Let it Flow, Let Yourself Go

I am strong. I am invincible. I am WOOO-MAAAAAAAN.

I got my period! Hell. Fuck. Yeah. I'm a woman again from the waist down. From the waist up, still a cyborg. Tampons and no more water weight here I come!!!

Fabulous Fundraising!

Woo-hoo! Surpassed my $1,000 goal by $2.77. For 10 days that's not bad right? This fundraising thing is kind of fun. Oy, I get more like dad every day.

Hey guys, one day left before the big Stand Up To Cancer telethon. I've nearly met my goal of $1,000, my biggest fundraising effort ever. Okay, my first fundraising effort on my own.

When you donate, don't forget to "assign" your donation to team Dishalicious.

Many of you readers have generously donated, and considering we've never met, I consider that a great testament to the character of my readers. So kudos to you!

I'm in the weeds this week with work; two 2,000+ word features due in addition to other smaller things. Not to mention the fact that I've got less than two weeks to get my fall schedule in order. Come Sept. 18th, I'll be in and out of Miami like a cruise ship. I got my new MacBook, so as soon as I gets the internets, I'm hoping to do some web cam stuff here, assuming I can figure it out.

Oh, and I suppose now would be a good time for me to actually find where my airline ticket for CR is located. I'm a total hot mess right now. And I must get my apt in order for the viewing party tomorrow night.

Nipple-less Slip

It happened without preamble, forethought, anticipation, anxiety, awkward disclaimers, drugs or alcohol: A man saw my nipple-less boobs today. I was at accupuncture, as I am weekly. My therapist is a straight, hippie-ish dude somewhere in his 30s I'm guessing. We always chat; get along well.


He's been working up to treating the abdomen and chest area, in terms of pressure points and massage. Today he really amped up treatment, as I told him I was all over the fucking place mentally this week. Near the end, he said something like, "Are you comfortable exposing your chest wall?"



"Sure," I answered without realizing what the hell he was referring to--I think of my 'chest wall' as tatas, titties, boobies, breasts or girls.



Whisk! The sheet was gone and there were my nipple-less tatas in all their glory. It happened so fast that I had no reaction at all. A testament to how relaxing these treatments are--my breasts were exposed to a hetero guy for the first time since the operation and I didn't even flinch. I'm so mature. There was no funny biz--he basically worked the rib cage in between the girls, never touching them.



But, hey, one more hurdle passively jumped . The first reveal is done. Easy peasy. If only all single men were as chill about looking at a mutilated 'chest wall.'

90210, Baby

Cannot contain my excitement about the new 90210. Oh how I've missed thee. You see, I was in the class of '93; the same class as the first group of 90210-ers actors. We grew up with that show. And while it makes me feel incredibly old, I'm loving it. Loving Kelly Taylor's wardrobe.
Loving Teacher McHottie (below). Loving the brilliantly cast typed bitch, Nip/Tuck's AnnaLynne McCord. Love love love. And the fabulous Jessica Walter aka Lucille Bluth? Looooooove.

The Shrink is OUT

So, this is a new one: I think I may have been dumped by my shrink. The Miami one--not the L.A. one. I've paged him twice in the last coupla weeks to get an appt. He hasn't returned either one of my calls. Highly unlikely for him; he usually won't hesitate to call at 9 p.m.

I'm half wondering if everything is okay with his family--we have mutual friends--and half wondering if I've finally reached the level of psychosis where my psychiatrist won't even touch me. I bet not even Woody Allen has accomplished that feat.

Since shrinkey is a Facebook friend, I'm thisclose to messaging him via FB. But if he didn't think I was crazy before, that would most certainly push things over the edge.

Seriously though, there's something a little off here. And I need drugs, stat. What the fuck.

I'm happy to share that Vicky, my new friend I met in Chopard, had clean MRI results! Go her. She's very grateful to all you readers who sent positive thoughts and energy her way!

I just had to post these photos of the Versace manse. Wow. Photos don't do it justice. And it IS completely over the top, but the craftsmanship, design and intricacy of every cranny in this place is just amazing. HG took A LOT of photos, so here's roll two.

Facebook Friends

Ahh, Facebook. Facebook and breast cancer are proving to be the most beneficial things for my career in ages. Through a real-life friend and a Facebook friend, I found myself auditioning for a national TV commercial this morning.

It's for a product that aids in breast self-examinations, which I always found difficult to do. I always had lumpy boobage. I found my lump by accident, in the shower. When I was approached for this spot, I figured what the hell. I'm all about raising awareness. It does pay, but I would certainly donate a portion to cancer research. I wasn't nervous. In fact, while I used to have major anxiety walking into unfamiliar situations, the cancer kind of eliminated that.

