Oscar and Narciso

I have a six-page feature in Aventura magazine this month that many of you will be interested in. I believe Florida peeps can purchase it at B&N, Publix etc. But it's not online so if you want a copy send me your addresses.

(Photos accompanying this post are in the post below. Blogger is fucking with me today.)

Soo, Vegas. I know it's un PC to say, but I dread weddings lately. Like an afternoon at Hermès, they serve only to illustrate all the beautiful things I most likely will never attain.

The wedding and everything associated with it was flawless, so these opinions have absolutely nothing to do with this wedding in particular. As usual, I am just using this weekend to illustrate a point.

Friday night in Las Vegas at the Ritz some miles out of town at the rehearsal dinner. Michael and I were seated at the "singles" table, even though there was only one other single male as far as I could tell. Earlier, I'd donned my Narciso dress that Susan bought me back when the tennis balls were still occupying my chest. I'd promised Susan I'd wear it this weekend. And it fit perfectly, but it showed an uncomfortably ample amount of cleavage.

"Steph, why don't you wear clothes that don't show so much cleavage?" Dad asks.

"It's not the fucking clothes! It's the fact that my knockers are still up to my chin Dad."

During rehearsal dinners and weddingy events I get morose. Especially when I am one of the sole singletons and on top of that am wearing a wig and boasting fake tits. I can't help it; though I am pleased for the happy couple, I am even more sorry for myself.

I'd wisely borrowed mom's gold Loro Piana shawl and covered the girls up most of the night. After the dinner, I had mom snap a couple of photos of Michael and me. I looked at the photos, saw my melons poking out of the top and immediately deleted the evidence. You see, this was the weekend I'd been looking forward to since D-day. The social event where I'd be able to debut the new girls to friends and family friends. I was not supposed to look the way I did in those photos. Fabulous from below the chest and pleasing from above, but the whole package? Appalling.


It only got worse on the shuttle, wherein I changed my status on Facebook to something like "Stephanie just realized she will always be the single, nippleless girl at rehearsal dinners and weddings."

By the time we pulled up to the Bellagio, I was completely morose. I wasn't having it anymore. I looked "sooo good" according to everyone else, but what did it matter when I felt like a leper?

So picture this. Stephanie proceeding to the lobby decked out in her (apparently) invaluable angel hair coral, Loro shawl, black, sweetheart neckline Narciso dress, vintage, re-issued Manolos and $4,000 wig. Now picture Stephanie in a fit of depression and low self-esteem removing her wig in the middle of the lobby of the Bellagio. I carried it in my hand over the Loro shawl and clickety-clacked my way through the hotel looking like a couture version of Cousin It. Now, I know some strange shit goes down in Vegas, but I can't imagine something like this is normal. I made it back to my room just in time for the waterworks. I called the front desk, convinced them that my last PPV purchase of SATC had stopped and had them restart it. At the same time, I was trying to keep the hysterics at bay, knowing that the next day was the wedding and all it takes is a few heaving sobs for me to get all Renee Zelweger-y.

I popped some pills and passed out, knowing the wedding would stir up even worse feelings of self-loathing.

I started out the day placing green tea bags and cold washcloths over my eyes. I also ate a Klonopin along with each meal, which at least numbed the pain. Because this was the big night-the Oscar de la Renta reveal. The borrowed earrings and vintage Chopard watch from mom; the mint-cond Valentino stilettos that mimicked the embroidery on the Oscar dress. I paid someone to do my makeup and put my lashes on.

"I'll make this real easy on you," I told the makeup artist. "Smoky eyes, lashes, liquid liner and anything you can do to minimize the puffiness."

I looked hot, I did. I can say that objectively. I know I'm a good-looking gal, but that is completely beside the point when I feel like this. The wedding wasn't as depressing as the rehearsal dinner, probably because I was all cried out and had resigned myself. I forced Michael to go outside and snap some photos of me in the dress that I've been boring you with for, oh, what, eight months now? I knew you guys would want to see the evidence, even if I wasn't all too pleased with the pot at the end of the rainbow.

