My neighbor has a meth lab!

So here's the story: Johnny Be Bad.

Unfortunately, the excitement of the story was overshadowed by an email that informed me that my neighbor is operating a meth lab in his apartment. Yes. A meth lab. Only in Miami would a white-glove building have a working meth lab as a tenant. Not that I wasn't out of here already, but now I'm outta here by mid-
Oct. I mean, if it were a grow house, natch I'd be down with that. But meth labs explode people, and I like my face.

Wanted you guys to be (sort of) the first ones to know that your's truly has a story in the New York Post tomorrow. Holla. It's in the "Pulse" section (features). Be sure to pick up a copy and obv I will post the direct link in the (my version of the a.m.) If you arise before me (all of you) and just cannot wait—I think it would be somewhere in this here link. Though you'll probably have to do some digging. Vvvv psyched. This is definitely the most significant publication I've written for. Thus bringing NY closer and closer. Hopefully, anyway. You never know though, so we'll see what the reaction is (if any).

My quandry is where even to find the Post in this podunk 'city.' Epicure's the only place I've seen it. Can you say pathetic? xoxox

Question: How do people with not-so-strong quads manage to squat in airplane bathrooms? It’s hard even for me and I’m quite clearly a gym rat.

So. I’m on the plane to JFK. Guess what? You’ll never. I edited something other than my wardrobe.

I purposely brought solely Laura Zigman’s Her, because I was almost finished with it, and the manuscript—which I suppose I should start referring to by its working title, Cancer Is the New Black—thus forcing my hand. Though I was getting into a little back-and-forth between the angel and the devil inside my head while I was laughing out loud at Laura’s novel.

In my brain while I’m reading Her:

“You’re distracting yourself with a novel about a woman who’s self-sabotaging. What the fuck, Stephanie. That’s a new one. Okay, I’ll just see how many more pages I have. If I’m near the end, I’ll finish and then take out my manuscript. But Laura’s book is laugh out loud funny—what if that makes mine seem un-funny. Get a grip you freak. Finish this book and then take out YOURS.”

I was near the end. I finished the book—highly recommend and not just because she’s my buddy. I took out my manuscript held together by a headband. I went ass-backwards as usual. I tackled the end; reread the introduction and the first page of chapter one. I’m likely going to kick myself for saying this—when I’m on the ledge perhaps cause I’ve been rejected by all the publishing houses?—but I’m very happy with the introduction and the first page of chapter one. To me, the very first sentence of the book is the most crucial. For me, it makes or breaks a book. When I decide to buy a book, I read the first line without fail. If the writer has a strong voice, it should grab you in that first sentence.

I love my first sentence. I thought of it when I was diagnosed, which means it’s stood the test of time—a crucial test to any writer.

But I’m burying the lede here. As I was rereading the ‘ending’—which takes place over the last coupla months—it became clear that my brain has been cogitating my next move for some time. It just got around to telling me though, via The September Issue.

The September Issue was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Or in my case, the six-pound, September 2007 issue of Vogue. (Which Oribe probably cover-coiffed. Must investigate.)

I went home last Friday after seeing it and bawled. At first I thought I was woe-is-me crying. Like, God, what a loser you are. You were supposed to be working at Vogue by now instead of watching that movie and wanting to jump through thr screen. For, as I was sitting in that movie, I couldn’t contain myself. Fashion editorial is my passion. It’s my life. It always has been.

Whoopsie, whaddya know? As I’m typing this literally I just looked up and Suzy Menkes is on the TV screen on my seat. Divine intervention.

Back to the lede. That night, after doing the typical Stephanie thing—blaming myself for not having already achieved what I always wanted—I made a decision. And yes, I was actually talking aloud. Yelling rather. Wally’s used to it by now. He knows his mom is in-fucking-sane.

“You are going back to New York. You’re going to get a job at Vogue if it fucking kills you. You beat Cancer. You’ve literally stared death in the face, been through one of the worst things a person can experience. And you’re still scared to follow your lifelong dream? Get over it! You belong in New York and in fashion and now you have no excuse.”

Thus the decision was made that night. I’m going back to New York. Where I’ve always belonged.

I emailed Meredith the next morning.

“Saw The September Issue. Wanted to jump through the screen and get my hands on the proofs. Worship Anna and now Grace even more.”

Seconds later, Meredith—not a phone person either—calls.

“I was sitting at the Rachel Zoe party last night [during fashion week] thinking, ‘Stephanie is an idiot for not coming up this week and in March she’s coming with me if I have to buy my plane ticket myself.’”

So 17 years after Meredith and bonded over Versace and Oribe at a summer program at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, here we are, still discussing Oribe and Versace. The difference being that now Oribe cut my hair and Anna sat three rows behind Meredith at the U.S. Open.

But for now I’m just visiting and haven’t worked out any particulars about a move. I’m going to try for an apartment swap—I can offer a high season waterfront rental—damn, there’s a lot of turbulence. Or a sublet, fully furnished. I’m not quite ready to commit to a lease with no job. Going to keep some roots in Florida and shoot for that whole Manhattan-Miami Beach existence. Okay, we’re landing. Ta.

Bad, bad blogger, I know! I can't even remember where I left off. I leave for NYC tomorrow and haven't packed one thing. Haven't even planned my outfits yet. Like, no list, nothing. Which means pretty much black and other neutral tops, jeans, every day jewelry and only like, ah, four handbags and maybe five pairs of shoes? Fuck me.

Yes, Thursday is yet another birthday. I'm not big on birthdays. I'm 32 until I'm 39 anyway. I think I fucked up my back by over-yoga-ing. Four days last week—so I suppose three times a week is my threshold. Today in the relaxation room of the Ritz-Carlton South Beach Spa, I spilled an entire carafe of hot water whilst trying to make tea and burned my hand. Walked into my massage with those lovely ice-cold hand towels wrapped around my, well, hand.

