Breakin' the Law, Breakin' the Law

Sitting here with Dana . We're going to recap some of our funniest stories while Kobi is presently eating an entire container of cottage cheese, Wally is under the bed, Cubby the pug is snorting and Sumner is sprawled out on the bed sleeping with her eyes open.

An early start to retail therapy:
When we were in my old house, I had a lovely peach room and bed with a canopy. Apparently, I've always had a penchant for fashion. Dana and I liked to pretend that my room was an upscale boutique. We can't recall what we 'sold' but we both remember organizing things, making the room attractive to 'buyers' and dressing up and putting on makeup.

The origin of my snake phobia:
It was my 11th (I think) birthday. I walked over to my closet to get a pair of Mary Janes for our trip to the mall to spend my birthday cash. As I reached for my shoes, a garden snake slithered out. I screamed, freaked out and ran down the hall to mom, meanwhile Dana was cracking up, so mom didn't believe me. It wasn't until I started bawling that mom believed me. Dad was in the bath. So Dana and I hid in the hall closet while Brother, who was only like 6 or so, caught the snake and carried it out the front door in a brown paper Publix bag.

The Continuation of my snake phobia:
Dana is a pretty successful practical joker and loves to prey on my weaknesses. My parents' street is very wooded with all kinds of animals lurking amongst the foilage. The snakes come out in full force once it gets hot. Dana and Nicole show up at my front door one day and greet me by throwing a dead snake at me. They picked up roadkill, carried it to my house and thought it was just the funniest thing ever.

New Year's Eve:
It's 9th grade. We were going through our slumming it phase and hanging out with these total white trash losers who were like 17 or 18. We were 14. It was New Year's Eve and for reasons unknown, our parents had trusted us to stay home and baby-sit Brother and his friend Michael. Well, naturally we had other plans. As my parents were getting ready, Einstein over here is trying on her new clothes, putting on makeup, getting the bangs up to superhuman heights and being an idiot in general. Both my parents and Dana's parents were attending the same party that night, which happened to be at one of our teacher's homes. Brother was always cool and was under strict instructions to cover for me. Before Dana had come over, she had gone through the same ritual--coated her hair in Aussie Scrunch Spray, put on makeup, etc. As soon as mom and dad left, we gave the boys instructions.

"When mom and dad call, tell them we are in the shower." Brilliant, foolproof plan.

These ghetto boys pick us up in their car that we used to call the Hellrider. Right away, the driver told us he was tripping. Well, were pretty innocent nice Jewish girls and I don't think we really understood what tripping does to you. We don't remember the sequence of events, but we both recall the driver was basically in a reclining position about three feet from the steering wheel driving. We ended up in the parking garage at the now defunct Jacobson's and the acid dude was driving around the garage at warp speed. We also went to the Landing, which is an outdoor, mini South Street Seaport type of place. It was Jax's Times Square and filled with rowdy, drunken adults. Two 14-year-olds had no business being there.

We got back to my house around midnight and saw Harvey's, Dana's dad, car parked outside the house. We panicked and had another brilliant idea. We through our shoes into the bushes and put our purses in the mailbox.

"Ok, we'll tell them we just went for a walk."

"Ok. That will totally work."

We crept into the front door and Harvey, an intimidating and strict father, was planted in the foyer.

"You get your ass over here now."

While we were out, the 'rents had called, and one of the Michaels had done as told.

"Uh, she's in the shower."

Natch, both sets of parents raced home. From that point on, we were on and off restriction for most of ninth grade. And the kicker: We had to go to class on Monday and face our teacher whose house the party was at. She called us out in front of the entire class, saying something like,
"So, you guys were quite the conversation topic at the party."

The Spacemobile

We still had some very WT friends. The same year, in one of our breaks from restriction, we convinced our parents to let us go hang out at this girl Rhonda's house. Our parents insisted on talking the our friends' parents before allowing us to go over to other people's houses. Mom spoke to Rhonda's mother, who was a little drunk I think. Nancy and Nancy were leery of letting us go over there in the beginning. We got over there. The mom was completely wasted. The dad was a character out of "To Catch a Predator." Literally leering at us. The three of us went out with some other WT boys; meanwhile it hadn't escaped mom and Nancy's attention that this family was a little off.

