with a hearty appetite for nipples!

So this a classic one. Bff Dana is about ready to pop with baby #2,
Cunty Kozy Kabbalah Silver. She's scheduled for a c-section @ Mt. Sinai—my second home—tomorrow. Well, we've all been thinking that she's going to go in early b/c she's huge, swollen, having Braxton Hicks contractions and has been feeling like shit since Friday. Plus, Friday night I had a dream she went in early, and often I have premonitory dreams.

So yesterday I began calling her on my way to lunch at Bal Harbour with my dad's cousins, around 12:30. Actually I texted her before that too. Still hadn't heard from her after a two-hour lunch. On the way home I called her hubby, her cell, her home—no answer anywhere. Next I
called her brother Daryl and asked him if he'd heard from her. He'd talked to her in the a.m. and said all was kosher then. D. is a doctor and didn't seem worried, so I let it drop for a while. About two hours later, I was sitting at my pool and still hadn't heard from her. Dana's absentminded on good days, so I didn't think it would be out of the ordinary if she went in and somehow didn't manage to call. So after about four hours of no communication—we usually speak several times a day—I called Mt. Sinai directly.
"Has Dana Silver checked in yet?"
"Not yet but I see that she's pre-registered."
Ok, so I relaxed a little. A few minutes later she called.
"Where the FUCK have you been? I just called Sinai!"
She started cackling.
"Oh my god, I've been at Rik Rak [salon] for four hours! My back is
killing me, my cankles are out of control and my ass is completely
numb."
"You kept your beauty appt? Are you insane?"
"Well, yeah, but I have to look good for the hospital."
"You're fucking nuts, the salon is uncomfortable even when you're not about to pop!"

Meanwhile, godson Kobi, who at 20-odd mos, has begun talking a lot, is jabbering away in the background.

"Have I told you the lady and the fountain story?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Kobi, what does the lady at the fountain have?"
"Boobies?" the little booger said faintly.

She starts cracking up, encouraging him on, and she puts the phone to his mouth.

"Boobies, boobies, boobies, boobies!" Now Kobi's really having fun.

Meanwhile, at Rik Rak, Dana had gotten into her usual shenanigans. She'd never been there and I had been there when I worked for that psycho social-climbing charlatan in (fake) Chanel. So when Dana sat down with the hairdresser and was asked who recommended her, she decided not to mention my name. Instead the charlatan in Chanel popped into her head. But she could only see her face and totally blanked on both psycho's name and the name of the advertorial—er, magazine. Instead, another mag I wrote a story for popped into her head.

"Oh, it was the editor of Modern Luxury [Miami]," she told the stylist.
"Dana, the editor of ML is a man. And what the hell were you thinking anyway?"
"I dunno, my brain was all over the place and I couldn't remember the
psycho's name!"

Natch, the stylist runs over, grabs a copy of Miami magazine, and throws it into Dana's lap. The stylist starts flipping through the pages and gets to a photo of the publisher on the masthead.

"Is that her?"
"Oh my god, Dana. What the hell were you thinking? Oy!"
"Stephanie, I'm not kidding you, I'm just all over the place. I don't know what I was doing. So she points to this blonde woman in Modern Luxury—"
"Leslie Wolfson, the president."
"Yes! And I said, 'That's weird, I know a Leslie Wolfson, but that's not who I'm talking about.'"

Dana finally describes the psycho to the hairdresser and then the woman says the psycho's name. Lo and behold, minutes later Lesley Wolfson walks into the salon. And as Dana's leaving, the charlatan in Chanel is checking in. Brilliant.

Well, Dana hasn't popped yet which means I'm to report to the hospital at 9:30 a.m. I'm actually psyched to be going to the hospital this time. No chemo! Babies and cake from Epicure! And finally we'll find out the damn kid's name so we can all stop calling her Cunty.

Maybe I'm just in a pissy mood cause I'm PMSing or maybe I'm hypersensitive to the whole BC issue thing, but I find the following solicitation email I rec'd from another writer to be in extremely poor taste. Agreed? Or am I really a woman on the verge? I would tear this e-mail apart word by word, but frankly I'm too tired even to waste the energy. Case in point that not all Conde Nast mags are, well, decent. Grammatical errors are included for your enjoyment.

