The Midas Touch

I know you all may have think I exaggerated in my praise for ORIBE in yesterday's post, so check it. First there's the Versace campaigns from the era that I so immersed myself in.

These photos are all lifted from Oribe's web site. (By clicking that link you can see the full extent of his genius over the decades.)

And look at Christy's hair below. Is it not still uber-chic today? In fact, I think it could be a cute cut for me, not that I'm saying I could pull it off like Ms. Turlington/Burns. These are some of the frocks that Meredith had to surgically remove me from at the FIT show in 1992 or '93. I mean, come on, anyone who doesn't like Versace—and don't get me wrong, I sometimes want to hurl when I see men in a Versace ensemble—still has to respect his artistry.


I have both Versace coffee table books from this era—the Signature book and South Beach Stories—so you know I'm going to have him sign them both.

A more recent Vuitton campaign. Would it be too much if I asked him to turn me into Giselle?



Hellll-ooooo, Racquel Welch from the 1980s.



These hands will be in my former Jewfro! Cannot. Fucking. Wait. Meredith, have you booked your ticket yet??!!!

Oh.My.God. Oribe!!

When I converted from Judaism to Fashionology, my new religion had Gods a plenty. The year was 1992. I was a junior in (public) high school, where the only dress code was that our shorts and skirts had to be below our fingertips' reach.

That was neither here nor there. Roxy was alive and kicking and her closet kept me busy for hours. Not to mention that Roxy was a hoarder and had back issues of Vogue from the 80s. Mom was always a fashion plate—and I imagine wanted to shoot herself when I became a victim of the WT trends that permeated my world briefly, until I remembered who I was and where I came from. I mean, my father's mother Lillian, though long-dead, was apparently a chicer-than-thou woman as well. Always turned out in her St. John and Chanel knits. Leaving daddy with his mammy Minnie for summers while she and grandpa Sam went to Europe.

Back to '92. Vogue was my bible; Gianni Versace was my Rabbi; Style with Elsa Klensch was my favorite TV show; and the only thing I watched on MTV was House of Style. My baptism came in the form of the FIT retrospective of Versace's couture gowns from his most vibrant collections. I was moved to tears, embarrassing Meredith, who practically had to pry me off the mannequins. In those days, Fashionology had as many Goddesses as any religion could hope for. These were the wonder years, when these other-worldly creatures took over runways, the fashion world at large and stole the hearts of little girls like me. These were the days of Christy, Naomi, Claudia, Cindy, Linda, Helena and to a lesser extent, models like Karen Mulder and Elaine Erwin (now Mellencamp).

Nobody dressed these women better than Gianni. This was also the time that Gianni discovered South Beach. On the runway, his beaded couture frocks were both art and fashion—Warhol Marilyn Monroe faces composed of beads and stitched to fit Cindy as she strutted the catwalk. Versace spoke to me due partially to his flamboyance as a designer and person, his joie de vivre, his child-like love of his trade, but primarily because he was an artist. A true artist in the body of a son of a seamstress from Southern Italy.

He published South Beach Stories—which Meredith, my fashion partner in crime was luckily enough to have autographed by him, even though he wrote 'Dear Martha'—and I dragged my parents down to South Beach to stay. As kids we only went to Miami for bar/bat mitzvahs and weddings. But even they wanted to see what this South Beach thing was all about. Interview magazine—Warhol's print baby and one of my regular rags growing up—had just done a South Beach roundup, so that was my Fodor's. I led the way up and down Ocean Drive, where the ill-fated Versace Manse was still under construction.

In my junior year I began saving up all my allowance, birthday, whatever money for shopping. New York shopping. I'd save up for a while then head up to New York for a week-long spending spree. Arriving back at Samuel W. Wolfson high school—which was named after our family friends—clad in Versace, Anna Sui, John Fluevog and Norma Kamali, I was subjected to some ridicule. Wolfson: one-half African-American bused in from the 'inner-city,' one-quarter WT, and one-quarter Jewish and non-WT whites. There were not many kids there who took shopping trips to New York. Thus, I still remember wearing a pair of black Fluevog—Google it—clogs, walking down the hall and being called out by one of my WT friends:

"What are you wearing, are you alternative now?" I just rolled my eyes, but I should've said, "Yes, didn't you hear? I officially changed my label from 'popular' to 'alternative.'

So there was Vogue. There was Versace—God rest his soul and burn in HELL Andrew Cunanan. There were the fierce supermodels. And there was one more idol for me and Meredith; the man responsible for the glam, over-the-top hair that characterized that era. He was behind the scenes at every couture and pret-a-porter show, appeared in Vogue nearly every month, and was just ripe for idolizing. Oribe. Pronounced Or-bay. Before Fekkai, before Blandi, before all the stylists with their eponymous, Sephora-approved lines, there was Oribe. He didn't just cut or style hair, his work was the cherry on the sundae of a Versace catwalk ensemble. The crowning coiffure in a Vogue editorial. The king of hair in an era when big, luscious hair was the rage. He was, in short, one of our Gods. Meredith and I used to talk about him like he was a high school boy we had a crush on.