I'll be blogging from the airport and such. Lots and lots of news, but I think I should get around to telling all of my friends before you guys. Which reminds me, NYC friends reading whom I neglected to email, give me a shout. So many great people to see, so little time. Cannot wait to get out of here tomorrow.

When Will Sept. 11 Be . . .

An official day of rememberance? A holiday? Why does "Labor Day" trump a day like this? Easter? All those Christian holidays where us Jews drive around our towns bemoaning the fact that not even the supermarkets are open. Surely, surely our country owes it to its people to officially recognize this day. But that's just my opinion.

I lived there then. I saw the towers flaming from my Greenwich Village vantage point. I made the four-mile-trek home in the middle of a silent, pedestrian-filled second avenue. I had PTSD nightmares. Didn't fly AA or US or United ever again. I'd never even been prescribed anti-anxieties pre-Sept. 11. I was living on 49th between 1st and 2nd aves. Blocks from the UN, which I was sure was on the terrorists' short list.

I moved to the UES, to a 15th floor unit with an unobstructed view of the towering Con Ed smokestack things, which converged with the view of planes taking off from the Queens airports. I worked at night and from home during the day. My desk was set up adjacent to the windows. For the next several years, each time my peripheral vision spotted a departing flight heading past the Con Ed towers, I expected it to plow headfirst into something. The 59th St bridge that I looked at; New York Hospital. Viscerally, my tummy knotted and my breath held itself till the plane cleared the skyline.

I left New York. Left that apartment. Was forced to see Ground Zero from "Zero" to whatever it is now. I can't go down there. A mass grave in the middle of the only city in the world that I love like a family member—no thanks. But this date will never be just another date for me or any other New Yorker. Especially those of us who actually saw the shit live, in person. Knew what was going on before it was broadcast. Saw that it was nothing short of a war-strike unfolding before our eyes on a beautiful September morning.

Typically, I treat this day like Shomer Shabbos. I feel the need to get out of my own head and think about everything since then. I keep CNN on. I cry at random moments. However, today is the release of The September Issue. And in my very own odd way, I don't feel it's sacrilege to see this film today. Fashion died that day too. Magazines died. Jobs dried up just as I finished my master's program at NYU. Life sucked for creatives looking for jobs. My hope—and only media people will likely get this—is that this film will breathe life into publishing again. Hoping that people go out and buy magazines again. Thus creating more jobs. And a better, stronger, more finely tuned New York. Perhaps this makes no sense. But whatever.

Anyway, each year I repost my own eyewitness account to that day. So here it is. My thoughts are with all of you who lost friends, colleagues, acquaintances or family that day. Many of us can never forget.


From Sept., 2006
It sneaks up on us each year, but it's here again: September 11th. And as all these people are on TV and the radio sharing their experiences of that day, I can't help but reflect and remember. It's our generation's JFK-shooting--we will all remember where we were when we heard the news. It's the event that when I think about still makes my heart race and brings tears to my eyes, even five years later. I don't know if this is true of all Americans, or just for New Yorkers or only for people who witnessed it or knew people whose lives were lost.

Anyway, here's my Sept. 11th story, which I will never forget, and I know I've written about longhand somewhere, but god knows where that notebook went. And not that my story is special, it's not, but it's a valid memory, because, if nothing else, it's history. I had been in the city for about a year, but I'd been visiting New York yearly since about the age of 5, and was always a New Yorker at heart; was living in midtown; attending NYU grad school in journalism in the Village; dating an Israeli who lived in Haifa; had returned from visiting him in Israel. I was on an ElAl flight into JFK July 4, 2001. In general, life was pretty good. I was "in love," had a big apt., was with Wally, was going to NYU, which I'd always dreamed of, and was living in the place that I loved better than anywhere in the world. My mom and two of her girlfriends were staying with me for their annual "girl's shopping trip." I had my only early class that morning, and, ironically, it was a "journalism ethics" class, taught by 'renowned' ethicist Todd Gitlin. Everyone talks about the weather that day and it seems silly, but it's true that on days like that, you remember every detail, salient or not. So as I left my apt. a little before 9 a.m., I remember looking up at the sky and thinking what a nice day it was, no clouds, no awful August humidity. I hopped in a cab, just as I noticed that Second Ave. was rife with fire trucks and ambulances. No big deal, a common sight. As we proceeded downtown, the ambulances and fire trucks grew in number, and the cabbie and I began to wonder, so we turned on the radio. At that point, the world was still in shock, and was talking about the 'commuter plane' that had most likely hit the Trade Center. Details were still sketchy at that point, but we proceeded downtown, both of us, similar to the entire city and nation, in a state of shock. By the time we reached the Village, the second plane had hit, and we were just confused, I mean, terrorism just didn't happen in our country, what were any of us supposed to think until we saw? Until we saw. Because while most people saw it on TV, for me it didn't sink in until I got out of the cab near Washington Square Park and saw both towers aflame. Then, and only then, it sunk in. From that point on, I was plunged into that same surreal, dreamlike, post-traumatic haze that most New Yorkers found themselves in for several days, if not weeks or months. I walked to the corner where clusters of people just stood staring up at the towers. Some were openly crying or looked horrified; most just stood there staring, mouths agape. It really was like a scene out of an Independence Day -type movie. Everything else stood still. I think I must have tried to call my mom and the girls, but cells were probably down. I knew I would never make it back uptown, and was in shock, so I moved robotically into the school's building and went into class. And though it was an "ethics" class, and though many of the students in it lived near Wall Street and hadn't shown up yet, and though we were journalists who should be out literally witnessing history and trying to get the story, our professor kept us in class the whole two hours without TVs, radios, phones, and forced us to debate the 'ethical' elements of jumping to the conclusion that this was indeed a terrorist attack being perpetrated by Arabs/Muslims/Islamic extremists. Perhaps he was in shock to and the mantra, "just carry on normally" was propelling him. I had just returned from Israel, so I remember the shock finally wearing off and my rage beginning to kick in, and getting into a heated argument with an Egyptian student, wherein I blamed this on the Arabs and she defended them saying it could be anyone doing this. We finally got out of class and emerged from our time-warp bubble, and learned that both towers had gone down. In those two hours, the sky had fallen. No, it couldn't be, I thought. There's just no way, my brain rationalized, those towers? It had looked like two small fires when I'd gone into class, relative to the largesse of those buildings. But sure enough, I walked out to the corner where I'd watched them on fire earlier and the skyline was flat. Gone. Now, New York City was a quiet ghost town except there were hordes of people walking slowly, stoically. Just walking like zombies, standing in line for payphones, eerily calm. No traffic, just on foot. No transportation anywhere, save for emergency vehicles, but I don't remember hearing any sirens, any noise at all save for radios with news. Nobody yelling, no street noise, the most disturbing thing in New York City--a lack of noise. I walked all the way from the Village to my apartment; walked amid a crowd stunned silent for probably the first time in their lives. I tried to call mom repeatedly, but eventually gave up. I lived near the UN, and kept thinking that that would be the terrorists' next target, so I kept popping into shops and asking if anything else had been hit, because the fire trucks never stopped going downtown. I wondered where my mom and her friends had gone, but knew that they probably hadn't left the house before the news was out, so I wasn't worried. The horrifying thing is that they had been at the store Century 21, which was leveled by the attack, the morning before. I got home and they weren't there, so then I started to panic, no communication, an empty apartment, with a Wally who just knew something was up. I think I just fell on to the couch and sat there, mesmerized by the footage on TV. It was as if I were in a drug-induced haze, which you really can't describe accurately, but if you've ever witnessed a horrible accident or crime, you can most likely relate to. Mom and friends eventually returned home, having walked over to 57th street to see what it was like outside. Like I said, when in shock, you just go by rote, do what you know. Head into class, teach class, go to work, go shopping. Eventually, maybe two days later, mom and co. rented a car and drove home to Florida. Damned if they were getting on a plane. Damned if I was, not for a year or so I think. And though I didn't lose anyone that day and wasn't connected to anyone in those buildings, the event itself had such an impact if you were living in New York, whether you were able to admit it or not. For me, it meant that each time I saw a plane outside the window of my new 15th floor apartment heading past the Con Ed towers in Queens, each and every time for a couple years after, my first, instinctual thought was, that plane is going to hit that tower; it meant that I didn't take the subway for a couple of years; it meant that I looked at cab drivers appraisingly and unconsciously eavesdropped on their foreign conversations; it meant that I didn't feel safe in my own apt., my own city, for many, many years. It meant living in fear for a great while, thinking how easy it had been for them to do it once, surely they would strike again. And still, I'm kind of amazed that nothing else has happened in our country because, really, we're no safer now, are we? Soon, surely, the sky will fall again.

