One Year C-Free

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






Look how they've shrunk!!!!

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

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

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

One More Day

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

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

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

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

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

Mammaversary

That's right—another Cancerversary.

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

Friday, Feb. 15th

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

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

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

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


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


February 2007 in room 822.


That's all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If It's Monday, I Must Be in Hell

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

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

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


One week covers two pages:


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Pube Boobs, Dickles and Such

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

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

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

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

Only me, only me, only me.

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

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

This Is Why I Hate Driving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

Ta for now.

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

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


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

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



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

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

South Beach Shrinkage

When your parents tell you that the circumstances under which you totaled your car make for a good "blog story," you know, well, that you have a good "blog story."

I had a 2:30 with the shrink, Dr. Melnick yesterday. His office is about 10 minutes from my house, just north of South Beach. Traffic in South Beach is always a bitch. The scooter-ers, bicyclists, speed freaks and old bags make for one big traffic clusterfuck of a neighborhood. Look away for one second and you've hit a pedestrian. Or, in my case, rear-ended a pickup truck on Alton Road. I looked away for a nanosec, looked up again and found myself too close for comfort with the Chevy Silverado in front of me. My car crumpled up like a piece of aluminum foil, which is what it's "supposed to do" to protect the driver.

I hop out of the car, apologize to the truck driver—who's of course pissed off—and drift into that dreamy 'oh, here we go again' mental state that I'm familiar with intimately. It's hot as hell out, and I'm wearing velour Juicy pants, a thick Lucky hoodie and a tank underneath that's too low-cut to enable me to remove the hoodie. Not to mention the fact that my hair is spiked up about four inches, I'm wearing no makeup, my prescription Chloe aviators, the whole nine. I'm looking hot. I call Shrink on his cell, tell him what's happened.

"Where are you exactly?"

"Alton and 20th in front of Wachovia."

"Okay, I'll drop these scrips off so you can have them."

"To the pharmacy you mean?"

"No, I'll come to you."

Five minutes later, Shrink pulls up and parks behind our little wreck.

"This has to be a first—"

"Well, you booked the time. . ."

We'd already called the cops and knew they'd take their sweet ass time getting to the scene.

I'm a little unnerved, pacing around.

"Come sit down," he says.

So I sit down next to him, he whips out the prescription pad and we proceed to have our session on the steps of a ghetto apartment/hotel building on Alton Road. He's assessing the damage to my car, I'm fretting about how I'm going to get a rental in time to drive home for mom's 60th bday weekend tomorrow. He writes out my scrips, hands me the paper; I give him all this insurance info that I need him to input for me to get reimbursed.

"Okay, well I've got a 3 p.m., but you're okay?"

"Yes, thank you soo much. This is why you're the best doctor ever."

"So, I'll be checking the blog for this I'm guessing?"

"Yeah, definitely."

He leaves and about an hour passes with no signs of la policia. The other driver, Jesse, had made the first call. So natch, I put in the second.

"Yeah, hi, I know the other guy who called said it wasn't an emergency, but I'm in Cancer treatment and my head's hurting, so you know I'd like to get to the doctor eventually, so can you put it in as like kind of an emergency?"

She tells me it hasn't been dispatched yet. I tell the dude Jesse what I told her, and of course he becomes a lot more pleasant to deal with. I feel justified in pulling the Cancer card, and I did (and still do) have a pretty bad headache. I call 911 again, whine again and this time she tells me they're on the way. We see a police car pass us and pull over in the wrong place. Finally he turns around and, not taking any chances, wild-haired, wild-eyed Steph waves the car down from the middle of Alton. The cop is—I kid you not—a gay character right out of central casting. I swear, this man's arms wouldn't extend all the way down; they were in perma-arm-wrist-bend mode.

I'm already in talks with the insurance co and tow truck co, multitasking as it takes Chip 1 and Chip II—who was clearly just bored cruising around South beach and decided to join Chip 1—about 45 minutes to fill out the police report. I call Laura who's willing to pick me up on her scooter. The cops leave, the tow truck comes and then Laura. After the luck I was having, I was a little nervous about being transported home via scooter, but it was a smooth ride.

Sooo, today. I wake up early as the insurance company had told me they reserved an Enterprise car for me and I just had to go pick it up this a.m. I had an 11:30 gyno appointment for a transvaginal ultrasound—the earliest and best device we have nowadays at detecting ovarian cancer. I've had to cancel on this doctor twice before. And it would be nice to know that everything down there is kosher (not that I have any reason in particular to worry, just routine maintenence when you're BRCA+).

Of course Enterprise has no cars. Of course the insurance operator made the reservation in Jacksonville, where my agent is even though I told him I lived in South Beach. Of course I have to cancel on the doctor again. Now I'm still feeling lightheaded, have no car—only a reservation—for tomorrow and am a little overwhelmed at packing, as usual. I'm also hoping the v-jay-jay will be patient with me for another month.

But a shrink who makes roadside assistance calls? Now that my friends, is surely something only this coconut can boast.

Omigod, I can't believe this is happening. In the near year that I've been visiting the MS Cancer Center for chemo and Herceptin, I've never once had to wait in the public area. The receptionist always says by rote, "Have a seat and if they haven't called your name in an hour, come see me."