Out of about 10 frames, I liked two at most.


Now I'm sitting on a plane an hour and a half away from home and less than 12 hours until my Monday Herceptin infusion while the WT next to me has his stinky feet up on the seat in front of him. Is this really my life? Seriously? Seriously.

Anyway, I've decided that I will indeed marry-myself. Next year Il San Pietro in Positano on the Amalfi Coast. I'll be registered at Bergdorf's natch.

The Oscar frock, overlooking Las Vegas.

Michael and me in the Narciso dress; notice the girls barely able to contain themselves. 

Susan, my Narciso benefactress. 

Costa Rica was so beyond beyond that words are useless right now. And I'm heading to Vegas tomorrow a.m., so the photos will do for now. 

good thing you can roll a joint and you're not just a pretty face with an ass that won't quit. 

—Jill Pleeter to Stephanie

Welcome Home, Miss Verde

Welcome to my office for the week.

Sometimes I'm terribly unlucky, e.g. the whole cancer thing. Often though, I'm incredibly, stupendously, ridiculously lucky. Like right now. I knew this trip would be to die for, but we didn't realize the extent of it until we arrived at the airport. 

Our first Four Seasons staffer greeted us after immigration and retrieved our bag for us. We'd booked a shuttle.

"Miss Green, you have been upgraded to a private car."

I nudged Lay. Another staffer showed up and they assisted us through customs. The banana in Lay's bag was kosher; the Oberto Beef Jerky they treated like a vial of Antrhax. Mad cow in a bag? I have no clue. 

Outside our driver met us and drove us about 45 minutes to the resort. Peninsula Papagayo is a private development, with a gate and the whole nine. The Four Seasons leases their property from the developer. It's the most lush and verdant landscape I've seen since Hawaii. Upon our arrival at the hotel, we were greeted by the entire staff from the activities director to the general manager.

"Miss Green, we have upgraded you to one of our private residences since we are not so busy right now."

We'd booked a notch above a standard room. After schmoozing a little--while practically peeing our pants with anticipation--a staffer drove us in a golf cart to our residence.

I doubt a Four Seasons' staffer has ever heard so many "Oh. My. God.(s)" uttered in a single minute. Because our residence is a seven-room, two-bedroom, three-bath, 2,000-square-foot space. To die. I was literally skipping around the apartment. I've got my own master bed, the girls have their own and the den has a pullout bed as well. Full kitchen. Open-air deck and grill area where I'm sitting now. Covered terraces, dining room, fully equipped office with--get this--three separate fax cover sheets with each of our names on them. Oh, and perhaps the best post-flying gifts: a cosmopolitan making set with vodka, martini shaker and all the fixings and a plate of exquisite pastries.

"Steph, we love you! Thank you so much!"

"What the hell did I do to deserve this? Oh. My. God!"

"You had cancer, remember?"

"Oh yeah, that's right, I do deserve this I had cancer. Fuck man, I think the cancer coulda been worth it for this." 

Now it's raining beautifully and I'm listening to the sound of the Pacific. Did I mention the ocean and jungle views? I awoke to the rain and tropical birds chirping. 

Why the VIP treatment? Writing writing writing. This is, after all, my big, fat, fabulous post-cancer trip to be turned into a heartwrenching essay about a girl with cancer and a dream. Kidding, but you know, something like that. With Manolos thrown in. 

Last night we had private complimentary salsa lessons which saw me giving up halfway through because my instructor was getting nowhere with me. I have absofuckinglutely no rhythm.

Today we have pilates at 9 a.m. Ziplining at noon. A sunset hike to see the monkeys and then some beach time--assuming the rains stop. If not, the spa is perfectly lovely as a second home. 

What can I say? I'm in heaven. Heaven. And we're doing a trip like this every year. So all you girls who elected not to come this year, two things: Hahahahahaha. And start saving time and deniro for next year. 

You can see all the photos on my Facebook. 

I'm off to Costa Rica in the a.m. and am dying with anticipation. Cannot. Fucking. Wait. I'll be posting photos from there. Hasta luego.