Someone is clearly having issues over here. Like sitting-outside-at- Starbucks issues. Quite the rare picture for me. In (at least they're clean) gym clothes—the fashionista equivalent to a $500-a-cut hairdresser with bad hair. I am aware, people. My trusty 10-year-old every day Bottega tote and a suprisingly posh looking faux-aligator, fuchsia tote that was a Neiman's cosmetics gift with purchase, FYI sit on the chair next to me. My table is a little more confused looking. Or maybe it's denizen is just plain old confused herself.

Let's examine the physical evidence atop the table: a 329-page 'manuscript;' an Equinox class schedule I just extracted from said 'manuscript;' a pink-highlighted, crumpled MS Word document that is my "Smudget;" about 30 pages of the Oribe blog excerpts; a venti iced americano; a cheapo Target notebook; a sterling silver pen; and a few (okay, five) discarded Wet Ones.

Hmm. It takes serious levels of laziness to get me to a table at Starbucks. As in, I'm sitting at home earlier walking around in circles trying to mentally figure out how to begin editing this book whilst getting distracted by phone calls and pretty much anything that I can turn into a distraction. And then I'm back on the couch, hands in hair, overwhelmed. And then I stare at the 300-odd printed pages that have been lying on my bars tool for a few weeks.

Next thought: I will have no excuse not to do work sitting at a table at Starbucks on my street. A relatively quiet residential stretch of South Beach. Ya'll locals know the one I'm talking about, so if you're at Whole Foods holler at me. I'm the one at the aforementioned table. Sitting here. Forcing myself not to look at the Gmail notifier with all my new shiny emails to read.

All this in an attempt to get a little itty bit of work done before I go to the gym for the second time today. I'm not gymarexic; this a.m. was yoga and p.m. cardio.

Fuck. I'm going to open the outline and edit some pages. First though, I have to buy tickets for THE SEPTEMBER ISSUE. Wooooooooooo! Finally a September 11th where I actually will leave the house at some point in the day.

Bollocks

Sigh. Another murder in the fashion industry:

Lindsay Lohan Appointed ‘Artistic Adviser’ to Emanuel Ungaro

For the love of Versace, someone please inject these decision-makers with Thorazine or some other potent anti-psychotic.

Does anyone remember the divinity that were Ungaro's designs in the 1980s and 1990s? Let me refresh your memory. Untouchable fabrics; fantastic floral prints; vibrant colors. Beautiful ball gowns that could hold their own against Lacroix, Versace, Valentino, Dior.

And now . . . Firecrotch? For reals? Jeez. Fashion aside, could there be a worse role model? A chain-smoking, ana coke head? (I'm not saying alleged coke head because, yes, I have witnesses.)

I guess this is what happens when you sell your fashion company to an "Internet tycoon."

Something very strange is happening out there people—editors in chief are now movie stars and movie stars are "artistic advisers."

I think Seinfeld's bizarro world has finally come to fruition.

Blah

It's been a rough week physically and mentally. Natch, the fucking tattooing had longer-lasting consequences than the doc told me. Why haven't I learned this???