"Did you see what he did in the Lacroix Paris couture show? To die for!"

Yes, we were retards with big dreams. Meredith had the advantage of growing up on the UES and attending the same private school that Roxy did. One of those Gossip Girl schools. After Meredith and I met at a summer program at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, my New York shopping trips escalated and I'd go stay with her for weeks. We covered every area of the city. She introduced me to Patricia Field when Patricia was actually working the counter and Richie Rich bummed cigarettes from me. (He's now 1/2 of Heatherette.)

Meredith and me 15 years later:


Then came the Grunge Phase of Fashion—Marc Jacobs was the man and Kate Moss, Shalom Harlow and scary Kristen McMenamy stomped around covers of Vogue in Doc Martens and flannels. Natch, we rejiggered our wardrobes to fit in with the trends. Soon I was running around in flannels, vintage Levis and Docs collected from New York to London.

My first-ever clip was a letter to the editor in Vogue. I actually wrote about the ground-breaking grunge cover that was a collage of diverse models from black to white to albino—I mean, Kristen. I was 17 years old.

Sixteen years later. I always thought coming full-circle would mean a story in Vogue, which I still aspire to write. Instead, my full-circle moment has come via my friend—who happens to be the EIC—at Aventura magazine.

As I mentioned, I'm on the Aventura Arbiters of Style list with ORIBE. Me! Adjacent to one of my longtime loves and idols. I emailed Lori about my life-long obsession with Oribe. Next thing I know, I was on the phone with her and she had a big surprise for me. She'd told Oribe all about me, how honored I was to be on any kind of list with him. And she so generously offered me an early birthday present—a cut with Oribe. (He's based in South Beach now.) The best birthday present ever, no offense mom and dad. Money can't buy this kind of treat.

So I've had two post chemo cuts, but this is the real one. Post-Japanese, post all major surgeries, I will now have the fingertips of one of the most talented tressers in the world touching my humble head. And it's Oribe, so I'm in his hands. So this is my full-circle. And I'm going to try really hard not to drool or cry when I meet this amazing man. Thank you so, so, so much Lori!! xoxo

These are my two favorite shots that Tomas Loewy took of me for the Aventura shoot.

Style Arbitration

Natch, Wally and I have gotten into some minor beach-house snafus. Last evening was a particularly humbling experience when I locked us out of the back, oceanfront entrance. We're on the ground floor about six feet up, but as you can see there's a railing.


Wally had already conquered the balcony. Apparently, before I arrived, the spry little fucker actually leaped through the rails, onto the grass and bolted onto the beach towards my parents and Brother. I was horrified when they told me and have been monitoring his hip movements, which seem to be fine. But God, I would've paid to see him take a flying leap off the balcony. Almost as funny as him accidentally walking into my pool in Miami.

So, last night. Took him for a walk on the sand, locked the patio doors as well as the entrance to the balcony from the stairs, but I locked it from the inside. There are three keys and like five different entrances to the complex and the condo, not to mention all the patio doors and the screen doors. I'm not good with these old-fashioned condos. I'm used to fobs, valet, numeric codes and other such accouterments. I'd also had a glass of wine, natch. I fidgeted with the lock for a few minutes and resigned myself to finding another way in. I contemplated pulling a Spiderman and scaling the wall, but I was already sore from yoga. I went around the building crossing my fingers that there was a beach-to-parking-lot entry. The gates were locked. All of them, in all five connecting complexes. Of course, this is a good thing—Ponte Vedra Beach is an incredibly safe and private town. But not so much when your an idiot with a buzz and a key handicap. Thankfully, I saw a neighbor—a tweenage girl. She showed me the way through the garage, back in to the building. I was off to an Einstein-ish start to beach living.

This morning, I walked out into the lobby with Wally to find a sign that read something along the lines of "Fresh concrete keep off until Thursday." It was one of those situations where the pre-Starbucks synapses didn't connect until Wally had traipsed out the door and left his indelible impression on The Breakers front stoop. Jeez. My dad's going to kill me when and if he reads this—Jacksonville ladies keep your mouths' shut!—but I was cracking up.


I got a message this a.m. from a friend saying that the new issue of Aventura magazine is out. In which I'm profiled as one of South Florida's 15 "Arbiters of Style." Oh my, I'm getting heart palpitations waiting for my profile to load online. Oy vey I hate looking at photos of myself that I'm not in control of!! But woo-hoo I'm on the list with the legendary, original hair superstar Oribe. I'm not worthy.

Yikes, it's not my fave photo of the bunch, but I'm cool with it. Man, it's strange when you're the subject instead of the author! Thanks Lori! xoxo

Grey Goosed

Hey bitches. I'm at the beach, wondering where Brother wandered off to, and cooling down after a fairly lame yoga class and gym trip. Often it doesn't occur to me just how bananas I am, especially regarding my generally hyper behavior when I'm out and about. (When I'm at home couched, I'm about as mellow as mellow gets; green, not yellow.)