As fucking if. I stride right by the old ladies and men waiting outside the doors of the chemo ward, inwardly laughing at their sheeplike mentality—couldn't they see that the chemo ward is empty and there's no need to wait outside? Outside the doors where it smells like hospital food and illness. Where the average age must be 70. Where the dirty old men stare at my tits to the extent that I want to scream out "They're cancer tits, okay?" And where the women wear orthopedic shoes, bandanas and polyester.

Well, I certainly got my comeuppance today, as I'm now sitting in the public waiting area typing this, trying not to breathe in the germy air. Thank god I have tights on under my dress or I'd be completely flipping out about my skin touching the nasty fabric of this chair.

An hour ago I sauntered in past the waiting area of sick sheep and took a seat in one of the chemo pods, as the receptionist told me there were no rooms at the moment. My usual room—room #1, the corner one with the best views—was occupied by an old man.

So I waited. And waited. And finally told her that I didn't need a room, just get me started in the pod. A few minutes later the managing nurse, who I'm friendly with, told me he needed my pod seat since they were so backed up.

"Where should I wait?"

"Out there," he said, motioning for me to exit through the glass doors into the area I scoffed at. (Jesus Christ, there's a maid sweeping the carpet under my feet at this very moment, what the fuck?)

"Out there?," I said with what felt like panic. Out there? Why, I never. Never had to sit out there in a whole year. They'll call me, he said. But I'd already Wet-Wiped down the chair in that pod, 'do I have enough Wet Wipes to start over?' I thought instinctually.

Let me explain how these infusion days work. I go to chemo ward first. They draw blood, send to lab—CA 125 and CA 153, tumor marking tests for breast and ovarian CA—and doctor waits to get the results. I then go in to see Dr. Schwartz, who looks over my bloodwork, checks my vitals, does manual exam and then sends me to scheduling. I schedule my next infusion, three weeks hence. I then go back over to chemo ward, usually head to room #1, sanitize that room—the table where I put my computer, the counter tops, all the handles and buttons I must touch and set up the bed height etc. I wait on the pharmacy to send up the meds, which can take up to an hour. Once the meds finally arrive, I'm hooked up to the IV via the port (catheter) implanted above my right breast. Then it's an hour and a half of infusion time.

I have these days and their machinations down to a controllable routine. Which has been thrown completely off course by me having been essentially kicked out of the comfortable chemo pad to the uncomfortable public waiting area. I'm typing so as not to have a panic attack and bolt. In a few more minutes, I shall see about rescheduling at a less busy time. I'm very, very uncomfortable by this change in my routine.

And even more uncomfortable being treated like 'the others'. Elitism aside, contributing to this out of control vulnerability is the fact that I'm still the youngest fucking patient here. Every day I hear of women my age being diagnosed in the area. So where the fuck are they? These young wome 'just like me'. All I'm asking for is someone under the age of 40.

And to get the hell out of Macy's and back into Bergdorf's. I do not like this one bit. Not at all. They'd better fucking call me soon or I'm out of here. This is way beyond my comfort zone and after the past couple of weeks, I'd been looking forward to nothing but the comforts of normality this week. Not a good start. At all. Seriously, this is not in the plan.

Getting to Know You

Or me, rather. You guys get a fairly accurate picture of my personality through this here blog, but most of you have never actually met the phenomenon that is Stephanie in person. I kid, but here's your chance.

Below is the link to the video of my 'performance' at Heeb Storytelling in November at the Miami Int'l Book Fair. I'm finally uploading video, however most of them are incriminating, so often people tell me not to post them.

Speaking of Heeb, you all canbuy the issue with my story on newstands. That hot mess Courtney Love is on the cover. But this is the coolest—Chelsea Handler actually held up the issue and quoted from the Courtney Love interview on Chelsea Lately Friday night. I DVR her show already, and nearly dropped the vaporizer when I saw her hold the issue up. Deducing that if she is in possession of the rag, she just may read my story. You know how much I love me some Chelsea. So just in case she didn't read my feature, I shot her an email telling her to—she's my Facebook friend. Ha. I figured it's about drugs so pretty good chance she might read, given her loving relationship with Grey Goose.

Anywho, let's see if you like me as much on camera as you do in writing. And it's a story you guys haven't heard, so enjoy.

Fashionista Follows the Signs

You all know I believe in the significance of signs and I try to recognize, pay attention and interpret the really important ones. Fitting then, that the most recent one came in the form of one of my Dior bags. I kid you not.

At dinner Saturday night with the 'rents and Daryl—Dana's older bro and my lifelong best straight-guy friend—somehow a conversation about investments devolved into my form of securities—wardrobe investment pieces.

Investment Piece Function: noun
Usage: often attributive
A luxury good, item of clothing or accessory that merits its high cost by standing the test of time.

Examples given: Classic Manolo Blahnik slingbacks, sophisticated pair of designer jeans, Chanel handbag, Cartier watch, diamond stud earrings.

Context:
"Jesus, this Vuitton bag is $1,200, but it is a classic investment piece. ..."

You get the drift, ladies. Men, well, they don't get it, so if hubby, father or lover insists on knowing the price, slash it by 50 percent. (They always buy the 'sale excuse,' no matter the season.)

Daryl—many of my less sartorially inclined friends, in fact—sees my fashion obsession as trivial perhaps, so I schooled him at dinner.

"Okay, so tell me what the value of that handbag is," he says, pointing at the Dior bag hanging on my chair.

Ooh, I chose the right bag that night.