The boobage area was sore. You know we mastectomy-maestros typically have no feeling on the surface. But I do still get sore in the titties. It's almost like a PMS-type of pain, under the surface. The tattoos aggravated my scapula pain as well, which leads to the mental part. Each procedure, no matter how minor, triggers a visceral response. Pain in boob = memories of past surgeries = depression over 'why can't I be normal which leads to: I'msosickofthis.Ihatemylife.Sowhatiftheyaretattooed;myblogreadersandfriendsandfamily aretheonlyoneswhoseethemanyway.

I needed Percocet for the pain; even acupuncture didn't help. Which left me no option but an extremely expensive massage at the Ritz sunday. (I can't go to those Massage Envy type places because I have to be careful not to undo Chad's delicate work.) I haven't had to pay for a massage in years. It sure as fuck wasn't worth $170 with tip, considering my scapula is flaming as I write this.

This self-destructive, vicious circle of both mental and physical pain—not so good for progress. I'd set a goal of having a partial manu ready for my trip to NYC next week. Instead I've got 400 pages printed, unedited and have gone through two printer cartridges. I'm losing steam with the memoir. Seriously, I've got the most poweful agents in the world as my Facebook friends. Natch this is no accident. Some of them read my blog. Presidents of TV networks read. Hollywood people read. People, in short, with much influence in the media. Yet—aside from the impressive colleagues who've contacted me—not a one agent or editor. Yes, I'm lazy. But it's not unheard of. I don't want to do a proposal, okay. I'll give you 100 to 150 pages. Like it? Great.

But you guys especially know that I get what I need in life by eschewing most rules. Why should my career be any different. I'm not tooting my own horn, since I clearly stated at the beginning of this whiny post that I really hate myself right now—but wouldn't it be nice if all the good karma I've put out there this year would actually come back to me?

Whatever. Life's a bitch. Or moreover, life's a bastard.

Maybe a lot of this has to do with the fact that my birthday is next Thursday and I loathe my birthdays. My real age is approaching the scary spinster level, which makes me want to curl up and pour Xannies down my throat.

I've already taken 800 mgs of Tylenol today for the headache that won't go away.

Anyway. You ladies know how I've talked about getting my hair straightened at Momotaro for the past six or seven years. I've never been unhappy with their work. Until July. It wasn't *perfect* like it should've been. Brother's girlfriend had hers done Friday, which prompted me to call and tell them how unhappy I was etc etc. So I'm going back on the 18th. The woman, Alexis—one of the only ones who speaks English with a decipherable accent—wasn't so great on the phone. I had to put the stupid $200 deposit down, and she wouldn't tell me how much they'd charge to correct.

My reliable guy moved elsewhere, so I'm going to comparison shop. If Masato will cut me a better deal, fuck Momotaro. I've sent them thousands of dollars of business over the years. Sorry to unload, but I know some of you take people in my misery, so happy Tuesday.

Finally, Full Frontal

I'm sure that got the straight guys' attention. I'm going to get a lot of flack from my rather chaste mother and her meddling friends who tell me every fucking time I see them: "You'll never get a man when you are SO honest and put everything out there on the blog." Ahem, you know who you are.

A.) As if I would want a man who doesn't respect me for my writing and who I am and B.) Women who are going through, will go through or know people who are going through Breast Cancer take comfort in my frankness, okay? I'm sure that some of you readers who are still in the reconstruction process will be heartened to see how PERFECT your boobies can look after Breast Cancer! Even Ben was amaaazed when he saw the photos last night.

Okay, so. A recap of the final surgery. Hemley went with me, since he's good company, baby-sat my Percocet riddled ass yesterday, he has tattoos and is not squeamish. Plus, he's a gay guy who doesn't mind looking at boobies. They have to heal for a few days a la regular tatts. The worst part of that is no cardio because no sweating. But I'm going to ignore that one. Or at least do something where I don't sweat SO much.

Now, it wouldn't be a true Stephanie Green day if something coincidental/portentous/fucking whackadoodle happened, right? So after the surg—which, no, didn't hurt—we went to a deli in the Jewish section of the beach. Just a random deli for a celebratory, fattening lunch.

"Oh my God!" Hemley said. "Dude, that's the guy from Miami Ink! Omigod! You have to say something! How weird—come on, we go from your tattooing and then run into the biggest tattoo artist in town. You have to say something!"

"That is weird," says Stephanie on a Percocet and Klonopin. "Okay, I'll go over to him after we finish, but that's not a very pleasant thing to reveal over lunch."

"Fuck it, Green, this is the perfect blog story!" See how I humiliate myself for my loyal readers?

So: "Uh, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I actually just came from a different sort of tattooing. Where, uh, I had breast cancer w/reconstruction and I just, uh, got my nipple color tattooed." He was not alone. Two other burly tatted up guys and what appeared to be Avi's daughter. Oh, shit, just read that he's single. He's hot too. And Jewish. But no tattoo-wearers for this prissy poo.

"Actually," he said, "I've done that once before." (BTW, what kind of woman goes to a disgusting, germy tattoo parlor to get this kind of medical work done. If I ever even entered a tattoo parlor I would need to douse myself in Purell afterwards. Can you tell that I think tattoos are dis-gus-ting? And Jews should know better.

Anyway, he was friendly enough but doesn't seem to have a sense of humor. Here's Avi's bio. I think he's the head honcho.

So now we're done people. Lots of you have taken this 18-month-crazy-ass journey with me. And I really love you guys for that. The kindness of anonymous and named readers is really an amazing thing.

And I'm one of the few lucky ones who's not only healthy, but has amaaaazing boobs and amaaaazing hair. Kudos to Dr. Gary Rosenbaum for being the perfectionist that he is. I'm forever grateful. Okay, here come the pics. We'll start at PG and work our way down.

Lvg condo for the LAST surgical procedure until I yank the ovaries, which I'll wait to do until I'm ready to write the sequel. (Mom, did you even notice that I liberated your Balenciaga from your pantry? Remember the rule of thumb is if you don't notice for a month+ it's mine! Mwah haha!)


