7 months hence

Beau is still MIA. I know I shouldn't be hung up on him, but I can't help it. My heart literally aches worse than my surgical scars. Yesterday I had my lymph nodes removed. Not an easy operation, but I was up and about at Epicure with Lynn, Dana and mom after the hospital. We bought a fabulous post-surgical celebratory cake, which I sleep-ate last night to make up for two days of not eating.

We came home and went here, to put my face in celebrity hairstyles. Really cool tool.

Here's the thing re the Beau. He takes every little thing I say to heart, and ya'll know what a shit talker I am. He's the most sensitive man ever, and incredibly emotionally vulnerable--no father, no mother, no friends, and nobody at home to talk to. So he reads these self-help books, which he takes as gospel. I guess that's what people who aren't in therapy do. You can imagine my opinion of these books. After 12 years of therapy, I can write them. And I've tried to help him; as much as I can. Not change him, because he's a great person. Aside from the fact that he abandoned me this week during a time when I needed him most, he's still at the top of my list.

I don't honestly know what pushed him over the edge this week. And I know what a fucked up time this is for him to go MIA, and it's been since Thursday since he's gotten in touch. And it's breaking my heart.

My friends, family and loved ones--trying to protect my fragile heart--are telling me to forget about him for right now. To take a break and focus on healing my physical self. But that's the easy part, my doctors and my strong body are tackling that easy peasy. How to heal my heart is the hard part.

My mom had the most compelling idea yet. To set a meeting place months from now, when I'm healed and he's divorced, a la An Affair To Remember and Sleepless and Seattle.

I actually think it a brilliant idea. So Beau if you still love me by July 1st, which will be 7 months from the first day we met, let's meet at Geoffrey's in Malibu.
2 p.m. I'll be waiting. I'm always waiting. You'll be living the California rock star dream by then and I'll be cancer-free with luscious locks again.

I finish chemo June 10th.

I can't imagine that I would have such a happy or movie-like ending, but with a love this rare, I can't give up on a happy ending. Otherwise, what do I have to look forward to? A lonely 33rd birthday and a strapless Oscar de la Renta dress for Michael's wedding?

Haute Hospital Part 2

Well, here I am again. 5 a.m.; no food or drink; no beau. If you'll recall,Beau pulled a vanishing act before my mastectomy two weeks ago. Yet he redeemed himself by surprising me at the hospital. Beyond redemption this time? I don't think so, but my loved ones do. I'm not exactly the best man-chooser I'm afraid. Didn't bother to call to check on me yesterday, after I saw the oncologist and got my chemo schedule, which just a few weeks ago he claimed he was going to plan his touring schedule around.

No word last night. No word this morning. My crew, who previously loved him, think he's a duplicitious, sneaky, selfish bastard now. Time to stop defending him? How can I when I have never, ever loved a man like this? I had been celibate for THREE YEARS before I met him. I had never 'made love' with another man before him. Sure, I've been acting crazy. So fucking what? I just had my boobs chopped off and am now having my arm muscle taken out. I think I'm entitled to be completely BATSHIT, no?

So long story short, right now I hate him and love him, but love reigns supreme. I thought I'd finally found a man with balls bigger than mine. Was I wrong again?

That's my vent today. Now I shall primp for my axcillary lymph node removal and injection of the chemo port. My life is SOOOOOOOOOOOO fucking fun. I bet ya'll are jealous now.

My friend Josh at Heeb magazine turned me on to this brilliant cancer magazine online: Waiting Room.

Check it out and if you're feeling charitable, please donate. The world needs a site like this, for young people's sake and the sake of all humanity really.

I'm going to be working with them and I think it'll be a match made in heaven.

I have to admit I sulked in bed until 1 p.m. today and then moms dragged me out of bed. We made it as far as the T-Mobile store, where they wanted me to pay four-fucking-hundred dollars for a new Sidekick. As if. The cell phone biz is as bad as the health insurance game.

Surgery is Friday at 7:30 a.m., same location, same surgeon. Outpatient, but alien drain for another week. My titties are now B cups and not so bad looking on my frame. Will probably stick to a regular C, so that I only need one more 'inflation' session.

The surgeon injects silicon into my boob muscle, and literally inflated them like tires. Mom, Dana and I could see them inflating. Tres, tres bizarre.

Big shout out to all my friends, family, family friends and my beautiful Beau, who is excited to fondle the new boobs--scars and all. I didn't think they made men like him anymore. But they do, so don't write off the opposite sex yet ladies.

