Slumming at Sotheby's

I know it's been a while, but I've been busy having a life lately. About time, right? New York was a social whirlwind as my Filofax will attest. (And in Filofax news, I found the missing pages so my book is saved!)

I simply must share the hilariously educational Sotheby's story. The morning started out with a pop-in to Ralf's, where I found him with a client, so I knew he wouldn't be able to squeeze in Stephanie time before my lunch with Vicky of Chopard fame. Vicky took me to a fabulous lunch at La Goulue, a New York institution on Madison that has been around since 1972. It's closing its doors in April, another scary sign that even the top .0001 percent is hurting in this economy. I'm so glad I got to experience the resto for the first and last time with Miss Vicky.

After lunch, we headed back to Chopard and I showed Vicky and another Chopard staffer the suites I was bringing to Sotheby's for appraisal. Typically, no matter where you go, appraisers will lowball you—if you do end up selling to them, they want to get the stuff as cheap as possible. Chopard warned me that even Sotheby's does this; de-valuing things by at least 30 percent. (Good to know, right? Esp in this economy, where even PB ladies who lunch are hocking jewels left, right and center.)


Vicky and her coworker ooh and ahh-ed over the angelhair coral, the Chinese jade and an antique timepiece necklace that I threw in my bag as an afterthought. So they loved the pieces, and I worship Chopard, so I was confident that I wouldn't be laughed out of Sotheby's. Or kicked out. Meredith met me outside the building.

We meander our way into the appraisal area, which was completely empty, btw. A young, semi-dumpy-looking gal brought us in to a small room and I lay out the pieces for her. She takes the tray and brings it back to the more senior whodie-whos.

In walks a stunningly handsome and dapper young European of about 25. He starts talking whilst Meredith and I are drooling over him and fawning over the accent. Meredith was having her own delusions of grandeur about the value of these pieces while the first woman was out with the tray. She and I tend to think alike.

"So what would you sell it for?"

"I can't sell it, Roxy wrote it in her will."

"What?! What do you mean?"

"I mean, she literally wrote in the will that none of her descendents are allowed to sell any of her jewels. We are allowed to reset and rework them, but not allowed to sell. The bitch was nucking-futs; her jewelry was more important than her children."

"Yeah, but what if it's like worth a million?"

"Well, if it were worth that, of course. But it's not and I would still be afraid of a Roxy curse."

When Euro Guy said the below words, we had to clamp down on our tongues to keep from laughing. Mer and I couldn't even look at one another.

"Um, er, these pieces are quite stunning, but, er, Sotheby's has a minimum of $5,000 per piece."

I had my best poker face on since I'd been expecting something like this, would never sell and was doing this for shits and giggles—mission very accomplished. But Meredith was dying. I then told him to go ahead and go through the pieces, which he did. And let me tell you, I knew more about angelhair coral, jade and timepieces than this little hottie. Perhaps because I have three decades of innate 'training' and he has, oh probably two years.

He then moved on to the watch, which he said the watch expert placed at the turn of the century. I knew this watch was a little valuable per Landsberg's comments. So I started barraging him with questions that he clearly had no answers for. I asked him to open it, so he brought it back to the watch expert.

"Well," he said upon returning, "this is actually the most significant piece. He said it is from the estate of some prominent family who is a part of some kind of traveling theatrical endeavor."

WTF? Non-Queens English please. He took out the loop to read me the inscription:

"Well first it's made by CD Peacock in 1909. A very prominent jeweler. And the inscription reads 'Edith Dingling' I believe.

"Uh, do you mean Edith Ringling?"

"Yes! That's it." Clearly Euro Guy is new to the states.

"That would be Edith Ringling, the wife of Charles Ringling one of the brothers in Ringling Brothers' Barnum and Bailey Circus. [Hello, how could anyone not know Ringling Bros?] That makes perfect sense because my family is from Sarasota where the Ringlings lived, and Roxy bought a lot of pieces from her friend who was an estate jeweler."

"Ahhh," now he was interested, and a little embarrassed that the client knew 100-fold what he did. The only frame of reference he had for the Ringling Bros was when I told him that Great Expectations, the Ethan Hawke-Gwyneth Paltrow version was filmed at the Ringling Estate (now the Ringling museum) in Sarasota. Remember the disheveled manse that Anne Bancroft's character lived in? That's Edith and Charles' former home, Cá d'Zan.


The more I told him the more interested he became and he seemed a little reluctant to let this piece slip through his hands. As this piece clearly met their minimum. And I was eager to get it back and now even more sentimentally attached to the necklace knowing its history. I love that it was worn by such an important person whose family is such a significant part of Americana.

We left poor, handsome Euro Guy and finally released our pent-up giggles. Patsy and Edina were back, sans mid-day alcohol; a problem we solved by buying a couple bottles in the ground-floor wine store of Sotheby's. (FYI, they have all ranges of wines there, starting at about $15.)

We were still laughing, and I said, "I'll bet you anything he's an intern fresh off the boat."

I pulled out his card and gave it to her and sure enough, Euro Guy is a trainee. We were dying. And you can bet that I'm about to go to my safe to examine some other pieces for inscriptions. Roxy may have been a bitch on wheels—this was a woman who had a wake-up call service rouse my mom and aunt for school every day—but we benefited from her shopaholism.

More NY stories TK; you can see all the photos here.

[Editor's Note—I know Sotheby's is reading; don't let my words affect Euro Guy. He was perfectly lovely. However, Sotheby's, I would rethink sending in trainees to talk shop with clients. Appearances may be deceiving, and you never know when a potential client is well-educated in his or her own possessions. Just a thought. I'm here to help.]

Sitting in FLL airport about to board my flight to New York, where I'll be living it up till Monday. Originally I'd hoped to do a little industry schmoozing this trip, but in the end—as my manuscript is not quite ready to share—I decided to make this a full-fledged vacay. This week last year, Ralf shaved my head, I was in the city post-chemo, uber-paranoid about germs and just not in a good state all around. This year, I'm healthy, happy, cancer-free, done with almost everything treatment-wise, and sporting a Jewfro. I see Ralf tomorrow, in the hopes of him giving me a wig adjustment so I don't have to wear a ghetto wig cap under my couture hairpiece.

Today I arrive at 2 p.m., head to the UES to drop off my bag at the apt I'm staying at, and then have an Orchid Imperiale facial at Guerlain in the Waldorf. The Guerlain in Bal Harbour is to die for, so I'm sure this one won't disappoint. Tonight is a much-needed girls' dinner downtown.

Tomorrow I have Ralf in the a.m., lunch with Vicky at Chopard. Soo excited to see Vicky and swap cancer stories and Sloan gossip.