I was on the eliptical today at the beach club's gym—lots of older snowbirds now, which we'll get to later—after a supposedly 'relaxing' yoga session. Ha. If yoga did the trick, I'd have a clean toxicity test to impress you all with. Anyway, I'm on the eliptical, book on the screen, phone in hand. And it's the one where the arms move. So I'm on my Sidekick, on FB, emailing and alternately reading. This older dude, mid-sixties stops in front of me and—slowwwwwly, this is The South—starts to speak.

"Were you just texting on your phone?"

I feared that he was an undercover agent for The Nazi Beach Club Gym Patrol who were gunning for me—I'll also get to that incident, later. This place is so not Equinox.

"Uh, e-mailing actually. Have to multitask."

"Emailing, reading and working out? You don't have to make it look so easy."

Shit, how else do people get stuff done during the day? Or ever, for that matter, if they aren't triple-tasking? Uh, where was I going?

Whatever. I don't really feel like writing at the moment, but we've got lots of photos from Brother's big 30th Bday Weekend. (Though mine still trumps his—he didn't have the Bermudian Police searching for him.)

After dinner at one of the few posh/trendy restos here, Grey-Goosed-up mom exclaimed outside: "Ooo-hhhhh! I have my shoes on the wrong feet!"

"What?"

"I slipped them off under the table and I guess I put them back on the wrong feet!"

Vodka Mom is fun as hell—I know all you real-life-friend readers can attest to that.

Looking at her handiwork:



Inspired by Alison's July 4th shenanigans, foremost of which were "Suck and Blow" type of shooter things—don't get me started—we'd decided to soak a watermelon with vodka for the party Sat night. After I told mom about it over July 4th, she was all over that shit.

I mean, look at her go:



This is why Saveira and I get along so well:


As you can tell, a pretty intense start to the weekend. More later; you can see album I and album II on Facebook. Tessie Lou says, "Ta."

Photographic Evidence

I'm so thoroughly exhausted from traveling that even Chad said my Chi energy was especially low today. So he did a full needle treatment and a nice boobie massage to prep me for the rest of the month, since both of us will be away. Not exactly a self-confidence booster that I have to pay someone to massage The Girls. Ugh, an entirely different story.

I will say that Ben and Laura's wedding was fun, fabulous, unique and we all had a riotous time on Cape Cod. Laura was hands-down the happiest, most radiant bride I've ever seen and I'm sooo happy for the both of them. (Ben wasn't so bad himself.) It was also poignant in a good way to be with the Glassman Girls at the wedding of friends whom none of us knew 10 years ago when we were in college together. The circle of life and all that good stuff.

First, photos of me! Photos I'm finally content with after nearly two years—fuck!—of Cancer BS. Not to toot my own horn, I mean clearly straight men are not of the same opinion or I'd have a free boob massager. Sigh.


It was nippy at night, so I'm glad I threw in this shawl. The girls stayed put!!

You can always count on Hemley for a flattering photo.

The blushing bride and one of her bridesmaids. Look at Pickle! The Pig and Ishka were an integral part of the fun.

I have to give it to Megler for the funniest and most creative wedding gift: a wad of cash a la The Godfather. Hemley, drink much?


I was so honored to give Laura her "something borrowed," the pearl cuff she's wearing above is a hand-me-down from Mom.

Everybody could use a little Feldman in their lives. In fact I think it's safe to say that we'd all like to clone him and distribute him evenly. But don't tell him that.

I mean, have you ever seen a bride this jubilant the night before her wedding?

Before all that sangria kicked in.

Lindsay and me at the reception. We were both on watch for eachother's potential nip slip.


The Miami crew. Site of the ceremony, aka Ben's parents' backyard. Could you die?

Ending the wedding night on the right foot. We'd have beautiful, apeshit crazy kids, huh Hems? Not that I'm offering. . .

Ooh, roo, ooh, roo, achim!
Another happy couple, Stacey and Joe in Ben's backyard.

Hyannis JFK Memorial Beach.

Heading to Boston post-wedding. Have Mac, will travel. And no, I did not coordinate my shoes with the computer cover. Not consciously anyway. Tomorrow I'm off to Jacksonville through the first week in August. Can't resist the appeal of an oceanfront condo. Writing, reading, sunning, chilling with the dogs and beaching it for the next three weeks. But don't fret, I'll keep you posted on all the Southern shenanigans.

In Boston today staying with family, meeting the wonderful Laura Zigman for lunch. Check out her sob-inducing wedding story in yesterday's Styles section of the Times. It's the lead feature and, natch, Samuel L. Jackson walked the bride down the aisle. You didn't expect Ms. Z to cover B-listers now did you?
Victoria Rowell and Radcliffe Bailey.

Mock Jet Set

What a week. But first let's talk about my hair. I am in love. When was the last time you heard me say that about my appearance? I'm sitting at MIA airport on my way to Cape Cod for Ben and Laura's wedding, super psyched.

