Of Mouse and Men

The last time I saw Dr. Melnick, the psychiatrist, I asked him to up my dosage of Pristiq. The only additional side-effect may be "delayed orgasm," he said.

"That's not an issue," I said offhandedly.

"Wait, why isn't that an issue?" my 34-year-old friend-like psychopharm asked. One of the many reasons I love him is that he's truly my peer and on top of that, your average, hetero male, with insight into the rest of the male species.

"Uh, there's nobody there."

"So? You need to start double clicking your mouse then."

My psychiatrist offering up a sexual scrip in the vernacular of Juno. Only me.

"Meh," I stated eloquently.

But my romantic tentacles are slithering around again, grasping for that which is just out of reach. And I am beginning to have those girly feelings again. That anticipatory, predatory mindset that is propelling me back to a baseline, singleton equilabrium. Translation: I'm beginning to feel womanly again and therefore in need of some manliness. Not just sex or a one-off, but something a little meatier. Finally the clothes are fitting almost normally again and despite my myriad self-induced physical insecurities, I find myself interested again. For worse and worse. Then as soon as I reach that point of relative normality in the sex and romance departments, I remember what lies beneath. At the moment—three layers of nursing pads; a Target sports bra stuffed with compression garments; a hefty, horizontal scar above my pubic bone. And just as I start to feel good again, flirted with, checked out, complimented, I remember. That not only do I have all the same bullshit baggage that everyone else has, but an additional set of Goyard that's been beat up on the conveyor belt from Miami to New York.

As if I'm not intimidating enough. So it's me, plus the added scare of what is actually underneath my not-so-chic undergarments. At first I think, 'no, they're cool with it,' 'they've seen this happening to me and they're still here,' and then reason brings me back. And I start with all the typical female insecurities except they're not typical anymore because I'm damaged goods and way beyond 'typical'. And then I just get depressed again, want to curl up into a fetal position and not eat again till I'm wasting away in my skinny jeans.

So I'm going to curl up in the fetal position and watch Wife Swap (and probably feel a little better as a result of watching people even more fucked-up than me).

Cancerversary

The Cancer was already there this time of year in 2007. So though it's been less than a year since the diagnosis, my breasts became a source of stress and more than mere appendages more than a year ago.

I'm going to Chicago to see the Thundercunt on the anniversary of my diagnosis Dec. 4th. Ben, Laura, Jeff and I were chilling in their yard last night and I mentioned the Cancerversary.

"What a fun year it's been, huh?"

My first thought (and my response) was: "Yeah, it has been fun, hasn't it?"

Uh, what the fuck? I don't think that's normal. But when he said that, I didn't flash back over the hospital and Cancer stuff, instead I immediately envisioned all the fun I'd had with my friends despite and during the Cancer ordeal. So, yeah, there was a black cloud of big-time suckage looming over the last year, but there were also a hella lot of good times. Which goes to show you the quality and caliber of the people in my life. And me, of course.

Jeff, naturally, gave me the "you're nuts" look, and only then did the Cancer thing show it's face.

"Oh, yeah, there was the whole Cancer thing. But at least I got these boobs out of it. Never mind that they're covered in nursing pads."

"So you're still bandaged? They're not that big?" Ben says.

They look huge, okay? They're padded by three nursing pads—which are kind of like maxi pads for women's milky breasts I suppose. I'm basically wearing a padded bra. So they're looking really fucking big, especially when I'm not wearing black or a dark solid. I'm going to see Dr. Rosenbaum Thursday, so fingers crossed he'll let me go sans nursing pads from there on.

Oh, where the hell was I going with this? I don't know. But my nights are getting back to normal finally. To the point where I know that when I'm around friends now, I'm back to having times too fun to blog about. Stories made and told that are exclusively manu-worthy. In a good way.

I'm going to transcribe my Heeb story from the video Durrett shot, which I can't say I'm too eager to watch, and then publish the text here soon.

Lots to catch up on, but it's such a beautiful day it'll have to wait. Photos from Heeb Storytelling, Jacksonville, the Obama rally and random November pics.

Laura's Brant

I may have posted something about this before, but I can't recall and I'm too lazy and frazzled to do a blog search. So bear with me.