In the waiting room, natch. Nobody else was there.


I love this one. Leave it to Hems to make sure I look good in photos and to delete the bad ones. So, these are the girls sans-tattooing. You can tell that there is some coloration on the 'nipples' even without tattooing. Eventually though that would fade.


Explaining the process to me. Mixes several different color inks; when it fades it will be a nice light pink. If I want it darker, I can go back in two months.


Esther, the permanent makeup artist, begins. She did such a great job I'm thinking of having my brows done.



I think this is such a nice photo that I may actually frame it. I mean, is this a perfect breast shot or no?

Avi looks thrilled to meet me, right?

So there, you go. Full circle. And just in case you're new, you may want to check out (very graphic and perhaps disturbing) post to see how they looked at the beginning—18 months ago.

xoxo

D'oh

Pulled a major Stephanie Green last night. Renee and I headed over to the Icon for my friend's birthday party. The Icon is one block south of where I live; 5th street is the big intersection. Once you go South of Fifth—kind of like East of Lexington on the Upper East Side—the prices go up and the streets get a lot cleaner.

Nobody really aspires to live "South of Fifth" as far as I can tell—I think it's kind of a real estate thing rather than a status thing, after all, a lot of those 'tards on Miami Social looked to be South of Fifth. Nonetheless, as Renee and I crossed 5th street and were literally one block south of my apartment building, we noticed something. Something amazing. Something, my friends, that actually made me consider crossing that great divide known as Fifth St.

May I present to you the dog-owning-germaphobe's wet dream:

Doo-doo bags accompanied by a hand-sanitizer dispenser. I. Die! This corner has my name written all over it! What. A. Discovery. We practically called Durrett on the spot to find us some SoFi units.

We then trekked up the non-hospitable Phillippe Starck staircase and into the pseudo-surrealist lobby and had the doorwoman ring Marc's apt.

I thought it a bit odd that he wanted to talk to me.

"You're not thinking the party is tonight are you?" he asked.

"Oh, fuck, are you kidding me? It's not tonight?"

"Hahaha. No, it's tomorrow night!"

"Fuck me! Seriously?"

"Seriously. Report back in 24 hours."

"Oh my God, Renee. I have never done this! You know how anally organized I am!"

Yeah. Well, we took advantage of being all dressed up with nowhere to go. And by that I mean we posed for photos:


"Well! At least I got yet another dry-run with my hair!"



Indeed I did wash and dry and style the hair for the first time last night and imagine my delight when I saw that even in my incapable hands, Oribe's 'do held up. I mean, I finally understand the beauty of a fantastic haircut. Any way I did it, it looked good. So when can we nominate Oribe as a diety? The mop still looks good this morning! I don't know how he does it, but his hands really are magical. So magical that I'm already starting to save up for my next cut with the God of Hair. Mom and Lynn are already asking about appointments too.

Now that the dress rehearsal is out of the way I can par-tay at the right time tonight. The rest of the Oribe photos are now up on Facebook.

I haven't yet washed Oribe out of my hair. I have a party tonight, so I will indeed wash and try to style it myself. That should be interesting.

I just copied this bio from his Web site, my additions are in brackets!

Oribe has been one of the most sought after hairstylists for fashion, editorial and advertising work for the last 30 years. [Understatement of the decade.] His collaborators include countless photographers, like Bill King, who introduced him to the fashion editor Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele, a co-conspirator during his Steven Meisel years. There was the meticulous Irving Penn, who Oribe still refers to as Mr. Penn [for those non-fashionistas, Irving Penn is the John F. Kennedy of fashion photography]; and Helmut Newton, who shot Cindy Crawford for American Vogue with hair that Oribe teased to infinity; and others like Richard Avedon, Patrick Demarchelier, Annie Leibovitz, Herb Ritts, Francesco Scavullo and Horst. Oribe has worked with creative directors like Fabien Baron and Keesha Keeble; make-up artists like François Nars [he told me his still working with Francois, whose now experimenting with photography], Pat McGrath, Kevyn Aucoin and Stephane Marais; and fashion designers like Gianni Versace, a mentor who inspired Oribe’s tattoos [OMG, I didn't know that!], and Karl Lagerfeld, who took the rock and roll hairstylist under his wing [I would sell all Roxy's jewelry to be under that wing, let me tell you].

And then there were the models, the celebrities and the icons he transformed and worked with, from Beverly Johnson the pre-cursor to the supermodel, to Christy Turlington who [he styled MY hair after!] Oribe appears with in an iconic Vogue spread, to the always radiant Heidi Klum and Naomi Campbell. In fact, it was Diana Ross who showed Oribe how to really secure a wig. Of course, one can’t leave out Jennifer Lopez, who called for Oribe to help define her look after imagining him doing her hair ever since she was a girl on the subway reading his name in fashion magazines. [Hold up, J. Lo—Meredith and I called him first! Okay, so we weren't on the 6 train coming from the Bronx, but we saw him first!] All told, Oribe has contributed to just about every major magazine and worked on just about every major fashion show [let's change that to read "any magazine or fashion show that matters]. In the last year alone his editorial and campaign work has been seen on the covers and pages of Vogue, Elle, Allure, W, V and Pop. [Charlize Theron on the cover of The September Issue, Michelle Williams on October Vogue cover and Penelope Cruz on next month's VF cover.] When he is not on set, Oribe is working out of his South Beach salon. Oribe’s magnificent career continues to grow - in large part because he loves what he does.

One reason I worshiped Versace and all those involved with that era: Fashion was art to them, not commerce. Versace circa 1993—gowns beaded to within a milimeter of their lives, constructed as meticulously as a Chuck Close portrait. Oribe's hair artistry was the punctuation in Versace's sentences. The only accessory needed. We didn't even need to look at the editorial credits to know Oribe's work—his styles were always iconic. Cindy, Christy, Naomi and Linda's haircuts were as recognizable as their faces.
But this was 17 years ago. Was I living in a past that perhaps Oribe had outgrown? Nah.

