I woke up yesterday afternoon, read my rejection email and crawled back into bed. I haven't had that don't-want-to get-out-of-bed feeling in a while. I called Beau, told him what had happened. He consoled me. I promised to shake it off and get out of bed. I fell asleep again. He called and woke me up.

"Alright, you think your morning was bad? I woke up to about six SWAT guys pointing guns at my head. I didn't want to tell you cause you were already having a bad day."

That got my ass right out of bed. You all know how I love me some drama.

And no, he's not a "gangsta" rapper. It was some retarded misunderstanding, but totally Cops. They were literally pointing guns in his face, having gotten the key to his place from the bldg mgr.

One of the reasons we get along so well is that his life is as drama-filled as mine. He can match me crazy story for crazy story every day. I can't tell you who he is primarily b/c he is not divorced yet, just legally separated. Plus, I kind of like the mysterious element.

Anyway, I can't remember what I've written where—given my 3 Filofaxes, blog and book—but following is the latest.

Saturday night Dawn and I are throwing a "Bye-Bye Boobie Birthday Bash." It's her 30th and my last weekend with my own boobs. My beau is performing and we'll both be wearing this shirt, from my friend Sabrina Cohen's foundation.

Another friend, the brilliant photographic artist, Tomas Loewy, has offered to do a portrait of me while I'm still au natural. His work is fabulous, so I'm psyched about that.

My friends are the best in the world. Big shout out to all you guys. You rock.

My double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction is Friday, Feb. 15th. My family, at least six of their friends, my beau and my friends will all be in attendance. They'll be laughing it up while my tits are sliced and diced. Not that I'd expect anything less from them. Natch they'll be filming that. Assuming I don't croak, I'll pretty much be fully recovered from the operation two weeks after. In the third week I'll go to NYC to see the wig maker.

Well, I will be fully recovered aside from having no nips—I can't remember if I shared this here yet. Who wants to look at their boobs with no nips? Not me. (They don't put the nips back on until after chemo. Ick.) So I had Beau go to Hustler on Sunset Blvd. to get me some hot pasties to substitute for nipples.

"What are pasties?" he asked. He's as naive about pop culture as I am about hip hop.

I explained to him, but he still didn't get it. "Ohhhhh! You mean like Lil Kim wore?"

Ha. I LOVE that that's his frame of reference. So he got me some really cute pasties. A pair of cherries, some butterflies, among others. He picked the butterflies because the color matches my hair color. I'm really not making this up. And you all know how cynical I am about men, so if I can find a man like him, there's hope ladies.

And my fruitless search for a Playboy has ended. Beau told me last night:

"I did it! I found you Playboy! And it's perfect because it's all about Hooters girls so they have 10 centerfolds instead of just one! So you have 10 boobs to choose from."

"I have 20! Did you pick me out some nice ones?"

"Yeah actually I saw a couple that were nice."

Oh my God. And my life's not interesting?

Rejection Report

Let's see, I awoke this afternoon to find a rejection email from my former agent.

Not commercial or marketable enough. Not unique enough to distinguish it enough from other cancer memoirs.

Now, aside from the fact that publishing is a machine as commercial as the Hollywood machine, let's discuss how ass-backwards this rejection is.

First of all, be honest. Tell me it sucks and I'd have a lot more respect for you than you following the party line.

Second, third, fourth, 100th. Not marketable or unique enough? Nigga please. (I can say that now that I'm with a black hip hop artist.)