I've met some really amazing people through this blog and Facebook. One of those bitches is author Laura Zigman, a fellow BC chick. Laura wrote the book Animal Husbandry—as well as scads of others you can buy from her blog—which was turned into the movie Someone Like You with Ashley Judd and Greg Kinnear. Before I knew Laura, whenever that movie came on TV I'd watch it even though I'd seen it a million times before, like Pretty Woman, When Harry Met Sally, etc. Classic chick flick.



Anyway, Laura's moved over to Blogspot and her blog is simply hilarious. If you guys like my sense of humor, you'll probably read one of her posts and leave me for her. (I know, it's not me, it's you.) She cleverly coined the term brant:

brant (brant) v.i. - to simultaneously brag and rant.

brant (brant) n. - a shared on-line journal where people can post brags and rants about themselves and their personal experiences, opinions, observations, and feelings.

branted, brant-ing, brants intr.v. To write entries in, add material to, or maintain a (we)brant.

And I didn't even know this until I Googled her a couple weeks ago, but Laura is actually credited with creating the Chick Lit genre with Animal Husbandry. Credited by the Washington Post nonetheless. Helloooooo. For those of you who've been living in a cave without bookstores, Chick Lit has become a staple of the publishing world, encompassing books like Devil Wears Prada, Nanny Diaries, Bridget Jones Diary and pretty much all those girly-looking books you see in B&N.

I'm reading Animal Husbandry right now and it's delish. One of those page-turners that will make you laugh (and perhaps cry, but I haven't gotten to that point yet) and want to go to the beach/gym/toilet or wherever you do most of your reading.

But unlike most of today's Chick Lit, which has become a dubious label in the publishing world, Laura's book is scathingly funny, sharp, intelligent, unusal, interesting and the storyline is multifaceted. So check out her blog and the Wash Post story. And buy her books if you're looking for some good times.

I’m always thrown when people as what my 'prognosis' is. ‘Prognosis’ is a wholly alien word to me after a year of Cancer. Maybe I heard that word once or twice from someone in the medical field, but certainly not often. If that creepy word was thrown around the chemo ward, the OR, the surgeons’ offices or by my friends and family, surely I would not have such a visceral reaction to it. Despite chemo brain, I can still remember the oft-bandied words: cytoxin, taxol, herceptin, filling, expanders, tissue, lymphedema, hair loss, dry mouth, early menopause, ovaries, children, nipples, Botox, washers, recovery time, sponge bath, non-stick dressing, compression garments, the list goes on. But does not include ‘prognosis.’ I think perhaps I did hear that word from the first oncologist—a doom and gloom type—whom I later fired for Dr. Schwartz. That bitch’s first phrase to me was: “This is not a death sentence.”

No shit, bitch. She was a real schmuck though—grave, harried, and seemingly a little unstable. Definitely not someone I’d want to have dinner with. Anyway, what’s my prognosis? Well, what’s yours? Do you anticipate getting hit by a car or falling off your moped tomorrow? That’s about as much consideration as I give death.

Maybe some cancer patients ask what their prognosis is. And I can totally get that. Maybe it’s the anal, control-freak journo in me that asks specific questions and wants numbers. Just give me the stats. Give me the stats that you’ve worked up specially for me; entered my numbers into a program to yield my own odds.

Sure, I was waiting with a fair amount of anxiety when Dr. Schwartz was working up said numbers. And I was quite obviously relieved when he came back with a not-so-scary number of eight percent chance of recurrence. I leveled the playing field with the prophylactic mastectomy and chemo. (Remember that my cancer was officially gone after that initial lumpectomy. I elected to have the bilat mastectomy and chemo because of my positive BRCA1 status.) Granted I had to do a lot to put me in equal standing with the general population—one in eight women get BC, bitches, so get yourself checked. And that took some getting used to, as I was previously accustomed to being one step ahead of everything in life. I could’ve become just a number. I could’ve gone through this whole thing with only my closest family members and friends the wiser. But why? I mean, I really don’t understand the stigma that so many people attach to Cancer. This is not the 1950s people. Cancer is not a death sentence for fuck’s sake. For a lot of us, it’s a sentence to live. A mandate to live, really live. Balls-out, guns-blazing living. Like taking that trip that you’ve always wanted to, partying like a rock star, living out loud. Because you know that if you do actually die from this thing, then you may as well have lived before.