But back to the hair. I washed it for the first time today (you have to wait 2 days), let it air dry and poof, Sally Hershberger. Choppy, layered, straight, and thankfully, chic. I didn't really know how it would look so flat since Andreas had cut it while curly.

So, I managed to squeeze in a helluva lot in my two—well, thanks to fucking Delta three—days in the city. Sunday night I dined with Michael, Saveira, Maccia and my great girlfriends at Morandi in the West Village.



I stayed with Schwartz so got to hang with her a little even though she'd just returned from the Hamptons and was exhausted. Monday, hair! Quick run to Saks—nothing. On to Bergdorf—plenty I couldn't afford. My one indulgence was a cute fuchsia satin headband, on sale, natch. Monday night one of my Facebook friends and I met for dinner and drinks at Centrale and had a blast. I can def see why Mackenzie is the features editor of the New York Post—she's freaking hilarious and smart and fabulous and I'm so glad we hung. She also has the most perfect skin I've ever seen and brought me a tub of this miracle all purpose cream that I'm loving. (Thanks babe.)

Mackenzie and I after I'd had the hair done.


Tuesday—my god. I was staying on the UES, and ended up going downtown and to the Westside way more than usual.

Lovely lunch at Mel's gorge apartment and Monty sure lives up to his Monty Monday escapades. He is like the most well-trained dog ever; makes Wally seem like a wild wolf or something. Every time you throw his toy, he leaps up and catches it in his mouth. I think MLB could use him. (The day after the hair was done.)


Oy, reality check about the hair. Upon inspection in the airport bathroom it didn't exacltly dry perfect. I'm definitely going to need to flatiron it when I land. (Have I mentioned that I'm driving by myself from Boston to the Cape? Have I also mentioned I've only been to BOS once, 16 years ago? I got GPS in the rental car, but I'm sure I'll still get lost.)

From Mel's apartment uptown, all the way across town to Chelsea for a last-minute, part-time job interview copywriting for Chico's. It'd be a purrrfect gig for me—three days a week in the South Florida office, leaving me two days to do my own freelance/book stuff. From there I rushed back to the UES to visit Vicky at Chopard. We had a coffee at Nespresso, caught up very quickly, and I'm happy to report that she is doing very well. Love her. So—here's where it gets insane. I arrive at LGA at 6 p.m. for my 7:30 flight to JAX. Cancelled. No flights out to JAX any later. Remember, I had to drive to MIA the next day to catch this flight to the Cape today. I freaked, but took action. I booked myself on a Jet Blue from JFK; took a cab from LGA to JFK. Got there to find out the departure time was delayed till 11:30. It was about 1:30 a.m. when we took off. I arrived at my parents' house after 4:30 a.m. I went to bed after mom awoke. Woke up yesterday, drove back to Miami. Repacked, got a few hours sleep, left at 8:45 for the MIA airport and am now sitting on yet another plane. Yes, I'm exhausted, but I'm going to the Cape, yay! Beaches, and friends and celebrations, oh my!

I have the honor of giving Laura her something borrowed—a piece of jewelry, naturally, that Roxy gave mother for her "18th birthday. Or high school graduation. Or maybe it was my 21st birthday? Something like that." Okay, the plane is about to take off. Buh-bye.

More Boob Stuff

Dr. Masri had been on call when Rosenbaum was gone for that Jewish holiday a month ago when I had inflamed boobies from the nip snip. So I saw him today for a little facial toxification. He does reconstructions as well and operates in tandem with Rosenbaum.

I wanted his opinion on Dr. Rosenbaum's work.

"Do you care if I flash you?"

"Of course not." (Has a man ever said no to that question in any situation?)

I open my shirt. "So what do you think? Good?"

"Yeah, they look amazing. You could never tell."

"Really?"

"I mean, of course there is some scarring, but no I don't think anyone would even know."

So maybe I'm really not walking around with a sign on my chest that reads: "YES MY TITS ARE FAKE BUT I'M NOT A BIMBO I SWEAR?"

I did go to that yoga class last night. The teacher had implants and no bra, which I could clearly see when she leaned over. And I have to say, mine are better.

Crapula

I've been experimenting with my anxiety lately. In a non-pharmaceutical way.

Before Dr. Laura left for Europe—thankfully she's back and I have session on Wednesday, which will have to be conducted via Bluetooth as I will be making the perilous trek to Jax—she and Melnick had a chat and came to the same conclusions about me and my mishegas.

They concurred on one pivotal issue of mine: fear of success. This was a complete shock to me. Fear of success? In my mind it's always been a fear of failure. Natch, this revelation had me navel-gazing even more. Financial success? The respect of my peers? Fame? Power? WTF. Anyway, so the two shrinks agree. Stephanie has a paralyzing fear of success and that's what's holding her back from getting her second book out there.