"Actually," I say, feeling the endorphins rising up, "this particular bag is very significant."

"Tell me," he scoffs.

"About six years ago, mom got me this bag as a gift for getting my first literary agent. And six years later I still use it and it obviously has sentimental value."

So there. My mom obviously gets the theory, and dad, thanks to 35+ years of being with mom, has learned through osmosis.

"Okay, I can get that. So it has major sentimental value."

"Of course, most of my clothing does. In fact, I wore this exact shirt to the engagement party we had for Dana! That was what, about six years ago too. And this heart pendant? Also wore to the engagement party."

Now he really got it, so we got back to talking about other stuff. The bag in question is a pretty rare sight on other people, as it is from many seasons ago and was not a part of a classic Dior collection, rather a seasonal one. Therefore, not too many girls are sporting this exact bag nowadays. Even less in Miami.

Saturday night, Orlene and me at the Gansevoort South Beach:



Dawn and me, six years ago at the Hudson hotel NYC:



So last night Hemley and I took in The Wrestler, which I had been dying to see. Who doesn't love a good comeback? And especially a Mickey Rourke one; he's a fixture on the Miami scene.

The movie did not disappoint. His performance, and especially the history behind the uphill battle to get backing for a Mickey-Rourke-fronted vehicle, was both inspirational and fable-ish. (Fantastic director with a passion project and a steadfast belief that a "washed-up" star was the actor made for this film.)

As we exited the movie, I stopped in my tracks and began hitting Hems on the arm.

"Oh. My. God!"

"What?"

"See that girl with that red, yellow and green strapped bag? Oh my God!! I wore that bag last night. This is such a big sign."

"You wore that bag last night? I don't remember that?"

We had a late, debaucherous night with the crew at the NWS Friends after party.

"Damn, you were that wasted?"

"Oy, Chihuauha!"

"What's the sign?"

I told him the agenting story, the convo with Daryl the night before and as a gay, he got it without me having to explain the investment-piece/significance of fashion.

"So what's the meaning?"

"The meaning, is: It's time for my comeback, bitches."

On the way home we passed this Chinese restaurant Kim's.

"So is that place decent or is it cat food?"

"Oh, nay nay Heeba. Stay away."

I dropped him off and he called me shortly thereafter.

"Talk about signs, Heeba! I got in the elevator with a food delivery person and he handed me a menu. Guess what it's for? Kim's!!"

"Oy vey. So what does that mean?"

"I don't know, I'll work on this one. You've got yours covered."

Yes, I do.

I'm super busy right now so we'll have to settle for a look back, as Jan. 19th marks the yahrtzeit of a dear family friend. Stage IV lung cancer. A look back at Eddie's obit that I wrote last year. Not by the Hebrew calendar (which I think it's supposed to be), but by Western dates.

I'll let Laura tell you about Saturday night. What. A. Hoot.

Gorgeous Genetics

You all well know that I don't often get into philosophical and social issues here unless they are related to me, myself and I—and even then, I just eloquently foam at the mouth.

However, any and all things breast cancer-related pique my interest. Actually, that's not true. We're inundated with info and misinfo, so I pick and choose. The BRCA-related information I do pay attention to, however. Normal BRCA genes in people actually fight cancer; the mutated ones such as mine, up the cancer ante. Therefore, I do remember Norton and Schwartz talking about genetic engineering regarding BRCA genes. I glazed over the topic, as you know I'm not religulous and therefore when it comes to tinkering with genetics in the interest of health, I say "Hell, fuck yeah."

So I wasn't that surprised—but was rather pleased—when Brother emailed me a link to a BBC story headlined: "Breast cancer gene-free baby born." (I guess the Brits do not follow AP Style.)

Yup, due to the familial history of this unborn baby's predecessors, these parents took the ultimate proactive step. And it worked. This is huge. If I wanted a baby, I'd tell him to excise that fucking gene from the embryo or whatever too.

It's quite an interesting story, for those of you new to the subject. And it definitely portends the amazing new discoveries that will continue to improve our opportunities when it comes to health.

Read it, bitches. There is a factual error—so ya'll know I had to comment and correct: BRCA+ people do not have a guaranteed 80% chance of getting breast ca; they have UP TO an 80% chance. Big diff.

No Future Politicians Here

Great weekend. Family friends Friday night and locals Saturday night, not the least of whom is Hemley, back from his Indian sabbatical. He surprised the drunken lot of us at Ben and Laura's, after Ben, Laura, Maggie, Gabe and I'd witnessed the locomotive wreck that was "Shakespeare in the Park;" had downed a bottle of rum, two bottles of wine and that 1980 magnum of Dom that I rescued from the 'rents 3rd fridge between us—all by 9 p.m. (Yes, Macbeth was that painful.)

Defense Exhibits A, B, C and D:


A still bright eyed and bushy tailed Ben


Things went rapidly downhill from there.

The girls were faring a little better.

Hemley's reunion with his beloved Ishkabob. And me.

Time Flies When You're Having Cancer

Last year at this time I was headed to Sloan NYC to consult with the indescribably wonderful Dr. Larry Norton about my options regarding treatment. I'd yet to begin treatment. Had only done the lumpectomy (which had technically rendered me cancer-free already). Was unhappy with that bitchy oncol I consulted with down here, and was slightly on the fence about lopping off the tatas.

Mom, dad, brother and I piled into Norton's office.