Now I'm off to tour the former Versace Mansion, the site of his murder a little more than 11 years ago--holy fuck I'm old. Now the structure is called Casa Casuarina. It's a private club, resort and event space. I don't know if I've spoken about Gianni Versace before, but he was one of my early artistic influences. His designs in the early 90s and late 80s made me see fashion for the art it is. One of my friends who grew up in the city was my Versace-obsessed partner in crime. In fact, we met at a summer program at the University of Michigan by bonding over the genius that was Versace. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news of his crazy murder. Gainesville, Florida summer session at UF, in my apartment.

All my Versace clothes are either too big or too worn out, so I *really* can't honor him as I would like.

And have I also mentioned that I gave one of his close relatives her first bong hit years ago? One of my proudest moments.

Stand up to Cancer

I've started a Dishalicious team for Stand up to Cancer fundraising. Please follow the link and donate if you are able and inclined. Even if it's just a dollar or two.

On Friday Sept. 5
From the Stand up to Cancer web site:
MAKE HISTORY WITH US
TUNE IN SEPTEMBER 5TH 8PM ET/PT
STAND UP TO CANCERIn less than two weeks, over 50 of the most renowned personalities in TV, film, sports and music will come together to make history. In an unprecedented television event, NBC, ABC, and CBS will simultaneously devote 1 hour of commercial-free prime time to raise funds for the fight against cancer.
A spectacular line up of talent including Jennifer Aniston, Scarlett Johansson, Meryl Streep, David Cook, Christina Applegate, Lance Armstrong, Jack Black, Kirsten Dunst, Charles Barkley, America Ferrera, Halle Berry, Hilary Swank, Forrest Whitaker, Jimmy Fallon, Keanu Reeves * will make personal appearances on the show. These celebrities and more will educate you, move you and entertain you. They will also be on hand to answer your calls in the celebrity phone bank.
ONE NIGHT ONE STAGEThe premiere TV performance of “Just Stand Up” – the star studded charitable single in support of Stand Up To Cancer will be performed by legendary recording artists Mariah Carey, Beyonce, Mary J. Blige, Rihanna, Fergie, Sheryl Crow, Miley Cyrus, Melissa Etheridge, Ashanti, Natasha Bedingfield, Keyshia Cole, Ciara, Leona Lewis, LeAnn Rimes, and Carrie Underwood.
Don’t miss out!
Tune in September 5th at 8pm on ABC, NBC and CBS!

My Chemical Cancer

Say hello to my little friends. I don't even know what a lot of them are. C'est la Cancer.

The Tao of Touch

For me, a good massage can hold its own against a good trip to Bergdorf’s any day. There’s something profound to be said for the power of touch. I’ll take a massage when and where I can get one (within reason; you won’t see me in Whole Foods or at the airport). In fact, I may as well admit that one of the reasons I kept an ex of mine around for about four months longer than I should’ve was that he gave amazing massages. Years in the IDF will give you strong hands, apparently. (The other reason was that he also cooked quite well.)

Some people, such as my mom, are not massage-friendly. “I don’t like strangers touching me!” She protests. As a germaphobe, you’d think I would be on board with that excuse. I’m not. The closest my mom has gotten to an actual massage is those five-minute, ghetto, sports rubdowns they give you after you’ve run the New York Marathon. Seriously. Our vacations have taken us to some of the most spectacular spas in the world. Mom never bothers. There’s nothing I can do to convince her, so, more hands for me.

Sometimes my body is more heightened to the sensations of human touch. I began going to acupuncture to seek relief from the constant, dire, expander-caused pain. Once Chad relieved a good portion of that, I was able to relax into the needles and the handwork. As the chemo left my body, my senses became heightened even more. I was feeling things normally again. There was no baseline of pain, so my body was finally just another human body again. As the side-effects diminish, the acupuncture and massage becomes more pleasurable.

And though Chad is a man, it’s not a sexual thing. I feel just as good when a friend rubs my head or squeezes my shoulder or what have you. And my heightened sensory perceptions are not because I’m horny/lonely/damaged goods. Sista actually has a romantic life nowadays, the difference being that I’m not sharing it here.

Today I went in and told Chad that my neck was stiff from yoga. That was my main issue. I’ve also been feeling pretty relaxed, so I’m sure that helped. For the next hour, Chad proceeded to place and remove needles, while at the same time massaging all my pressure points. My neck and shoulders are what always get me, and he was especially adept in that area.

Near the end, (remember, I’ve now been seeing Chad for more than 4 months, weekly) he did something he’d never done.