I will try to blog tomorrow, but I have an appt with oncologist to determine the chemo schedule tomorrow at 1 p.m. and then it's time for some much-needed retail therapy at the Neiman's outlet.

Thanks to all you guys for the thoughts, prayers and well wishes. Your encouragement means the world to me.

And Percocet is still a fabulous drug, FYI:)

The good news: the alien drains are gone and I've been 'expanded' to a B cup.

The BAD news: it's spread to the lymph nodes, meaning another surgery this Friday and possible radiation in addition to
chemo depending on how many nodes are contaminated.

Today is the first time I've actually broken down, bawling, in the doctors office. NYC trip and chemo will have to be postponed. They even presented my case at a conference yesterday.

I'm so fucking special. And I feel like someone cut me open at the sides and pulled the skin back together. I'm not feeling
good at all.

Frankly, this bites. Period.

New York readers:
Get off your asses and do something for a worthy cause my brother is promoting. Seriously, do a mitzvah for yourself and for these poor motherfuckers in India who live on like a penny a day.

From Brother. . .
Namaskar New Yorkers past and present—I'm having a benefit party on Friday, Feb. 29th for a friend I met in India that administers free health care to rural villagers and children with polio. He's an amazing human being with a great story—on a shoestring budget he rides 2 hours each way to the middle of nowhere (on a rented motorbike) to give extremely poor people the only health care they have.

And he's broke!

Celebrate the Leap Year come say hello and slip Sanjay some cash!

Here is the website for Sanjay and Hope Charity:

You can also read about my experience with Sanjay on my blog, under the entry titled "Sikkim," beginning on the 5th paragraph:

The party will be at The Dressing Room, on Orchard St. between Broome & Grand, on the Lower East Side, from 8:30 p.m. on.

$20 a head preferred, but whatever amount will help.

The more the merrier—please bring as many as you can!

Thank you,
Brother, aka, Michael Green

Post-Op photos. Day after surgery. Feb. 16

The Beau is prettier than me. No, he's not gay—he's just a balls-out rock star. And I love him.

Perhaps only brother (given his India expedition) can understand how fucking amazing it feels to bathe in water and Molton Brown shower gel again. (Not the Molton Brown part natch.)

So today is a good day. Yesterday was hilarious. I was naked from the waist up while the nurse was dressing my wounds and draining the alien pumps. There are still construction crews working on my balcony. I have floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Next thing we know, the scaffolding lift is lowered down past my window with 5 construction workers staring in. Picture this: The Nigerian nurse pumping my alien tubes while mom stands beside me holding the tubes. Fucking priceless. That'll teach them not to look in again. I'm quite surprised one of them didn't fall off.

We went and bought a bunch of baggy tops at Zara to wear until the alien pumps are out. Yest we managed to get this black chiffon one on. (I have to step through the tops cause I can't lift my arms.) So when it came time to take it off last night, we couldn't. And we couldn't figure out how the hell we'd gotten it on. Mom literally cut it off and now it's in the cancer souvenir closet. Beau watched on with amusement. We ate some special brownies and watched RENT.

Okay my arms hurt so that's all for right now.

A surgical diary in photos. There is just WAY to much good material to give away for free. But I'm feeling fabulous, am flat as a board, not wearing a bra, have alien-like drains attached to my body, have a home nurse coming every day, have reservations for wig March 5 to 10 in NYC and have gotten a haircut, final-fucking-ly.

Being wheeled out of Mt. Sinai's 8 Main (The 'cool' floor):


Getting into the wheelchair Monday with the nurse trying to duck out of the shot:

Me in the VIP suite that was my home for three nights. Don't ask me what the fuck is up with my camera. I cannot fix it for the life of me!


The worst part is over, yes, but the worst part right now is these crazy alien drainage pumps that suck the fluid from the tits or something like that. I have to walk around all day with these things, so I look like I've been impregnated by ET. I pin them to my clothes, don a baggy shirt and hit the road. . .



And me last night, post haircut and less than five days since surgery.


I've been doing a little bit every day, going for coffee, hitting sephora, going for lunch, chilling with friends, shopping etc. Mom is here to fetch things for me—I can't really lift my arms or use them much for that matter. Beau is staying tonight too, and the pain gets a little better everyday.

It's all good.

All is right with the world again. The Beau is back, the family is here and I've gotten a nice Franck Muller as a hand-me-down. Thanks for all the emails and phone calls. I sincerely thank you all but have no time to write individually.

In 12 hours I'll be passed out in my prvt room.