Okay, from the top. Wednesday: I'm armed with the Versace Signatures FIT book and an Anthousa home ambience gift set. And a million little voices in my brain screaming, "Omigod. Omigod. I die. I die. I die. Act normal. Don't scare him. Get a grip, Green!" So. I walk in. He's perched behind the reception desk, his once jet-black pompadour a sexy salt-and-pepper shade now. When you find a look that works for you, work it.

He looks at me and knows who I am—probably because I have crazy stalker eyes and insanely damaged hair.

"Hi-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" shrieks the idiot.

"Hiiiiiii!," says the God. "I'm so sorry about yesterday!"

"Hubidahubidahubida. Noit'sfineareyoukidding? Omigod." Shut up, you retard. God.

He leads the drooling JAP back to his chair. I give him the gift set (with fawning card) and show him the book.

"Wowww. I haven't seen that in so long!" he's super soft-spoken, and seems to get a kick out of seeing the book.

I'm not sure how much he knows about me, but he says he knows some of the story. He knows about the cancer; he doesn't know that I'm a lifelong fan. But I tell him I've been following his career since I was in high school and he is genuinely flattered and appreciative. After all, there probably aren't too many hairdresser groupies.

I tell him that I'm in his hands, he can do whatever the hell he wants—with the caveat that I want it to be a little trendy and plan to grow it out. Once he touches the hair, I can see him go into The Zone. I give him the quick hairstory.

He feels his way around my noggin and proclaims that we need to do a deep-conditioning masque first, then cut, shape, style, slowly so that we can see how it's looking both wet and dry.

"It definitely needs shaping," I say, fingering the back growth.

"Yes, we need to get rid of the mullet thing."

"Yes! Thank you!"

"I love your hair though! So thick and healthy!" He genuinely loved working with my hair—for as much smack as I talk about it, I do have lovely hair, objectively speaking. Most hairdressers have always bitched about how much hair I have. Oribe relished working with it. When I ask him which kind of hair he likes to work with, he says, "I love all hair!"

I start with questions about Versace and the 90s. Ask him what that era was like. And it was magical for him too; Gianni was a doll, he says. And one of the most brilliant couturiers. I ask if he remembers the FIT exhibit and he does. He thumbs through the book a little and muses, almost as an afterthought, that he did pratically all of the girls' hair in that book. In fact, he volunteers, he still works a lot with the Versace clan and recently went to Donatella's birthday. He loves the entire family, raves about how nice they are. I've actually never heard anything bad about them. My only interaction has been with Santo's daughter Francesca, years ago, but she was a doll, wearing jeans from the Gap and comfortable chilling at my apartment in L.A. with Lee Ann and me.

Anyway, so he still does Versace campaigns. And lots of Vogue covers. (Too bad the VOGUE banner covers the hair on each issue!) But what he's doing hair for and whose hair it is seems to matter little to him; it's the hair he loves. Which is why Oribe is an artist and revolutionary. He's in love with his job. I ask him which is funner, editorial, runway, regular haircuts? He just loves it all.

So we agree on bangs and cutting off the mullet, but beyond that I'm game for whatevs. (Dad was SHOCKED I relinquished any control.) So he starts cutting. The Versace book is perched on the table with his equipment. The cover shot is this:


And this is the the interior page I'd ear-marked for him to sign.
In the back of both our minds, I planted the seed for the haircut without even thinking about it. The more the cut took shape, the more Oribe it became. His signature is all over his work. Oribe is no shrinking violet. He is the undisputed king of Big Hair. Even when big hair isn't in, if Oribe does it, it's in.

I tell him that pre-chemo I was your typical UES Jap-head—stick straight, no bangs, long layers. "So I have no idea how to style my hair now. It was always wash and go."

"I think the bigger the better! I think with your cheekbones you can go BIG or you can slick it back and be sexy or you mess it up. I just did Posh and put a piece in to make it BIG and it looks great!"

"Wait, did you do THE Posh?!"

Nooo. He did the correction;)

"I want you to come back before you have it straightened! I want to see your hair natural! And don't ever let anyone use a razor on your hair ever again, okay?"

So he cuts and I talk and drool and fawn and die. He cuts it wet, then blows it, then they flat-iron it. Then he sees how it's shaping up and cuts again, dry.

After the wet cut:





Flat-ironing it before he cuts it dry
The dry cut



After we finish, Oribe runs off with the Versace tome to find a pen to autograph it with.

He returns and shows me excitedly several photos of Christy, pointing. "This is how you should do your hair! Make it big, messy. Look at this! It's perfect!"
You can see me looking at Hemley like, "Is this seriously happening?"


God, why can't I just squeeze him into my Balenciaga and tote him home with me?


More post- shots TK from Tomas. I'm already emotionally drained from trying to capture all the dialogue, much of which is classified information that I'm not even going to touch on . . . I will post photos from tonight over the weekend.

Long live fashion, the arts, inspiration and creative mavericks. I'm so happy to report that the first 'idol' of mine I've met is indeed worthy of worship; a true artist who takes immense pleasure in his craft. Not for fame or money or glory, but because, as his bio states and as he proved to me: because he loves what he does.

We should all be so lucky. Oh, and he's happy to be the ending of my book. I cleared it with him. And I told him that I'm quoting him on my book jacket saying: "I just loooove your hair!"

I DIE

Words cannot even—yesterday was so beyond. It occurred to me on the way home that I've never been in shock over a good thing. Like, I'm sure when you land that dream job, get married, have your first kid or win the lottery or something, surely these situations force you into this sort of euphoric state of pseudo-shock.

Okay, it happened. But I still can't actually believe that it did. Because another thought I had is that this was the first sort of dream-come-true moment for me in my entire life. Really? I was kind of shocked by that errant thought, but then I surmised: Yes, really.

Yesterday was my marriage proposal, job promotion, winning lotto ticket moment. An eight-carat, emerald-cut, F-color, VVS1 diamond.