I then am heading to Sotheby's, per Mrs. Olga Stern's suggestion, to have some very rare jewels of Roxy's appraised. Just for fun, but don't tell Sotheby's. Then it's dinner at Buddakan with Meredith and her friend who spends a lot of time in Miami. Super psyched to see that resto.

Saturday is a 5th Ave. day with Mer—lunch at BG cafe in Bergdorf's and lots of window shopping and perhaps scouting things out for mom and Lynn. Sunday night dinner with Michael, Saveira, Mer and her sis downtown. Sunday is a relaxing day, hopefully with brother and other friends I haven't seen in Months.

Monday afternoon departure and 12 a.m. arrival at FLL. Leave it to me to use points and book myself through ATL on the return flight. Oy. I must don the lymphedema garments worn above on the plane for preventative purposes.

Hems is watching my beloved Wally, so natch I left him incredibly obsessive and detailed instructions on what Wally likes and doesn't like, including how many times he should poop per day. I'm not used to leaving the little booger for so long without him being at mom and dad's house with his sissies. He's in good hands though.

Hems if you are reading this, don't fuck with him by staring him down and pulling you're "I'm going to hold him into submission!" Wally don't play like that.

And I found out this week that I only have two Herceptin infusions left, meaning April 21st marks my last trip to the chemo ward. You all know I'm going to have a party on 4/20 to celebrate! Shortly after I can have my port catheter removed! Woo-hoo the end-end is in sight. And I have the nips tattooed on March 30.

Normalcy is looming ahead, finally.
Ta until later.

So—one year ago tomorrow was my very first chemo treatment. One year and what a crazy one. Everyone—even fellow BC chicks—ask how I've been changed by this year. It's impossible to summarize; I think that those who know me best are the best ones to judge how it's changed me. For the better, for sure.

Thursday I head up to New York for another Cancerversary, the chemo one. It's the time last year when I went and had Ralf shave my head. When I got the wig and the worst side effects from that first chemo in the same few days.

God, I just looked at the above post and had a visceral, I-want-to-throw-up reaction. I never want to be the person in those photos again. Ever. I don't think I will; I really don't. I'm sure as hell doing everything preventatively that's available. But at moments like these, where I can look back over a terrible year and see that I've come out the other end healthy and happy, it pains me to think of the amazing people I've met who aren't so lucky in the Big C department. I wish I could do something for all of them, I really do.

One thing I can say about how my Cancer experience is that it made me even more grateful and awed by how truly blessed I am in the grand scheme of things—by my family, friends and even strangers.

I think I'll upload the video of Ralf shaving my head. I think I can do it now. I think it's time.

I had the quintessential Eastern experience yesterday. Beyond that even, in that it could be called a supernatural one. Or religious. Or whatever. It's been a while, I know. Meredith arrived Thursday and we spent four days like the Energizer bunny doing Bergdorf's. I drafted a nonstop itinerary for us packed from morning—yes, I was up—to night.

Friday we spent the day at the un-fucking-believable Spa at Icon Brickell. You can see all my photos on FB. We reveled in a decadent 2-hour treatment that began with reflexology and culminated with a raindrop essential oil massage.

I'll preface this by saying that my lymphdema has been in complete remission for months. I was directed by Muriel, my fabulous lymphedma therapist—hi Muriel!—to avoid that arm in massages though. Typically I have spa massages about twice a month, depending on what I'm writing about. Because of the remission, I neglected to instruct the therapist to avoid the left arm. Why? Because I thought for one time, it would be okay. That I could just be a normal patron.

Saturday night before heading to Prime Italian—to die for, but one of those places you'll wait an hour with reservations—I noticed my left arm beginning to hurt. I was aware, but chalked it up to paranoia and being insane in the membrane, if you will.

Sunday I awoke to excruciating back pain again, a la the expanders. You remember that? When every day I was faced with debilitating pain in my left scapula thanks to the 'skin stretching' brought on by the tissue expanders. You'll also perhaps recall that the back pain brought on by the horrific expansion process was one of the worst elements of my breast cancer battle.

Well, imagine being cancer-pain-free for months and then awakening to a pain associated with the worst part of the cancer ordeal. So that your mind automatically associates the pain with one of the most dire periods of your life. 'What,' my mind said, 'the hell is going on here? A flashback? A recurrence?' I thought this was over. I cringed with movement. I reached for the Tylenol, moved to the yoga mat, tried to stretch it out. All to no avail—this pain was sticking. Radiating from left boob to back. When you have breast cancer and your boob pulsates with pain, well it's not the easiest thing to deal with or downplay. I went downstairs to the gym where Meredith was and worked out through the pain. Not like I can't deal with pain, but behind the pain was the thought, 'holy shit what the fuck does this mean? Is this a sign that the cancer could be back?' We chalked it up to an awkward sleeping position and proceeded as planned, driving to the Neiman's outlet. (Big surprise.) By dinn time at Michael's Genuine, it was still hurting. I'd linked it to the massage by then, mentally punching myself for not knowing better.

(Indulge my long-windedness since this is my first post in a week+, a Dishalicious record.)

I knew Chad would be my first call in the a.m. and if he couldn't fix me up, the scary prospect of the plastic surgeon's diagnosis loomed.

Chad squeezed me in and I hobbled into the room.

"We'll do mostly energy work today. I have been trying to slowly build your body back up to being able to handle that kind of pressure, but it's not quite there yet."

He put more needles in me than usual and determined that my muscles were loose, concluding even that I'd been over-massaged this month.

At the end of the session, he instructed me to "breath in and out, expelling the bad energy out of your body as if it's water being pushed through a hose."

I began doing that whilst thinking 'ugh, I'm never good at this breathing shit; he's so going to know that my mind is racing and not able to grasp the concept of expelling bad energy from my body.'

Then the unthinkable (to me) happened. As Chad's hands were hovering about two inches above my left arm, he began brushing the air between us, from the shoulder down to the fingertips. I tried to visualize the water thing, and while I was doing that, I felt what can best be described as a magnetic type force in that empty space between us. I could feel the energy coming from his hands, sweeping my 'bad energy' out of my system. The hair on my arms stood up, I had a warm tingly feeling, the whole nine. It was my first true spiritual experience in that the energy was actually tangible. Even though this whole time I've been saying that Chad 'healed' me, I'd never quite fully grasped what being a 'healer' meant. I don't want to cheapen this experience by sounding like a New Age freak, but it is what it is. My back feels better, I'm less depressed than I was yesterday and I have tangible evidence that acupuncture is a whole hell of a lot more than needles.

Below is Chad's bio. Laura went to him once and is now hooked as well. The night she got treated for the first time, she slept like a baby—something she hadn't done in ages.