This photo's worth 150,000 words. A book's worth. Unfortunately, it seems my book is not going to have a happy ending. This is the bad thing about getting your hopes up.

A new scrip for Klonopin, a day with Dana and Jim at the hospital, early dinner at Joe's Stone Crab and two cocktails later, I'm feeling better. Don't get me wrong, I'm still dying inside, and this situation is completely out of control. Control freak not in control at all.

Anyway, I went ballistic at Sinai today, after the cunt at the front desk stopped me from going upstairs. I was screaming at the top of my lungs: "I HATE THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT HOSPITAL. FUCKING LOSERS! AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH! WHY THE FUCK AM I PUTTING MY LIFE IN THESE IDIOTS' HANDS?"

"Well, it's not too late," Dana says.

"WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? RENT AN APARTMENT AND GO TO SLOAN?"

"Why not?"

"CAUSE I DON'T HAVE $20,000 TO THROW AWAY!"

This went on for a few minutes; Dana got some of it on camera. I was nearly arrested for disturbing the peace. But the plastic surgeon was cool. He threw in some Botox too, and was so meticulous with the application that it gave me confidence in his surgical skills.

Doc says that after the surgery I will be about an A cup and then the skin stretches over time. They put the implants in after chemo. I didn't show him Playboy. He knows what he's doing.

This week could not have started out worse. But these photos speak volumes and remind me that I experienced pure happiness if only for two months. Some people never experience pure happiness, so I know I have to be thankful for these past weeks.

(The shirts are courtesy of Sabrina Cohen. Please check out her web site. If you guys think my pathetic story is inspiring, then you'll be blown away by her.)

Today I head to my first solo doctor's appointment; the plastic surgeon, where I will have to choose new breasts. I have a Playboy, my only companion today. I don't know how this week will end. I am still hoping for the best, but it's getting more difficult to have faith each day. And I'm not even referring to the surgery. I wish the surgeons could cut out the part of my brain responsible for emotions so that I have no feeling there anymore as I won't with my fake tits. Just when you thought life was good—despite CANCER—God throws you another curveball. I will get through this because I know I have to for my friends and family.

But the raw truth is that now I'm half hoping I will die during surgery. Thank God I have two shrinks. Though I've run out of Xanax. Sunday morning and yesterday were 2 mg days.

The crew, the Beau and the Bye Bye Boobie Bash.

The photos speak for themselves. (Cause I'm all talked out.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rejection Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FUCKING PMS. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

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

Sneak Preview

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haute Hospital

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All you need is love. . .And new tits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cancer Couture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope Jamaica was fab;)

A Fond Farewell to a Friend

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

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

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

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

"Why did you go?" mom asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meow Mayhem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. I just fed it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cancer, Bergdorf's Style

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

Infinite thanks to those who made this happen.

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

Cheers to 2008!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hiiiiiiiii. I have CANCER!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh?"

"CHICKEN EGGS!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smurfs Have Sex Too . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the planet-arium . . .

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

At the airport party . . .




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

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

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

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

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

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

Cancer, Shmancer

The cherry on the sundae that is my life: My breasts are toxic. That's right folks, I, a 32-year-old perfectly healthy woman, have breast cancer.

A big shout out to the overwhelming support of my friends, family and family friends. We caught it early, it's encapsulated, I'm young, prognosis good, yada, yada, yada. In the words of my doc, "this is not a death sentence." Bottom line is I have to get radiation whether it's spread to the nodes or not. I will find out whether it's metastized or not in the next biopsy.

It's totally fucked up. Maybe I'm still in shock, but I'm proceeding as normal. Working, hanging out with friends, going out and partying. This little thing with a big C ain't gonna take this woman down. Fuck cancer. Cancer seems like a walk in the park frankly compared to what I've overcome throughout my life and esp the past five years. So I'm ready; I've got my dukes up; I've got the best doctors (or rather am in the process of securing them; bring it on you invasive, pervasive murderer of humankind.

Oh, and I seemingly have license to do whatever the fuck I want for as long as this shall last. That's a plus. And when all my fam friends call to see if I need anything, I say, "yes, PRESENTS!" Also, I will be throwing a big cancer party/breast cancer awareness event. I will be registered at Neiman's and no, I'm not kidding.
As if CANCER could change me.

Bedtime: 4:30 a.m.
Wake-up time: 8:30 a.m.
Snapples: 4
Items purchased at Neiman's outlet: 7
Xanax: 3
Blunts: 2

Por que?
Lumpectomy tomorrow, 9:30 a.m.