Uh, does this make sense to anyone? If it were up to me, I'd say I'd always had more of a fear of rejection after the debacle that was Dishalicious, the book. Then again, after the Big C, I've had the attitude of "If you don't want me, go fuck yourselves." But it's easy to say that to regular people, to 'say' that or have that attitude professionally—to agents, publishers etc—not so much.

Soo after this bicoastal meeting of the minds ocurred, I had a lot to think about. I went into Chad that week. The pain in the scapula was back. That's where the stress goes now; right back to where the pain was post-mastectomy. Our minds and bodies are certainly in constant communication. I can fucking prove that shit after the past year.

So, Chad (acupuncturist for those of you not intimately acquainted with my 'team):

"So what's up,what's going on?"

"My scapula is killing me. What the fuck? Why is the stress still going there? Oh, and I'm peeing a lot. Plus I have this throat/cough/flegm thing that I'm hoping is just my period."

He does his feeling thing, seeing what energy-related vibes he can pick up.

"Well, that meridian is definitely blocked."

"But why there? Like what is that connected to?"

I'm paraphrasing, because I don't know all about "The Four Elements" and what each one means. I just listen to Chad.

Well, he says, the scapula is connected to the bladder meridian so the peeing a lot thing is definitely related to that. And this meridian relates to the fire element.

"And what's that one about."

"Like, your fire in life, your passion. Your body is telling you that you're not doing what your supposed to be doing. Or a path your supposed to be following." he says.

"Like my career? The work on my book that I'm not doing?"

"Could be that, could definitely be that."

"Dude, that's fucking weird," and I tell him that only that week did my therapists reach the same sort of conclusion. That I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing with the book because of my fear of success and I psych myself out and self-sabotage and make a vicious circle blah blah blah.

So I take all this to heart. That my anxiety is caused by the fact that I'm not doing what I need to be doing and therefore I reason that I can alleviate the scapula-centered stress by writing. So I wrote and wrote and wrote. And copied and pasted video dialogue and blogs and hunkered down—at least my version of hunkering down. In about two weeks the manuscript has gone from 240-ish pages to 290-ish. I've been cranking the shit out.

As in—leave it to me to be so literal in my interpretation of all this—when I feel the pain start, I sit down and work on the book. Really, every time. But the fucking ball of stress is still in my scapula and not only that, the throat thing is still there and now I'm so anxious I'm having night sweats. So, working on book—check. Acknowledging my 'fear of success'—check. Taking care of business—check. Alleviation of stress? No. My fucking scapula is KILLING me. Writing does nothing. Even Xannies and Klons are doing nothing. Now, I'm trying everything. I'm about to go to Equinox for the second time today for a yoga class.

And then another, even more interesting interpretation went off lightbulb-style in my head today as I was driving to the gym attempting to get rid of my stress.

What if—in addition to my career—the 'passion' in my fire element that Chad spoke of isn't all career-related. What if it's actually romantic passion he's talking about? (Both shrinks concur that I must 'get out there' re men again and stop "defining your identity with cancer.") Dr. Laura—I'm not kidding—encourages masturbation. While Melnick prefers to tell me, in nearly every session that "you need to get laid. Seriously, you need your pipes cleaned."

I've been brushing off that advice for more than a year now. "Getting out there"—how much do we hate that term—was the last on my list. I've de-feminized myself to the point of no return almost. If guys flirt with me, I don't even pick up on it. It's visceral. Like, the thought that a guy would even be interested in me doesn't even cross my mind. I don't notice hot guys. Nothing. I shut that part of my life down. Completely. Not purposefully, but having your tits chopped off is going to fuck with you in some way, clearly.

Saturday night while we were out for Laura's bach party, I was sitting at a club with the girls at the end of the night. This dude was dancing in front of me—we went to see the Spam All Stars who are def worth checking out—and turned around and asked me to dance. My first thought was: "me? Why?" I know, it's sick. I said something about my feet hurting but he kept asking and I kept saying no. I'm not a big dancer anyway and certainly not with strange men.

Lindsay was sitting next to me and said, "The next time a guy asks you to dance, you're dancing."

I'm not big on metaphors, but I think that's a pretty good one. And now I have that "I hope you dance" song in my head. Alright, no time to edit or spell check—I'm running to yoga.

Whole Foods Fun

Whole Foods South Beach, 20 minutes ago:

I'm actually hoarse from Laura's wild-n-out bachelorette party last night, so I know I couldn't have been talking that loud. (The Whole Foods in SoBe is about 1/2 as big as most Whole Foods and packed on Sundays. It's a very social store where you always see a friend or two, especially on Sundays.)

I walked in on the phone with Dana, whom I hadn't talked to in several days. I was in the frozen section picking out (pathetic) dinner. And I was on the phone. Then I moved to the other side of the aisle and this older woman turned around and in Engrish—butchered English—she said:

"Scuze me cell phone."

"Yes, this is a cell phone. Your point?"

"Please, you go away not talk on cell phone behind me."

Dana's hearing the whole convo and one of the stocking guys is watching this go down with amusement.

"Excuse me? Why should I not talk on the cell phone near you?"