You want my theory on why death rates for cancer are so high? It’s simple and I don’t think I’m way off base here. Poor people. Poor people—homeless people, welfare people, senior citizens, those with pre-existing conds who simply cannot get coverage—cannot afford the life-saving health care that I and other fortunate people are blessed with. Poor people get cancer. Lots of these people die from lack of good health care. Period. Why are the death rates so high? Because our health care system is a mess, people. A not-even-hot mess. If you’re diagnosed with Cancer, and you have good insurance, be grafeful.

L.A. therapist asked me yesterday if I was grateful.
Now that’s a word I can get down with; a word I utter almost every day. But my first thought was:

“What like grateful to God or whatever that I’m alive? Not really. I’m not grateful to God or whatever is out there.”

“Well, are you grateful to anyone?”

“Yes, I am grateful that I am who I am. That I was able to get the best doctors. That I couldn’t have a better network of support. I’m grateful to modern and Eastern medicine. I’m grateful that my family is in a position to provide me with the best of the best in care. I’m grateful that I’m strong enough to not only weather this fucking thing, but to be strong for my friends and family. And to be funny. And myself.”

“That’s what I was looking for. That you finally give yourself credit for being a strong woman who cannot only handle cancer but who can come out of it with grace and humor and beauty. . . .” and blah blah psychobabble blah.

“Well, all it took was Cancer and 12 years of therapy.” (Yes, 12. I am gunning for Woody’s position as the most therapized neurotic Jew ever.

Know what else I’m grateful for? My perfect, fantastic tatas courtesy of Dr. Gary Rosenbaum. And the fact that I have no visible scars and am sitting here in my bikini at the pool typing this, scar free to the naked eyes around me. Except, oops, I just looked down and my paper-tape covering the area where my nipples were made from is poking out. But I can just rip that shit off whenever I want.

My head is looking like a Chia Pet.

My eyes are constantly puffy and my surgeon is out of Botox, which can lift the brows.

Three nursing pads on each tit seems to stop the nasty leakage.

I'm wondering whether I should say anything about the cancer before I launch into a completely unrelated story at the Heeb event.

Today, after I brought Wally to my pool for the first time, he proceeded somehow to end up in the pool doing the doggy paddle with the most adorable, heart-breakingly helpless expression on his face. I didn't even see him go in, and when Laura exclaimed, I thought my flip-flop had blown away or something. The last thing I expected was 13-year-old Wally, who's only been in a pool once, to have done that. I actually think he was disoriented and stumbled in there accidentally or something. Poor baby. It was very bizarre. And pretty fucking funny.

I made my first radio appearance today, on a show that will be airing in a few months. Talking a little about men and dating relating to the breast cancer thing.

But I am *so* going to the Vogue party next week. Oh, and I'm live blogging from the Victoria's Secret fashion show taping here Saturday and airing next week on TV. We'll be in a separate media room, watching the taping as opposed to sitting in the audience though.

I should be excited about all this stuff, right? So then why am I completely blase and utterly bored with my life? I think I'm going through cancer withdrawl, which all my fellow cancer people said would happen. Life's so fucked-up.

Come out Friday Nov. 14 to see me perform/speak in all my agitated glory. I'm going to *try* to take the stage sans Xanax. Keep your fingers crossed. (It's at the Miami International Book Fair.) I read the lineup of authors and agents at the book fair. Big mistake. There are lots of big-name people who attend this thing. I just assumed it was a C-list affair, since this is Miami after all. But there are lots of A-listers. Now I'm all intimidated and shit. Kind of. Okay, not really. Since I'm not a published author, I do think it's cool that I'll be among such very accomplished ones.

In other news, my nipples are going in two different directions. So that's nice.

This is how the Hallowen costume went off, five days post nip surgery.

The fabu coasters that Ben designed for me to bring to the Heeb Storytelling event. It's actually an image of a reconstructed boob.

Woo-Hoo Jews!