As Shin’s resident acupuncture, tai-chi and martial arts expert, Chad Bailey brings an enormous wealth of knowledge and expertise to each of his sessions. He discovered the martial arts at the tender age of 12 while growing up in rural Pennsylvania and his love for the eastern teachings quickly developed into a much deeper passion. He earned his under-graduate degree at Temple University in exercise physiology and did his graduate work in oriental medicine at The International Institute of Chinese Medicine in Santa Fe. While in Philadelphia, Chad had founded his own martial arts center and used the move to Santa Fe as an opportunity to expand his passion for teaching. It was here that he was able to experience a wide range of fighting styles and self-defense techniques. He relocated to Miami in 1995 and discovered Shin during its earliest stages. Now, as a fixed member of the Shin community, Chad offers acupuncture and needle-less acupuncture, teaches tai-chi, herbology, Chinese diet therapy as well as Qi Gong, a form of meditative breathing. - David Gonzalez

It's been a busy social season for most of us in Miami—er, I mean like 1 percent of us—so that's my excuse for not blogging. I mean, I've been writing writing writing the memoir. Seriously though after this week I'm locking myself in my apartment for days on end till I go up to the city. My old and dear friend Meredith is heading down here Thursday, and being that she is as much of a type-A planner as I am, we've got a packed itinerary. We'll be hitting the Fontainebleau, Viceroy hotel, the Spa at Epic, The Mandarin Oriental, Bal Harbour, Prime Italian and if we're not too partied out by Sunday, Palm Beach.

Meredith and I met when I was 16 years old. We were both at a Musiker program—my fellow MOTs remember Musiker teen tours and summer programs verrrrrrrrry well I'm sure—at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. We insta-bonded over food and fashion. Somehow we initially talked about Atlanta, and it just so happened that she was raving about a restaurant that was owned by our very good family friend. When I found out she lived on the Upper East Side, attended Dalton—where my not-so-dear departed Roxy don't-call-me-grandma also matriculated—and was obsessed with Ab Fab, Versace and all things fashion, it was all over. My mom remembers me calling her and saying that I'd met my soulmate. Yeah, I was a really late bloomer in the boy department.

We've shared many good times over the years in New York, Florida and Mexico at the amaaaaaaaaazing Las Ventanas al Paraiso in Cabo. Our last trip in Florida was a spring break jaunt to South Beach, where we stayed in some little place on Ocean that probably isn't around anymore, and thought we were so cool for getting into Liquid and all those throwback places. South Beach was in the last phase of its Rennaissance back then—meaning it was still fabulous. South Beach still can be fab, but it's also often the cheesiest and most offensive place on earth, fashion-wise. (Aside from Disneyworld.) The Patsy to her Edina, I can't wait to glam it up again and have another partner in crime more than a decade after our initial SoBe foray.

And we CAN'T wait to visit The Spa at Icon Brickell Friday. Check it out. I hit probably three spas or so a month for my Juli B beauty column, but even this jaded spa-goer is really looking forward to this place.

Ugh stupid photo uploader not working so go to the web site to see the Icon photos.


I did watch the Oscars, but I need to watch the E! reviews to fully absorb the extent. The woman who made me gasp with pleasure and envy though was the elegant, intelligent and beautiful Natalie Portman. She also happens to be an MOT who was born in Israel, went to Harvard and is extrememly talented. And I've always loved her. The gown by Rodarte wouldn't be my first choice, but on her the pink and the gold and her flawless face just totally work.

Last month my friends and I were at the Gansevoort's club Louis. We had already been to a party or two and were not exactly stone-cold sober. None of us had been to this particular club yet.

We walk in and what we see is a midget dressed as Napoleon at thef helm of the doors. Orlene, Hemley and I stopped in our tracks. Clearly, this is not what you expect to see at a nightspot. 'What the fuck,' I'm sure I said. We were standing there for a min thinking and saying 'this is totally fucked-up what the hell is going here??? Hems told me later that he was so shocked he said, "Why thank you sir," when Napolean opened the door for him.

It was a topic of conversation for a while. Turns out that one of my friends had also had a run in with little Napoleon in the parking lot of the Gansevoort. There's something, well, I suppose disturbing about this little person's job to me. I'm not exactly politcally correct, but this strikes me as totally politically incorrect. What do you think the ad on Craig's List read? He's a little little person; not like Chuy on Chelsea Lately. Okay, cut to last Sunday, when I read the NYT Styles section and found this:

Cancer IS the New Black

Fucking hospital and fucking snowbird geriatrics are really pissing me off. How dare they shuttle between Sloan-Kettering and my Mt. Sinai? Don't they realize that us locals have first priority here? I kid, but not really. Yesterday was yet another clusterfuck of a day at the hospital. Went in for bloodwork. Gave Doc Schwartz some of my Cancer Is the New Black nipple coasters. He loves.

"Yeah, Dr. Love [the onco who interviewed me for a teaching CD] didn't seem to get what 'Cancer Is the New Black' meant, so I had to explain to him the whole fashion lexicon and how each season another color or accessory is the 'new black.'"

"Oh, I got it right away and think it's clever," he said. I am paraphrasing. (If only my doctors were publishers. I'd so have a six-figure deal by now. I'm even more ridiculously dramatic and amusing in person, my friends will attest.)

"I know right? Probably because you're a New Yorker."

"Yeah, maybe."

I just looooooooove Dr. Schwartz. If you have to do breast cancer, he's the man. Anywho, all the old bags were waiting in the public area. Germs were just escaping out of their mouths. And once again Michael (head nurse) said he was going to have to ask me to wait outside. So I told him to check to see if the pharmacy had blended my cocktail yet; he said no. I told him ciao, that I'd be back tomorrow. That way I'd come in, they'd call the pharmacy and I'd be in and out. So here I am hooked up to the IV.

Yesterday was a fuck of a day too. Starting with the hospital saga and culminating in me getting home, handing the keys to valet, feeling a stabbing pain in my left heel only to look down and see a piece of glass stuck in my foot! A piece of glass that was seemingly lurking inside my Walter Steigers waiting for the right moment to fuck with me. And you know how careful I have to be about infections, so there I am carrying all my groceries and sundries, limping into my building, entering my apartment, ignoring Wally while I race around screaming and searching for my medical supplies. I'm not even going to get into how long it took me to dress this pin-prick-sized cut. And then just to be safe I had the chemo nurse dress it for me again just now.

I did have a haircut yesterday and it looks good. Similar to the way it was before, but more even and piecey. Everyone seems to think my hair looks so much better—implying that my hair looked fugly before?—and I can see what they mean. BUT I feel like it makes me look older, un-sexy (if I ever were sexy I feel even less so now) and a whole hot mess of other things.