I am getting really panicky about the cost of this CR Four Seasons trip. This is the first luxurious trip I have shouldered the finances for, and I think I'm beginning to see what people mean by realizing 'the value of money.' Ugh. Real life. Not awaiting--it's here, and I'm not ready.
Eight months since diagnosis to cure, and I feel like I had no transition time. It was sick to health to full health to whirlwinds of activity and, well, I'm thinking I probably should have set aside this month to completely chill, formulate a game plan and breathe. Instead I'm running around like a schizophrenic.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You can see the photos from my bday party here and here.

I'm in super-high-anxiety mode. Like I'm freaking out over here. I really hope Dr. L can talk me down from this my-life-is-a-mess-clothes-don't-fit-making-dad's-bday-gift-vegas-related ledge. I must do yoga tonight. Must must must figure out how to edit in iMovie. Help? The fucking Macbook didn't come with individ instruction manuals for programs. WTF??


Okay, I'm going to find a paper bag to breathe into.

Has It Really Been 7 Years?

I like to honor the victims of Sept. 11 as best I can. So I'm reposting my story of what I witnessed that day and lighting a candle for all the survivors and deceased.

From Sept., 2006
It sneaks up on us each year, but it's here again: September 11th. And as all these people are on TV and the radio sharing their experiences of that day, I can't help but reflect and remember. It's our generation's JFK-shooting--we will all remember where we were when we heard the news. It's the event that when I think about still makes my heart race and brings tears to my eyes, even five years later. I don't know if this is true of all Americans, or just for New Yorkers or only for people who witnessed it or knew people whose lives were lost. Anyway, here's my Sept. 11th story, which I will never forget, and I know I've written about longhand somewhere, but god knows where that notebook went. And not that my story is special, it's not, but it's a valid memory, because, if nothing else, it's history. I had been in the city for about a year, but I'd been visiting New York yearly since about the age of 10, and was always a New Yorker at heart; was living in midtown; attending NYU grad school in journalism in the Village; dating an Israeli who lived in Haifa; had returned from visiting him in Israel about a month and a half prior to the attacks. In general, life was pretty good. I was "in love," had a big apt., was with Wally, was going to NYU, which I'd always dreamed of, and was living in the place that I loved better than anywhere in the world. My mom and two of her girlfriends were staying with me for their annual "girl's shopping trip." I had my only early class that morning, and, ironically, it was a "journalism ethics" class, taught by 'renowned' ethicist Todd Gitlin. Everyone talks about the weather that day and it seems silly, but it's true that on days like that, you remember every detail, salient or not. So as I left my apt. a little before 9 a.m., I remember looking up at the sky and thinking what a nice day it was, no clouds, no awful August humidity. I hopped in a cab, just as I noticed that Second Ave. was rife with fire trucks and ambulances. No big deal, a common sight. As we proceeded downtown, the ambulances and fire trucks grew in number, and the cabbie and I began to wonder, so we turned on the radio. At that point, the world was still in shock, and was talking about the 'commuter plane' that had most likely hit the Trade Center. Details were still sketchy at that point, but we proceeded downtown, both of us, similar to the entire city and nation, in a state of shock. By the time we reached the Village, the second plane had hit, and we were just confused, I mean, terrorism just didn't happen in our country, what were any of us supposed to think until we saw? Until we saw. Because while most people saw it on TV, for me it didn't sink in until I got out of the cab near Washington Square Park and saw both towers aflame. Then, and only then, it sunk in. From that point on, I was plunged into that same surreal, dreamlike, post-traumatic haze that most New Yorkers found themselves in for several days, if not weeks or months. I walked to the corner where clusters of people just stood staring up at the towers. Some were openly crying or looked horrified; most just stood there staring, mouths agape. It really was like a scene out of an Independence Day -type movie. Everything else stood still. I think I must have tried to call my mom and the girls, but cells were probably down. I knew I would never make it back uptown, and was in shock, so I moved robotically into the school's building and went into class. And though it was an "ethics" class, and though many of the students in it lived near Wall Street and hadn't shown up yet, and though we were journalists who should be out literally witnessing history and