Just Assume I'm Doped Up, Okay?

Mom, just now sitting next to me on sofa, knitting: "Boy, Cunty II is going to have her blanket sooner than any of them." Dana had her third nugget a few weeks ago—Jaylen Rose Silver. Yes, after the basketball player. Don't ask.

So, me. I am sort of indescribable. It's like deja vu with a bitter twist. I'm back (mentally) to where I was two years ago. Except it's worse. It's worse because instead of feeling like I defeated Cancer, I feel defeated; deflated; punished by the universe. And Ellie just died. And my friends in New York are suffering. And my great friend is in the hospital for major surgery and I'm wondering when did 30 become the new 80? And it's fucking BC Awareness month. And all but TWO of my Cancer Chicks in their thirties have had recurrences. All of us. There may never be a 'cure,' but can't someone, anyone figure out the why? Why so many women in their 20s and 30s are being attacked. Pollution, cosmetics, deodorant, processed food, toxic air—everything that industrialization has brought us is likely killing us. Then again, without all this technology, our care wouldn't be advanced.

And one out of eight of you ladies will get Breast Cancer, yet I cannot inspire any of my girlfriends to get mammograms? Except you Lesley, I still remember;) That—in addition to all my peeps changing their Facebook profile photo to one with me—would be the ultimate homage.

Yesterday mom and I headed to Neiman's Last Call, which was of course our default retail therapy location last time. Instead of getting that adrenaline high, I got very depressed and anxious. I'd been back there with Meredith in March, but I don't think I've been there with mom since the last Cancer. The following conversation with the employees behind the jewelry counter didn't help either:

"Excuse me, where are the good designers?"

"You mean couture? Oh, we got rid of those. The only stuff left is on those clearance racks."

I let the fact go that she'd employed the word "couture" to describe ready-to-wear, but I can't say that it didn't annoy me.

(Melnick says I need to get my anger under control so as not to raise my cortisol levels. He brought mom and I in for a free session this a.m. before we went to the PET scan.)

"What do you mean you're not carrying good designers anymore? Seriously?"

Natch, they were giving me the stink eye. "We're not getting any more couture till January."

"WHAT? Why?"

"They're sending them to the bigger stores."

Newman! I mean Sawgrass! I walked into the dressing rooms and told mom.

"Now there's really no reason to stay in Miami!" I proclaimed.

Of course we still managed to get some good deals. But I don't think I'll ever return to that Neiman's. Memories of Manolos and mastectomies and bandages and blood and rushing to the plastic surgeon because I tried on clothes the day after a major surgery and fucked up the bandages. So, I don't know, maybe Sawgrass. Or, depending on how bad the news is, Bal Harbour. I could use an every day black bag with silver hardware. Friday after Durrett and Chris dropped me off and I was alone in my apartment doped up beyond belief, I went on the Neiman's Web site and bought this snazzy little Valentino, in black. FUCK pink:



Then I forgot about this beautiful work of art. I didn't even remember until I came home today—five days later—that I'd ordered it. Hellloooo—clear cut sign I've really lost it.

My moods are kind of all over the place. I'm trying not to cry around mom; she's actually holding up much better than last time and despite a dinner with a group of 10 of my friends, she didn't tear up.

But as I was in the PET scan machine—picture an MRI type tube—for 20+ minutes that song "Lean on Me" came on. And I just lost it. What a great song to hear, but I really started crying. Because I have the most amazing family and friends in the world and I can lean on them. They want me to lean on them. I feel like I have the best support system in the world. But what does leaning on someone mean? Crying in their arms? Holding hands? I'm not a touchy feely person and I'm pretty much a private crier, except for Monday, when I was sobbing not only in Schwartz's office, but in the chemo ward to Michael, the charge nurse and the one I'm closest to. And then down to Peggy, Dr. Mesko's nurse. After two years, nobody had seen me really cry at that hospital. Not that I held it in. It was just, well, not fun, but it wasn't this scary or depressing. I was purposeful. And optimistic.

I'm sure none of this makes sense. One point five mgs of Klonopin and a Vicodin. (Like I said in the title, just assume I'm doped up while writing this week.) It's just so hard. It was so hard to allegedly "beat" it. And I never even did.

Sigh. Last night about 10 of my friends joined me and mom for drinks and dinner mostly sans Cancer talk. I wanted to hear about their drama—El Jefe sweating his exam; Laura sweating her school application etc. But it was nice and fun and I drank and barely ate and felt normal for a few hours. Tonight mom and I are chilling, watching DVRd shows, cleaning etc.