Oh, the topper on the day was that I woke up reaaaaaally stressed, longing for Xanax. All-day, Xanax on the brain. (Klonopins are nice, but they don't give you the high, la la la feeling that Xannies do.) Got to CVS—only do I go there in desparation after my lil mom and pop pharm is closed—and the fuckers wouldn't give me the pills because Schwartz forgot to write the # of pills. That wasn't pretty.

Then I got home and cut the foot. I've been at hospital all-day. I had my transvaginal ultrasound. This looks at your ovaries and your cervix. Though the radiologist will read them later, the nurses proclaimed that I have "beautiful ovaries!"

"Well, we all have different definitions of beauty, but I'll take that."

Oh, and I keep forgetting to check on my foreclosed apartment. Dad says he gave me the info to go online but fuck if I know where it is. I could be living in a box by next week! Stay tuned!

One Year C-Free

Doc Schwartz told me today that yes, one year after your most substantial/comprehensive surgery, I'm officially Cancer-free. So this is the face and the place of the Cancer-free zone. My mastectoversary photos. Some (the good ones) were taken by friend and artiste extraordinaire Tomas.






Look how they've shrunk!!!!

Woooooo-hoooo. I found 1/2 of my missing 2007 Filofax pages. Shoved in my 2001 Warhol print Chairman Mao journal. The Factory to the rescue! More later I am floating on cloud 1000.

See, the little things make this gal as happy as a day at the jeweler!

Good start to the week even though I am suffering Pristiq withdrawl. Leave it to me to pick a pharmacy that's closed on the weekends.

One More Day

I slept until 4 p.m. today and then had a massage at home. Sore throat. Bought some soup at Epicure and some turkey as a V-day present for Wally. Going to watch Casablanca, do some cleaning and get some rest. This should be a happy weekend, but instead it's way emotional. I feel like the old Stephanie died at this time last year and am fuzzy on who the new Stephanie is.

More hospital notes from mom, the day after the mastectomy. I was fairly cognizant by then despite the Dilaudin drip.

Saturday, February 16, 2008
8 a.m. Dr. Mesko changed bandages, worked on drains, everything good. [We liked that he came in on a Saturday morning and wondered if he does this for all patients. Or just those on 8 Main.]
8:30 Dad called waiting for plumber [My toilet had been minorly impaired for a month and dad couldn't deal. Ironically, they broke it further and had to return to fix it.]
9 a.m. Stephanie talked to BAM [Uggggggghhhhhh.]
9:30 Donna called
9:45 Lynn, Stacey, Kim and David called
10:20 Dana arrived with lifesaving SNAPPLE
11:15 Cookies from Ebers arrive, Bergdorf's, shoes and all [Dana and Nance customized an adorable cookie basket with all my fave things depicted.]
11:30 Dana making up Steph; hair in ponytail [I had Dana or mom do my makeup every day.]
11:45 Cheryl Kramer calls
12 p.m. Edible Arrangements from Rosenblums and Margols
1:15 Stephanie's catheter bag FULL. 3 1/3 full. 3333ccs full to empty [Dana noticed that the bag was nearly overflowing and called the nurse in to empty.]
2 p.m. Ray Ellen visits
4 p.m. Jeff and Lorelle visit, brought rugelah
4:30 Change bed linens—leaky drain
5 p.m. Neal came, Kim and David, Jimmy and Martha, Tomas and Joni arrived
8:20 Dr. Rosenbaum came—happy, happy how skin looked [Rosenbaum had grave concerns pre-op about how thin my skin was
9 p.m. Barney, Daryl and the LatAsian visit

I remember being so wiped by that point that I kicked 'em out

I'm sure you all can really tell now what a wonderful support system I have. Here's to all those people who made this year tolerable. I love you guys.

Mammaversary

That's right—another Cancerversary.

Sunday Feb. 15th is the big one. At 1:30 p.m. Feb. 15, 2008 I was wheeled off to the OR for a bilateral mastectomy with sentinel lymph node removal and immediate reconstruction. I was in a suite on "8 Main"—the Founders' Floor of Mt. Sinai—for 3 nights. Many of you have come along on this crazy scary ride with me this year. I know it has been helpful to some of you, entertaining for some of you and enlightening for (I sincerely hope) most of you. My Filofax pages are still missing. But I came across my mom's uber-detailed timeline of surgery day that I'd like to share. So here goes. I haven't looked at this in a while, and wasn't cognizant to remember much.

Friday, Feb. 15th

10:10 a.m. Arrive—Nancy, Mark, Dana and Steph
10:20 a.m. Bam, surprise! [Some of you may recall that in my PTSD, post-diagnosis state I had a rather torrid affair with a black hip-hop musician who happened to be married with three kids. Another story entirely. But his 'name' was BAM. Yes, BAM. Shock makes you do crazy things.]
11:30 Aunt Cheryl arrives
1:30 Off to surgery
1:30 Lunch—Lynn arrives. Flowers in cafeteria from the S family. Lynn: "Those don't look like orchids to me!" [I'd requested orchids from people in lieu of flowers that die quickly.]
2:30 Jeff Weil arrives
3:20 Bam called. [Christ, my poor parents. A washed-up, broke, married, freaky looking, hip-hopping Schvartze. I can't even do shock normally.]
3:30 Michael, Kim, David, Jimmy arrive
4 p.m. Dawn from work came so nice!!! Dr. Laura calls to see how we all are. Gina [a nurse I suppose] came in with update. Vivian charge nurse on 8 Main
5:30 Dr. Mesko [Thomas Mesko is the surgeon who lopped 'em off, working simultaneously with Dr. Rosenbaum. Meaning when he came out it was likely that he was done chopping 'em off and Rosenbaum would begin putting 'em back on.]
5:45 Bam Called
[Mom seems to have left off the minor detail of me waking up from anesthesia.]
7 p.m. Renee arrives
7:10 Dr. Rosenbaum
7:50 Gloria conversation—dad tried to give away dinner. [Have no idea who Gloria is or why dad was pushing food on her.]
7:55 Lynn recording [?]
8:10 Kicked out of waiting—Dad gets locked out [For reals.]
(Calls, texts, emails: Cindy, Jay, Barbi, Nancy P., Sabba Silverman, Joe Davis, Stan Blake, Buzzy, Donny, Karen and Harold, Daryl, Barney, Lee Ann, Joanne, Durrett, Faye, Susan, Leslie, Dan, Joanne and Ray
9:30 p.m. Out of recovery and into room 822.
12 a.m. Michael and dad go to Steph's apartment. Bam arrives and leaves at 2:15 a.m. Mom spends the night.

I received a package from the jeweler today with a lovely diamond necklace but no card. Obv. it was from mom, but apparently the card was supposed to be read first. No idea why.

Everyone keeps asking me how I will feel on the anniversary, but how can I know? I've been all-right mentally this week, despite PMSing. I get emotional reading this stuff; I'd be inhuman if I didn't. What a year. It's indescribable (except in book form of course), but if you've been reading you know how it's affected me.