Bring on the drugs, sympathy, catering to and presents.

My new favorite thing: Cut Paper Fashion. Saw them at the Lincoln Road street fair Sunday. FAB.

The Manhattan Once-Over

Today my new partner/client/boss and his team met with a party planner for an event we may be doing. I sort of knew who the event planner was, as I'd written about her co. before. And, like any woman knows, we speak our own, nonverbal language.

Knowing that we were meeting in a family's airplane hangar with their ginormous jet, and knowing what I new about the woman, I told Tom that he needed me at this meeting to speak this woman's language.

So this is what I wore, which is completely relevant to the story—grandmother-vintage Pucci top, jeans, classic black Gucci pumps, classic black Chanel bag, Dior sunglasses and my usual day time jewelry.

Anywho, we did indeed speak the same language. In the car, Tom said something like, "Damn, she looked you up and down, like hardcore."

"Yeah, I told you. That's normal, that's what girls do."

"But she kept doing it."

"Yes, she was giving me what I like to call the Manhattan once-over. When you walk in Manhattan, especially on the Upper East Side, there's a ritual that most girls do in order to assess another girl's style. If someone was checking out my ensemble, her eyes would go from feet to handbag, up to the face, then down the entire body all the while checking out your jewelry, makeup, hair, body."

"So it's no big deal?" T asked.

"No, it's like how we judge each other at first glance. It's just what we do."

"She was being so rude, just staring."

"Nope. I did the same thing."

We get home. The blunts are lit. The Snapples are being drunk. United Content Providers, which consists of Tom and several other artists, are performing at the planetarium soon. They do video DJing that's too complicated for me to explain and if I describe it wrong, I won't hear the end of it from Tom.

Soo, I remembered that South Park did an episode about the "planet-arium."

"I have to get it, let's find it."

I Googled it and found it in the second season. The episode is called something like Rodger Ebert is fat.

Tom types Roger Ebert and then I tell him there's a "d" in Rodger.

He starts laughing. "I typed in the word Roger and corrected the word to reefer."

The Real Dream Job

I would make this a day-in-the-life entry, but each day has been quite distinct.

He tells me that I'm stereotypical in certain ways, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, as he's a stereotypical DJ.

He gets offered cameos in LL Cool J. videos and turns them down, albeit for work.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

A night at his house often means cooking, friends stopping in and out the revolving front door and lots of laughs.

He harassed me into taking the "Make a Donation" button down—I never even thought about it still being there—so I could "feng shui up" my blog.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

He is my new boss/partner/client/friend. And let me tell you, every day I spend working with him is a crazy fun, bizarro, alternate-universe kind of experience. He seriously needs his own reality show, for I can barely put pen to paper all his ridiculously funny lines.

Last weekend took us to Ingrid Casares' party at Karu and Y, and before me and the other guy knew what was up, Tom had commandeered the DJ booth and proceeded to play for a good hour or two. During the week I found myself at Mansion while it was closed, sitting on a couch that countless people have fucked on, watching T and his partner rehearse. Another night this week, he donned his chef's jacket at 11 p.m. to bring a dish to one of the owners of bar Love Hate. Did I mention that the jacket said "Love Hate?"

And then he smoked a blunt or two.
And then he drank a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

Jesus H. Now I have to go back to the dreaded mammo room to have the other boob done again. This craziness doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon. Social distractions and pseudo-work are really the only things keeping me sane right now.

A primer on my daily routine, before I share the below story. Wake up round 10:30. Go to gym. Eat lunch. Start working in the afternoon. My friends know my routine, natch. Meaning, they know I'm nonexistent before about 10:30.

The following served as my introduction to my now "partner," business-wise. Wednesday I awoke to the sound of both my home phone and cell ringing continuously. I have a text from my friend Dawn that reads "I just pimped you out." Huh? I then had a follow up text from a number that I didn't know that read, "Awake?"

I think next I called Dawn and said "What the fuck is going on?" Well, her friend Tom, whom I've never met, had called her in a tizzy that a.m. He had to audition for the Food Network later in the afternoon, and was in desperate need of someone to go over to his house and help him out with typing up the application. By this time it was about 12 p.m. He begged Dawn to help him, but she was on her way to Boca. Nothing I can do, she told him, but I have a friend who works from home and is a writer and she'd be perfect. "But I guarantee she's at home sleeping right now." Hence the bombardment of phone calls. So I'm like, okay, whatevs, always up for an adventure.