"I am working on an an upcoming health story about breast cancer for the October issue of Annoying Women's magazine. I am looking for ethnically diverse women who live in the New York CIty area between the ages of 20 and 40 who can come into the Annoying Women's offices to see if they can find lumps in a prosthetic boob. SNACKS AND REFRESHMENTS WILL BE PROVIDED! Plus this is a great opportunity to SCHMOOZE and meet EDITORS!

We're booking appointments on two dates: April 28th or April 30th and each
appointment will run for about sixty minutes (but we'll try to keep it under
an hour). Candidates may be photographed and quoted during the sessions!

This is a great opportunity to contribute to an interesting story, meet editors and explore the Annoying Women's office!

If you are interested, please email me at XXX by Monday, April 14th 9 a.m. with the following information:

1. first and last name
2. age
3. city and state
4. your email and number
5. Which date you prefer to come in: April 28th or April 30th.

*You will be contacted by a Annoying Women's editor in the next week to schedule your time to come in to the office.

PLEASE FORWARD TO YOUR FRIENDS!"

Oy, oy, oy, oy. Exclamation points!!! Breast Cancer!!!!!!!!!!!!! Refreshments!!!!! Meet the editors and feel some tits!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So here's the latest. I'm feeling pretty well. We had a minor 4 a.m. interruption Weds morning wherein Brother called mom and me at my apartment to tell me that he received an extremely odd txt from Beau. It read: "Love you like a brother, see you on the other side."

Well. Beau had gone out with a mutual friend for a meeting around 11, and when I spoke to him last he was at the Delano. Next thing I know, he's sending my brother crazy-ass messages, not answering his phone and it's 4:30 a.m. And he has my house keys. So mom and I walk downstairs with Wally, and who is driving up into my valet? Beau, thank God for him. Long story, don't ask.

After Monday's chemo, Mom, Beau and I had a three-hour outing at Neiman's Last Call by the airport. I got a hot little MK bathing suit that actually covers my tennis ball tits, a pair of Piazza Siempone denimn shorts and a nightie. Beau scored three pairs of $200+ jeans for about $40 each. Humph. We went under the guise of seeing if they had the Oscar dress I got in a size smaller so that I wouldn't have to alter it. They didn't.

Tuesday we went back to hospital to get my immuno-booster shot and bid farewell to my nurse Audrey. My blood counts are fine, meaning my immune system is healthy. Afterwards mom and I brought Epicure lunch over to Dana and Jim's—she's going in for birth this Monday. She won't tell anyone the name of the damn girl, so we are going with Cunty or Kozy Shack or Coconut. (Godson is Kobi, Cat is Kutzy, dog is Cubby.) The 4 a.m. events had me up till 6 a.m., mom left at 8, I had therapy at 2 p.m. and then I made it to the gym for the first time ever on a chemo week. So I guess my body is getting used to the poison.

I am gearing up for a couple of photo shoots that will require me to don a bathing suit. In a week. That's about all the Equinox motivation I need. Keep your fingers crossed that these shoots accomplish what I hope they will.

And all you sexy BC survivors in the greater Miami area, please get in touch and I'll fill you in on the details of this photo shoot.

Chemo Live Blogging

Well, I'm live-blogging from my lovely chemo suite right now. Waiting on bloodwork to make sure my blood count is on par. Today I am dressed down in loungewear (Bleu Clair) and our crew is diminished--just mom and me. Dana is a week away from giving birth.

Yesterday Dana, Myrna and I met mom, Lynn and Gail at Sawgrass Mills for a little retail therapy. And I discovered what I've been searching and longing for my whole life--the perfect, fabulous Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress. At long last, my soul mate has arrived. It's haning on my closet door so I can behold it's beauty. It's not strapless as I'd hoped to wear for the Ciklin wedding in Sept., but it's still fantastic. Typical Oscar frock--fitted bodice full ballerina style skirt. Black silk with red swirly motifs gracing the botoom of the gown. I'm so in love.

Anyway, still waiting on the actual chemo to start. More TK.

WARNING: VOMIT-INDUCING PHOTO

PLEASE DON'T SCROLL DOWN IF YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE MY MUTILATED BREASTS.