We got back to her house and saw the lights of my mom's Spacemobile in the middle of the street. Busted, again. Back to restriction.

Dana Detox Diet

I asked acupuncturist today about a detox diet that didn't involve the master cleanse or fasting. He suggested the fruit detox, which is: 1st day only solid fruits. 2nd day only fruit juices (including those Odwalla smoothies and stuff. 3rd day back to solid fruits. Totally doable. So tonight my dinner will be fruit salad. And I bought this Chinese tea from Whole Foods. He says that will definitely help me pee. I mean, I peed like two times today and I drank 1 large cup of coffee; one Snapple; and 30 oz of water and counting. UGH.

We finally have at least one foursome for the Costa Rica trip and I'm beyond psyched. Jen is the only one who hasn't booked her plane ticket yet, but she is definitely in. And a friend from college and L.A. is joining us, which is fabu because I haven't seen her in like seven years!

I'm kind of bewildered (and grateful, natch) at how good I feel and how the only apparent side effect I'm still having is the bloating, swelling--my fingers are sausages--and mouth thing. And the hair loss of course. I drove around bald today; it was fucking sweltering. But now I'm thinking that I need to go see Ralf the wig guru to cut the wig and have him show me how the hellI'm supposed to secure the wig when I have just like a 1/4 inch of hair. I can't use the wig tape cause it's so strong it pulls out the hair. I suppose there may be other kinds of toupee tape that aren't as adhesive.

Dana leaves Thursday a.m. I rescheduled my MUGASCAN and have the day to be with her. I think I'll take a few Zannies. I'm going to dedicate the next several posts to hilarious stories of our 32 years of misadventures together, so I think if I bring over the laptop tomorrow she can dictate to me while I write them up. That should keep us laughing instead of crying.

And I'm determined to make an indelible impression on Kobi before he leaves. I shall teach him a curse word. Jim already got fuck. How funny would it be if I pointed to myself and said "bitch?" He already knows me as Stephie though, so it probably wouldn't work. Ooh, I know. I'll teach him dick. Or cock. I will demonstrate on Wally and Cubby. Loves it.

Hey the kid won't remember living in Miami, but he'll sure as hell remember "cock."

And Crazy Ass Nicole the hole is having a baby on Friday. Inducing of course, for which I do not blame her one single bit.

And I think I just burnt the water I was boiling for the tea. Fuck.

A moment of laughter and cursing for the legendary George Carlin.

And while we're at it, a moment for Tim Russert and Bo Diddley too.

Life, death, life, death. Shit happens. Time is short, people. And I'm still bald. Everywhere.

I can't believe Dana's leaving. I'm going to be comfortably numb and in denial probably until I go to Chicago. And I'm sure leaving Chicago is going to unleash the waterworks. I'll double up on meds for that flight home.

Our last dinner downtown tonight with the Glassman Girls (who are going to be a triple threat soon), Dana, Jim, Kobi and Sumner.

I've put some stuff up on eBay.

Wouldn't it be nice if you could sell your entire self on eBay?

Taping the Tatas

I had a four-month check up with my surgeon (regular, not plastic) today. Have I mentioned how hot he is? George-Clooney-esque. Married, natch.

It's not stopped raining for 2 days here. I shaved the head again yesterday to get rid of the peach fuzz. What came off in the razor resembled blond dust. Tres, tres bizarre. Fucking fuzz. I'm just going to keep shaving until that nasty shit is gone and the real, thick, Jew hair comes back. Surgeon seemed impressed that my eyelashes and eyebrows didn't come out. I'm lucky I'm one hairy biatch, because while I did lose some eyelashes and a few eyebrow hairs, I had enough to spare. I really wish the V-jay-jay hair would stay gone though. And the armpit hair. What a treat it was never having to shave.

As a beauty tip aside, those of you who buy oils, potions and creams to reduce scarring, save your money. The plastic surgeons instead recommend using silicone tape or steri-strips to flatten the scars so keloids don't form. Thus, I'm about to go tape up the perimeter of my tatas.

Cabin Fever

It's absolutely apocryphal outside. Wally's been hiding in the closet/bathroom/kitchen for two days now. We are all stuck inside. I'd like to go out and skip around the streets, mingle with the crazy crackheads and SoBe characters, shout from the rooftops, but instead I'm on the computer.