Tell me what other "cancer memoir" includes a 32-year-old hot, funny, talented, spoiled, social, well-connected, perfectionist who glides into the hospital with a gaggle of girlfriends as if it's Bergdorf's. Who is having a true love affair with a multi-platinum award-winning black musician with three kids and a soon-to-be-ex wife. Who decided to throw a party and register at Neiman's minutes after being diagnosed with BC. Who describes her upcoming double mastectomy procedure as "lopping 'em off and putting better ones back on." Who dons her best clothes and baubles for hospital visits. Who shows off her cancer hospital cards as if they're black cards. Who manages to get in with the top breast cancer expert in the world, knowing that he doesn't even take new patients. Whose trip to the fabulous Upper East Side wigmaker to the stars will be followed by a fabulous New World Symphony party and forays to 47th St. and Fifth Avenue. Whose family is as fucking crazy as the Bluths of Arrested Development. Who is looking forward to chemo because it means no shaving for four months anywhere. That's right, a painless Brazilian for four months. (Well, treatment may hurt a little, but shit, not shaving for four months? Totally worth it, right ladies?) Who called her reconstructive plastic surgeon yesterday and asked him to throw in some Botox with the pre-op consult. Who embarks with her friends on a fruitless quest for Playboy so she can handpick her new tits. (As an aside, I've been to two sex shops and every gas station and bookstore looking for Playboy. None of these motherfuckers carry Hugh's rag. Shit, I bet I can get to Hugh with no more than a few calls.) Whose Miami shrink will attend the operation—along with about 20 family and friends—and whose Beverly Hills shrink offered to fly in. Who has secured a private, VIP suite at Mt. Sinai, when they are exclusively reserved for hospital founders. Whose already razor-sharp wit is heightened after diagnosis. Whose standard answer to the "how are you" question is, "Aside from the breast cancer, I'm fabulous!" Whose beautiful beau, whilst professing his love for her says, "Breasts, no breasts, hair no hair, that's not ever going to change my feelings for you." Whose card table is littered with gifts from Neiman's and Saks. Who is seeing the bright side of chemo—no driving, no blow-drying, no shaving, losing weight and being catered to. Who has people flying in from all over the world—on private planes, natch—to care for her. Whose life was a fiery ball of drama before the BC struck.

Oh, the list goes on. You guys, my loyal readers, haven't seen anything yet.

So for the formulaic, unadventurous agents out there: It's cool. In 6 months roll up the New York Times Magazine with my photo on the cover and smack yourself on the head with it.

One of you gave me the name of lit agent Kate Garrick a while back. I think she's someone's relative or friend; I'm thinking it was a reader in Virginia maybe?

(Aly I know you gave it to me yesterday too. . .)

Anyway, whoever it was, please get in touch again and remind me what the connection is.

Cindy P. is it you? Short term memory loss. But I need to get this fucker in the hands of someone before my tit surgery next Friday in case I like die. Which is a distinct possibility. In which case, I'd be able to go in peace knowing that my main mission in life, to publish a book, has been accomplished. Cause I know my mother ain't going to know how to find my manuscript and go to 49 different publishers like John Kennedy Toole's mama. My mom doesn't even know who Bob Marley was for Christ sakes.

The private jet thing ain't happenin before next Friday, but if I hustle and if I find a BRILLIANT, tenacious, ballsy agent who works as fast as I do, well then that's good enough for me.

I'm PMSing so hardcore right now and I just had to drive my beau up north, which should have taken 1/2 hour and instead took an hour thanks to these FUCKING IDIOTIC GODDAMN SOUTH FLORIDA DRIVERS WHO CLOG UP 95 FOR AN HOUR JUST TO RUBBERNECK. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE. JUST KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD IN FRONT OF YOU AND LET THE GODDAMN PIGS DO THEIR FUCKING JOBS.

I was so pissed I flipped off about 10 cars, including a cab driver who pulled in front of me on Alton. He made the mistake of pulling up next to me and rolling his window down. So he got the finger plus the added bonus of a "FUCK YOU!" You guys should see how these cabbies drive down here. They make NY cabbies look like freaking Einstein.

FUCKING PMS. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Being a woman fucking sucks sometimes. Am I right ladies?

Sneak Preview

An offer to my loyal (and well-connected readers): Email me at stephgreen17@gmail.com with the name of a top lit agent and you'll get a sneak preview of my new book.

This memoir is based on my insanely adventurous life of late—the blog barely scratches the surface. Think Entourage meets Sex and the City meets Jungle Fever, with the added bonuses of cancer and a love story between this Jewess and a world renowned hip-hop artist. With dashes of fashion, jewelry, nightlife, sex, love, Manhattan, South Beach and the usual craziness that characterizes my stranger than fiction existence.

Well, my fate is now resting in other people's hands at the moment. Career-wise and personal-life wise too.

The second book proposal is out. Friends and family seem to love it, not that they're unbiased.

But I actually believe in this project, so even if the publishing world doesn't dig it, I will self-publish this sucker.

Anyway, if you guys think I'm crazy, check out this dude.