I just figured full-disclosure was in order so you all can really grasp what us BC-ers deal with.

I was just inflated and the doc did about a half of what he did last time, so the pain isn't as bad and I have Percocet just in case. Or for fun. He also gave me the go-ahead to start using weights again with my arms. Bam was brave enough to both take me to the doctor and watch him inflate me and to take this photo. He rocks.

Anyway, as you will see, looking at myself in the mirror is not so pleasant these days, but I'm getting used to it. The weird nipple-like protrusions on either side are the ports into which doc injects the silicone. The 'breasts' are supposed to be uneven and really high; it's not until after the real silicone ones are swapped in that they become bodacious boobies a la Playboy. That surgery will occur a minimum of one month after chemo ends. And that's when the nips go on, which are crafted from part of my breast skin and part of my skin from the pelvic area. (At first doc joked that they'll come from the nipple bank.) Then, the color—I suppose I can choose brownish or pink nips—is tattooed on. You can bet those will be the only tattoos gracing this Jewess' bod. All this puts my final, final hurdle in mid-to-late July. I'm hoping I'll be done and done recovery and surgery wise by August.

I've got Lynn's son Michael's wedding in Vegas at the end of September and simply must look ravishing in a strapless Oscar or Valentino frock. I carry a Valentino ad with the dress I'm salivating over in my Filofax for inspiration. Whatever gets you through the day. Sadly my family thinks this is normal.

If you have a weak stomach or are a family friend and don't wish to view this, stop reading now. I'm putting the one of me in clothing first. Beware.

I don't know if this link will work, but on the top right side of this page is video of Robin Roberts at my awesome wig guru's crib getting her head shaved.

Ralf has generously agreed to try to put me in touch with some of his big-wig clients regarding my documentary/reality show I'm working on.

I'm still doing a book, but it's going to me more avant garde than your standard memoir. More TK. I'm off to Lincoln Road to do some column research and spend my Victoria's Secret gift cert (thanks Susie!).

Moi, A Menendez?

First of all, time for some bitching. I have THE worst, most aggravating mouth sores and inflammation from the chemo. This was def listed as a side-effect, so I'd been doing my preventative measures using special toothpaste, mouthwash, spray etc. Apparently, my offense had nothing on the fucking chemo. My mouth is completely inflamed. It's hard to talk. And unfortunately it feels better when I eat, so I'm shoveling ice cream and Reddi Whip in my mouth like there's no tomorrow. Pretty soon I'm going to be rolling myself into chemo treatments.

I don't think I shared this story with you, but Lay Ann thinks it's one of the funniest ones ever, so even though it makes me look like an evil sociopath, I'll share. Since the Dec. 4 diagnosis and subsequent surgeries, treatments etc., my mom had been staying with me for more than a month. Of course, after a week we were ready to murder each other. Natch, she was just trying to help, but she was an anxious mess, which just frustrated me. I pop Xanax for anxiety. She knits and makes these sighing noises that signify the onset of tears. The woman cries at everything; good news, bad news, commercials, good-byes etc. So for the first couple of weeks the waterworks were nonstop. And the anxiety, my God, she made Woody Allen look chill. So one night early on she was really frustrating me. I think we'd argued about something and I sent her out to CVS cause I needed a breather. Look, it's really difficult when you are completely in control and strong but your family is falling apart. I needed her to snap out of it and be strong, at least when she was around me. I know it's insanely hard for a mother to watch her kid go through this, but 12 years of therapy puts me ahead of the curve, whereas she's more the denial, Pollyanna type.

So, she went out to CVS, and I was just completely at wits end with her and her constant worrying. I ground up one of my Klonopin into a fine powder. There were some leftovers I knew she would nibble at when she got home. I sprinkled half of one into her spaghetti and the other half into some hummus. I think I even left the hummus on the counter, hint hint. Sure enough she came home, we made nice and she later went for the food.

In my defense, the pill was .5 mg total and given the way she eats—like a bird—she probably only ingested .25 mg max. Baby dose. Also, I'd suggested this to my shrink and he didn't have a problem with it. I love my shrink.