I can offer photos in comparison. Taken Tuesday Feb. 10


To my surprise, I ran into one of my oldest and dearest friends I went to elementary and high school with—it'd been about 16 years!


February 2007 in room 822.


That's all.

Well, I never found the fucking Filofax pages, but on the plus side I did find a troop of little roaches crawling out of my dishwasher. And brother found his first apartment mouse in NYC. The rodents are back and just love torturing the Greens.

Seriously though it will be a good week. Tonight I'm heading to a fab pre-Valentine's fete at the amazing Acqualina Resort, and tomorrow I'm going to an early screening of Confessions of A Shopaholic. Loved the books and have a total girl crush on Isla Fischer. She's Sascha Baron Cohen's wifey, aka Borat. So jeal.

Tomorrow I have my second post-chemo haircut at Cutler Salon in the Gansevoort South, in an attempt to tame the Jewfro and even out my bangs, which I singed off with the flatiron. Thursday I have a facial at Spa Chakra, Friday I finally have my transvaginal ultrasound with Dr. McHottie. This oncological gyno is seriously George-Clooney-level sexy. So it's a little bizarre having his hands shoved up my nether-regions, but he's the best. Saturday I'm treating myself to a relaxing V-Day with a massage at Equinox. (I found out that Barack Obamamama worked out there recently. Gah!) And Sunday is the one-year cancerversary of my mastectomy. Can you all believe it's been a year? My God.

I have a group on FB that some of you are members of called "I Am a Warrior." (You're totally going to have that song in your head all-day now.) Last night I sent a message to all the members, who range from cancer chicks to luminaries like Ross Bleckner. (When I saw that he'd joined the group, I was both floored and honored. One of the greatest living artists and someone I admire immensly; his father died from prostate Cancer.)

So this is the letter, and I'm sooo happy that it's inspired a few women to go out and get mammograms! If you haven't joined the group yet, please do so. (I have no idea what's with all the slashes, but rest assured I'm not responsible for that glitch.)

Sunday Feb. 15th marks the one-year anniversary of my bilateral mastectomy. I\'m a perpetual singleton, so my cancerversaries are what I choose to celebrate. What. A. Year. Natch, the craziest, most educational and character-forming year out of 33.

Everyone asks me how this experience has changed me. My personality, my outlook, my blah blah blah. My friends and shrinks ask me. Doctors ask me. Family and family friends ask me. My loyal blog readers don\'t ask though, as they\'ve shared every surgical scar, side-effect, up and down with me. There\'s no simple answer that will satisfy all of those who ask. It\'s not made me religulous. Or less interested in fashion, entertainment, beauty and other pretty things. Yes, I wore Chanel to chemo, what of it?

Here\'s what Cancer did do: It showed me that I am as strong as I suspected but never really believed. In other words, it proved to me that if I can make it in the chemo ward, I can make it anywhere. I don\'t know why I\'m messaging you guys. Though many of you don\'t know me personally, you probably know Cancer. Cancer is a total douchebag if you ask me. But we have weapons now. Powerful ones.

In less than a year I successfully completed treatment and am \"Cancer-free\" as they like to say. I was C-free after the lumpectomy; I had a bilat mastectomy and chemo preventively. I\'m not asking you guys to do anything but remain aware, and if you know anyone that you think could benefit from my story, forward this, send them to my blog, give them my email, tell them to FB me. I like to pay it forward. (And I pay reaaaally well.)

Tell your Jewish girlfriends to get BRCA tested if they have a family history of breast, prostate or ovarian cancer. Get a mammogram as early as you like; begin mandatory ones at 35.
Let\'s try to show people that there is no reason for Cancer to carry a stigma. It\'s 2009. Got Cancer? There\'s no need to whisper about it. If you or a friend or family member is affected by breast Cancer, I am happy to give doctor recommendations, referrals, advice, names and numbers—whatever I can do within reason. I mean, I\'m not going to buy you a $4,000 wig or anything, though I will call Ralf to get you a coveted appointment with him;)
xoxo
Stephanie Green

If It's Monday, I Must Be in Hell

God fucking damnit. There's a reason we all hate Mondays, right?

I spent this entire weekend—seriously all-day Saturday and Sunday—organiz-izing my work and Cancer materials. One in the same basically since my memoir is mostly centered around the past year. My friends make fun because instead of relying on electronic organizers, I still take notes in my Filofax, old-school style. I think many writers still prefer to take notes.

I have the Filofax Pocket model for day-to-day organization.


One week covers two pages:


Jotted down on these pages are to-do lists as well as what I did that day—from doctor's appointments to workout recaps to social events to things that happened or quotes I want to remember. Basically, my entire life resides in note form on these sacred pages. Has for years. In terms of a daily online journal, the blog has replaced any type of electronically stored diary.

Once a new year comes around, and whenever the book becomes too thick, I remove the pages and stash them somewhere safe so I can go back, look at the pages and write from these notes. One line or event will jog my memory and then I can input the stuff into my Word docs.

In short, these pages are absofuckinglutely fundamental to my memoir; they serve as an intensely detailed outline of the year. Well fuck me hardcore right now because I can't find the pages anywhere. I organiz-ized all my Cancer closets and baskets. Sorted through all the medical paperwork, hospital souvenirs—wristbands and gowns and compression garments, oh my. Made neat my two dresser drawers full of my clips; climbed on the kitchen counter to reach all the messy cabinets; tore up my jewelry drawer thinking the pages were hiding under the containers. Even removed all my books from my bookshelves only to re-shelve them neatly. I even ransacked my clothes closet. The pages are nowhere. Nowhere. I even called mom to have her excavate my bedroom at their house. Nada. The only two places left are under my bed and in some of the kitchen cabinets. I'm putting that off because if they are not there. . .well, I am sans-Xanax so the conclusion to another fruitless search would not be pretty. (As I'm editing this I'm calling Dr. Melnick to have him call me in a Xanax scrip. Have I mentioned that Xanax are both fun and useful?)

I even tried to will my subconscious into revealing the answer to me in my dreams, but that didn't work either. I suspect they are in a very obvious place, but I fear I threw them away. Anyway, any suggestions on where I may have stashed these fucking pages would be appreciated.

On another stressing-me-out-and-pissing-me-off note, I called Plastic Surgeon's office today and once again found out that he'd glossed over the details of tattooing in the color of the nips. He'd told me I'd be in and out, a simple in-office procedure done by an aestetician. So I called Nora to schedule the appointment. Nora is a lifesaver when it comes to the recovery details the doc sort of mentions in passing.