Next Tom calls me, explains (barely) what is going on and asks if I can help. He lives a few blocks from me and says he's got to get the food cooked and the questionnaire done by about 2 p.m. "Tom it's after 12 p.m. and I just woke up."

"Brush your teeth, throw on some clothes and get over here. You can impress me another time."

"Oh-kay."

"Oh, and can you stop at Epicure to get me some heads of butter lettuce and some white vinegar?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

I know Epicure—similar to Gourmet Garage but even more upscale. They're not going to have Heinz white vinegar, I know this, but he's the foodie and assures me they will. I get in the car, race to Epicure, grab two heads of butter lettuce and search in vain for the damn vinegar. No dice. I race over to Wild Oats, find some white vinegar and race to Tom's pad.

This is the first thing I see when I walk in. And chronic is the first thing I smell.






What's with the clothing pyramid is my first question? (Clothes he's getting rid of.) Tom's in the kitchen amid a pile of food. We make brief intros and he sits me down at his computer. I type away while he dictates, he smokes and cooks, we hit it off like two old friends. When I'm done, I read the app and it says he needs two photos and a copy of his license.

"Okay, ready to print," I say.

"Yeah, that's the thing. I have no way to print."

"Uh, Tom why the hell did you wait till today to do this shit?"

"That's a whole other story," and natch, the chronic wafting through the apt. rendered my question moot anywho.

"I need you to go to a copy shop, print this, copy my license and print the pictures and meet me at the Hotel Astor."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Please Ms. Green, I'm begging you," he pleads, "I can't do this without you."

He offers me money and a bag. Take the bag, leave the money. Race out again to the closest copy shop. Closed. Call him in a panic—I think by this point I was more concerned than him—he tells me another shop to go to. I race into the shop; they don't do copies or print anything and can't help. They point me to another shop around the corner. I'm now running down Washington Ave. in SoBe, parked illegally. I tear into the shop, they do it for me, then I race to the Astor. I run into the lobby and Tom is nowhere to be found. I ask a guy sitting at the counter if he's seen Tom. No, he hasn't, he says, but he may be in the casting room already. I run upstairs and knock on the door of the casting room.

"Hi," I pant, "Has Tom arrived yet?"

"No, he's late and should be here any minute," CD says.

"Okay, I have his paperwork, he's on his way."

Go back to the lobby and wait. Even when I'm a complete mess, I'm always early.

By this point the CD is pacing in front of the door. Tom ambles in, shades on, chef jacket on. I run over to him and hand him everything.

"Thanks, assistant," he says.

"You're welcome." I make my exit.

While in his apt. earlier he had asked me if I'm organized—hello—and decided he needed someone like me to help him organize his career. Sure, I say, I work from home and have some time on my hands. Tom is a deejay, video artist and private chef. He needs a publicist, manager and assistant all in one.

Meanwhile, he'd promised to cook Dawn and me dinner that night. . . . To be continued, as we had another episode yesterday.

But his You Tube videos—especially the Marley one at the bottom—will give you some idea of this unique character who's entered my life.

I had the craziest day ever, which I will discuss later when I have time.

In the interim, when I spoke to brother yesterday, he told me that this well known psychic in India said "your sister needs to have her breasts looked at in the next few years," in so many words. Uh, brother could have told me this a little sooner, but weird nonetheless.

The psychic also said that I would marry someone very wealthy, with long hair and a substance abuse problem. As if I would marry someone with long hair.

Breastesses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fabulously Awful

Tomorrow I will unveil my first ongoing feature series on Dishalicious: Retail Therapy

In the same way that NYC is the fashion capital of the world, Miami often can be the anti-fashion mecca. We've got the most major stores around every corner and designer duds at the ready, yet night after night fashion mishaps mar Miami's landscape.

We take the worst of the worst at the hottest haunts, dissect their sartorial slip-ups and, in the
process, provide you—and natch, them—with some much-needed retail therapy. Along with my friends Dawn and Durrett, we will be highlighting these design disasters on an as-needed basis. (That could potentially mean every night we go out here.) Check in for some rather amusing ensembles tomorrow.

In the meantime, I've been lazy with photo and beauty, luxury goods and features postings.

Rocking Halloween, raging hangover the next day and super busy with life.

I can't approve comments at the moment, but Paige, funny as ever and loved your latest 'clumsy' entry. And Anon, I don't think eating Uranus is the solution to my current state of affairs, but thanks for the suggestion.