I have to tell you that although I'm optimistic/happy about so many aspects of my life—I mean, on Saturday I get to cover the Indy 300 for ESPN the magazine down on the field in the pit with all the hotties—it's nearly impossible for me to be optimistic and/or think positively today. I try to force my brain to say mantras and think positively, however, I can't quite come up with a catchy mantra conveying the message, "Please don't let it have metastasized. Please don't let it have metastasized. Please don't let it have metastasized. Please don't let it have metastasized." Any ideas?

I know that I would be so, so, so beyond fucked without my friends and family and I am grateful and thankful to no end for them—and you guys, most of whom are relative strangers—for the heartfelt support. So so so sooooo grateful I can't even tell you. They, and you guys are awesome.

Mom and Lynn (in Dr. Schwartz's office before the bad news) didn't plan on wearing the same outfit down to the Choos, but . . .

And, yeah, I got the dress I'm wearing at Neiman's yesterday;)

Cancer Hearts Me

I'm so completely out of it that I just realized I'd updated my FB status and not written here.

The enlarged lymph node is malignant. So, like, the Cancer is back. Whoopee! All I know as of today—that I can lay out in simple black and white after 3 Xanax and a chocolate heart from Berkeley—is the following:

1. Treatment protocol will most likely be two oral forms of chemo/Herceptin whatever pills. Tykerb and Xeloda. The most important thing? No hair loss.

Otherwise, like I just told Dana, "Are you fucking kidding? If I had to lose my hair again I'd be making my Bucket List." If fucking Cancer thinks it can take away my Oribe, clearly it has no idea who it's messing with, again. There are also very promising BRCA related new treatments in FDA approval stage right now. PARP Inhibitors. Schwartz was concerned after he felt me Thursday, and got in touch with Dr. Norton at Sloan already.

2. The reason docs don't tell you to go around doing self lymph node neck exams is that you can't feel them until they're, well, big enough to feel, which is fairly big.

Five weeks ago, this particularly enlarged one was not detectable to the touch. I called Chad (Acupuncturist) today, and he confirmed that despite the extensive work he did in those areas, he felt nothing either.
Meaning, the one they biopsied is the largest node, so the other ones—yes, apparently there are heaps of infected nodes in my neck—are I suppose what you would liken to microscopic somethings. Also, blood work (tumor markers) picked up nothing unusual in the tests this month.

3. We don't know yet whether it's anywhere else in the body, aka whether I'm completely fucked or not, until after doing a PET scan. The PET scan is Wednesday. We'll have the results Thursday afternoon. Mom's here; Dad is flying in Thursday morning.

4. Doc Schwartz was shocked. So, so surprised and upset, and he'd certainly never seen me cry before. Or scream or bawl or yell cliches like, "Why? I don't understand?" Pathetic, so unwriterly of me. He's always had good news for me. This is yet another 'unusual' case—would we really expect anything less from me? It's unusual that it came back on the right side, when my tumor was on the left. It's unusual that I'm fucking 34—okay, yes, I just turned 30fucking4—got it at 31 and was only Cancer-free for a year and a half. Basically, only because I was on Herceptin. It literally came back less than six months after stopping Herceptin.

I guess that I now have to accept that I'm going to be on Cancer pills for the rest of my life just like head pills. Chemo and SSRIs in the mornings along with coffee. Seroquel and Klonopin at night with Tykerb. Awesomeness. Isn't life just fucking great? Isn't it? Fucking brilliant. Happy happy joy joy, fuck you Cancer. Fuck you. Seriously, instead of a collective "Ohmmmmm," can we all just scream a big "FUCK YOU, CANCER?!"

Hey ladies—gotten your mammograms yet? No? Now what are you waiting for.

I am very sad to tell you that one of our Cancer Chicks has passed. I know many of you know who Ellie is; have perhaps read her blog This Is My Disease, or her comments on mine.

She was diagnosed Stage IV around the same time I was diagnosed Stage II. She had a different kind than me; no lumps she said. No mastectomies. Just two years of chemo and radiation hell from what I could see, so I think she's finally at peace. Never knew her in person or beyond emails, Facebook and blogs. But she affected me and some of you. And she will be missed.