trying to get the story, our professor kept us in class the whole two hours without TVs, radios, phones, and forced us to debate the 'ethical' elements of jumping to the conclusion that this was indeed a terrorist attack being perpetrated by Arabs/Muslims/Islamic extremists. Perhaps he was in shock to and the mantra, "just carry on normally" was propelling him. I had just returned from Israel, so I remember the shock finally wearing off and my rage beginning to kick in, and getting into a heated argument with an Egyptian student, wherein I blamed this on the Arabs and she defended them saying it could be anyone doing this. We finally got out of class and emerged from our time-warp bubble, and learned that both towers had gone down. In those two hours, the sky had fallen. No, it couldn't be, I thought. There's just no way, my brain rationalized, those towers? It had looked like two small fires when I'd gone into class, relative to the largesse of those buildings. But sure enough, I walked out to the corner where I'd watched them on fire earlier and the skyline was flat. Gone. Now, New York City was a quiet ghost town except there were hordes of people walking slowly, stoically. Just walking like zombies, standing in line for payphones, eerily calm. No traffic, just on foot. No transportation anywhere, save for emergency vehicles, but I don't remember hearing any sirens, any noise at all save for radios with news. Nobody yelling, no street noise, the most disturbing thing in New York City--a lack of noise. I walked all the way from the Village to my apartment; walked amid a crowd stunned silent for probably the first time in their lives. I tried to call mom repeatedly, but eventually gave up. I lived near the UN, and kept thinking that that would be the terrorists' next target, so I kept popping into shops and asking if anything else had been hit, because the fire trucks never stopped going downtown. I wondered where my mom and her friends had gone, but knew that they probably hadn't left the house before the news was out, so I wasn't worried. The horrifying thing is that they had been at the store Century 21, which was leveled by the attack, the morning before. I got home and they weren't there, so then I started to panic, no communication, an empty apartment, with a Wally who just knew something was up. I think I just fell on to the couch and sat there, mesmerized by the footage on TV. It was as if I were in a drug-induced haze, which you really can't describe accurately, but if you've ever witnessed a horrible accident or crime, you can most likely relate to. Mom and friends eventually returned home, having walked over to 57th street to see what it was like outside. Like I said, when in shock, you just go by rote, do what you know. Head into class, teach class, go to work, go shopping. Eventually, maybe two days later, mom and co. rented a car and drove home to Florida. Damned if they were getting on a plane. Damned if I was, not for a year or so I think. And though I didn't lose anyone that day and wasn't connected to anyone in those buildings, the event itself had such an impact if you were living in New York, whether you were able to admit it or not. For me, it meant that each time I saw a plane outside the window of my new 15th floor apartment heading past the Con Ed towers in Queens, each and every time for a couple years after, my first, instinctual thought was, that plane is going to hit that tower; it meant that I didn't take the subway for a couple of years; it meant that I looked at cab drivers appraisingly and unconsciously eavesdropped on their foreign conversations; it meant that I didn't feel safe in my own apt., my own city, for many, many years. It meant living in fear for a great while, thinking how easy it had been for them to do it once, surely they would strike again. And still, I'm kind of amazed that nothing else has happened in our country because, really, we're no safer now, are we? Soon, surely, the sky will fall again.

This Is How We Do It

Thanks for the kick-ass graphic, Ben!

No-Nip Slip

It's been another groundbreaking and comical day. My brother's friend Rich stayed with me last night and we hung out today. We're having 30 mph winds on the beach, so we decided to go over to the ocean to see the wave and surfer situ.

The waves were pretty lame and the sand was blowing something fierce. We stayed for a few and snapped some pics. At a certain point, Rich held out his arm and took one of both of us. Then I took two of him by himself. Then he took one of me by myself, after I'd rotated from the previous direction. Okay, after he shot the pic of me, I looked down and realized that my nippleless breasts were completely exposed to all of South Beach. It was so sandy that he couldn't really see the screen. And obviously, so windy that my bathing suit top AND my sundress fell down. I was in TWO different photos, facing two different directions showcasing the nippleless girls for everyone's viewing pleasure.