"You know we could've done this over the phone," he said.

"Yes, but I wanted to meet you. And it's the perfect excuse to head to Bergdorf's and our jeweler afterward."

"Ahh, my kind of people," he said, in his Larry David-esque way.

He was the final word on my treatment protocol. Hell, he and his team invented the Sloan Protocol for BC treatment that's used throughout the US.

After I asked him what he would advise his daughter to do if she were in my situation; after he said a bilat mastectomy with four months of chemo was my "safest option;" after he told me he trained my now-oncol Dr. Michael Schwartz in Miami Beach; after he gave me the name of the most superb wigmaker in the country (if not the world); after I vetted my surgeons through him; after he told me that yes, Mesko, Rosenbaum and Schwartz would be my BC dream team; after watching mom, dad and brother jotting down notes furiously; and after seeing the anxiety in their eyes—imploring me to have the bilat mastectomy and chemo, my decision was made.

I'd chop 'em off. I would go see Ralf for the wig. I would get Dr. Schwartz. I would endure four months of chemo and countless surgeries to protect my own life for my family's and my sake. I was 100 percent confident that what Norton said went. And so it went.

And, as you know, I sailed through last year, and finished up treatment and all surgeries in eight months. I made the right decision. I don't live in fear of recurrence. That slight, eight percent chance of recurrence doesn't haunt me. It's not even an option, I knocked that fucker out of my body and that fucker will stay away for good. Women with the BRCA gene who elect merely lumpectomies, single mastectomies and no chemo live in fear of the cancer returning, and it often does. As I know from countless women reaching out to me.

I read their emails, "I had a lumpectomy and now it's back, years later."

Or, "I had a unilateral mastectomy and I'm unhappy with my reconstruction, do you know surgeons in NY?"

My heart aches—pardon the cliche—for them and I *know* that I made the right choice. I'm cancer-free and plan to stay that way. My tatas are beautiful and scar-free. I go bra-less. I feel great. And short, Jewfro aside—thank god for my Ralf—I am back to my pre-cancer self. And my, how time has flown. Time flies either way, having fun or not. I worry less about the future now than I ever did. I've hit bottom and am back on top. It wasn't all fun, but it wasn't all bad either. We partied and celebrated and laughed our way through a year. My friends and family kept me happy and sane and awash with beautiful gifts and cards and thoughts. My vanity kept me looking good.

So for all you ladies reading, especially those of you who think you *may* be BRCA positive, I urge you to explore all your options. To let your health and future outweigh your vanity and fear. To know that breast cancer can be beautiful and humorous and educational. And to know that so many of you can take preventative measures to kick cancer's ass before it knows what hit it. And, perhaps of the utmost importance, save yourself from losing your beautiful hair and having to start from Jewfro scratch. Get tested. Get a mammogram. Do those self-exams that I never did. Educate yourself by following these simple links.

Take advantage of modern medicine that our mothers and granmothers didn't have. Some doctors *are* miracle workers; and so are some of us Cancer Chicks. That's all.

The good news is that after about five years of having remaining cancerous cells in his prostate, dad's officially cancer free. He was diagnosed several years ago—at such a young age that my oncologists said that was a red flag regarding me and the BRCA gene—and had treatment in the city.

Natch, I was so freaked out when I learned of his cancer that I took it upon myself to find him THE best doctors in New York and practically forced him to go up there for treatment. I think this was around the time that Giuliani and DeNiro were fighting the same thing, so I sent him to their doctor. Since dad's cancer was encapsulated, he was a candidate for a really cool treatment wherein radioactive seeds are implanted in the area where the cancer is. The entire operation took about an hour at Mt. Sinai NY. His doctor, Nelson Stone, biopsies dad's prostate every year. And—though Brother and I did not know this—there have been cancerous cells in every yearly biopsy. I just found that out like last week. But dad said the doc said this is normal; that they could be old ones dying off. Anywho, everything is gone now and the doctor said he doesn't even need a yearly biopsy anymore. (His PSA tests were normal every year despite the remaining cellular anomolies.)

So now, the Green family is officially cancer-free (no kinaharea intended) whereas before two out of four of us had cancer.

The bad news: Dr. Christian Troy on Nip/Tuck has breast cancer and had a unilateral mastectomy on the season premiere last night. I have to say, I was lol the entire time even though I know breast cancer in men is serious. But I am the queen of cancer-induced laughter as you all know. Fucking Sean's in a wheelchair and Christian has breast cancer? I think these writers need to put the bong down.

But as a writer, I can see this new storyline being a useful transitional device into the duo taking on more life-threatening surgical issues. Who knows, maybe Christian Troy will become the new, cable version of my genius plastic surgeon Gary Rosenbaum.

I wrote 13 pages today, so I'm done working for today. I'm sitting in Sinai, getting my Herceptin drip.

When I saw Shrink Melnick last week and told him about my manuscript procrastination, his first question was whether I thought Ritalin would help me focus, since I told him I'm completely organized and focused in all other aspects of my life. And then I had to go into the whole debacle about my first book experience, wherein I got sued, mocked on Page Six (two or three times), Gawker (six times), WWD (three times), the Daily News not to mention scores of other un-noteworthy blogs. Some of you may not know of this saga, so forgive my laziness and follow these links. Though I did win a precedent-setting case against that sleazy company American Media, which publishes The National Enquirer and every other tabloid including Star, where I worked.