As a grave, profound aside, is anyone else as obsessed with Gossip Girl as I am? It's like 90210 but better cause it's all about the 10021. This week, when S. and 'Lonely Boy' were making out at an intersection in Meatpacking, I realized that I had done the same in the same location a few years ago. Sigh. I am really missing NYC right about now. Yet I find myself relating to the parents in GG more than the kids, which is totally scary to say the least. Christ, I'm old. Whoever said your 30s are so much better than your 20s must have been smoking something serious.

I miss my 20s; at least then I could write off my stupidity, immaturity and recklessness to being young. Being an adult kind of sucks in my opinion, esp. when your adulthood turns out to be less than you hoped it would regarding your career, romantic situation and what not. Sure, you become more comfortable in your own skin, but that doesn't necessarily equal happiness. When I was 17, did I ever think I'd be sitting here blogging to lots of anonymous people as opposed to being some fabulous, successful magazine editor? Uh, no. If I had a crystal ball back then, surely I would have changed courses. But you know, the past is in the past and all that BS.

Mars and Pluto

I've been thinking. I know, dangerous right? It occurred to me before I got into the shower—probably because I was debating whether to shave or not—that it's really quite simple to boil down the whole dating thing. If you're single and 'looking,' chances are you are juggling a few sets of balls in the air, literally. I'm not a talented juggler. And frankly, I like to know before I get into the shower whether I need to shave for the night. Anywho, I was thinking, wouldn't the whole dating thing be a hell of a lot easier if men were like girlfriends? Meaning, what if the qualities I treasure in my girlfriends—humor, loyalty, fun, intelligence, integrity, generosity, practicality, boldness, excitement and tolerance—were abundant in the males whom I date?

Well, natch, if guys/dates/potential mates were as easy to figure out as women are, the whole scene would be simpler. They would tell me whether I should shave, what they want to do, what their issues are, what the latest gossip is. They would be fun, adventurous, great partners in crime, animated and well-rounded. They would return or make phone calls without preamble or strategy. They would treat me as an equal. They would put a smile on my face the whole night. I would know that if I'm with them, I'll have a good time, no matter the setting. Just like my girlfriends. We could be at McDonald's—not that we ever would be—and still have a fabulous time.

My beauxfriend highly recommends being gay. I think I'd just rather hang with Wally. And my girlfriends. And my gays. And my straight guy friends, with whom I can talk about anything, no holds barred.

I suppose my conclusion is that I'd rather have one person or no person at all. All these balls flying around just makes life more confusing, not to mention dangerous. If most men are from Mars and most women from Venus, then I'm from Pluto and the men I meet are from Uranus.

Let's see what's new here. Last Thursday I was hit on by an older lesbian who has, according to her, hooked up with both Madonna and Matt Damon. Don't know how the Matt Damon thing came to pass. Friday my friend and I drove to Jacksonville for my beloved Wally's 12th birthday. Also brother is finally home from India and he was there as well. The little booger—Wally I mean—is 84 in human years and acts like a puppy. I finally have him back in Miami and it's amazing what a difference having him here makes. He's very happy and so is mommy. My mom was in NYC for like the second time this month doing damage on 5th for her annual girls' shopping trip, to which I was not invited, ahem. One of their friends got pick-pocketed on 5th and the perpetrator made off with $600 in cash, not to mention her license and credit cards. Apparently, crime is back in Manhattan.

My godson has apparently taken on a new hobby. Saturday I talked to my BFF, who informed me that Kobi had gnawed off the entire side of his wooden crib like a dog. The little guy has 8 teeth and did some serious, doggy style damage. The irony of all this, which I only thought about yesterday, is that his mom Dana has had for years this completely random analogy that just manifested itself in her son. Dana always says, upon eating something she doesn't like, "This tastes like the wall." She's been saying this since we were kids, God knows what the fucking wall tastes like.

So after seeing the photos below, it occurred to me. "Oh my God," I told Dana, "Do you realize that your son now literally knows what the wall tastes like? Maybe he did it so when he grows up he can tell you!" How ironic. The little guy really did some major damage. . .

So last night I went to Ocean Drive's party for the signing of Patrick McMullan's tome Glamour Girls. In addition to Patrick, uber-it girl Tinsley Mortimer was in attendance, along with a bazillion photogs and camera crews. No idea what for. She's teeny-tiny in person, but had on a fab pink dress and dazzling drop earrings.
Mom also managed to send my the birthday photos from my dinner a few weeks ago. . .

I've been out 3 nights this week and have a full weekend ahead. I'm becoming a bad party girl again.