After we realized what had happened, we were hysterical.

"Well, I thought I noticed a lot of flesh, but it was hard to tell. I thought your bathing suit was down there somewhere."

Oy vey. And no, I'm not posting the photos. I had absolutely no desire or intention to go topless while nippleless, believe you me. Yet somehow I managed to make that happen. What a go-getter!

Yet, I'm in a really foul mood at the moment. I attribute my bitchiness to scrambling for Costa Rica and Vegas; trying to put together a creative, complicated gift for dad's 60th the same weekend as the wedding; getting several different stories together on deadline; copyediting a 24 page feature in Heeb; maintaining my diet and health; fulfilling social obligations; and as usual, fretting about what the fuck I'm going to do with my fucking life.

But after I dropped Rich off at MIA aeropuerto, I found myself extremely wound-up, driving straight to CVS to fill an Ativan scrip. You're really scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to benzos if you're relying on Ativan, FYI. But I've been giving lots of friends Zannies and Klonopins, leaving me with the lamer scrips until I see my shrink (who did not dump me, BTW). Anyway, Ativan does absolutely nothing to you unless you've never taken any drug ever. Seriously, it's lame. So I ask the pharmacist:

"What's the maximum dosage for Ativan?"

Thick accent: "What do you mean?"

"I mean how many of these fucking things can I take? What's a strong dose?"

"This is 1 mg that is good dose."

"Noo, it's not. One does nothing for me. So how many can I take without overdosing," I say through clenched teeth, as I don't have time to have to Google this shit.

Elan, the pharmacist I know, walks over. "Elan," I say dismissing the other dude, "What's the maximum dosage of this I can take?"

He smirks at me. "The question you need to be asking is what is the dosage your doctor prescribed within a 24-hour period."

"Okay."

"So one every four hours is six."

"Well it says six hours but you could do four hours. So that would be 6 yeah," he says.

"Okay, so no more than six."

What do you think I'll be doing come bedtime tonight?

Partay

Friday night I stumbled upon the recipe for a perfect gathering at my place. About 20 good friends. Lots of alchohol and munchies. A nice night and a balcony to take advantage of it. And, most notably, a batch of perfectly made party brownies. Not only were they delish, I used precisely the right amount of herb.

We had a blast. A real, Big Chill-esque night of debauchery in the best sense of the word. I got my first noise complaint.

As Laura said, "You know, people work all week for nights like this."

And ladies, especially those of you BRCA biatches and fellow mastectomy mavens, I finally have concrete proof that men will love your tatas any way you slice them.

Jeffy, thanks for providing this hard-hitting evidence.

Let it Flow, Let Yourself Go

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

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

Fabulous Fundraising!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nipple-less Slip

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


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



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



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



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

90210, Baby

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

The Shrink is OUT

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

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

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

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

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

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

Facebook Friends

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

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

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

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

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

Stand up to Cancer

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

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

My Chemical Cancer

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

The Tao of Touch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Screw Cancer.

Afternoon at the beach.

Afternoon at the beach.

An 18k Cruising Altitude

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you do jewelry?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is something else we have in common."


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

Cancer and Chopard

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

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

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

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

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

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

"do you have breast cancer?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bergdorf's Bets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lynn says "Hello bloggers!"

See you at the debates, bitches.

cool waters

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

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

life's a beach

the lymphedema glove is accessorizing my arm, so pardon the lack of punctuation and caps.

i wish all days could start with a mani/pedi at the ritz, followed by lunch at the standard, capped off b ya quick trip out on a friend's boat.

did i mention how a random twist of fate brought together a gf of mine from new york and a guy friend of mine down here? without my knowledge? three weeks ago the whole crew was out and when CT showed up, there LK was on his arm. she's back here, so HG and i had a fabulous, relaxing day with them. they like my boobs.

there is nothing like being on a boat, is there? to me being on the water is one of the most brain-calming and peaceful gifts nature affords.

i'm heading to nyc in the a.m. until thursday night, so you might not here from me. or maybe you will. i'm bringing the computer.

have a fabulous weekend everybody. and continued good health to you, ellie.