Summer is officially here. If you want to see all the chemo photos, you can check out my Facebook album.

I'd invited about 15 of my closest Miami friends to join me in the chemo room Monday. We brought 3 bottles of wine, upon my insistence.

"Do you really think your friends are going to drink wine during the day?" mom asked.

"Uh, yeah."

Surprisingly, they only went through one bottle of rose. They all seemed to get a kick out of me lounging in the hospital bed in my four-inch Giuseppe Zanottis. Stace said she knew it was me in the room because she saw the shoes peeking out behind the curtain. Love it. By the end of the day, we walked out of the room with about 3 bags of food and two bottles of wine. The charge nurse saw Cunty in her stroller and basically kicked her out. The reasoning? Insurance of course, they don't want the baby to get poked with needles. I can assure you she would've come nowhere near a needle. But poor Dana and Cunty had to evacuate the chemo ward and wait in the hallway.

I also brought my Tempurpedic pillow with me, which some of you may know weighs about 10 lbs. I can't sleep without this pillow. After collecting all our things from my room--laptop, flowers, food, cards, video and still cameras, magazines and the like, we arrived home.

"Fuck! Where's the pillow?"

All three of us forgot. It was about 6 p.m. and I was convinced someone would either steal it or contaminate it. Dad rushed back to the Cancer Center and the whole place was locked. Went in yesterday a.m. for the shot and the lovely nurse--whose name I don't know as he was new--had stowed the pillow for me.

"Honey, I have one of these, so as soon as I picked it up I knew it was too heavy to be one of ours."

Ah, the kindness of strangers. The staff also gave me a chemo graduation certificate and a piece of cake. Very cute.

I've got that victimy-looking peach fuzz thing going on. I'm just going to keep shaving the head until I see normal, dark, healthy hair grow back in. And since it's about to be 100+ here every day, this baldie will probably be walking around that way for most of the summer.

Feeling remarkably well. Though for some reason every muscle in my body aches, despite my lack of excercise in the past few days. Think it's a side effect of the Nulasta shot.

What a long, strange drip it's been

I am done. I am done. I am SO done (hopefully) with chemo. Hell fuck yeah. It's definitely been a long four months that at the same time went very fast. I know some of you new readers are curious for the whole cancer saga in a nutshell, so here are some links that should give you the bigger picture. The phone call. Diagnosis. The facts. The hair. The wig. The photos. The surgeries. The alien drains. More surgery photos. The lymph nodes. More lymph nodes. Chemo.

I am so grateful for my wonderful, amazing, supportive friends, family and family friends who have been so helpful. I never needed any of those "support groups" because my people were that for me. I am truly blessed by these people. You'd be amazed how many patients I saw in the chemo ward completely alone. It's pretty heartbreaking. I'm also very grateful to my readers who have been incredibly encouraging and whose comments and emails mean a great deal to me as well.

I'm not, however, done with the hospital yet. Because of the kind of BCa I had, I can take this drug called Herceptin, which greatly reduces the risk of recurrence. Now, because we've had so many percentages and numbers thrown at us over the past seven months, I asked my doctor to recalculate what my percentage of recurrence possibility will be. I think it should be lower than 5%, but I can't fucking remember what I said two paragraphs ago, so obv. I could be wrong. But I do have to go back to the hospital and chemo ward every two or three weeks for the next several months, where, again I'll have to receive fluids for a half-hour to an hour-and-a-half through my port.

My Costa Rica trip to the Four Seasons on Peninsula Papagayo is set for the day after my 33rd birthday (ugh), then I'll have one day in between to come home and fly out to Vegas for my dad's 60th and Lynn's son's wedding, where I'll debut my Oscar dress to much fanfare I am sure. Though mom's Reem Acra is a show-stealer too.

Let me tell you, I am sooo looking forward to the boob swappage. My boobs will finally be soft and low enough to fit back into my clothes without having to wear a tank under everything to cover the tops of the tennis balls. All in all though, with the nipples not going on until October likely and then tattooing in the color after that, I'm not going to be completely done until Nov/Dec. Meaning, this whole ordeal will have taken an entire year. I suppose that it's been the most formative year of my life; at least let's hope so. I'm still considered a high-risk cancer getter and will eventually remove my ovaries. . . .good times.