Like the fucking fact that the tattooing is done in two stages over a (now) three-month period of time. So, let's see—a simple 'in and out' procedure has now turned into yet another extended period of life interrupted. Monday, Feb. 23 I go in for my first tattooing. The color fades, Nora says, so I must go in again after for a second tattooing in of color a month or so later. In between those sessions, I go in for the "snipping" session for the right dickle. You thought I was exaggerating about my dick nip? Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a circumcision also referred to as 'snipping'? Well, fuck. So in March he snips the dickle. And then in April I go back for the second tattooing. Three more months of boob drama I so do not need.

For just one day I would like to wake up to some good news. Just one day, that's all I'm asking. And people wonder why I wake up so late. Well, if I woke up early like normal people then that's just more hours in the day in which bad things can happen, okay?

Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Now I'm off to ransack the few remaining places in which my diary pages can dwell. After that, depending on the outcome, you either can reach me in bed doped up on pills and drooling, or celebrating in the streets. I have a sick feeling though that it will be the former.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Pube Boobs, Dickles and Such

I'd nearly forgotten about the pubic hair nips. See, I look at the boobs in the mirror, however, I'm nearsighted so from a few feet away I can't see the short and curlies.

So yesterday I looked down at them in the shower. I laughed out loud—and screamed, natch—when I saw that more pubes had sprouted on the nipples. More!? Could you just die? (I realize I'm totally sabotaging romantic prospects by discussing my pube boobs with a side of dick nips. Frankly, I'd rather entertain you guys than bother with dates anyway. Clearly.)

So I looked down: I have 15 pubes on the left nip. That's the non-dickle. The left ones aren't so curly but they are long and black. And since the last time I looked, they've multiplied like mice in a NYC apartment's radiator. The right boob just seems to exist solely to spite me. That's the one with the dickle that plastic surg will correct when he tattooes in the color. And in addition to the dickle, I have 17—ironically my lucky number—long and curlies. It's really gross you guys. Really fucking nasty. I'm beginning not to be so amused by this, although since it makes for great material, I suppose I'm not totally displeased. I'm tearing up a little as I type this while simultaneously throwing up a little in my mouth whilst looking at them. Jesus fuck me Christ. Who gets hairy dickles except for me? If you guys know of anyone else, do share.

For new readers, hairy dickles are not unheard of during nipple reconstruction. I'll let the surgery post explain that whole thing. (Why oh why did I shave? Fucking vanity, that's why.) I'm supposed to get color tattooed in first, then laser hair removal after, but I think I may see if I can do it in reverse. Fucking pube boobs are worse than a faint shade on the nipples.

Only me, only me, only me.

Oh and on an unrelated note, have you seen the new iPhone commercials where it says they have an app that let's you read MRIs??? What the fuckity fuck fuck? I'm sorry but I DO NOT want my doctors reading MRIs on a screen that small, while at dinner perhaps? That is just not kosher in my book and I can't even believe the AMA or whoever regulates this shit is down with that. Seriously, that just isn't right.

D, what the hell is your opinion on this as a radiologist? I can't deal.

This Is Why I Hate Driving

Weeeeeeeellllllllllll. Can you believe a rear-end collision wherein I hit the dude's pickup truck going 15 mph max resulted in $8,000+ in damages?! Quell surprise. Jesus.

So now, get this—my rental car is a pimped-out, gold Cadillac. Seriously. The car is so big that my arm can barely settle on the driver's side armrest. I think these cars are engineered with obese, old Jews in mind, no? It was either that or some kind of subcompact I'd never heard of. So picture me cruising around SoBe in this granny yenta car until Feb. 20th when mine is repaired. It's so much bigger than my car that I can't really gauge the girth in terms of parking, backing up and turning. Which resulted in me driving over the newly-planted flowers in the driveway median at the 'rents' house. Oops.

Their driveway is notoriously long, and over the years, the lights lining it have been the victims of many a vehicle, especially back when mammoth vans were all the rage. I think Dana's mom smashed about 10 of them as their family vans grew larger.

This car is a real fucking gas guzzler too. Took me a tank-and-a-half to get to Jax this weekend each way.

It's been a busy couple of weeks here during 'season.' Season—gah, the reason for the interminable lines at the Epicure deli, the clogged streets AND, most importantly the episode last week at the chemo ward.

Mom's 60th birthday was a blast, though dad and I ruined both surprises at the last minute. We're just cool like that; the two of us foil any surprise by accident.

The first was that Susan, mom's BFF from college, was coming in from Atlanta with hubby Ray, the Jell-O shooter. Dad kept it in the bag for SO long. And then. . .

"Yeah, Jeff's coming in town for the party," dad told her.

Jeff's one of our oldest family friends and one of the people from a family we've had relationships with for three generations. Jeff's daughter is one of my good friends and frequent baking partner. Our grandparents were best friends, our fathers, etc.

"Oh, that's so sweet of him!" mom said.

"Yeah, he's going to play golf with me and Ray Saturday." D'oh!

Yeah, so Susan and Ray, not so much of a surprise anymore. Secondly, I had been working intensely with Lynn on mom's bday gift from her girlfriends. Lynn makes me look like a Type B; this Type A strives to be so organized and perfect! Remember she was my cancer project manager and has been my mom's shopping partner in crime for 30+ years. She knows mom's taste as well as me, so they often shop for each other. Lynn was thinking jewelry from Landsberg, but I suggested that any jewelry they'd give her within their price point she'd either already have or likely not get too much use out of since the woman has so much damn jewelry.

My suggestion was a classic Chanel evening bag in black with gold hardware, which mom actually needed. So we settled on that, and Lynn ran around from Worth Ave. to Palm Beach Gardens scouting out the perfect one. And I was receiving picture messages of the bags from the Chanel sales girl's phone.

Meanwhile, some of the peanuts in the gallery thought jewelry more appropo, but I held fast in my Chanel stance. Which resulted in me putting the final kaibosh on the jewelry debate on the day of the party. I texted one of the peanuts and told her that the present was settled and that mom had been wanting this bag for a while. I was in the car with mom, and she knew that this whole gift had involved a lot of peanuts and opinions. So she wanted to hear the text I sent to make sure it was diplomatic—as if I am ever undiplomatic. I read it to her and when I said the word 'bag,' well, you know. Double d'oh. But she loooved the bag and I'm sure Lynn breathed a big sigh of relief after it was opened to much ado at 1:30 a.m., when Ray decided to take his Jell-O shot induced nap pictured in yesterday's post.

This is the bag. She's got the strap doubled up here; it can be worn long or short. Perfection. Like I've said before, Chanel is the perfect go-to label for investment pieces. Two of mine are hand-me-downs from mom bought in the '80s and I wear them all the time.




Consequently mom, I'm assuming I'll receive your vintage, camera, leather Chanel in the mail soon now that you've upgraded?