Kind of a mind fuck to be writing about this—I got an email from a friend of hers that I read at about 2 a.m. last night. And as you know I'm awaiting my biopsy results tomorrow. Mom is here, but now I'm looking at the puncture wounds on my neck and kinda freaking out. What's that on the left side? That feels 'enlarged.'

I mean, WTF? How the fuck am I supposed to tell the difference between sore muscles and inflamed lymph nodes? Knots from stress or from Cancer? Huh? Big diff. Do I need to take a Bio 101 course to monitor my own health forever? Why wasn't I told to give myself lymph-node exams? Why don't you put that on your pink ribbons and commercials, Komen?

Why didn't my doctors tell me to be concerned about this?

Mom is here, passed out on the couch, while I'm rapt watching "My Monkey Baby" on TLC. Yeah.

ESPN/Indy/Izod day and night was beyond. Lots of fun stuff, but you guys know I can't think of anything now but the potential of the Big C entering my life again.

So now it's time for another Xannie and people who raise monkeys (and dress them) like children.

It's Either Cancer or Nothing; No Biggie

Yesterday, interior, hotter-than-George-Clooney-oncological gyno notices something before he even prods the v-jay-jay.

"What is this on your lymph node?" He points out a bump/mass/cyst on the right side of my neck on the lymph.

"What the fuck? Are you serious?"

I felt it. Squishy, pudgy, moving around, visible to the naked eye and hands. Why hadn't I felt this? Or Chad, who does plenty of work on that area. Or the physical that Schwartz gave me merely six weeks ago? I suppose because it wasn't there six mos ago.

Natch, I freak the fuck out and can't even concentrate on why I'm there—to discuss removal of ovaries. Which—another fabu thing to look forward to—should apparently come out ASAP, since I don't want kids.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Dr. Hottie says compassionately. "You're seeing Schwartz tomorrow so just have him look at it."

"No, dude, you have no idea how I operate," practically jumping off the table naked. "I've got to see Schwartz now. I'll run down the hall to see if he's still there." It's like 5 p.m.+

"Wait, wait, I'll call him."

"Okay."

Tear off the gowns, begin feeling lump obsessively. Run down the hall to Schwartz's before Tangir gets back into the hallway. Tear into the nurses station—they're used to my antics. They're already on the phone talking about me.

I corner one of my lovely nurses:

"Jaunita, feel this, feel it please."

I tear back down the hall, where Tangir is amusedly waiting for me. "I called him. He's on 8 Main. He will wait for you and examine you there."

I arrive on 8 Main—the VIP wing where I had my room after the mastectomy. Head to the nurses station where all the docs are filling out their reports. Hot, youngish doctors—where have they been? I get distracted watching them and wait for Schwartz to finish his reports.

Schwartz calms me down a little. Says it's probably nothing but Mesko needs to do an ultrasound and needle biopsy to make sure. He calls Mesko right away; the nurse calls me back at 7 p.m. last night to tell me to come in tomorrow. I mean, is my team great or what?

Cut to today, int Mesko's office, with Durrett behind the sheet [back in the closet] so as not to see the ladies.

"Well," Doc says while jellying up my neck and doing his thing. "You actually have a lot of lymph node enlargements."

"Meaning?"

"I'm concerned. Someone with your history, yes I'm pretty concerned."

They do the needle biopsy right there, with their Biopsy Gun that feels like a staple shooter going into your neck. Mesko is a very cut-and-dry surgeon. Not an alarmist, but veeerrry hard to read/break down his walls.

So, what? Should I be freaking the fuck out? Bequeathing my jewelry?

"We won't know until Monday and whatever it is we'll take care of it."

"I'm not doing chemo again. I'm not." No fucking way is my Oribe hair going anywhere.

Next, over to Schwartz. "Well, yes, I'm concerned. But it could be a million things. Normal people get these all the time from infections, colds, viruses etc."

"I haven't had a virus, is it possible I have one I don't know about and could just put myself on anti-biotics?"

"Well, yeah, but then you'd have to wait for them to work. This way we'll know Monday afternoon."

Worst-case scenario: Remove lump either radiate the area of take a pill that is the follow-up to Herceptin.

Monday, Monday, Monday—more than 48 hours and how many Klonopins and Seroquels? I'll be texting Melnick to see how many I can take before I become Heath Ledger. So, Monday—either I'm still Cancer free or I'm Cancer-fucked. And natch, yes, I DO think I jinxed myself by boasting of my healthiness, my perfect boobs, my hair.