Haute Hospital

potty mouth?! I'm just glad it wasn't Aunt Stephie who taught him the most impt word in the English language.
Well, Jon, I can't reveal the identity of my new love. He's actually a pretty famous entertainer. Yeah, can you believe? Dish has the dish and she's not talking. That's how you know it's real.
Big shout out to my Godson Kobi, who has uttered his first four-letter word, much to the amusement of us all. He started at the top too. He's entered the mimic stage, so next time Daddy is sure to spell out F-U-C-K instead of saying it. Oh, I can't wait till I'm in public with Kobi and he says FUCK instead of HI. One can only hope. Kobi loves to get down with the guitar players on Lincoln Road.


And, drumroll please, the long-overdue photos from my lumpectomy Dec. 3. About 24 hours before I was labeled with the big BC.
Dana and I usually give each other the finger in lieu of less creative greetings.

I don't really get why you can't wear makeup to be operated on. How does anyone meet cute doctors in the ER?

When is a high fashion designer going to tackle hospital gowns? Can't we get a cinched waist or something? Project Runway, the Cancer Chic episode?

No diamonds, no gold, no Cartier, no manicure. Again, why is jewelry an impediment to surgery? Also, my first of MANY tres tres chic hospital bracelets. Perhaps at the end of this journey I could have Landsberg dip one of them in platinum. . .

Kobi making me beautiful post op. Never mind that it's Wally's brush.

Some people laugh all the way to the bank. I laugh all the way to the ER. And then the drugs kick in and I laugh some more. Of course Dana being behind the camera saying, "Smile you fuckmunch" may have something to do with that. Hmm, wonder why Kobi already has a potty mouth.

My friend Schuman just had a brilliant breast suggestion: Angelina Jolie. What do we think? My double-mastectomy and reconstruction surgery is booked for the 15th.

Lop em off, put new ones on in the same day. Talk about customer service.

And I just spoke to the wig guru, so it looks like a mini-NYC trip is in order for the next couple weeks and again the week after I begin chemo, so he can, um, shave my head. Ick.

All you need is love. . .And new tits

I can finally, finally confess that I'm madly in love. And for once it's not one-sided. I can say, with complete confidence, that my soul mate has fallen out of the sky. So much so that I'm rethinking my atheism.

Yes, it's fucked-up timing. But in a way, it's divine. I have a true partner—in addition to my uber-supportive network of friends and family—to fight the BC battle with me.

He doesn't care that I'll be bald. Or nipple-less for four months. (It's really disgusting, but they have to wait to put the nipples on the implants until chemo is done. Lovely, huh?) Actually, I don't think I've told him about the nipples, but he won't care. He loves me for me, craziness and all. He actually seems to find my neuroses endearing.

He is hands down, one of the most spectacular people I've ever met. He's not Jewish, he's not a businessman, he doesn't come from my world, and I could give two shits. This control freak is completely out of control and loving it.

I always thought I'd get breast cancer. I'm oddly intuitive about weird things. But I never, ever thought I would find a love like this.

The book is now on autopilot. If only there were an invisible hand to actually sit and type for me.

And another thing, since I'm on my high horse today. Something like this really shows you who your true friends are. Many have come out of the woodwork, including many of you and other 'strangers.' And then there are the 'friends' you've had your whole life, or for a very long time, who you know know about the BC, but who haven't even bothered to call or email.

For shame on you so-called friends; you know who you are. You showed me your true colors and I've taken notice. And there are, unfortunately, a lot of you who fall into this category. Former college friends, NYC friends, former coworkers and former mentors. Karma's a bitch people. I hope when YOU get cancer you are surrounded by people of better stock than yourselves.

I am pleased to report however, that every single one of my lifelong MOT friends have been outstanding. Just goes to show you that what I've said about my core crew is true—they are a great bunch and I'm lucky to have been raised amongst such love. Even if it was in Jacksonville.

Cancer Couture

I've just snipped a lock of my hair to send to the wig maker to the stars on the Upper East Side. Pathetically, this was the most emotional experience I've had yet since the BC diagnosis. Crying over my appearance—big shocker.

Think of these wigs as Cancer Couture, as the wig maker will custom cut and design the wig for you according to photos.

The problem? They run about $5,000. My friends and fellow cancer girls had told me that most insurance cos cover part or all of this cost. Mine? No, natch. "Hair prostheses" are an exclusion not covered by any Humana plan. The oncologist actually writes you a scrip for a "hair prosthesis." How FUCKED is that? Jesus H.