"You move. No talk on cell phone near me."

"I'm asking you why? Are you afraid of microwaves to your brain?"

I'm standing my ground, not moving. If she could actually give me a reason, in decipherable English, I might have indulged her eccentricity.

"No cell phone!" She huffs and leaves like there were snakes in the freezers.

"What the fuck was that? I asked the dreadlocked employee who was laughing by then.

"Dude, I don't know. She asked me if we had a certain fruit and when I told her I had to go to the back to get it she yelled at me. I stayed away after that."

I continue with my conversation and shopping. I swear I don't talk loud, in fact I usually talk low, and I don't ever talk on the cell phone at the gym.

WTF. As I was leaving the guy who witnessed the incident teased, "No talking on the cell phone, miss!"

It's so easy to repeatedly hit snooze when it's thunderous and rainy outside.

So much shit—good and bad—has gone down this month that I cannot wait until Dr. Laura returns from the South of France. I'll bet you some of her patients called her internationally though I'm not one of them. Melnick is fabu, but you only see psychiatrists once a month. And since we're friendly, our sessions usually result in 30 mins+ of us talking over each other.

I marked a major personal milestone this month and I'm in serious need of Dr. Laura's interpretation. Thirteen years of cognitive behavioral therapy and you should know what your major issues are and how to break your patterns of behavior. Like, if you're issue is that you sleep with married men cause your dad was stepping out on yo' mama, identify the issue and then break the pattern. That's not my issue—my affair with a married man was a PTSD reaction to cancer diagnosis thank you very much—but I have a few. And I fear that I backslid on one of those major issues this month.

My session with Melnick last week, I'm afraid, led me to do something a little out of what has become my character. I trust Ilan immensely and is one of my doctors whom I consider a friend. And now that he and Dr. Laura are phone BFFs, he has even more insight into my mind and therefore offers more advice that I take to heart. So I took the advice of the professionals, dove in, came out unscathed but now everything seems screwy again and I'm back in.

It's really fucking hard to write about your personal life without revealing anything. So let's switch to the fun stuff. Ben and Laura's wedding on Cape Cod—forgot which town he lives in—is in two weeks! I'm staying in Hyannis and aside from stalking the Kennedy compound, I could use some input on what to do and see when you don't have a lot of time. I cannot wait for the wedding weekend—ordered my dress from Bergdorf this weekend. Last Saturday I wore my first strapless dress EVER and loved it. So now I'm all about the strapless, just cause I can.


I haven't decided yet on shoes or jewels, but I'm thinking a Chanel look—layered pearls, gold baubles etc. That will likely change though depending on what mom lets me borrow.

Okay, so that's two weekends away. In-between that: I go from here to Jacksonville next Wednesday. Every year for as long as I've been alive my dad and his college frat buddies—TEPs, natch—have had a July 4th beach reunion somewhere in Florida. I've never missed one. Over the years the 'kids' have grown up, but we all still go and party with the 'rents July 4th. It's a lovely, fun, happy tradition and these guys have become my second family. One of their father's passed away last week and I met Dad and Uncle David at the ceremony in Ft. Lauderdale. It was so touching to see all the old TEPs supporting Jimmy. There was a whole table of 'em, some like Dad and David had flown in just for the day. The same guys crowded my hospital room when I had the mastectomy. As much as I bag on growing up in Jax, I know I wouldn't have such great lifeling, multigenerational friends if I'd been raised in a bigger city.

So this year's July 4th, my friends and I are carrying on the tradition and merging the groups. Some of the TEPs are lifelong family friends from Jacksonville. Alison's grandparents, Lee Ann's grandparents and my dad's parents were the best of friends. Alison's dad, my dad and Lee Ann's dad also grew up together and are still friends. So Al, Lee Ann and I are now the third-generation of this group of friends. And Lee Ann—of Four Seasons Costa Rica fame—is flying in from L.A. to stay. Not to mention the fact that all our guy friends will be there too. The whole multi-generational crew together for a weekend of food, liquor, beach, pool and partying—I cannot wait. The weather in Jacksonville at the beach ain't like Miami. Doesn't rain every day there.

So that's Wednesday. Sunday I leave from Jax to NYC and return to Jax Tuesday. Wednesday I drive back here and Thursday I leave for Mass. That Sunday night I'm heading into Boston to stay with dad's cousins who live at the InterContinental, which I understand is right in the heart of things. Only been to Boston once, when I was 17 years old. Monday the fabulous, funny, kindand kick-ass best-selling author Laura Zigman and I are having our first in person tete a tete. And if I can get my 260-page work in progress organized, I will hand off my pages for Ms. Zigman to critique.

Get back to Miami Monday night; leave again the next day for Jax. Brother's 30th bday July 17. The rents' have a beach house through Aug 6th in Ponte Vedra, so I'm decamping up there for the rest of July. Oceanfront condo practially to myself? Sold. Hopefully some of my friends will drive up to keep me company some weekends.