Fuck you Cancer. Kiss my neck, my ass, my titties, my ovaries and wherever else it is you think you're going. Fuck you. I hate you. You bite.

On the plus, plus, plus side I'm on assignment for ESPN the magazine all-day tomorrow covering this Indy racing/Izod partnership event at the W. So I get to be the girl running around interviewing these famous (hopefully sexy and sweet) fast drivers. I love being out in the field reporting; so much funner than working at home. And ooh, since I'm in need of major retail therapy, I think I just may need a casual chic dress for manana.

So, yes, Bible beaters pray to Jesus for me, my Jews are praying at temple tonight and my spiritualists, send me some good thoughts to India and back.

And I know you guys want to tell me it's nothing, but I freak out about that and think I'll be jinxed, so you can just find a synonym for that word when you comment.

Have you gotten your mammograms yet? Do it before you'll need a needle biopsy, PET scan, Jewish mother driving in to hold your hand and whatever. You know the drill. xoxo

Breastesses, Bitches!

Hey bitches. I've just returned from a Carolina Herrera fashion show (brill), which I'll discuss later. Since today is the first day of BC Awareness month, and I've pledged to launch my own grassroots-get-your-mammograms at 35 or younger campaign, I thought the best way to get you guys serious about this is to take you back in time through my story.

This post was written Nov. 6, 2007—less than a month before I was diagnosed—December 4, 2007. As you can see, 'thinking it's nothing' to diagnosis of Stage II, high-grade infiltrating Breast Cancer happened in less than a month. The Cancer was so aggressive that I began to feel the (then tiny) lump in late August—I was 31. THIRTY-ONE YEARS OLD, PINK-RIBBON-AGE-40 PROPAGANDISTS, and by November it had reached Stage II. So yes, be worried. You may not feel it, but that doesn't mean it ain't growing, forming, swimming microscopically or whatever.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Breastesses

I've been debating on whether to divulge this information to the public. And I've decided to only because I think it's important for women to know about. This is not a ploy for sympathy by any means. And I haven't even gotten any retail therapy out of it—ahem, mother.

A few months ago, I found a lump in my boob while in the shower. I had just had my annual exam the previous month and the biatch didn't find anything suspect. I kept putting off going to the doctor, but with the constant bombardment of BCA month stuff, I finally bit the bullet. It's a nasty old thing—mushy, moves around and right where the underwire of my bra hits. Instinctively I didn't think it was a big deal—it's not hard or round or stagnant. Whatever. Long story short, 2 klonopins and a best friend and godson in tow, I saw the doc. He did an ultrasound, found the "mass"—isn't that a comforting term?—and thought it looked okay. You know the doctors and malpractice, they really won't tell you anything definitive.

Yesterday I had to go for a diagnostic mammogram in the Mt. Sinai Cancer Center; I was not comforted by the fact that I was by far the youngest person in the entire building. I had a series of mammograms done; like six total I think. This time it was Xanax—I have major white coat syndrome and find it impossible to go to a doc sober without having a panic attack. So the radiologists read the thingys, and they say the same fucking thing as the first doctor. "Well, you definitely have a mass on your breast." No fucking shit, biatch, I can feel the damn thing. However, apparently ultrasounds and mammos must be done; the mammography was to rule out any other suspicious spots. There were no others.

Now the next step is a biopsy, wherein I will have the doc remove the cyst or whatever the fuck it is. They won't truly know whether it's CANCER until after the biopsy. But, shit, if I'm going under and there's a long recovery time, these girls are getting lifted too.

Here's the thing ladies, I have NO history of BC in my family. I am 32 years old. That BS you always hear about starting mammos at 40? Not true. You should have your first one at 35 and then yearly ones at 40. I don't think everyone knows that.

The main result of all of this is that I am not sleeping well and popping benzos like Tylenol. Oh, and I've also made my things to do before I die list. This a.m. I looked in the mirror and I have the most hideous, darkest bruise I have ever had on the side of my rib cage where they jammed my left tit into the damn machine.

When I was in the first doctor's office with Dana, completely fucked up, I made her do the medical Q&A while I interrupted the cute, single, Jewish doctor with vanity questions.

"If it's what I think it is, you can just leave it in there forever."

"Doc, I'm single. The last thing I want is some guy feeling me up and feeling that."

"You're going in for a biopsy, you're taking this nasty thing out. And can you do a lift while you're at it?