“Would you mind if I took a look at how they are healing?”

“Oh, the girls? Sure.”
He gently removed the sheet and looked at the ladies, feeling the skin a little. He was quite pleased. I’m not sure why this left me feeling all warm and fuzzy (and not in the hands covering your pants kind of way). I think it’s because Chad’s seen me at every step of the way and is incredibly in-tune with his patients. Early on, he told me that he visualized each of his patients while he meditated. When I came to him, he said, he could tell that I was feeling very unsure with my body and looks. “I just want to assure you that you are still a very attractive woman, Stephanie.” It reassured me in a non-pervy way.
Now, here the same man was today admiring the “after” version of me. And I appreciated his opinion. As both a man and a caregiver.

A few minutes later, I realized that he only wanted to see how they were healing to tell whether he could begin to massage them and let me lay face down for treatment. Ahh. That makes sense.

Now I think I’ll go book some treatments for the Four Seasons Papagayo.

I'm loving the new season of Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency. And thanks for linking to me Miss Janice. The queen of fierceness.

Uhhhhhhhh, I feel compelled to write because I am sitting here in the hospital waiting for the staff to bring over my meds, even though I haven't got a whole hell of a lot to say today. When I say I'm "done" with everything BC-related, I always forget about the Herceptin, which requires my presence at least once a month and is the reason I am still with port.

See, they give me the Herceptin exactly like they did the chemo--hook the IV up to the cords that go to the port catheter which goes directly to my heart. YUM. I have stories to be writing, but I'm feeling uninspired and discombobulated, not to mention completely unfocused. I think I should've stayed in my own bed today. I've been waiting in this damned sick bed for almost an hour already. Where the fuck is my Herceptin? Bueller? Anyone?

Screw Cancer.

Afternoon at the beach.

Afternoon at the beach.

An 18k Cruising Altitude

As I was typing yesterday's post about karma and coincidences, Delta paged me over the intercom. I had already switched to an aisle seat. (I was hoping the announcement of my name indicated a free upgrade, natch.) The agent asked me if I was willing to switch to another aisle seat, so that she could seat a family together. I said yes and went back to typing.

We boarded the plane and an unremarkable looking older woman took the seat next to me. Ordinarily I shove my nose in a book and stick to myself when I fly. However, we sat on the runway for an hour+. (The gas gauge was broken, so they emptied the tank and put in a full tank to be safe. Comforting, right?) I was decked out in the lymph garments. So hot. I've taken to wearing a rubber glove over my compression glove, so that I can wash my hands normally. It also keeps the glove in better shape. I was so incredibly overtired and marginally delirious yesterday that I don't remember exactly how breast cancer came up. She asked me if she could help me--an 80-year-old, frail looking woman offering to help me, how sweet. We segued into the breast cancer conversation. Natch, she'd had it eight years ago. And, natch, she'd been treated at Sloan. She was en-route to her condo on Collins Ave. and then a wedding in Palm Beach. She's a snowbird who spends most of her time in Riverdale. We begin talking about BC, but also about politics and the content of the People mags I had on the plane. We gushed about Ellen and Portia's wedding and how far our country had come. At the same time, we were lamenting what a shitty state the U.S. was in and how we were keeping our fingers crossed that Obama would choose a VP that would harness more votes for him.

As an immigrant from the Czech Republic at 17, she relayed how much the U.S. meant to her. And I agreed that us native-born citizens certainly didn't appreciate what we had as much as people such as herself, who'd really seen some bullshit go down in their own countries.

Now, a word about her appearance and not judging books by their covers. Or people by their clothes and accessories. This whole cancer thing has made me a lot less judgmental. She's wearing a blue cable-knit sweater, light jeans, sandals with nude hose peeking out, simple, understated jewelry. She tells me her life story--well, what she could fit of her 80 years into a three-hour plane ride. (As an aside, I love observing, talking and learning from old people. Chances are, they have fascinating stories to tell.)

She's Jewish. Near the end of the flight I ask her what business she was in. Antiques. Major ones. For 50+ years in the city. Guess what my next question was? Oh, no idea, right?

"Did you do jewelry?"

"Oh, yes," she says passionately. Bingo.

Now we're even faster friends. She starts telling me about how they'd buy from estates and how heartbreaking it was when the families of the deceased had no interest in keeping their family heirlooms. Sometimes she even talked people into keeping stuff, and later they thanked her. She began telling me about a fabulous diamond she had sitting at home that neither of her children wanted to keep.

I told her about my meshuga grandmother Roxy and her out-of-control jewelry habit. I tell her that my most emotionally valuable pieces are the ones that were worn by Roxy and my paternal grandmother. I tell her about two of my favorite suites, a pale coral bracelet and necklace, and a lavish pair of jade and diamond earrings and bracelet.