A Heeb chief of staff and a black POTUS! Ahh, it's finally good to be an American again—except in California and Florida with the fucking homophobic BULLSHIT. Seriously, California, WTF? If I ever have a happily ever after with a man—whom Lisa's psychic said I already know, natch—I'm not gettin' hitched until my gays can. Fucking homophobia. Stupid, obtuse, small-minded ridiculousness.

But I think it's huge that Barack said this:
"It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states."

What a fabulous example of, well, humanity. And I have to say that I'm not hating on Oprah so much after seeing her mixing it up with the hoi polloi in Grant Park. I may actually be warming to her. Nonetheless, should I be published, she certainly wouldn't have me on her book club after my rant about her is published in Heeb magazine. Whoops.

How the hell did I digress? I logged in only to post these pics, since a lot of you fellow Cancer Warrior gals have been emailing me with hair-growth questions. (And all you readers with cancer concerns, I'm always, always happy to give advice on any and all things BC-related.)

So, this is my hair as it stood exactly four months and one week post-chemo (two weeks ago today).


Even my little nugget nephew noticed that my hair was looking better.

"Kobi, remember how I was bald?"
"Yeah?!"

"Do you like this hair better?"

"Yeah."

For some reason I always think that kids—and dogs—won't recognize me with all the hair-changing I've got going on. But I suppose they do.



And there's niece Cunty in Crazy Ass Nicole's arms. Stupid Chicago. Now I can't see Cunty, Kobi, Kutzy and Cubby every day. Stupid Windy City. And now Chicago's even cooler thanks to Barack. I'm never getting these little fuckers back to Florida. God, cuntrag, why can't you just be a snowbird with Burt and Myrn? I'm sure Jim wouldn't miss your crusty ass. Daryl isn't even filling your ugly-ass shoes thanks to stupid med school.

And yes, I know the tatas look rather high and huge here, but it's the way I was posing. . .

I know I said, and thought, that I wouldn't look at them, but I did. After taking the bandages off during my first shower in nine days and seeing that the penis nipples no longer had such huge erections, I figured what the hell. So I looked in the mirror. And let me tell you, my boobs look fanfuckingtastic. Maybe I was a little more freaked out yesterday than I should've been—who me, dramatic?—or maybe the penis nipples were just really turned on. But seriously, seriously my surgeon (Dr. Gary Rosenbaum, FYI) is a genius.

In a few months—perhaps even by February, a year post-mastectomy—if you didn't know my history, I think you'd have to get about six inches from my chest even to notice that something is a little amiss. And the area where the skin graft came from down there, barely anything. When you look at photos of most women's mastectomies out there, they're pretty fucking scary. As I've said before, I have no horizontal scars and the vertical ones will be compeletely faded shortly. Which leaves us with, well, two manmade, perfectly symmetrical, finely crafted breasts. The left breast, the toxic one that had a lumpectomy in addition to mastectomy, is now corrected even more, so that both breasts are basically the same. The aureolas are still stitched and pink—from irritation I suppose—but they're otherwise perfect. The perfect size. And the penis nipples are weird, no doubt, but within a few weeks I think they'll be pretty normal. So instead of thinking of myself as a cyborg, perhaps more something along the lines of Dr. Rosenbaum's David.

With a smaller penis(es).

Well, I'm out like—in the youthful vernacular Laura taught Jeff and me last night—an erection in sweatpants?.

It's nice to see that there are people out there depraved enough to delight in a cancer survivor's tribulations, isn't it? Check out this douchebag's comment on yesterday's post. Seems like a really fulfilled, secure and joyous person, no? Must suck to be you, dude.

Dick Nips

If I weren't going to B & L's election party tonight, and consequently concerned with keeping my eye-puffiness to a minimum, I would be curled up in bed crying. Because: I am fucking sick of this shit, people. I am sick of my boobs. I'm sick of writing about them, talking about them, photographing them, obsessing over them, taking pills to mask their pain, making wardrobe sacrifices to accommodate them, blah blah fucking blah. Seriously. I'm over it. Remember when I proclaimed that I just couldn't fathom women who didn't elect for reconstruction? Well, now I can. Now I envy those women.