Ta for now.

I've just arrived home from Jacksonville for mom's 60th birthday. I've got some vv important Gossip Girl DVRing to do, so let the photos suffice for now and I'll try to post something in the a.m. There's one in particular photo, however, that sums up the festivities and our wonderfully amusing, entertaining, endearing, fun and lovely friends.

The master of the universe meets the Jell-O shot(s).


(Brother and I still have no idea why our parents and their cadre of 60-year-old-ish friends have latched onto Jell-O shots as we did 10 years ago in college.)

And although I did indulge in a Jell-O shot served by a very amused catering staffer, I made sure we started off the festivities with a bottle of Tattinger.



And now behold Ray by the end of the night. Not that I'm saying he can't still party like a rock star. . .

In his defense, by the time mom got around to opening presents—she adored the classic Chanel bag her girlfriends and I gifted her with—it was about 1 a.m.

South Beach Shrinkage

When your parents tell you that the circumstances under which you totaled your car make for a good "blog story," you know, well, that you have a good "blog story."

I had a 2:30 with the shrink, Dr. Melnick yesterday. His office is about 10 minutes from my house, just north of South Beach. Traffic in South Beach is always a bitch. The scooter-ers, bicyclists, speed freaks and old bags make for one big traffic clusterfuck of a neighborhood. Look away for one second and you've hit a pedestrian. Or, in my case, rear-ended a pickup truck on Alton Road. I looked away for a nanosec, looked up again and found myself too close for comfort with the Chevy Silverado in front of me. My car crumpled up like a piece of aluminum foil, which is what it's "supposed to do" to protect the driver.

I hop out of the car, apologize to the truck driver—who's of course pissed off—and drift into that dreamy 'oh, here we go again' mental state that I'm familiar with intimately. It's hot as hell out, and I'm wearing velour Juicy pants, a thick Lucky hoodie and a tank underneath that's too low-cut to enable me to remove the hoodie. Not to mention the fact that my hair is spiked up about four inches, I'm wearing no makeup, my prescription Chloe aviators, the whole nine. I'm looking hot. I call Shrink on his cell, tell him what's happened.

"Where are you exactly?"

"Alton and 20th in front of Wachovia."

"Okay, I'll drop these scrips off so you can have them."

"To the pharmacy you mean?"

"No, I'll come to you."

Five minutes later, Shrink pulls up and parks behind our little wreck.

"This has to be a first—"

"Well, you booked the time. . ."

We'd already called the cops and knew they'd take their sweet ass time getting to the scene.

I'm a little unnerved, pacing around.

"Come sit down," he says.

So I sit down next to him, he whips out the prescription pad and we proceed to have our session on the steps of a ghetto apartment/hotel building on Alton Road. He's assessing the damage to my car, I'm fretting about how I'm going to get a rental in time to drive home for mom's 60th bday weekend tomorrow. He writes out my scrips, hands me the paper; I give him all this insurance info that I need him to input for me to get reimbursed.

"Okay, well I've got a 3 p.m., but you're okay?"

"Yes, thank you soo much. This is why you're the best doctor ever."

"So, I'll be checking the blog for this I'm guessing?"

"Yeah, definitely."

He leaves and about an hour passes with no signs of la policia. The other driver, Jesse, had made the first call. So natch, I put in the second.

"Yeah, hi, I know the other guy who called said it wasn't an emergency, but I'm in Cancer treatment and my head's hurting, so you know I'd like to get to the doctor eventually, so can you put it in as like kind of an emergency?"

She tells me it hasn't been dispatched yet. I tell the dude Jesse what I told her, and of course he becomes a lot more pleasant to deal with. I feel justified in pulling the Cancer card, and I did (and still do) have a pretty bad headache. I call 911 again, whine again and this time she tells me they're on the way. We see a police car pass us and pull over in the wrong place. Finally he turns around and, not taking any chances, wild-haired, wild-eyed Steph waves the car down from the middle of Alton. The cop is—I kid you not—a gay character right out of central casting. I swear, this man's arms wouldn't extend all the way down; they were in perma-arm-wrist-bend mode.

I'm already in talks with the insurance co and tow truck co, multitasking as it takes Chip 1 and Chip II—who was clearly just bored cruising around South beach and decided to join Chip 1—about 45 minutes to fill out the police report. I call Laura who's willing to pick me up on her scooter. The cops leave, the tow truck comes and then Laura. After the luck I was having, I was a little nervous about being transported home via scooter, but it was a smooth ride.

Sooo, today. I wake up early as the insurance company had told me they reserved an Enterprise car for me and I just had to go pick it up this a.m. I had an 11:30 gyno appointment for a transvaginal ultrasound—the earliest and best device we have nowadays at detecting ovarian cancer. I've had to cancel on this doctor twice before. And it would be nice to know that everything down there is kosher (not that I have any reason in particular to worry, just routine maintenence when you're BRCA+).

Of course Enterprise has no cars. Of course the insurance operator made the reservation in Jacksonville, where my agent is even though I told him I lived in South Beach. Of course I have to cancel on the doctor again. Now I'm still feeling lightheaded, have no car—only a reservation—for tomorrow and am a little overwhelmed at packing, as usual. I'm also hoping the v-jay-jay will be patient with me for another month.

But a shrink who makes roadside assistance calls? Now that my friends, is surely something only this coconut can boast.

Omigod, I can't believe this is happening. In the near year that I've been visiting the MS Cancer Center for chemo and Herceptin, I've never once had to wait in the public area. The receptionist always says by rote, "Have a seat and if they haven't called your name in an hour, come see me."

As fucking if. I stride right by the old ladies and men waiting outside the doors of the chemo ward, inwardly laughing at their sheeplike mentality—couldn't they see that the chemo ward is empty and there's no need to wait outside? Outside the doors where it smells like hospital food and illness. Where the average age must be 70. Where the dirty old men stare at my tits to the extent that I want to scream out "They're cancer tits, okay?" And where the women wear orthopedic shoes, bandanas and polyester.

Well, I certainly got my comeuppance today, as I'm now sitting in the public waiting area typing this, trying not to breathe in the germy air. Thank god I have tights on under my dress or I'd be completely flipping out about my skin touching the nasty fabric of this chair.

An hour ago I sauntered in past the waiting area of sick sheep and took a seat in one of the chemo pods, as the receptionist told me there were no rooms at the moment. My usual room—room #1, the corner one with the best views—was occupied by an old man.

So I waited. And waited. And finally told her that I didn't need a room, just get me started in the pod. A few minutes later the managing nurse, who I'm friendly with, told me he needed my pod seat since they were so backed up.

"Where should I wait?"

"Out there," he said, motioning for me to exit through the glass doors into the area I scoffed at. (Jesus Christ, there's a maid sweeping the carpet under my feet at this very moment, what the fuck?)