Nothing noticeable happened except for the fact that she calmed down and slept very well. Very late the next day. I didn't tell her. It was kind of a blip in the radar given the circumstances of that month.

So when mom and dad were in town and they kidnapped me to go to Jax with them, we stopped in WPB to have lunch with Lynn and Alan. My dad is very impatient. He was getting uber-frustrated and basically throwing a temper tantrum that we had to get off the interstate to get to City Place in WPB. He was behaving like a two-year-old. And it was Lynn's birthday so while he was bitching and moaning, mom and I were telling him to shut the hell up, what did he care what time we got home, it was Sunday. Anyway, by the time he dropped us off—after going the wrong way b/c he didn't listen to me—he was about ready to kill someone. Even after we sat down with our food, he was still bitching. "Relax already," we said. "You're acting like a child."

"Yeah, I'm the one with cancer, so calm down already, or I'll dose you with something to calm you down like I did mom."

"What? What do you mean you dosed me? With what?"

I explained the whole story, which everyone found quite funny. Even mom. Though she did compare me to the Menendez brothers.

I've also dosed em both with some pot brownies of late. They know about it all though. Luckily they're a bunch of old hippies so they don't mind my subversive shenanigans. Dad didn't know I dosed him with the herb at the time, so other lawyers reading this, don't blame him. It was ALL me. Damn straight.

I'm going to do some budget shopping today at Marshalls. Yeah, you heard right. This little princess has been sticking to a strict budget—no shopping, no daily Whole Foods runs. Publix and cooking at home. It's really much more fun and I enjoy being on a budget. I'm actually under budget. (And under-shopped.) Luckily mom's in town Sunday and we'll be at the outlets. I'm long overdue for some retail therapy. And now I can buy shit that doesn't require a bra. Yipee!

HAIR

Soo, my hair started falling out yesterday. As you know, I'm already shaved. But while Bam and I were sitting at the pool, my scalp was itching under my hat; natch, I scratched. Next thing I know, I look down at my fingers and they are COVERED in hair. Sure enough, I lifted my hat and the entire rim was lined in 1/8" hairs. Of course, it was a little disconcerting, but right on schedule. You know me, type-A till the end, always meeting my deadlines.

We immediately went upstairs, I sat in the bath and Bam shaved the head completely. It actually didn't feel so weird, but was def traumatic. Thankfully my sense of humor is intact, the Xanax scrip is filled and Bam is here to hold my hand so to speak. The nastiest part is the hair flying everywhere on me, so that my arms looked like (a?) Sasquatch. I have a thing about hair anyway and am never without my lint brush. So you can imagine the squeamishness I felt with my own little hairs all over my body and face. Eww. I mean, I carry a lint brush to Dana's house with me due to her pug and her Siamese cat who shed like motherfuckers. I even roll it over my face.

We got the whole thing on video. And yes, those are my tennis ball titties. I know how gross they are so save the comments. The good news is that they are almost a full C cup, so I am only going to let the plastic surgeon inflate them a tiny bit more. Cause let me tell you, my deltoids are still smarting from this skin-stretching nightmare. It's really, truly, disgustingly foul. But, surprisingly, the scars on the breastesses have almost completely faded, so I guess I have skin that heals pretty well. Can't wait to have normal, fake, silicone titties like all the rest of the South Beach women. And yes, ladies, (Nancy P.) my bras are all up for grabs.

The evidence:




Some lighter material. . .

Dana engaging in her fave hobby at chemo. They actually bring around sandwiches, salads etc while you're there. Yeah, my camera is totally ghetto and overexposed during daylight. I cannot for the life of me figure out what's wrong despite reading the manual. If anyone has a Casio Exilim and can help, I'd be very grateful.

Kobi loves my dad. Apparently after our pre-chemo dinner Sunday night, he kept saying "Mark." Meanwhile, I haven't heard him say my name in ages. Ahem. Though he is proficient in all food names and "boobie." The kid can put away food like nothing else. Whenever he goes to Rosa Mexicano, he polishes off nearly a whole tub of their guac. I'm not shitting you. It's hilarious.



The Silvers decided to celebrate St. Patrick's day on Easter Sunday. They were all, coincidentally, donning green.