You know when you're on a long drive on a nondescript highway and you're in that final hour; those last 60 miles? That home stretch is always the longest part, right? Never mind those 350 miles that you've already logged. That last hour is interminable. Well, I'm in those last 60 miles and they seem interminable alright.

Men, especially those related to me and/or those who actually still see me as a normal, sexual being, you may want to stop reading here. . . .

But I know this is like a car wreck and you're still reading because you must read anything about nipples. . . .You were warned.

I wait nearly two hours on the doctor. Would you believe they were OUT of Botox? Listen, I may not be able to control the water weight, the hair growth, the fucking residual chemo puffiness causing my eyes to resemble Renee Zelweger's, not to mention the girls—but damn straight I'm going to control what I can. Anyway, I was hoping for a mock brow lift to negate the puffy eyes, but no Botox.

When he finally sees me, as he's un-mummifying my torso:

"Now, don't freak out when you see them, they're going to get shorter."

"Huh? Oh, I'm not looking at them. I never look until the stuff is a little healed."

"Well, you have to look at them. You have to change the dressings every day, and you're going to have to look at them. So I'm telling you now that they're longer and they'll shrink."

"Oh, God." I start moaning. I cannot stand to touch, see or even envision my scars. After the mast, I would scream when I caught an accidental glimpse in the mirror.

So he unwraps me. I look down. And scream a little.

"Omigod. Omigod. Eww." Short breaths. What the fuck did I just see on my chest? "They look like penises." Literally. The nipples look like little, newborn penises. They are foul. Period. Just plain foul. Like little penis-shaped, tee-pees of flesh-colored clay.

"That's what about 40 percent of my patients say. I always look forward to hearing what the reaction is."

"They look like penises." I repeat, quite obviously in shock, looking down at yet another foreign object that is now a part of my makeup.

I'm still in shock over the penis nipples as the doctor moves on, showing me how to dress my penis nipples every day for three more weeks. This, remember, is in addition to the fact that I must wear a bra stuffed with camping foam.

For someone who wants to vomit each time she sees her penis nipples, the wound dressings could not be more ill-suited to her disposition. First comes some kind of nonstick tape, out of which I must cut a triangle for the penis nipples to poke through. Then about five sheets of gauze—or nursing pads for ease—with another penis-nipple hole. Then about five more sheets of gauze—no penis-nipple hole. Then paper tape. Then hideous granny bra. Then camping foam. I'm going to take a photo of the whole getup tonight so that I can remember the proper way to dress these fuckers every fucking day for the next three fucking weeks. FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKK me.

"But my friend in Boston had plastic nipple covers," I say meekly, knowing that there is no escaping this dreaded daily dressing.

"Well, I don't know what they would use, but blah blah," he says. I'm not really listening anymore. I'm mentally going through Wardrobe, thinking about how I've never recycled this many clothes, ever. Ah, the good old days. When I could go nearly a year without outfit repetition. When all I needed to think about was which jeans, which shoes, which bag. Now my jeans have dust—and probably nipple juice and moths, for that matter—on them. Okay, I won't get started on Wardrobe; that will really prompt the waterworks.

Now I really am a cyborg. A man-made, she-cyborg with penises on her fake boobs. I mean, come on, can this whole thing get any weirder? No, right? It's science fiction.

"I can shower today?" I ask, still hopeful.

"Probably not until tomorrow." Lovely. Another party to go to relatively unwashed. Thank god I have an actual bath with a handheld shower head.

He did tell me one good thing though: He took some belly fat along with the skin. So the chemo baby is definitely smaller.

But I still have penises on my tits. Penises. On my tits. Any of my friends who want to see, feel free; I know some of my friends have a morbid curiosity about what's going on under the bandages.

And now Joe The Fucking Plumber is on CNN. We are truly living in a world gone completely mad. Penis Nipples. Joe the Plumber. Nursing pads and bras from Target. Is it 4:20 yet? And now Wally just shit-ploded all over my bathroom again.

Obama as president better be the light at the end of this day or I don't know what.

Suck It, Cryptkeeper!

Please god, let the Cryptkeeper's coffin be nailed shut tonight. Or I am moving, swear it. To the Four Seasons, Costa Rica. Mark my words.