"Out there?," I said with what felt like panic. Out there? Why, I never. Never had to sit out there in a whole year. They'll call me, he said. But I'd already Wet-Wiped down the chair in that pod, 'do I have enough Wet Wipes to start over?' I thought instinctually.

Let me explain how these infusion days work. I go to chemo ward first. They draw blood, send to lab—CA 125 and CA 153, tumor marking tests for breast and ovarian CA—and doctor waits to get the results. I then go in to see Dr. Schwartz, who looks over my bloodwork, checks my vitals, does manual exam and then sends me to scheduling. I schedule my next infusion, three weeks hence. I then go back over to chemo ward, usually head to room #1, sanitize that room—the table where I put my computer, the counter tops, all the handles and buttons I must touch and set up the bed height etc. I wait on the pharmacy to send up the meds, which can take up to an hour. Once the meds finally arrive, I'm hooked up to the IV via the port (catheter) implanted above my right breast. Then it's an hour and a half of infusion time.

I have these days and their machinations down to a controllable routine. Which has been thrown completely off course by me having been essentially kicked out of the comfortable chemo pad to the uncomfortable public waiting area. I'm typing so as not to have a panic attack and bolt. In a few more minutes, I shall see about rescheduling at a less busy time. I'm very, very uncomfortable by this change in my routine.

And even more uncomfortable being treated like 'the others'. Elitism aside, contributing to this out of control vulnerability is the fact that I'm still the youngest fucking patient here. Every day I hear of women my age being diagnosed in the area. So where the fuck are they? These young wome 'just like me'. All I'm asking for is someone under the age of 40.

And to get the hell out of Macy's and back into Bergdorf's. I do not like this one bit. Not at all. They'd better fucking call me soon or I'm out of here. This is way beyond my comfort zone and after the past couple of weeks, I'd been looking forward to nothing but the comforts of normality this week. Not a good start. At all. Seriously, this is not in the plan.

Getting to Know You

Or me, rather. You guys get a fairly accurate picture of my personality through this here blog, but most of you have never actually met the phenomenon that is Stephanie in person. I kid, but here's your chance.

Below is the link to the video of my 'performance' at Heeb Storytelling in November at the Miami Int'l Book Fair. I'm finally uploading video, however most of them are incriminating, so often people tell me not to post them.

Speaking of Heeb, you all canbuy the issue with my story on newstands. That hot mess Courtney Love is on the cover. But this is the coolest—Chelsea Handler actually held up the issue and quoted from the Courtney Love interview on Chelsea Lately Friday night. I DVR her show already, and nearly dropped the vaporizer when I saw her hold the issue up. Deducing that if she is in possession of the rag, she just may read my story. You know how much I love me some Chelsea. So just in case she didn't read my feature, I shot her an email telling her to—she's my Facebook friend. Ha. I figured it's about drugs so pretty good chance she might read, given her loving relationship with Grey Goose.

Anywho, let's see if you like me as much on camera as you do in writing. And it's a story you guys haven't heard, so enjoy.

Fashionista Follows the Signs

You all know I believe in the significance of signs and I try to recognize, pay attention and interpret the really important ones. Fitting then, that the most recent one came in the form of one of my Dior bags. I kid you not.

At dinner Saturday night with the 'rents and Daryl—Dana's older bro and my lifelong best straight-guy friend—somehow a conversation about investments devolved into my form of securities—wardrobe investment pieces.

Investment Piece Function: noun
Usage: often attributive
A luxury good, item of clothing or accessory that merits its high cost by standing the test of time.

Examples given: Classic Manolo Blahnik slingbacks, sophisticated pair of designer jeans, Chanel handbag, Cartier watch, diamond stud earrings.

Context:
"Jesus, this Vuitton bag is $1,200, but it is a classic investment piece. ..."

You get the drift, ladies. Men, well, they don't get it, so if hubby, father or lover insists on knowing the price, slash it by 50 percent. (They always buy the 'sale excuse,' no matter the season.)

Daryl—many of my less sartorially inclined friends, in fact—sees my fashion obsession as trivial perhaps, so I schooled him at dinner.

"Okay, so tell me what the value of that handbag is," he says, pointing at the Dior bag hanging on my chair.

Ooh, I chose the right bag that night.

"Actually," I say, feeling the endorphins rising up, "this particular bag is very significant."

"Tell me," he scoffs.

"About six years ago, mom got me this bag as a gift for getting my first literary agent. And six years later I still use it and it obviously has sentimental value."

So there. My mom obviously gets the theory, and dad, thanks to 35+ years of being with mom, has learned through osmosis.

"Okay, I can get that. So it has major sentimental value."

"Of course, most of my clothing does. In fact, I wore this exact shirt to the engagement party we had for Dana! That was what, about six years ago too. And this heart pendant? Also wore to the engagement party."

Now he really got it, so we got back to talking about other stuff. The bag in question is a pretty rare sight on other people, as it is from many seasons ago and was not a part of a classic Dior collection, rather a seasonal one. Therefore, not too many girls are sporting this exact bag nowadays. Even less in Miami.

Saturday night, Orlene and me at the Gansevoort South Beach:



Dawn and me, six years ago at the Hudson hotel NYC:



So last night Hemley and I took in The Wrestler, which I had been dying to see. Who doesn't love a good comeback? And especially a Mickey Rourke one; he's a fixture on the Miami scene.

The movie did not disappoint. His performance, and especially the history behind the uphill battle to get backing for a Mickey-Rourke-fronted vehicle, was both inspirational and fable-ish. (Fantastic director with a passion project and a steadfast belief that a "washed-up" star was the actor made for this film.)

As we exited the movie, I stopped in my tracks and began hitting Hems on the arm.

"Oh. My. God!"

"What?"

"See that girl with that red, yellow and green strapped bag? Oh my God!! I wore that bag last night. This is such a big sign."

"You wore that bag last night? I don't remember that?"

We had a late, debaucherous night with the crew at the NWS Friends after party.

"Damn, you were that wasted?"

"Oy, Chihuauha!"

"What's the sign?"

I told him the agenting story, the convo with Daryl the night before and as a gay, he got it without me having to explain the investment-piece/significance of fashion.

"So what's the meaning?"

"The meaning, is: It's time for my comeback, bitches."

On the way home we passed this Chinese restaurant Kim's.

"So is that place decent or is it cat food?"

"Oh, nay nay Heeba. Stay away."

I dropped him off and he called me shortly thereafter.

"Talk about signs, Heeba! I got in the elevator with a food delivery person and he handed me a menu. Guess what it's for? Kim's!!"

"Oy vey. So what does that mean?"

"I don't know, I'll work on this one. You've got yours covered."

Yes, I do.