Brows, Beauty and Baubles

I still write my monthly fashion/luxury goods and beauty columns for julib.com, I just haven't linked to them in forevs, so ladies you may want to check em out.

I am SO in love with these Chanel tights I wrote about. Def on my NYC shopping list.

Also, I'm helping my friend Donna McNett sell these awesome necklaces. Email/comment if you are interested. They are going for $168 each and I have a few samples that I will wear in photos once I actually bother to go out and get dressed. Lord knows when that will be.

I'm having my brows shaped for the first time ever today because the hair is growing in wild-style. And I was compelled to buy false eyelashes for the first time ever. Apparently, when the hair grows back it pushes the old stuff out. I never lost my lashes, but they thinned out. After chemo, the long ones started falling out and now they are coming in short and uniform in length. They are hideous. Ugh. I used to have really fantastic lashes. And hair. I miss my hair so much. I should've had a funeral for my hair. Said the Mourner's Kadesh (sp?). Apparently most people's hair grows back a different style, texture, thickness.

Please, please, please let it grow back thick and straight!!!!

Playing House

Gay boyfriend and I had a little harmless fun today. He had a broker's open at a schmancy building south of 5th Street and another showing at a not-so-hot building, so I tagged along. The condo in the second, not-so-hot building was straight out of Rooms to Go. It had Marriott written all over it, from the stock, hotel-like, framed prints, to the flowery bedspread. It belonged to an old, Jewish woman who passed away and her child is trying to rent it out. The clients were late, so we had some time on our hands.

"Take some pictures of my boobs."

A gay man's fantasy, right?

We started out fairly normal. . .





And then he decided that I needed to roll around on the hotel bed, cancer vixen style. Unfortunately, I had a real problem taking direction and just ended up looking like an awkward girl being told to pose in retarded ways.

But, is it me or do my boobs now look almost normal? I mean, the swelling has gone down so substantially that I'm actually amazed. And this really solves my wardrobe quandary. Packing light for NYC. And those are my compression garments for the lymphedema on the left arm. Better than being mummified.

So what do we think of the new rack now that it's settled?

Insider Information

My Facebook friend, Reliable Sources host and Wash Post columnist Howard Kurtz posted an interesting story today detailing the John Edwards Schmucko story and the media's role in covering up this scandal.

As a marginal media insider, I can tell you that this happens on pretty much every story. If you have friends who work at publications, chances are you hear of things days, weeks, even months before they break in the mainstream media. Why doesn't the media report these things immediately, pounce on unfolding stories, break stories? Breaking stories, in the tradition of journalism, is something we just can't rely on CNN or the NYT to do. Stories are 'broken' in the newsrooms, sat on, and finally, once the higher ups feel snug in their legal clearances and other corporate BS, told to the public.

Howard talks about the National Enquirer being the first pub to break the Edwards story. As a former American Media slave, I can assure you that the Enquirer is actually one of the most reliable sources in the industry. They go to great lengths to ensure the validity of their sources and their stories; much greater lengths than the mainstream media. My mentor, the EIC of a major mag, told me when I first met him that he read the Enquirer every week to stay one step ahead of entertainment news. Hmm, I thought, if Gary does it, he's onto something.

When I worked at Star, friends, family and even strangers always asked me how much of what they print is true. And believe it or not, I'm confident in saying that probably 99.9% of what they write is true. They vet their stories thoroughly, dot every i cross every t. Their techniques? Sleazy, to be sure. But effective.

In other news, about me of course, I walked to 7-11 in my bathing suit and bathrobe this morning and I'm wondering if I'm officially a beach bum right now. Natch, it's not sunny out so I'm sitting here writing, waiting for the skies to clear. I also must massage the modified mammaries today. We'll see if this makes a diff in terms of their appearance.