"Wait, maybe I'm wearing them in some of the photos in the camera! As I bend down to extract my camera: "Oh, doy, I have them in my bag!"

I remove my three jewelry bags and we put our tray tables down, oblivious to the fact that we're on a plane. As far as we're concerned, we're in a jewelry store.

I show her the coral first. I knew that pale coral is extremely rare and valuable nowadays because the reefs are protected. When I show her mine, a look of appreciation crosses her face.

"Oh my. Look at this. This is Angelhair Coral. Some of the most valuable kind. Just beautiful."

I'd told her we haven't appraised a lot of Roxy's items. What do we care? Roxy stipulated in her will we were never allowed to sell her pieces.

"You must go to Sotheby's to have this appraised. You must."

I always loved these pieces and knew they were special, but here I was with a true expert, validating my power of selection. (I took them, with permission, from mom who never wore them.)

I then show her the jade pieces and again she's overwhelmed. I promise her I will go to Sotheby's and have them take a look-see. She then starts talking about what she is wearing. A beautiful star sapphire that had belonged to her husband, set in a simple gold band. Another gold ring with two letters that her mom had gifted to her and her sister when they came to America. An ancient Grecian cameo-type charm with Athena etched into the carnelian. She turns around her wedding ring and shows me a simple diamond that was her engagement ring. This is a woman who I'm guessing has a lot of jewelry at home that Sotheby's would be glad to get their hands on. I love this woman, and decide she is more than worthy of my Neiman Marcus Last Call secret location that nobody goes to in Miami. She then pulls out her jewelry case from a pedestrian-looking, worn, tan leather handbag. She pulls out an 18k gold and pearl bracelet from the 18th century. I offer to drop her off in North Miami on my way home but she insists she is fine taking a shuttle. C'mon, how cute is that? I give her one of my cards and insist that she gets in touch when she's back in town for the winter. We hadn't even exchanged names yet. We deplane, hug and say our good-byes. She promises to get in touch. I do hope she does, and I'm going to call Lynn to see if she is going to the PB wedding, which is a Jewish one of a couple who lives next to Mar-a-Lago.

"Tell her I will be in a blue dress," she says.

I'd spoken to her about my weird, coincidental experiences, for which she had a simple explanation.

"It's because you take the time to talk to people."

"Well, only sometimes. Normally I don't talk to people on planes."

"That is something else we have in common."


I'm so grateful we made an exception this time.

Cancer and Chopard

i am writing with the lymphedema garments on again, so no caps or ap style today. sitting at lga after a fantastic 5 days. it was so fulfilling to see both new friends and old. and once again this week was a staggering reminder of just how fortunate i am in every sense of the word, most especially when it comes to my amazing network of friends and family. also, i feel supremely blessed to be a "connector," who seems to attract like-minded and unique people. screw it. pardon grammatical errors as well; i want to bang this out before my flight boards.

ostensibly, my nyc trip was to see the wig guru, which went well. he dyed it back to my natural, darker shade and i likey sooo much better. you will all see in the photos tk. aside from wig guru though, this was a beneficial, satisfying week on many levels, personal and career wise.

as a result, i think i shall proclaim myself a hindu, given the good karma that is finally coming my way. cancer and good karma, hand in hand? for me--absofuckinglutely.

here's what happened. on tuesday i dropped the wig off at ralf's. he only needed a few hours to do the jobs. since he's on the upper east side on 75th, mom and i decided to eat at the viand on madison and then proceeded to travel the shopping stretch from barneys north. we always look in the windows of chopard, which makes my favorite watches, but we don't often go in to browse. this time we did, and i can say without a doubt that fate guided that decision.

mom got some help looking at watches while i browsed. oh, i was sporting the shaved head and the lymphedema sleeve and glove. mom finished and went outside to take a call. i noticed a display case with baubles and watches with a placard that said a portion of proceeds benefit the aspca. i asked mom's saleswoman, vicky to show me some of the watches so that i could choose one for my luxury goods column in juli b next month. the pr director happened to be in-house, so we met, but vicky stuck around.

"if you don't mind me asking, do you wear the compression garments on planes?"