Anyway, guess it's time I get out of my pjs and head to the gym. Or rather, stay in my pjs and head to the gym. Tomorrow night we are throwing Laura a bachelorette party that commences with—picture this—an exotic dancing session. Me? We're supposed to bring a man's oversize white shirt—doesn't that require having a man to borrow from? I've already tried to wriggle out of the dancing part by designating myself official videographer, but Laura's already stated that she'll get me drunk enough to dance. At 2 in the afternoon. Hot mess weekend, woo-hoo.

Got myself a new camera yesterday since mine broke during Mercury in Retrograde again. Every single camera I have breaks—I had Ben look at all three of my broken ones and he declared them unsalvageable. Same kind as before Sony Cybershot.

The obligatory sunset over Miami shot.


Looking Northwest (?) at Fisher Island and the MacArthur Causeway/395.


I just know that Wally was in a Native American tribe in his former life. Specifically, he was in one of the tribes that believes cameras are not so good. Stealing souls and shit. Seriously, every single time—and I mean every time—Wally sees a camera, he flees.

First I catch him unawares, sleeping on his blankie:


Next I try to get a shot of his face without holding it. Clearly that doesn't work.

Our photo session ends with the tail-down retreat into the bedroom and under the bed.
He's certainly no Monty!

Straight hair: Check, July 6.

Botox: Check, June 30th

Nipple Tattooing: Not so checked. Apparently, "Esther"—have I ever told you not only how Jewish Mt. Sinai is, but Orthodox as well?—told Nora that she wouldn't work on my formerly scabby nipple. So Nora rudely canceled me and didn't tell me. This was supposed to be June 29th.

I arranged my NYC, JAX and consequently, BOS trips around this date.

Solution: Call every plastic surgeon in my Humana Network tomorrow and see if they can tatt me.

The plus side is that Botox Tuesday means I can head up to Jax and (private, finally) beaches early.

Then: July 5th, Sunday night leave for NYC.

Return to Jax July 7th Tuesday night. Drive back to Miami the next day. Fly to Boston the next day, rent car drive to Cape Cod. Sunday night in Boston, back to Miami Monday night.

Tuesday or Wedsnday back to Jax for brother's 30th birthday week. I turn birthdays into week-long celebrations, especially 30th ones. Beach house at Ponte Vedra for rest of July and first week in August is where I'll be. It doesn't rain every day up there; a huge plus in and of itself.

Once I can get this tatting situ figured out, I'll be back to my level of normal, which is, of course, batshit.

This Jew's Gettin' a Tattoo

I had a lovely, fun, non-Miami weekend in Miami, so that's fabu. Sat night Page Six's Paula Froelich had a book party for her new tome Mercury in Retrograde at this chic boutique that was totally off my radar even though it was wall to wall Lanvin, Balenciaga, Givenchy etc. I went with a cohort of mine who is also a NY-expat and thus we hate all the same things about Miami. Bonding over misery is always a good thing.

Then Monday rolls around. Mondays always start well for me and then devolve into chaos. Why should this Monday be any different? I headed up to Aventura to meet Joni, Havi and Tara for lunch then to the gold dealer and back to the beach. My neutral-colored nips were set to be tatted for color one week from today. You guys know that I'm sure since I'm quite nip obsessed. Ughhhhhhh. You also know that my July is insane. I planned a NYC trip, a Jax trip, Cape Cod and a whole lot of other stuff around the tatting date.

So I call Rosenbaum's office today to confirm that they would have Botox in stock so I could kill two birds. Nora, the office manager proceeds to tell me that the "permanent makeup artist" canceled my appt because I'd called them WEEKS ago and said that I had a little nip infection. I was on antis and it's all good now. They've been healed for weeks. I was fuming. So I made a Botox appointment for July 2. Only problem with that is that I'm supposed to drive up to Jax the day before for the big July 4th shebang. Then—I have Bluetooth now so I'm on the phone a lot more—I began calling other plastic surgeons and a couple derms to see what they charged for Botox. See, Rosenbaum charges $500 flat. Most people charge per area—total rip off. Stay away from those fuckers.

Botox, tattooing; both are important, okay? So I call the doctor a few floors above Rosenbaum, where the "permanent makeup artist" supposedly practices. I get her name from the receptionist—and the price of Botox—and call her directly. She's never even heard of me. She doesn't know Nora from a hole in the wall and was never scheduled to be in the office Monday. Grrrr. But I'm a problem solver and come hell or floodwater, Steph is getting her tatts before travelling.

I booked her for Friday and am seeing her in the other plastic surgeon's office. She charges $950 though and says insurance doesn't cover—whereas Rosenbaum said it did cover. Anyway, tomorrow I must check on insurance, but as of now, Friday is the date. And I guess I'll have to pony up a little more money and do the Botox at the other doctor's office so I can get on the road Thursday as planned. Plus, it's funnier and funner to get Botox while you're actually having legit medical stuff done. Makes you feel a little less guilty.