Anywho, please forward this post to all your 30-ish friends and tell them to start getting mammos at 35; earlier if they have cancer in the family.

I will keep everyone posted. And seriously, don't feel sorry for me. I've done more in my 32 years than most people have in a lifetime.

Even though I didn't get to go to Fashion Week, it's coming to me! I didn't realize (aka read all my press releases carefully enough) that tomorrow at the Jackson Memorial Foundation’s Guardian Luncheon Carolina Herrera is showing her entire collection. As in, everything that was in New York. And it's going directly from here to Paris. Ooh la la. I cannot wait! But, fuck—I really need daytime chic work wear. Seriously. When work involves these kinds of things in Miami, you tend to run through dresses fast. Yay to New York fashion and jeans and winter and coats and fur—yes, furrrrrrrrrrr—and boots and tights and oh I just love New York in the winter. But I digress.

Went to the Herrera boutique opening at Bal Harbour tonight and Carolina was surrounded by cameras. It was like watching TMZ on Robertson Blvd. It was so packed with pappers that a reporter from the AP interviewed me. Because she spotted Lisa and me taking photos of Carolina. Wanted to know why I thought Carolina was being treated like such a celebrity with all the people wanting to take photos of and with her.

"Uh, yeah, we're just taking photos of her cause we're loser fashionistas who love her."

So then I had to explain my 'theroy' about why Carolina was being treated like such a celeb here, in Miami. Kind of threw me for a loop and,
uhhh, I should've kept my mouth shut. I'm hoping that I do not see my name in an AP story tomorrow. Bad Veuve, bad bad!

So here's the deal—Conde Nast could basically sue my balls off for reprinting an article of theirs in its entirety. However, I think the first couple of paragraphs will light a fire in your boobies.

Here you go:

"Screen Test"
by Elizabeth Weil
Vogue
September, 2009.

Subhead: As we learn more about breast cancer, doctors are increasingly debating: What's the best age to start getting mammograms.

It's October once again. Breast cancer month. We've been invited to cook for the cure (pink KitchenAids), work out for the cure (pink Everlast boxing gloves), and shop for the cure (pink products galore). Since public-health campaigns began coloring October pink nearly 25 years ago, they've done a phenomenal job of raising awareness—and anxiety. We've convinced ourselves, and our doctors [S-I-fucking-C. Have you ever been to convince a doctor of anything in his or her field of expertise? Please.], that we need to use every tool in the medical aresenal to defeat this scourge. While the proactive approach seems logical, it is really best for all women? Perhaps the smartest thing we can do this year is to slow down and reconsider some basic assumptions, including: Should all 40-something women get annual mammograms?


This issue has been hotly debated among doctors and policy-makers for years and currently sits at the core of the health-care conundrum as it raises the critical question: Do screening tests do more harm than good? In the case of mammograms for women in their 40s with average risk, that answer may be yes.

Unreliable Sources

Since I've blindly loved Vogue for most of my life, imagine my disappointment in its October "Breast Cancer Awareness" story.

Frankly, I'm beyond pissed at the constant, unmitigated dissemination of erroneous, life-threatening information by *my* industry's most widely read publications. Enough is enough.

Let me tell you guys not in the media that all big publications—including the tabs—have employees in charge of fact-checking. After reading this piece in Vogue, I'm wondering where their team got the weed they were smoking when they fact-checked this one. They don't have a health editor. So, what, the beauty editor top edits the health pieces. Please, God I hope not.

And when I get enough time, yes, I'm going to line-edit Elizabeth Weil's story and show you guys how a responsible reporter works. Yeah, that's right—I'm acknowledging the fact that I'm a good reporter. It only took a decade of therapy and surviving Cancer to utter such an un-self-loathing comment, so don't hate.

But, I'm sure you're asking, 'How can she possibly do this and insult Vogue when she aspires to work for them? Because the point of an editor, in my opinion is to improve upon whatever it is you're working with. Plus, Vogue = fashion, not health. And the Health and Fitness section is quite clearly an afterthought for them. When Joanne Chen was there, it actually mattered. *She* knew her shit. I'm still on Vicodin, so I may read this when lucid and take it down. Get it while it's hot (aka before I edit)!

This is my Facebook status today, after I awoke at 3 p.m. thanks to having to pop Vicodin for my Breast Cancer pain. I was 31 when I got it. Would've been dead by 33 had I not found the lump. Seven years before Vogue suggests we have our first mammogram.