FUCK all you insurance companies, you're as bad or worse than Big Tobacco. Fuck this ass-backwards rich country that can't even guarantee insurance coverage for the really serious shit like CANCER. Another reason to be European. Or Cuban, according to Michael Moore. Nonetheless, I will still get the wig. But this fucking cancer thing is going to bleed my poor parents dry if this insurance thing continues. I need to get in touch with Michael Moore for my documentary, if anyone has connections to him.

I'm on hold with these rat bastard insurance fuckwads right now, they have a team of cancer specialists. Fat lot of good that does you.

Anyway, the upside is that I can choose both my hair and my new tits. I'm taking suggestions of tits to copy—celebs etc. I'm not well-versed in that aspect of celebrity, but I'm sure my male readers have some ideas.

I will not go above my current size, 34C, as I want them to look as real as possible. I don't want to morph into one of those LA or South Beach bimbos I make fun of for their grapefruit tits.

UGH! My book proposal is coming along and will be ready to ship to agent next week.

My life now resembles a Jackson Pollock canvas. I'm one of the central splotches; the one that on close examination may be a Native American symbol or something else unrecognizable to the average person. It's been a long time since my art history major. The other splats: BC, tits, friends, family, hospitals, hair, pink, tits tits tits and more tits, vanity, anxiety, humor, material, books, documentaries, music. Fucking A. All of the sudden this is very real. . .I've never been a fan of reality. But in actuality, my life is more surreality.

God damnit. I'm going to the gym to blow off steam. I'm fucking pissed. Now these horrific insurance cos are going to be a whole chapter in the book. I think I'll call it FUCK HUMANA.

This is why I will not vote for a president. It doesn't fucking matter who is in the white house when they are controlled by the lobbies. The figurehead in the Oval Office is just a symbol. The bureaucracy is too powerful; this country will ALWAYS be a mess. Period. Hillary, Obama, Giuliani—all the same. Democrats, Republicans they both feast on our blood.

Did I mention that my blogger friend Mel and I met in person for the first time while I was in the city last week? We had a lovely, long, girl's lunch in the cafe in the Bergdorf Goodman men's store.

She's the first person I've corresponded with in the blogosphere who I've met in person. The media has bagged on Melissa a lot; perhaps even more than they bag on me. In actuality, Mel is a girl I would totally be friends with—funny, down to earth, cool, deep, strong and interesting.

So for those of you who look down on "socialites"—or "princesses" if it's a Jewess—bugger off. The truth is that if the lot of you didn't have to have a 9 to 5 office job, you probably wouldn't. With the exception of people like my mom who derive pleasure out of work for some reason I cannot comprehend.

Don't get me wrong, I'll always write and work. But come hell or high water, I don't EVER want to be caged in an office again. Life is WAY too short not to do what pleases you; and if that's traveling around the world so be it. If it's working behind a desk, so be it. If it's being a stay-at-home mom, a professional shopper, a gym rat, whatever, so be it. Yes, money does make things easier. It doesn't necessarily make things better.

People are either quality or they're not, regardless of their social status. That's the bottom line. Mel is quality people and I'm jazzed that we finally had a tete-a-tete.

Hope Jamaica was fab;)

A Fond Farewell to a Friend

I've often spoken of my family friends and how fantastic they are. Most of them have known me since birth. Many of them grew up with my parents and go back for generations. They are all in essence my extended family.

Last night, the first member of my extended family passed away. Eddie fought his cancer longer than the doctors predicted. Diagnosed almost two years ago, the cancer had already infiltrated most of the cells in his body.

But he was never dour; never lost his sense of humor. From the diagnosis forward he embraced life as I had never seen him do before. He went out with the crew more frequently. He laughed, he got by with the help of friends and family. He went balls out.

He lost his hair but gained his spirit. I remember mom telling me that in the midst of treatment (I think; my timeline may be skewed), he attended a legal conference out of town.

"Why did you go?" mom asked.

"Hell, I had to show everyone I'm still around!" he laughed.

That was Eddie. Wasn't going down without a fight. After I was diagnosed and before he went into hospice, I got to speak to Eddie in one of his lucid moments.

"If you ever need to talk, I'm here. You know I can relate, I know exactly what you are going through."

But he had it much worse than I do. Yet I never saw him complain or lose his humor. He will be missed greatly and remembered fondly. He and his family will always be an intricate part of my childhood. He will, of course, live on. I know many of you cannot grasp how I'm viewing BC—as a gift from above—but I get the feeling that Eddie understood.