Anyway, my procrastination is due to the fact that I'm scarred by my first foray into publishing and have a deep-seated fear of rejection this time around as well. Even though I have much more support and a much better work this time around, not to mention the assistance of powerful authoress Laura Zigman, whose latest book is ready to help you find love. I'm the first one to admit that Dishalicious was a piece of chick-shit, which I wrote in three weeks when I was 28. Also, it was fictional, which simply isn't my forte. Cancer is the New Black is a no-holds-barred memoir.

I forgot where the hell I was going with this post. My other cancer friend is sitting down the hall from me in another room getting her last chemo. Oh, what a world. I'm broke. I didn't lose any weight since last time here, and this new year is not off to a very auspicious beginning. I'm blah today. Tres, tres blah.

Well. This was an interesting beginning. I had a baking request for the beach party, so I headed over to L.'s apartment around 6:30, knowing the brownies take about 2 hours start to finish and stressed because I had to hangout till they were done, then go home, change, walk Wally and get ready. So we baked and had a good ol' time. Ironically, our friend from college who, 10 years ago, was our go-to guy for baking materials, was in town. I hadn't seen him in 10 years, so not only was it fab to see him, but appropos that he was there while we were baking. Also appropriate that he was there while I took my first bong hit in many years. Like, a two foot one. One hit and I was done for. Really. So high.

"Yeah, you used to like my four-footer," J. said.

"Really? I can't fucking remember."

J. remembered Wally, said I used to come over with him in my arm and chill out at his place, with his beloved, deceased pit bull, Sage. I vaguely remembered that as well.

So it's like 8:30 by the time the brownies are done. I'm high as shit and dreading going home and getting ready. But I do, and it's like 10:30 by the time I leave the house. No cabs, natch. So I drive a few blocks east toward the ocean and park several blocks from the party. Walk another ten minutes—did I mention I'd eaten a brownie by this point?—and see the party. Darkness surrounds the drum circle. So I walk with my bottle of cheap champagne—wasn't bringing the magnum of Dom there, obv—my sheet, water, etc., falling deeper into the sand with each stumbling step. I couldn't find those bitches anywhere, and nobody was answering cells. So I plopped down, spread out the sheet and lay prostrate, thinking that was the easiest option. Finally they call me back and Linds walks over to collect me. They were literally right next to the drums. About 10 of them. In my defense, a.) it was really dark and there were clumps of people everywhere and b.) everyone looked the same. Seriously, everyone dresses the same here—in white. But yes, I'm sure the brownies had something to do with it. I found the crew like 20 mins shy of midnight. Had a teeny cup of Veuve after tasting the crap I brought, chilled out. Apparently people were actually requesting my brownies, so I felt quite popular. Not really. I tend to get antisocial when I eat the brownies, while my friends typically get giggly. So I lasted about an hour and a half and was home by 1 a.m. I was with my friends, which is the most important part. But it doesn't really seem like a new year to me. I think my 'new year' was probably the end of the surgeries or Dec. 4, the anniv of my diagnosis. Anyway, hope ya'll had happy ones.

From Bergdorf's to Beach

The happy part is hard, but the healthy is the most important, obv. Last year my resolution was simply "to kick ass," which I think I did. Prob first resolution I've kept. This year, it's Publish My Book. So, I'll have to stick to that one too.

Last year I rang in the new year at a cool party house right on the bay, in a chaise lounge, sipping Champagne and watching the fireworks. This year I'll, uh, be with the whole crew at a hippie fest literally on the seediest (public) beach here. You guys know my love for public beaches, so the fact that I'm doing this on NYE is a testament to my fabulous friends. Drum circles. BYOB. Blankets and flip flops. And me. Ha! My main dilemma is, natch, what shoes??? No flip flops for me. And go out at nights in flats? Why I never! I'm 5'4. Luckily I have a pair of cute, Tod's platform sandals that won't sink in the sand. And I've got jeans. Which will most likely be accented with a vintage Leiber belt. You can take the girl out of Bergdorf's, but you certainly can't take the Bergdorf's out of this girl. And I'm baking my special brownies upon request, for $5 each. And of course, the most important part is that last year I had cancer and am now cancer free. Where's my present? (Hopefully, it'll be my condo in foreclosure, selling for half what it's worth.)

Happy and healthy New Year's to all of you. Your readership, support, and encouragement means a whole hell of a lot to me, so I thank you and wish you a prosperous 2009. May all our dreams come true, no matter what they are. As long as they're not evil, that is. I know I have quite a few sickie haters out there. So they can suck it and have a shitty new year, while we try to make the world a better place. Or something like that.
xoxo

PS, Please pick up the new issue of Heeb, my story is a 4-page spread with some very cute illustrations.

Happy, healthy and prosperous new year's to all you bitches. And to my fellow cancer warriors, keep on kicking ass for as long and as hard as you can.

Healthy, healthy, healthy ladies, you're all in my thoughts.
xoxoxo

Mom and Barbara, she of the baking and saging fame. (In that post, it was right before my lymphs were removed and I was still sporting the alien drains, but I managed to prioritize nonetheless. The saging worked—my lymphs were clean:)

Kobi, the slightly confused ring-bearer.

Poor Tessie Lou, forced to wear her doggie diaper while in heat. If anyone has a stud-worthy little nugget, Tessie is ready for some action!