For, Oribe is a gem. A lovely, humble, down-to-earth, soft-spoken, sweet, funny, wonderful, delightful and uber-talented (goes without saying) man.

I'd never met one of my 'idols.' One of those few people who entered my world at a young age and influenced my entire outlook on fashion, beauty, editorial and magazine journalism. Oribe, Gianni Versace, Anna Wintour and Dominick Dunne were on my short list since I was a teenager. I was in college when Gianni died. I was on the phone with dad yesterday, excitedly relaying my Oribe afternoon to him, when I read this news: Dominick Dunne Dies at 83.

"Holy fuck shit!"

"Jesus, what Steph?"

"Dominick Dunne died today. Oh nooooo—"

"Really, that's pretty strange. How's the weather?"

"I meet one of my idols and then another one dies? That is sooo weird."

I'm sorry, but that's weird. Dominick Dunne was a huge influence on me. Huge. In fact, It's safe to say that I aspired to be the female version of Dunne, who, for those of you unfamiliar, was the preeminate society crime chronicler, novelist and Vanity Fair columnist. Dunne had balls. Platinum balls, people. He tackled—via his numerous romans a clef including People Like Us and A Season in Purgatory—the scandalous shenanigans of the elite. People Like Us—the Bloomingdales. A Season in Purgatory—the Kennedys. Which brings us to the point that Dunne and Teddy Kennedy died on the same day. Okay, I digress.

I just uploaded all the photos Hemley took. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed trying to summarize yesterday into one post. So I'm going to collect my thoughts and let the photos tell the story for now. You're going to have to check back tomorrow to see the end result. I'll give you a hint though: I was armed with the Versace Signatures book circa 1993. (Apparently Oribe did pretty much the entire cadre of models in the book and in all the related campaigns.) It was the golden age of Versace, Linda, Christy, Naomi, Cindy and Oribe.

I think we were both teleported back to that era yesterday, as Oribe seemed to find inspiration in the cut he gave Christy Turlington eons ago. Let's just say, the former Jewfro is in the best of company. I promise a full blow-by-blow (no pun) tomorrow. And I simply must add that Oribe loved working with my hair. Told me repeatedly how great my hair was. I lit up like a schoolgirl each time. So I will no longer complain about the hair. I swear. If it's good enough for Oribe, well, duh. Ahhh.

This month's Vogue cover, next month's Vogue and Vanity Fair covers and all covers in-between. Including, perhaps, the cover of Cancer Is the New Black? I likey the sound of that!



Shampoo & condition
Deep conditioning masque
Followed by a scalp massage from this little hottie:

And Midas touching my noggin

It's actually very fitting that my session with Oribe included a run-through. There was a little confusion, so upon getting there I had to be rescheduled until tomorrow at 3 p.m. I am of course happy to go back whenever the hell he wants me.

But there I was with Hemley, putting on my makeup on in the car because it melts off your face when you venture outside in this inhuman heat. Uh, anyway. Hemley got some good "before" shots. This is the mop with me not really doing anything to it. Unfortunately, Momotaro didn't do such a great job this time, so I'm going to pop in there while in NY next month.

Primping in the car (we were several minutes early):


The snap where I realize the cut's not today.

After a night of restless sleep, night sweats, teeth-grinding and nightmares, I awoke with searing scapula pain and wired nerves: My cut with Oribe is tomorrow. Clearly, my body and mind are working together to tell me that I'm meeting one of my idols tomorrow and am more than a little anxious about it.

Arguably, even though you guys may not completely get it, this is one of the most significant milestones of my life. Even without the Cancer factor—can one of my influential media readers get in touch with the AP Stylebook editors and tell them we've decided Cancer deserves a capital C?—this would still be a defining moment.

In short, I'm a complete hot mess. Physically, preparations are fairly simple: do nails, tweeze, shave, eat light today, etc. But wardrobe? Fuck. Right now I'm thinking a simple white shirt with jeans, accessorized to the tee. Potentially, these photos could end up in a real magazine—if I get my shit together and bother to pitch, which I haven't done since J-school—but at the very least one of them will end up framed.

I can't believe I'm this nervous. I thought landing a meeting at Conde two years ago was my Mary Tyler Moore moment. But even riding the same elevator as Anna pales to this.

Moreover, I'm getting tired of having to explain to my local friends who Oribe is. What's wrong with you people? How can you grow up in Miami and not know one of the only—if not the only—fashion legends in your midst? I mean, I'm almost insulted for him. Seriously. Aside from Bruce Weber's omnipresence at Joe's and Prime 112, fashion-wise, it's all about Oribe. My God, my stomach is in knots. This is no joke. My clinically-diagnosed—by L.A. psychotherapist and MB psychiatrist—'fear of success' seems to be rearing its head at the worst possible moment.

Klonopin scrip is getting filled today. In fact, I think I'll go now so I can make all my preparations sans-scapula pain and wildly zig-zagging brain activity.

Oh God, I just went back to his Web site and started tearing up when I saw his Versace campaign from the heydey.

At the root of this, natch, is the fact that this is a pretty little ending with a bow on top to the story I've been telling for the past few years. Meaning, I now have the beginning and ending of the memoir done. Now it's all about editing the middle. Everything's written. Three-hundy pages of words waiting for me to edit.

Shit! I cannot locate my original copy of Gianni's South Beach Stories, but I've got the Versace Signature book of his FIT exhibit—where I infamously cried and embarrassed Meredith—which I will have him autograph. Jesus, I've never been this verklempt over meeting someone, ever. And I've met lots of interesting people in my life.

Ayayayay. More TK. I'm going to the gym to release some of this energy. Look for a Tasmanian Devil whirling around Collins Ave in Nike shorts. With an untamed mop of hair for the last time ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oribe Friday, August 21. I die. I mean, really?!?! Talk about full circle. I'm going to be so freaking nervous.