I remembered that I recently scanned in some of the photos from my dad's college days. Eddie is pictured in both of them. All the others in the photos are still in our lives, as Eddie will be. I could call almost any one of these men and no matter what predicament I were in, they would be there. And they have been there, since my diagnosis. I haven't been able to bring myself to write all the thank you notes, but I hope you all know how much I appreciate the thoughts, phone calls, letters, concern and gifts. (I've never had so many Saks boxes.)

And since I am unable to make Eddie's funeral, I hope that his family reads this and know they are in my thoughts.

I hope these photos remind you all of the vibrant person Eddie was. Even with his eyes closed and tongue out.

Meow Mayhem

I am always drawn to these uber-fucked up apartment buildings. You'll remember my posh Upper East Side apt with the rampant mice (and more mice) situation. My first Miami apartment with my insanely noisy upstairs neighbor and the condo commandos.

And though I didn't live there, you'll all remember the riddle of the penthouse pooch.
My building at present, like my life, is tres bizarre. First of all, it's still under construction on the balconies, so I can't even open the patio in the BR or LR. And some mornings when I go to the kitchen after having awoken, I walk around in a skimpy nightgown and look out to see construction workers staring at me from my balcony.

You have to valet ALL the time. I took my car out myself with Dawn recently and was promptly chastised by the head valet. And don't even get me started on how much my Wet Wipes consumption has increased due to the number of people who manhandle my car.

The emergency intercom system erupts at random and is always false:
"There has been an emergency in your building. Please cease operations and go the lobby immediately. Do not use the elevators. I repeat: Do not use the elevators."
This happens about once a week.

Then there's the fact that the building manager is a dead ringer for Frankenstein.

Recently they moved around the furniture in the lobby. Yesterday I noticed a sign in the elevator. They are getting new furniture. If any of the residents would like a say in the decor, we are more than welcome to go shopping with them. However, we must be available during the day to go to furniture stores. WTF?!

The latest is the cherry though: A stray cat has taken up residence in the lobby. None of the building workers know how the fuck he got there and why he's still there. Frankenstein is aware of the creature. He couldn't care less. (Maybe he's really a monster.) I got home at 2 a.m. the other week and saw one of the valets carrying this cat out the front door of the building.

"Is that yours?" I asked. Language barrier.

"No. I just fed it."

Ok. Didn't think much of it, since the random, weird occurrences in my life have been snowballing lately. Copula days later, I go down to the lobby during the day and the cat is prancing around like he owns the place.

"What the hell is going on here?" I asked the doorwoman. "Why is this cat still here?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I think it belongs to one of the residents."

"Actually, one of the valets fed him a few days ago. I bet he's come back for more."

Over the next few days, the cat moves into the lobby occupying the chair in front of the computer. The doorman, building manager and the valets, for the most part seem to think a cat's presence in an upscale condo building in South Beach is perfectly normal. Mundane even. I'm sorry, but hello, what the hell is wrong with you people? Diseases! Dogs! Babies! Feces! Food! WTF?

Today my favorite doorman put him in the garage and an hour later he was back sleeping on the chair. My realtor had to see it himself to believe it.

I'm going to take a photo of the damn cat before I go to bed.

Leaving for NYC Saturday where I'll be shuttling between Sloan Kettering, Shun Lee, Bergdorf's and Barneys, Norman Landsberg and 5th. Can't wait to see my locals.

Cancer, Bergdorf's Style

Awww yeah. Thanks to an anonymous, lovely and generous family connection, yours truly has scored an appointment with the Anna Wintour of Cancer doctors. Larry Norton is at Sloan Kettering and is: The head of Deputy Physician-in-Chief for Breast Cancer Programs; Medical Director, MSK 64th Street; Norna S. Sarofim Chair in Clinical Oncology. This guy is the creme de la creme.

Infinite thanks to those who made this happen.

My resolution in 2008: To kick ass. One I know I'll keep.

Cheers to 2008!

You must, must, must run out and see 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.' From Moviefone—the NYT review was way too long—"the remarkable true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby (Mathieu Amalric), a successful and charismatic editor-in-chief of French Elle, who believes he is living his life to its absolute fullest when a sudden stroke leaves him in a life-altered state. While the physical challenges of Bauby's fate leave him with little hope for the future, he begins to discover how his life's passions, his rich memories and his newfound imagination can help him achieve a life without boundaries."