The happy couple, flanked by their family and friends. Blake, btw, is Dana's younger brother. Seven years younger than us, I watched him go from diapers to pre-school to high school to stay with us in L.A., which involved his bleached hair, the LAPD and stage-dancing with someone named—I kid you not—Dorito.


Kobi saying: "Why can't daddy change my diaper while mommy is nursing Cunty?"


I had to have a photo of him trying to say "cheeeeeeeeeese" while crying.


Cunty with grandpa, the cashmere blankie that my mom knit for her and her daddy's AmEx. Hmm, you'd think she were mine. Maybe an Eber will finally shop at Neiman's with me! Watch out Harv!

Dana and me at the rehearsal dinner.

Dana, me and Barb.
So, this is how I've recently been sporting the hair. I don't mind it, though I've yet to go out in SoBe with it. At night that is. During the day, this is me.

Me and the little nugget—see, I don't always make him cry.

Dana and me after the rehearsal dinner.

And just a note about my fashionaholism; I subconsciously decided to wear the same little Prada bag this weekend for the first time since Dana's wedding four years ago. Sick, I tell you!

Seriously, Why Do I Have to Be from HERE????

Merry Christmas to all my Goyim readers. Happy, happy, joy, joy, red lights and mistletoe and all that BS.

Let's take stock of what's going on the Green household, shall we?

Brother was gifted an $1,800, last-minute plane ticket to India where he will spend the holidays with one of my best friends, who is staying with Brother's girlfriend's family. Very cruel, right? I think so, considering the only thing I ever want to do is get the hell out of this country.

Stephanie was gifted with, well, nothing. Not a card, a check, a tzchotcke, a gift certificate. Nada. And I assure you there's no surprise present lying around. I am the Samantha Baker of Hanukkah this year, so it's highly fitting that I did the Sixteen Candles reality tour in Chicago a couple weeks ago.

My presents? Dad refusing to let me sleep past 10 a.m. and repeatedly banging on my door when I try; mom badgering me constantly, 'so what else is new?' (since the last time I spoke with you five minutes ago? Nothing!) A house full of barking dogs and a neighbor's yard with chirping bullfrogs outside my upstairs window. Not to mention the fact that I cannot get wireless on my Mac, so the work I was planning on doing--not happening. And a city, I am not exaggerating in the least, where the ONLY thing open on Christmas is the movies. Seriously, not even the gas stations are open in Jesusville. The only reason I'm here is for Dana's family's wedding. Otherwise, I'd be at the pool in South Beach. I hate this 'city' so much I can't deal. Too bad there aren't anymore homophobic signs for me to vandalize.

Bitter? Yes. See, us Jews are not required to have the 'spirit of the season,' thank fucking god. So today I will go to the gym--the JCC rather, the only non-theatrical place open in Jesus-fucking-ville--and probably go see Marley and Me.

And my Hanukkah gift to myself is a trip to the Left Coast for the anniversary of my mastectomy around Valentine's day. (Cause heaven's forbid I should be gifted with a plane ticket anywhere even in the continental U.S., forget about another continent.) I will finally be reunited, in person, with Dr. Laura, get to see Lay and Jill and Kim and Hank and all my long-lost LA friends, and perhaps take a jaunt down to La Jolla to stay with some family.

Oh, and my apartment will not be sold on Jan. 5, rather that is when the judge will make his summary judgement on how long I have to vacate. Probably 60 to 90 days, longer if we can negotiate a rental with the bank/new owner. Well, guess what bitches? I ain't moving. I don't care if I have to squat. I love my apartment. Wouldn't that make a fine human interest story?

"Well-dressed, Deranged, Wigged Woman Refuses to Leave Bentley Bay Apartment."

I'd love to do an apartment swap with a like-minded gal in the City for the month of March perhaps. So if you know anyone into that, hook me up. You've probably seen photos of my apartment, but being on the water in South Beach in March isn't too shabby. Me? I'd prefer to be wearing my shearling in New York and sitting in Bergdorf's shoe department people watching. Bah humbug.

Big Pimpin'

You all are familiar with the lovely and talented author Laura Zigman, the de facto founder of Chick Lit with her national bestseller Animal Husbandry. (Which was made into a film starring no less than People's Sexiest Man Alive, Hugh Jackman.)

Laura is also a Breast Cancer chick, who was diagnosed about a year (I think?) before me. She's been an amazing cheerleader for me and my writing, going so far as to agree to read my manuscript before I send it out, not to mention helping me in the agenting process. What a woman! And a seriously funny and sharp writer. Someone who can (b)rant about the Container Store and have you laughing out loud, well that's pretty rare.

She has a new book out, along with matchmaker extraordinaire Patti Novak:

Get Over Yourself!: How to Get Real, Get Serious, and Get Ready to Find True Love

So for your singleton friends, I think this is a perfect gift, assuming they have a sense of humor and self-awareness about being single. Which hopefully they do, otherwise being single would be a real bitch.

In the self-pimpin' department, please go out and buy the "Wasted" issue of Heeb magazine, which you can find at B&N and other large book chains. Seeing a story in the context of a magazine can't compare to reading online. And it's so important to support cutting edge mags. Not to mention the fact that Heeb is fucking hilarious, with regular sections like "Urban Kvetch" "Schwartz of the Month," etc. If you're a Jew or token MOT, I guarantee you'll get hooked on the mag.