Anyway, I'm off to start my life again. So far so good with the side-effects today.

Hooked up to my last chemo IV hopefully forever! Thanks to all my friends for stopping by.



Check out my friend Melissa C. Morris' article about her May December blog in Sunday's NYT Styles section.





Loyal readers will remember Mel and I meeting up at Bergdorf's for lunch when I went to NYC to see Larry Norton. We had a lovely long lunch. And she's still the only blogger friend I've met in person.



Go Mel and Monty.

CP in CR

I'm quite excited that this is where I'll be for my birthday and post-cancer trip this year.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Running out for dinner and a movie at the gay boyfriend's house, where I'll finally meet his two Jack Russell's, Ruby and Otis, but I have to write this before chemo brain erases it.

Went to the tata doc today for the final pre-op consult. Following is what he said, after Dana, Cunty and I discussed the TPC course with him; he was in Jax recently and thought of me. Aww. I wonder if when he thinks of his patients he sees their boobs instead of their faces.

Anyway, apparently my thin skin makes for a bad recipe in terms of size and cleavage. Since there is nothing but "skin and bone" between the boobs, he can't put them too close together without it creating rippling/wrinkling. So you know how on 90210 Tori Spelling looked like a freak of nature with those implants and that weird concave wall in the area where cleavage should be? We finally have an explanation! Skinny bitches do not make for good breast implant candidates apparently. You'll notice that when she got preggers her boobs normalized. . . .

So, get this—he's actually going to pop the balloons in my chest! I can't tell you how long I've been wanting to do that! He pops the balloons, pulls them out of the small incision space, then slides in a couple different silicone implants to see which ones fit the best. He thinks I'll probably be a small-to-regular-C cup. Fine by me; just get it over with already. At this point I just want my clothes to fit me normally.

He says that he will literally have 8 different implants in there for sizing purposes. Also, there won't be any additional scarring, which is good. The recovery time is about a week or so. The liposuction issue—the reason there is extra tissue/fat on the flanks of my rib cage is that when they removed all the tissue from my underarms, breasts etc, the stuff redeposited itself in the flanks. Basically it has nowhere else to go so it drips down.

"Are you planning on having nipples made?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah."

He said to wait until they put those on—about two months later—to do the lipo. There's a slight chance that tissue will redeposit itself and if I did it in this surgery it would just add to my recovery time. I almost forgot to ask him the most important question:

"Can you do some Botox and Restylane when I'm under?"

"Well, it depends. . ."

According to him, the fucking BS hospital people insist on charging the patient for the 10 minutes in the OR it takes to do the shots. So, if you're in there for an hour-long surgery covered by ins., the hospital would charge you separately for that minute it takes to inject you.

Now, whether the hospital knows about this, it all depends on who's in the OR. One nurse narced on him for doing it once. How fucked up is that? These hospitals really milk you for all you're worth. It's horrifying.

I also sliced open the top of my big toe the other day. It was really gushing. Ya'll know what a crazy germaphobe I am, so I've been bandaging it, cleaning it obsessively etc. He took one look at it and put a band aid on it.

It's been one of those days. I woke up to find Wally's bright yellow urine on my beloved Yves Delorme pillow sham and fitted sheet. I'd just washed them the day before.

On my way to acupuncture this asshole cut me off on the road and we had a finger-fuck-you-off.

All of which caused me to be late to acupuncture.

Then the mouth started to bother me while I was at Dana's. Then I acknowledged the fact that my eyelashes have started to fall out. I have thick lashes thankfully, but the bottom ones are almost completely gone and the tops are definitely thinner. The jet fuel is definitely building up in my system and I'm anticipating a rough three weeks coming up.

Tomorrow is my last visit with the plastic surgeon before the surgery. My voodoo doll of him is filled with pins. But tomorrow is when I will "choose" my new breasts so to speak. How the fuck do I know what breasts to choose? I'll just leave it up to him and his knife mastery. I have to have the liposuctioning of the "flanks"—the sides of my rib cage—during this surgery, so I'm going to ask him if he'll throw in some Restylane and Botox. I'm kidding mom don't freak out.

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.