"do you have breast cancer?"

i have to be brief, so long story short. she finished treatment april 07. who is doctor? larry norton, naturally. the head of sloan's breast center. who you may remember is harder to get in to than, well, anyone in the country perhaps. she too was lucky to have a connection.

mom has returned. we shoot the shit for a while. she tells me her story and vice versa. at a certain point, she looks at my mom and says "you must be so happy she is okay. this must have been so hard on you."

mom bursts into tears. vicky bursts into tears. i start laughing, of course. there are group hugs all around. we exchange info and advice.

now, remember, we are only at chopard at that moment in time because my wig is with ralf. her 3 month mri checkup is scheduled for the next day. i'm sorry, but that is no mere coincidence. not one bit, folks. so she is seeing norton the next day. i tell her to tell him i say hi, ditto for his nurse karen. we bond over what an angel doctor norton is, and we both like him for the exact same reasons. this man is a true gem, a rare, d-color, vvs1 diamond.

we all hug several more times and bid farewell, promising to keep in touch. as mom and i head to the atlantic grill to meet brother for lunch, we are truly reeling.

i think mom wants to trade me in for vicky, in fact. i emailed her today to see how the mri went. let's all keep our fingers crossed for her.

i don't really know where the path i am on right now will take me, but i can say with absolute certainty that it's the one i'm supposed to be on. i am looking at the road ahead of me with curiosity, happiness, and great faith.

Something incredibly serendipitous and strange happened to mom and me yesterday involving Chopard, cancer and coincidences. Really, I'm beginning to think some incredibly freaky strain of karma is ruling my life. Sprinkles informed me that the karmic philosophy was started by Hinduism, so I told him I'm now a Hindu after this most recent incident. I'm still at the NYAC--they haven't kicked my Jewish ass out yet, but I'm headed to Jersey later today. I saw the wig guru yesterday and had him dye it back to my natural color; a shade darker than it was. I like it *so* much better; so much, in fact, that I don't need it cut.

I will relate the crazy Chopard story to you all later today. I'm having breakfast with Mel in a few and I'm hoping she'll bring little Monty if possible. I'm missing my pooch.

Bergdorf's Bets

The only thing I've bought up here is Shu Uemura false eyelashes, which the makeup lady at Bergdorf's applied for me. Natch, I forgot to take photos after she'd done my face and eyes, but they looked amazing.

Saturday night I was reunited with a good friend of mine that I've known for 16 years; half my life ago we met. What an old bag I am. I finally got to meet my new Facebook BFF, Sprinkles' girlfriend, and she's awesome. I'm not sure how Sprinkles feels about us being fast friends, but I'm certainly glad to have a new gf. She and I got to Otto a little early last night and were in the middle of some juicy girl talk when Sprinkles walked up.

Tomorrow's the wig guru. Today's the jeweler. I'm going to hock some of my unworn gold--the price of gold is so smashingly high right now that I think I can make a pretty penny.

I'm thinking of going shorter and darker with the wig.

So, the two Heebs, mom and me, and the two Palm Beach ladies, Lynn and Gail, are staying at the New York Athletic Club. This place used to be restricted. Uh, yeah. It's uncomfortably stuffy. But, it's right on CPS, and our room has unobstructed views of the park, the TWC, etc. I just snapped some photos but realized I didn't bring the uploading cord.

We kinda feel like we have horns in here. Check out the dress code. Uhhh, yeah.

So, Sprinkles and I made a bet yesterday. He likes my shaved head and tries to prod me into walking around New York sans wig or cap. I like my shaved head too, but I don't like the attention it draws. Anyway, Sprinkles and I have an ongoing battle over his jeans. In that, I don't like them and he's resistant to buying a new pair. While we dined at Trattoria Dell'Arte:

"I'll go to Bergdorf's and look for jeans if you go there without your hat."

"Seriously?" I can visit Mecca sans hair if it means seeing him in another pair of jeans.

We shook on it, but I just couldn't picture him in Bergdorf's men's store. (Bergdorf's men's is an entirely separate store across the street from the women's store.) As I was getting my makeup done, he left and promised he'd go look for jeans. What did Sprinkles do? Went home.

I haven't figured out how to get back at him, but I'm open to suggestions.

I have a new favorite curse word that I'd like to introduce you to; it's courtesy of Kevin Nealon's character on Weeds. Thundercunt. Isn't that just fabulous? I love it.

Lynn says "Hello bloggers!"

See you at the debates, bitches.

cool waters

on the boat today anchored in the sunset islands. the peach fuzz in this photo? thanks, chemo. it will go away soon.

note the michael jackson lymphedema glove, the surgi strips and the scar. but still, i know--not bad considering it's only been 8 months since my diagnosis. eight months that included a lumpectomy, bilateral mastectomy, lymph node removal, eight chemo treatments, tissue expanders, and finally, silicone implants. i've never packed that much into eight months of my life, ever. how the fuck did i do this? it seems like a surreal dream that i'm just waking up from. i wonder if shock can last eight months.