Anywho, I'm off to catch some rays before Dana's brother's (Blake) wedding this weekend. I'll get to see Dana and the little nuggets for the second time in one month, so that's a bonus. I don't know if the whole crew will have the time—or place—to bake this trip, but rest assured, we'll try.

Woot woot! The new issue of Heeb Magazine is out and my feature is online! This should negate my previous post.

SAD

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a form of depression, wherein: "people with seasonal affective disorder (SAD) experience a much more serious reaction when summer shifts to fall and on to winter. With seasonal affective disorder, fall's short days and long nights may trigger feelings of depression, lethargy, fatigue and other problems. Don't brush this off as simply a case of the "winter blues" that you have to tough out on your own. Seasonal affective disorder is a type of depression, and it can severely impair your daily life."

As most of you know, I am a diagnosed clinical depressive. Have been most of my life. Currently I'm on Lamictal and Pristiq. But I've never been terribly affected by SAD—the acronym is just too obvious to deride—save for lately. The convergence of the end of Cancer treatment—which, psychologically evokes "chemo and surgical withdrawl," seriously—and the beginning of a New Year (not to mention raging PMS) has left me feeling empty. (I've even sickly fantasized about taking early measures regarding the removal of my ovaries, having decided that there's no way in fucking hell that I'm going to go through IVF in order to freeze my eggs when I don't even crave children.)

You know that after you come out of the other end of a potentially life-ending illness, that your life should be changed in some profound way. More time with the kids or family or travel or charity, any number of ways. And of course you all know I have been changed profoundly, but now the question is what do I do about it? (Aside from the actual physical writing part, I am mentally stymied by what has to follow: finding an excellent agent who will 'get' me.) Were it not for the Herceptin that I have to receive until spring or summer, I think I'd already have sold my possessions and set off on a sabbatical to a far off place I've never been. And I'm hoping that after I finish Herceptin, I will do that. Perhaps go to a country with little funding for women's cancers and try to educate people or whatever. Something Cancer related. And the apartment situation isn't helping either.

But anyway, happy holidays! Haven't I added some Xmas cheer to your week? At the very least, for those others feeling blue around this time of year, take heart in the fact that there's a whole shit ton of "SAD"dies out there.

Are you SAD?

It's All Our Disease

I was going to write about how my week only got worse, and then I checked Ellie's blog. Ellie has been a faithful reader—and Internet friend—for the past year. She was diagnosed with a rare form of BC, and has really been through the ringer, to say the least. Yet she's always upbeat, complains little and just radiates goodness through her blog.

I was stopped dead in my tracks when I checked her blog today and read her announcement that she has brain cancer. There are many subcultures associated with cancer. And several of my Cancer friends I've met online and via email. But these are still friendships nonetheless, even if we never meet face-to-face. So when I read Ellie's words, I cried not for myself—as I have been doing most of the week—but for her and her shitty, doo-doo brown luck. All I ask is that you all keep Ellie in your thoughts and/or prayers, no matter whom or what you worship.

And I'm serious when I say that I'll come visit you Ellie, where ever in the Pacific Northwest you are.

This could be one of the worst days in a while, from top to bottom. Wake up after a restless night without having gotten my requisite 8 hours. Foul mood to start with, likely due to PMS. I look down to count the new hairs on my tatas, and oh, what's that? A whitehead on my right nipple, where the penis is still erect. Ahh yes, not only pubes on the nipples, but ingrown pubes that produce whiteheads. Couldn't wait for Dr. Rosenbaum to see this twist.

Mom and dad, neither of whom are speaking to me anymore, are apparently in New York for dad's annual prostate cancer check up at Sinai. (You guys knew dad got prostate cancer under 55? Yes, he's to blame for my faulty gene. But he didn't have to have his dick cut off as I did my tits. Nor did he have to go through chemo. Or nearly ten surgeries. Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

My primary reason for seeing Dr. R today was a Botox touch up, because after last time, I needed him to do a little correction. They were out of Botox, natch. Again. Apparently, people stock up before the holidays. Pretty fucking sad, huh? (I'm not in any rush for the holidays—I'm a Jew, our only real holiday is New Year's Eve—I was just due.)

The good doctor went so far as to call some other doctors in the building. Everyone was out. Fuck me. Leaving the doctor's office, I got a text from Sprinkles—if you're going to insult me Michael, then Sprinkles it is—calling me an idiot. So my parents and brother are sitting at Trattoria Del Arte, next to Jennifer Aniston no less, presumably discussing what a terrible daughter/person I am. Apparently, it's possible for your parents to shut you out and kick you while your down, with cancer. That's comforting, isn't it?

When I get like this, it's all I can do not to tear up in public. So I tend to let myself tear up in the car and do some deep breathing before I go into Epicure to pick up my pathetic dinner of marinated vegetables.

I arrived home, having already decided to forgo the Mondrian—opened on my street—tonight in light of my mood, and checked the mail. I've been served before. I know what the envelope looks like. Seems that my landlord—who, ironically sent out a mass email today that he was now working in Phuket, Thailand, the fucking wacko—is finally being foreclosed upon. My apartment is slated to be sold on the courthouse steps January 5th. Happy fucking New Year!

On the plus side, I have a new best friend who will aid in my mental recovery.

My life totally and completely sucks right now. Seriously, seriously sucks ass.