This movie, by renowned artist Julian Schnabel, is truly the most inspiring film I've seen in years. It has, in fact, inspired me to write. Starting tomorrow. Ten pages a day. No more excuses. If you have not seen this movie, go see it. No matter what you may be going through in your life, watching what Jean-Dominique Bauby overcame will make your obstacles seem surmountable. Christ, it made me feel like BC is as trivial as a cold. Not that I'm taking away from BC survivors in the least. But, it can always, always be worse.

Happy holidays to all. And now, a peek inside the 3 weeks (to the day) since my Cancer diagnosis. Please enjoy this smorgasbord of quotes from myself, my friends and family members.

D (iagnosis) Day, Dec. 4, 2007
I'm sitting at Tom's kitchen counter, receiving "the call," while someone is removing equipment from his house. I frantically phone mom, everything happening in fast-slow-motion. Come pick me up now I tell her, "And bring the Xanax. I cannot emphasize that enough."

Cut to an hour later, three Xanax having kicked in, making the whole "you have cancer" speech a little more bearable. I think I even said something like "Yeah, yeah, yeah doc, I'm on three Xanax, just spit it out."

Enter Dana, pregnant, hormonal and in shock. I'm reclining on the exam table, mom's crying and the doctor (ex-doctor, that is) is a wreck.

"What the fuck?" Dana questions all of us.

"Hiiiiiiiii. I have CANCER!"

I can still make her laugh and cry at the same time.

On the way home from that visit, in the car with Dana driving and mom in the backseat on the phone to someone:

"Yeah, she's doing amazingly well! Xanax is a wonderful drug."

Upon getting the runaround at Mount Sinai Cancer Center, despite the fact that I'd just received my cute little red "cancer card" that they give you for no apparent reason as it does nothing but get you free parking:

"Well Jesus fucking Christ, we still had to wait two hours. Clearly this card is not platinum!"

Upon hearing from the surgeon that one of my tits will be blue after some test:

"Oh gr-eeaaaaat, I'm not going to have sex for like two years!"

"Don't say that," the very handsome doctor says, "Smurfs have sex!"

Tom's email, after I told him about my bodacious blueboobs:

Subj: It's a Match!!!
My god I have found your future husband!

Upon hearing said doctor tell me that instead of getting implants I could have fat from my ass removed to make new tits (I know, eeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwwwwwww):

"What? Why? So I can have cellulite tits? I don't think so!"

On the way to the reconstructive surgeon's office with Dana and her mom Nancy. We're discussing the autism-vaccine relationship in children when Nancy bursts out:

"I think it's all the chicken eggs!"

"Huh?"

"CHICKEN EGGS!"

Waiting in the boob doctor's office, filming all the while, in front of several other patients. The three of us were cracking the fuck up. They finally called my name, and Dana, Nance and I were in hysterics; the other people were questioning our sanity.

"Pardon us," I said, "Humor is my coping mechanism."

"Clearly," Dana said. But the other women waiting laughed.

"Well?" I said to Dana, "How do you think the Jews would have persevered for thousands of years without their humor?"

A little random out of context I suppose, but when Woody Allen's Gallows humor is the main weapon in your arsenal, it's not such a far fetched concept. Ironically, that was my first doctor's appt. when I wasn't on Xanax. I'd forgot it.

Man, you should see the footage we have. CHICKEN EGGS!

FYI, CHICKEN EGGS! is the new MAJOR. If you don't know what major is, well, then you're like way too far gone to be helped, darlings.

Smurfs Have Sex Too . . .

I can't quite keep it all together, or document every nanosecond of my crazy life—having dinner with my fam and fam friends, godson and girlfriend's at a chi chi rest one minute and talking biz with hip hop friends on the way home—but let me tell you, there are some funny stories coming out of this whole cancer thing.

I think I've told you all that my bff Dana is videotaping most of our hospital visits documenting the Cancer Queens at their finest—from Neiman's to Mount Sinai. We already have enough material to pitch a show, we are all, collectively a hoot. As anyone who knows Lynn, Dana, Nance and I will attest to. Anywho, Monday I went to the Onky for a gabfest. Mom drove in and Dana was in tow. The camera was on. First I had to go to a radiologist in the same building—the mammoth Cancer Center at Mount Sinai. (Have I mentioned that every fucking time I am THE youngest patient in this cursed building???)

Christ, it's Friday and I can't even remember where I was going with the above. Basically, finally, bottom line—everyone I've consulted with is recommending a double mastectomy. That's right—I'm going to have to lop them off, then get implants. That's what they recommend when someone is (most likely) BRCA1 or BRCA2 positive.