Guess what I woke up to again? Bloody shit—

Wait—the Naked Cowboy is a Republican and just endorsed McCain to Richard Roth on CNN? I'm sure the Cryptkeeper loves that.

Anyway, I think Wally may actually be sick and not just stomach-irritated. Fuck me. Isn't one sickie per apartment enough?

The bandages come off today! Woot woot. Now it's time for the granny Target bra with camping foam. And accdg to Mel, camping foam is actually a legit technique that she had to employ after a recent shoulder surgery!

Anyway, happy voting and the next time you hear from me, I'll be wearing a bra for the first time since February. A dubious distinction, as my first post-op bra is Target instead of Cosabella or Hanro. (La Perla—a total waste of money unless people aside from doctors and family members are seeing your girls.)

Debates, bitches! I'm not going to tell you to vote; I'm confident you guys have that under control. And here's hoping tonight is a historic night.

Camping foam, which I had FedEx-ed from REI. Two chunks of this will be residing in both sides of my bra for the next few weeks. The insanity never ends.

Purple Haze All In My Veins

Fucking A., it's going to be one of those days. Post-Cancer Stephanie pulled a Pre-Cancer Stephanie move Sunday morning. After managing to put together my 'sexy'—I'm still not convinced—nurse costume and baking a potent batch of brownies to bring to Lisa's party, the weekend gets a little (purple) hazy.

J. and C. and Wonder Woman (or, shit, was she Superwoman?) picked me up for the long ride to Ft. Lauderdale and, okay, maybe, I ate a brownie before they picked me up. The chef must taste. Well, there were already "Spooky Brownies" on the hors d'oeuvres table. Goody! I may have eaten another one. The nurse costume went off well, the party was fun and an hour was added to our night/morning. They dropped me off around 3 a.m.—no idea old time or new.

I don't exactly remember what happened next, people. Though quite obviously, for reasons to be illuminated in the next grafs, I ate some more brownies. I wasn't drinking and was pretty Percocet-free. Gateway drug my ass. . .

Anywho, I went to bed at some point Sat. night/Sunday morning. 4:20 perhaps? Let's go with that. I awoke this morning. From Saturday night. I skipped over an entire day. That's one way to make the week go faster, right? I stumbled into the bathroom this a.m., a little confused at the daylight peeking in and by the fact that my bandages seemed more askew than after the previous nights' sleep. My watch was still an hour later, as was my 'alarm clock.' I checked the date on my cell phone and sure enough, Sunday had come and gone in my sleep. I went into the kitchen to scope things out. The brownie pan was completely empty. Pre-party, I had left eight brownies in my pan. It was a strong batch too. Well, that explained a lot.

So I found myself awake at 7 a.m. this morning trying to piece the previous 36 hours together. It's no great mystery now that about 10 party brownies + Percocet + Seroquel = 36 hours of sleep. On the plus side, I didn't eat anything yesterday—too bad it wasn't Yom Kippur and I could be a good Jew for once—and have now completely weaned myself off Percocet. (L. send me your addy and the rest are yours!)

Wally made it his mission to shit in every possible crevice of my apartment as soon as mom left. So this gauzed-up bitch, who is supposed to be 'resting,' was on her hands and knees for hours bleaching out dog shit and vomit. But during The Great Sleep, Wally's shitting/vomit issue resolved itself; all the droppings I found this a.m. were hard and crusty thank you very much. Another plus is that I get to watch all the goodies from last night today, so don't tell me what happened on Entourage.

But I'm still on driving restriction which makes life a little more difficult and led me to take a cab today to the hospital where I'm now gettin' my drip.

The cab I hopped into, after waiting 10 minutes for it to come, was filled with smoke and the driver appeared to be the culprit.

"Uh, I have cancer can you put that out?"

He held up his hands to show that he was done, leaving me only to enjoy the stale remnants of secondhand smoke in the back. I'm sure he felt great when I told him I was going to the cancer ward.