Stephanie Green

is furious after reading Elizabeth Weil's "Screen Test" BC Awareness story in Vogue. I will be correcting the factual errors point-by-point in a later blog. Vogue, I *worship* you, but your researchers and fact checkers should be canned. You are, with this story, perhaps costing women their lives, not saving them. Thirty-five, 35, 35 years old you need your first mammogram for fuck's sake!!!

There are lots of informative comments from fellow breast cancer queens, but I don't want to make theirs public. One of whom is Stage IV at age 35, okay? (Yeah, Ms. Weil, tell her to get her first mammogram at 40. I fucking dare you.) Forty years old is a LIE. Period! Arm yourselves ladies—your health is in your own hands. Smush your boobies to save your life!

They don't have the article on their web site. I will try to find tomorrow or Sunday online.

I highly encourage all of you who are affected by this story to write letters to the editor.

E: talkingback@vogue.com
But, I say bombard 'em with snazzy snail mail! If I know my readers, I know you've got oodles of John L. Strong to spare!

Letters, Vogue Magazine
4 Times Square
NY, NY 10036

Come on thirtysomethings, let's announce *our* presence in the Breast Cancer community! We're young, we're cool, we have Cancer. Get over it.

Oh and let's not forget about my neighbor. I live in what would be the New York equivalent of a white glove building West of Third on the Upper East Side, okay? And this is my neighbor!

Sic to the whole ESL paragraph, obv.

"Unit XXX, according to bentley bay residents,is a homosexual brothel with a small methaamphetamine lab, hence electricity is being stolen from the hallway to power a generator to produce the meth. The sixth and seventh floor's should be careful of any chemical contamination. The other night our president, Mr. Alan Tempkins, caught Emmanuel XXX (unit XXX) digging in the garbage of the Bentley Bay. Mr. Emmanuel XXX tried to take the old computer of Mr. tempkins after Mr. tempkins caught Emmaunel XXX dumpster diving.It was bizarre to say the least."

Yeah, bizarre. That's the word. Seriously, this city is SUCH a joke! I heard, from other sources, that his maid felt funny after working for him, went to the doctor and tested pos for meth. Additionally, the construction dude who used the corner unit on my floor as an office, went into Emannuel's apt and saw him brewing something in the bathroom. Then recanted his story, with rightful fear of meth heads coming after him.

Why couldn't it have been a grow house instead?

"Crapula Scapula," Take 666

Can the director please yell "cut!" I'm begging.

I know I owe a ny report, but I am in serious pain.

I'm on two Vicodins, so likely this post will make little sense.

The scapula started acting up again a couple of weeks ago, probably a combo of stress and over-yoga-ing. (Dumb, dumb girl.) When I landed in nyc, it magically cleared up. Meaning, the stress/psychosomatic part of it was kosher. I was home, in the city I love, and I'd made the right decision to go back, cool. Stress-caused pain gone for a day!

But it was a very emotionally taxing trip. Natch, I was PMS crazy woman hormonal. I can't wait to get rid of my ovaries if it will spare me PMS. I don't even know what the intention of this post was aside to bitch about Cancer. About how just when you think you're out, it pulls you back in. About how I wept in temple on Saturday like a baby. About how you always have survivors' guilt.

I went to temple on Saturday in New York. It was thanks to this temple that I was introduced to Dr. Norton at Sloan. I have to be vague about this, but basically I went there on Rosh to pay my respects to the family responsible for, well, quite possibly saving my life. Crazy for me not to realize that this would be an emotional experience, not a la-dee-da people-watching session. Although Mayor Bloomberg was sitting a few rows behind me.

Anyway, I'm saving the more lucid parts of this story for the book. But I found myself standing up during the Mourners' Kaddish (sp? too fucking lazy to spell check), despite the fact that I couldn't think of anyone I specifically knew who died. But I know that some of my readers are dying. And that friends of friends or friends relatives are dying, so I felt I should stand.

I'm fucked up. Can't write anymore.

This is my latest FB update: Finds it verrry suspect that the phrase I coined as the name of my memoir, "Cancer Is the New Black," ended up in Gigi Levangie Grazer's new book. With like one degree of separation, the question is will I need my intellectual property lawyers on retainer again? I'm just sayin. . . .

I'm wondering what you guys think of that. I mean, had you ever heard that expression before reading me? Seriously, I'm asking cause I don't know what to think. She's quite clearly famous, but there are many connections.

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