After the UPS debacle, Ben informed me—and calculated online—that FedEx could do the whole overnight shebang for $56 including insurance. But I got lazy today, haven't unpacked the $8 UPS box yet and will postpone the dyeing till after the holidays.

I've been using a flatiron on the Jewfro with excellent results. A choppy, Sally Hershberger-esque 'do that is so cute that I'm tempted actually to go out at night sans wig. Scary Walgreen's tranny told me the straightened, choppy 'do looked "fierce, like a rock star," and trannies—especially crackhead ones—speak the truth. I tipped him for his kindness and as I was walking away heard him say, "Girl, you so fierce! This is enough to buy a Whopper." You must picture these words coming from a six-foot-tall, reed-thin, black he/she with a weave longer than my wig. (How does he afford to maintain that weave, I wonder?)

But I digress. I spent the early part of today writing for Juli B. in bed. Don't know why I don't do that more often. My bed rocks.

Now—listen up ladies—I finally am confronted with a BC issue that doesn't merely involve hairy nipples or chemo. Rather, I must figure out how to tell a blind date about this little thing called Cancer. A doctor, no less. A plastic surgeon actually. I should've just told Laura to tell him about the whole thing to weed him out. . .

Ooooh, Wife Swap where the husbands switch. Forgive me, I must watch. More on this issue later.

Gee, that went well. So well that I'm sitting next to an $8 UPS box containing my $4,300 Ralf wig.

I confirmed with mom that I should insure the Ralf for the full amount. In my mind, I remembered UPS charging $1 for every $100. So I was thinking about $40 to insure the Ralf, and then what ever the cost of overnight shipping was.

"I need to insure this [box] for $4,000 and I need it over-nighted to New York," I said to the UPS fellow.

"What's in the box?"

"A wig."

"Sorry?"

"A wig."

Betcha he'd never heard that before. He sold me on a second box to encase my box, which I'd wrapped with paper medical tape. (I knew they'd tape it up additionally.) So he wraps the second box up, and I fill out the extensive shipping label. And then he tells me it will be $200-something to overnight it. What. The. Fuck. Insurance, it turns out, is $2 for every $100—so $80. And then like $120 to overnight a package? Seriously, WTF? I know I've overnighted packages before and no way I paid more than $50, let alone hundreds. So I'm standing there like an idiot trying to crunch these ridiculous numbers and time constraints. Problem is that I need the wig back for the Friends of the New World Symphony gala Saturday night. Ralf was going to dye it a little darker to match my natural color, which he would see from the sample I enclosed. That would take a few hours, then he'd turn it around and have it back to me by Thursday. Okay, so what about second-day? Still more than $150. 3rd day—too late to get it back it time.

"Uh, I'm afraid I can't ship it today at all," I said, while thinking 'no fucking way am I shipping it faster than standard ground if insurance is $80.'

"But you went ahead and wrapped it and everything. . ."

"That's okay you can just bring it back and keep the shipping label."

I thanked him and turned to leave.

"Ma'am gotta charge you for the box."

I got back in the car, marveling at this rather unique situation. My cell phone rang and it was Laura.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm sitting here in my car looking at an $8-UPS box containing my wig."

I explain the story. "So essentially I left my apartment and wasted gas just to buy an $8 box from the UPS store."

And I'm sure you're thinking, 'Oh, well, at least it's all ready ready to ship.' Except that I need to wear it this week and I will most certainly not be shipping via UPS when I do send the Ralf up to Ralf. Oy vey.

Anywho, I don't know about you, but I'm eagerly anticipating the new Ryan Seacrest sure-to-be trainwreck TV debut of Momma's Boys tonight. And I'm putting my $4,308 package in a corner of my room so it doesn't piss me off anymore.

What am I doing? Getting ready to go to UPS to overnight the wig to Ralf, so he can color it and ship it back to me by Friday. This is probably the closest I'll get to having a couturier at my call, and I quite like the fantabulous customer service. It's going to be a hefty chunk 'o change for the postal insurance.

The Good, The Bad and the Hairy

The good news: I've lost six more pounds in three weeks. (But my skinny jeans still don't fit since all the weight is in the belly and fucking hips.)

The bad news: My hair has to be FIVE inches before straightening. That means May at the earliest. I'm tearing up a little. Surely anyone who's lost hair can relate. I had such great hair thanks to Momotaro.

I'm in the hospital, as usual, receiving my Herceptin. Fucking A. Why did I decide to start my weeks at the hospital?

You know that your Jewish mother is pissed at you when she hasn't called in more than a week. Huh. You'd think that when your daughter is in recovery from Cancer, whatever I did—which is undoubtedly something to do with money—she'd be curious about her daughter's health. Surprisingly, during this ordeal, dad—from whom I inherit my horrid lack of patience and ability to say whatever is on my mind—has been the more tolerant and patient of the duo. I can only attribute this to the fact that he too had cancer recently. Whereas mom, perfect mom, has never been sick for a day in her life. Nor has she ever been single, lived alone, been alone or struggled in any way when it comes to her appearance.

I am however excited to report that a box of the "Wasted" issue of Heeb magazine is being shipped to me soon. I have a fairly large feature story about "Benzos and Breast Cancer." Finally, a national magazine. I seriously hope a lit agent or someone worthy of my time reads it, loves it and wants to pay me to do something. Sigh. I need to stop drinking I think. It really gets me down the next day.