BRCA1 and 2 are the genetic anomolies that make Ashkenazi Jewish women more susceptible to breast cancer. Now listen up ladies: 1 IN 4 ASHKENAZI WOMEN ARE POSITIVE FOR THESE GENES. THIS IS WHY IT'S SOOO IMPT TO HAVE GENETIC TESTING DONE TO SEE IF YOU HAVE THIS MUTATION. IT'S A SIMPLE BLOOD TEST. Compare that stat to 1 in 345 women in the general population.

Tres, tres freaky. So girls, get your genetic testing done, ESP if any member of your family has cancer that's not smoking-induced.

I have more funny cancer stories but I must go for therapy at Bal Harbour right now. Stat.

I am mentally and physically fine. And I want to thank all my friends and family friends SO much for all your support, encouragement and gifts. I think I'd better register before it's too late. Who knew? Cancer seems to equal another bat mitzvah!

Well, somehow we did it. Two performances in one night, shuttling from a private jet hangar to the museum of science, and a whole posse of us having to get from place to place on time. It could've had disaster written all over it, but thankfully it didn't.

Ok, so Tomas, almost got himself arrested at the airport party—it was a birthday fete for a prominent real estate developer—shooting pics of the bday boy. And there were lots of distractions. The party—in a huge hangar, with ice bars, gogo dancers, huge stage, beautiful people, performances by Prince and KC and the Sunshine Band. Toasting the bday boy were George Hamilton, James Caan and Brett Ratner. Anthony Michael Hall was making the rounds with literally 5 or 6 women in tow. Seeing Prince from 5 feet away is quite an experience. And we had three videographers to begin our experimental TV project. Let me tell you, if you think I'm a typhoon of drama in and of myself, you should see us all together.

Anywho, thanks to a great driver, a good team, lots of sweat and anxiety, we managed to make it to the hangar, back to the planetarium, and back to the hangar again without any major glitches. The planetarium show was fantastic; great crowd response and fabu debut. I, the erstwhile project manager/agent/publicist/Jewish mother to these guys, had to keep kicking hordes of people off the stage. Dawn, my friend who introduced me to Tom, was cracking up seeing me doing my thing with these guys, kicking people off stage and shit.

The one guy I had to repeatedly kick off the stage . . .

It occurred to me this a.m.—er, make that this afternoon—that I am good at this whole managing thing precisely because of the one trait that has made me a resentful full-time employee at other, more rigid establishments. I like bossing people around. I like being the leader. I like having control over situations. Hell, I like being able to kick people off the stage and have me listen. I can see why Ari Gold is such an asshole. If you're not tough with everyone, nobody listens. So I finally get to be tough. It's cool.

Check out the planetarium photos from the lovely and talented Tomas Loewy. These couple of me are tres bizarre. I somehow manage to successfully mimic a squirrel in one of them.

At the planet-arium . . .

The cool photos are Tomas's; the bad ones are mine!

At the airport party . . .




The boys, United Content Providers DVDreams and DJ Tom Laroc at work. . .

Just the facts:
Stage 2, high-grade infiltrating breast cancer. Most likely I'm a carrier of that fucked-up gene that many Ashkenazis have. Waiting on DNA analysis. Waiting on MRI. Will have to have lymph node biopsy. OYYYYYYYYYYY. WILL MOST LIKELY HAVE TO HAVE CHEMO-FUCKING-THERAPY. Can you imagine how weird jewelry will look on a baldie?

Xanax has been a Godsend, as have my family, family friends and friends. I do not know how people go through this kind of stuff without a support network. Thanks to all of you who have reached out, written and called.

The upsides are that I get to milk this Big C thing until I kick it's cliched, sick little ass. And obv. I will have a second opinion at Sloan Kettering. Followed by retail therapy at Bergdorf's. Neiman Marcus, Apple, Bal Harbour and Merrick Park have already soothed me immensly. And working with crazy musicians is a fantastic distraction.

And I feel fine. My best friend has been filming everything—from me waking up after the surgery to driving to the oncology center for the diagnosis, wherein my mom, her best friend from PB, Dana and I took over. The footage is really hilarious and we're going to keep it going.

But I'm still out every night, proceeding normally, feeling good. You know, I've always lived by the philosophy of do what you want and love because life is short. Of course now it's more of the same, but I'm going balls out.