On another, more serious note, I have less than two weeks to decide what I'm going to talk about at this Heeb event Nov. 14. I mean, I know I've got funny stories, but I have to choose one that's vaguely Jewish. And I'm trying to get the first hundy pages of manuscript in order for that weekend so I'm ready in case there are any actual publishers and/or agents in town for the 'Miami Book Fair.' (It's the Miami International Book Fair, which I think is big in the Latino world but in the NYcentric definition of the media, not so much. It may even be a translation conference for all the fuck I know.)

By the way, I do believe I am still high.

This is the storytelling event. Please do come.

Sickie Goes to Saks

Well, after staying up till 4:20 (heh) Monday night/Tuesday morning, I woke up feeling only marginally refreshed. So we decided to head to the Saks outlet 20 mins away. Usually we hit Neiman's first and then maybe Saks, but yesterday I needed sunglasses, which Saks has hundreds of. We didn't expect there to be a buy-one-get-the-second-one-half-off sale in the shoe department. So we were waylayed. And then we carried two pairs of mint-condition Choos to the register. In addition: a pair of Chloe shades, a Calvin dress and a few other things I can't remember, but will be a nice surprise when I find them in my closet. I probably shouldn't have tried on about eight dresses, what with the extensive bandaging and all, right? I start to get paranoid and tell mom we need to go back to Plastic Surgeon and have him re-dress me. I called the office from Saks and told them I wanted to come in.

We arrive at the office. "Doc, I just can't sit still and I think I moved the bandages doing something."

"Or maybe at Saks?"

"How'd you know I went to Saks?"

"You told us when you called."

Bloody percocet brain.

"I told you we were going shopping today! You said I'd be 'fine' in a day!"

"And you wanted Opium suppositories? If you think the Percocet makes you speedy well. . ."

"Those make you speedy? Huh. I've smoked Opium before and it sure as hell didn't make me speedy."

But I digress. My bandages were a hot mess, had slid up and down, but luckily I didn't do any damage. He wrapped me tighter and told me to chill out, not lift things and restrict my arm movements.

We wen't home, chilled for a little, then had a two+ hour dinner at Michael's with Ben and Laura. I mean, a girl has to eat, right?

So today we had to return a couple things from yesterday's Saks excursion, but we figured we'd check out Neiman's first. Mom was fixated on me getting a red cami that would cover my bandages to go under my sexy nurse Halloween costume.

"Mom, what difference does it make if the bandage shows? Everyone knows what's going on; I think the bandages make it legit."

Single gals with Jewish mothers, I'm sure you can guess where she was going with this:

"We-ell, what if there's a cute guy there?"

Natch, mom was way too psyched when I found a lacy, red Natori cami that would be perfect. The golden ticket out of singlehood though? Probably not.

I told mom she had an hour on the dot to do Neiman's. I tried not to carry anything, and I wasn't going to try on anything. So as I chose my wares I simply handed them to the woman at the accessories counter. That solved the not-using-the-arms thing. Mom tried on the cami and a sweater dress I ended up getting; luckily we're close to the same size. We would've probably stayed into the wee hours save for the fact that I began to feel on the verge of throwing up. Fucking Percocet. I've only taken 1 1/2 today, so that means the pain is better and I could be done with these fuckers by Friday.

But we're being good tonight; staying in, watching Obama and junky television. Oh, the camping foam—Doc had told me to go to Bass fishing store to get it. And as we were leaving the mall, we saw a sign for that very store. And we meant to go there today to get "camping foam" for my bra, yet, I'm sorry to say, Neiman's trumps all.

Aureolas—Ouch

This was a more complicated surgery and recovery than I anticipated, but naturally I was still up and running as soon as we got home from the hospy. For reasons psychologically unexplored by me, I seem to be unable to sit still post-op. Odd, considering that on a normal night I'm perfectly content to chill on the couch. Especially when Gossip Girl is on. What a surgery day treat. Like candy, that show. And I devoured the first book in less than 24 hours this weekend. Anyway. Arrived at hospy 8:30 a.m., only to have them running an hour late. It's so utterly bizarre to me that I have more anxiety on a normal day than I do pre-surgery. Think that's a good topic for Dr. L. this week, no?

When Plastic Surgeon came in to prep me, he brought a worn, plastic box stocked with his tools of the trade: washers from Home Depot and Sharpies.