I get the permanent veneers put on that day; the receptionist assures me my gums won't be irritated. As, Tomas is photographing—yay!—and so is Laura—yay! I'm getting the butterflies just thinking about this. Breathe. Lots of yoga this week. Like every fucking day!

I think I'm suffering for yoga withdrawal, which I know makes me sound insufferable, but whatever. I've found that yoga is like the one hour where my mind goes blank and all my focus shifts to keeping my balance—a hefty feat for a completely uncoordinated, klutzy fuck like me.

I'm readjusting to civilian life still and I'm amazed to say that the temporary teeth have stayed on for a week now, though last night I accidentally bit into a Milky Way with them and felt the pesky one shift. I've taken to just walking around with my mouth agape so I don't clench my jaw and grind. God. Okay, so my date with Oribe is tentatively scheduled for a week from Friday. The day I get my veneers.

Imagine my delight when a little angel delivered this to me Monday:



I die. Now that's what I call recycling. So I did what any good product whore would do. I gave them their own special shelf above my tub so I can gaze at them lovingly and marvel at their gorgeous, glamorous packaging.
Uh, excuse the photography. For some reason I did this with my phone. Probably cause I was in such a tizzy upon receiving these. There is a reason I worship this man. And how many products do you know that have humorous instructions?

This I-can't-wait-to-try 24k Gold Pomade reads: "Sleek back you hair with super-rich gold highlights for instant lustrous glamour. Excellent for use on pleasure craft, in convertibles or anywhere a little 24-karat seduction is needed. Smooth onto wet or dry hair and style sexily. Add string bikini and dark glasses."

I'm glad I got that white, Cosabella string bikini. Not that I have any illusions about walking around the beach in a string bikini with gold hair. As if I'd actually walk in public in a string bikini. (Another pro-private-beach trait.)

You guys know I don't endorse products I don't use or don't love, with that caveat . . . These products are a-fucking-mazing. Seriously, they totally work in this weather. Yesterday I actually took the time to shower after the gym and brought with me the shampoo, conditioner, styling cream and anti-humidity spray. It is so hot here I can not even begin. Despite the Jap straightening, the hair still frizzes.

(And oh yeah, I had to look good for my three-month post-Herceptin/treatment check up with Dr. Schwartz. CBC and physical good. Ca 153 and 125 bloodwork will be back Friday. Incidentally, Schwartz said that Norton says that Vitamin D has been conclusively linked to being a great preventative tool for breast cancer. Like, really. I don't do vitamins except the folic acid for hair growth. I will get the D today along with my controlled substances at the pharmacy. I digress.)

So, back to what really matters. The hair—I used all four products, spraying the anti-humidity one on last. The hair did not frizz all-day. Despite me sitting out in the 100-degree—speaking of, why isn't there a key on my Mac for the degree symbol?—heat with Alexis.

Maybe I will experiment with the gold pomade later. Though it may be lost on Wally and the TV. I could always wear it to yoga. Nobody would think that weird. It's South Beach. There was this real queeny gay in my class the other night wearing only Speedos. I'm not kidding. Speedos, only. Seriously.

TattJew

I finally have the date after which I will be ineligible to be buried in a Jewish cemetary: The nipple tattooing is set for August 31st. Woot fucking woot. (I blame 26-year-old Laura for putting that expression into my vernacular.)

They're still hairy, okay? I don't look at them much but I happen to be typing this topless, since I just walked to Whole Foods in the 90+ degree, stifling heat and humidity. And I just looked down to check the hirsute state of the aureolae, for you, dear readers. But we're hoping—Dr. Rosenbaum and I—that the tattoo will kill the gnarly hair follicles. (Do regular tattoos kill the hair growth in the area though? I don't think so. . . .) Anyway, I like that it's set for August 31, mentally and physically enabling me to make a completely fresh start in September.

Since getting back from three weeks on the beach, I've been less than enthused about being back here. Like maybe I need to be elsewhere for a few months. I dunno. Does Manhattan count as a sabbatical? Or do I have to go somewhere in the Third World. Kidding. For a while, medical obligations were one of the things keeping me here. But now I'm healthy, I'm single, I look like myself again, feel good and moreover, feel ready to be back in the big pond. Anyway, in abstract terms I'm kind of pondering a few months in the city—so if anyone would be into an apartment swap or something nifty like that, holler. Or even a sublet or whatever.

It would be during 'high season' here too. Maybe October, November and December. My furs are collecting dust and that's just not kosher at all.

So tomorrow is my three-month checkup with Schwartz. It's been more than three months since I finished Herceptin/had bloodwork. Seems the checkup protocol is perhaps six months, but I don't see why I should wait. I also have my consult with Mesko, the non-plastic surgeon. Kind of don't know why I'm going to see him, but whatever.

More photos of the beach and my first weekend back in Miami. And I can't believe that for the first time in my life I am actually missing Jacksonville. You didn't hear it from me.

This was one of my favorite houses on A1A in Ponte Vedra.

From the balcony

All three dogs decided to roll around in a big pile of shit so mom and I improvised—I ran into the shower, grabbed my Sephora shower gel and we scrubbed the shit out of them with the outdoor hoses.

Typical 3 p.m. thunderstorm rolling in:


Mom and dad on their last night at the beach house, still holding hands—and red wine—after 38 years of marriage. Can you imagine?

Friday night back in South Beach, I took Ben to Gigi Levangie Grazer's book party for her new tome, Queen Takes King at the W.


Actually really liked the W, as did Ben, a married man now.
Lobby of the W


And from the W we went to 8 oz in our hood and, unfortunately, I was reminded that I am still in Florida: Note the rat tail on the side of that guy's head at the bar. Seriously? Maybe I should bring this snap in to see Oribe? I don't care if the 80s are back—please, people, just stop the madness.

Note that my Japanese-straightened hair fucking frizzes down here. I'm so in need of Oribe it's not even funny. In fact, I should shut up about the above guy cause pretty soon I'm going to have a whole head of rat tails.