So, here's hoping insurance pays and that this new Dr. Kane doesn't charge too much for Botox. Oh, and check it—heading to NYC July 5th to the 7th to get Jap straightening that Monday. Squeezing that jaunt in between Jax and Cape Cod. Do you see a pattern? It's called the I'm-trying-to-get-back-my-looks plan and it's quite exhausting.

I know my Cancerversaries seem endless, but I can't help myself from marking each occassion, so forgive. One year ago today was my eighth and last chemo treatment.

Can you even believe? Well, I can't. The progression of time is a funny thing isn't it? There's no way to say definitively whether this year flew by or dragged out. It did both.

The most visible part of this particular one year mark is, naturally, the hair. Oh the hair, the hair, the hair. I'm dying to do something about it, but haven't figured out how to get to NY and back before July, when I'm completely booked. Chances are that I'll get so fed up in the next week or so that I'll pop up to the city for a day or two, get the hair done and then jet back here. The only problem with doing that is that when I go up I feel guilty if I don't get to see all my good friends.

Anyway, whatever. Pictures are called for. Tomas and I had our photo shoot last week for my stylish South Florida magazine story TK. I did one ensemble with wig and one sans wig.

Since my camera broke, I've been slacking, but I know you're just dying to see my hair; that you can't even wait; that this is going to get you through your workday. Right? Well, this is what it's now looking like when it's straight. I don't mind it when it's straight, but remember that I live in the Tropics, so as soon as I step outside, I go from Sally Hershberger to Seth Rogen in two seconds flat.

Sally:


And this morning, Seth:


And one year ago, in the hospital with my posse:Note the wine bottles above. My rationale was that I was all fucked-up on drugs so my friends may as well join.



I believe that's the only time I ever wore those Zanotti shoes. Fucking uncomfortable, but when you're in a chemo bed it doesn't matter. (Another Neiman's Last Call find I couldn't resist.)
They served their purpose that day though, as Stacey said:

"As soon as I saw those shoes poking out of that bed I knew this was your room!"

Does anyone else find it endlessly amusing when their dog farts? Wally's just sitting here on the couch, tooting away.

Where to begin? Have I mentioned how I have psychic-prescient dreams? Well I do. Or actually, prescient thoughts in general. For instance, last night—bear with me while I give you the (borderline insane) train of thought that led me to my latest encounter.

Last night I had on the original Taking of Pelham One Two Three, starring Walter Matthau. I was watching the credits and saw Hector Elizondo's name. Then I thought: "Wow, he's really had a long career and steady work as one of those actors who everyone recognizes but probably doesn't know his name." Which led me to think about how Bob Balaban is another one of those actors, and that Dr. Larry Norton resembles him, which had me conjuring up visions of Balaban playing Norton in a movie. Uh, yeah.

Tomorrow, June 16th—the one year anniv of my last chemo. Wow, that's a biggie. Thank fucking God I look better now, despite the fucking Jewfro. Anyway, cut to this a.m. I had The View on in the background while I was writing my column for Juli B. And—god forgive me—I hit the record button when they announced that Heidi and Spencer were on. But—ahhha there was a subconscious reason I recorded those douches! Next thing I know, I look up and my beloved Dr. Larry Norton is in the View hot seat.

Even though I knew he was B.I.G. I've never seen him on TV. Apparently he's a regular guest. And the coolest thing was that they were asking him about BC genetics and Republican Nazi EH asked him about inheriting the gene from the mother's side vs the father's. Well, last year when I consulted with Norton, he was the one to tell us that the gene quite clearly was on my father's side. And as he's sitting there on the View, I'm thinking: "Jesus, he's up there talking about a patient like me." I was half-ego-maniacally thinking that he was about to say: "For example, last year I had a 31-year-old patient whose BRCA1 gene was inherited from her father."

I know, sick. But, how weird that he's on today? It's like a big, cosmic, happy anniversary from the man who guided me on the path to health. Norton was the final factor in deciding to do the double mastectomy and chemo. I remember being in his office with Mom, Dad and Michael—the first visit where the whole family was there—and seeing my dad tear up a little. Mom was naturally bawling the whole time while Brother was giving me sacred gifts from India and such. And then I saw relief wash over the whole family when I agreed that I was going to go with Norton's treatment protocol and do the double mastectomy.

And, as you all know, once I talked to Norton, I never wavered in my decision. I worship this man for not only his intellect, but for his kindness, compassion, intelligence, humor, bedside manner and dedication to his job.

I was also thinking, as I watched the Anna Wintour of breast cancer—my nickname for him—that this man on that TV with Barbara Walters took almost two hours out of his day to meet with my family on a day when his elderly mom was in the hospital. He drove in from New Jersey just to meet with us that day. I'm no Barbara Walters, but this man changes lives wherever he is. Talking to the masses on The View or talking to the Greens on a cold NYC day in March 2008.

Sigh. I'm so lucky. So, so, sooo lucky and grateful for such a great network of friends and family and connectors. And Norton's the one who gave me Ralf's name and so on and so forth. The circle of life.