Adding the aureolas—which they spelled areola on all the official papers—is a skin graft. They excise the skin from just above your pubis. As in, right above your hairline. You can probably guess where I'm going with this.

He began by drawing in the skin graft area, a horizontal, inch-deep, three+-inch wide, half-moon shape. (JKD, I need help with compound modifiers, FYI.) He takes the skin, then stitches up the remaining skin together in a modified tummy tuck fashion. (Unfortunately, this area is below the chemo-baby roll of flab.)

"You'd better not give me hairy nipples Doc," I said. That really can happen. Can you even imagine?

"Well, you've kind of thrown me off by shaving."

"Oh," I said, "I thought that would help." I don't know why that came out, suddenly I'm modest? I'd debated on whether to shave or not; in the end vanity won out as usual.

"My friend joked the other day that if I really wanted to revolutionize the way people viewed things I should start adding nipples to butt cheeks."

"Eww." Plastic Surgeon has an even drier sense of humor than me.

He then proceeded to draw in different nipple sizes on the girls. I told him at this point, the less skin he took the better, and I trusted his judgement on size. Plus, hawk-eyed mom was assesing the size as well. I had no mirror and was merely looking down. He drew and drew, editing in his beneficial perfectionist manner. Moving them to the left and right, up and down. Mom just now reminded me that once we decided to go smaller, he switched out the washer for a totally ghetto, used roll of surgical tape. Love it—a complete dichotomy of high and low culture, perfect for your's truly.

Once the nip-size was decided, he then traced them within the graft space. So you can imagine what a considerable amount of flesh we are talking about from Down There. Laura had told me that the excision site would be really sore and tender because the nerve endings were exposed, so I sort of knew that would be the worst part of recovery. Remember, I have little to no sensation on the girls. Thus, no real pain at the site of the placement. So we have the skin graft, the shaping of the actual nipples—"like little tents of skin," he described—and the liposuction of the flanks. And this is the unfortunate part for me—the wound dressings are nearly as extensive for this surgery as they were for the mastectomy. Because you can imagine the precision and delicacy of the nipple area. Oh, I nearly forgot that he also did a little corrective procedure on the bottom of the left boob. So we're talking four separate procedures in one shot today. He really took his time, in a good way; it lasted nearly three hours.

What this means is seven days of wound dressings that are in tube-top formation, not to mention the one under the underwear. And get this—the bandages on the actual aureolas are sewn onto my skin. I couldn't even believe. Have you ever even heard of this? I was blown away. Anywho, it's sponge-bath time again for seven days. Sucky for many reasons, mostly because this week I have like two benefits to attend on Wednesday and a friend's annual Halloween bash Saturday night. This totally throws off wardrobe. I got my 'sexy'—a relative term regarding me these days—nurse costume already, which will now be rendered even more graphic thanks to the bandages that will be poking out.

Oh, I forgot the best/worst part. I have to wear a bra again for like three weeks for compression purposes to help the lipo! A bra! Well, I never. Not since February anyway. Said bras will be stuffed on the sides with "camping" foam—as if I knew what the fuck that was. Again, the mix of incredible and basic technology. All things considered, this whole mastectomy and reconstruction process is staggeringly impressive and amazing from the perspective of "can you believe what they can do nowadays?"

Percocet makes me speedy and I'm completely wired yet I should be resting for Neiman's and Saks retail therapy tomorrow. So if this post seems even more rambling than usual, it's the drugs.

And for the record, I have been camping.

A new era will commence tomorrow my good people: the era of the nipple.

By Monday afternoon I shall be a more well-rounded woman.

Does the Cannibus Cup have a baking contest? If so, I'm going to shut it down next year. Mint-chocolate chip partay brownies. Could you die? Eat more than one and you just may think you will.

The cherry on the sundae of the sign stealing escapade:

I'm very fortunate to have such liberal parental units.

Also, Brother sent me this link, which is pretty fucking cool for The Economist. Crazy cool, actually and evidence of the small-mindedness of America. Rather, the small mindedness of Real America.

Honestly, how the fuck can some of my *best* friends vote for a ticket with a woman so. . .so. . .so, uh. . .indescribably re-fucking-tarded.