I'll probably write more later, but I want you to read Ellie's comment from yesterday's post, and to realize that while I *had* cancer (I can now finally use the past tense without the fear of jinxing myself), and fought it with humor and what a lot of you say an inspiring attitude, people like her are the real inspirations. So I'm going to do--because she can't physically without great discomfort--what I know how to do, write in my memoir, while I have time and motivation. If people get to read it, fine. If they don't fuck it. I know I'll be glad to have it when I'm officially old and forgetful.

And for fuck's sake read the article I posted yesterday and share your thoughts people.

One Tit Tessie

It's a great day in the liberalhood when even hawkish Republicans are bagging on Bush. I am LOVING this coverage. The Chimp Does China. And Russia is being a little bitch again, huh? Well, well. Yeah, I've been watching CNN today. In addition to TMZ, which is my new favorite thing. I was never onboard with TMZ online--I just don't watch videos online. But the show is GENIUS. I want to work for them. I especially love the stoner dude who looks like Jay of Jay and Silent Bob.

What do I want to talk about today? Boobs? Oh, okay. Well, for one, it only occurred to me as I was walking into the gym that I'm supposed to start "massaging" the girls tomorrow. Now, before you guys get your boxers in a bunch, "massage" is a major euphemism. For what I really have to do is basically pinch the bottom of the boobage so that the implant works its way up to the top of the boob. Ten minutes a day I have to do this! Not fun. Hurts a little.

I was on the phone with Boner last night ripping on Corey Feldman because he was on The Two Coreys lamenting about his nonexistent lovehandles that he must get liposuction for. (You must watch this if only to see Corey Haim's unraveling.)

"He has, like, a distorted body image thing?"

"Yes," I say in between hysterics, "He's got body dysmorphic disorder!"

Well, I think I do too with regards to my new tatas. I *know* they look more normal, but I still feel like they're the tennis balls. They're still too high. They still seem a bit too cleavagey to me in my clothes. And, while cleavage is a good thing, I'm bashful (can you believe?) about exposing my cleavage cause I'm scared it still looks completely alien. Maybe I'll post a photo of me in a cleavage-bearing dress and you can be honest with me. Cause my friends and family all say they look great. But I think I look like the typical South Beach/LA bimbo. I'd much rather look like a CP than a bimbo. I suppose one solution would be only to wear cleavagey things when I'm not in the wig. That may be a look to test in NYC. Because what this borderline BDD results in is me wondering what kind of wardrobe to take with me to New York. I'm really fucking sick of having to wear Hanros under everything. It's 105 fucking degrees out here.

I guess it's time for another photo session with myself. But that means I'll have to try on my clothes, which will undoubtedly lead to another crying jag with me lamenting my formerly flat belly, yearning for my period to return.
So, Waiting Room magazine, which I wrote that Upsides of Cancer story for, has a feature up right now that I deem quite controversial. Elizabeth asked me whether I was offended by the story, The Ballad of Tessie Felice, so I read it.

The long and the short of it: A hot woman has breast cancer, lops one titty off, doesn't reconstruct the other one and is therefore known as "One Tit Tessie." Apparently, Tessie is horny, the writer is horny and therefore they enter into a modified fuck-buddy arrangement. The exceptions being that she'll only let him do her doggy style, doesn't talk to him and never lets him see or touch her chest. I found it disturbing on a female level, not a BC level, but as I told Elizabeth, I think that technically it's a good story and therefore has its validity. But it's a disturbing story nonetheless.

For one, the writer's a complete sexist pig and a schmuck. Then there's the added element of the woman putting herself in such a position. Her behavior is just soo utterly bizarre. (Though this is coming from someone who had an affair with a married Schvartze as her requisite Bad Judgement Breast Cancer Fling.) She pisses me off, frankly, and here's why: There is no need to have only one breast! No need to put yourself in a situation that results in such a bad state of mind. I simply do not understand why women opt to undergo a unilateral mastectomy. Especially a woman such as her who is obviously into her looks. I'm sorry, I know it's un-PC for another BC bitch to say that, but when am I ever PC? I think that a mastectomy probably sucks either way, so why not aim for both symmetry and peace of mind. Any good plastic surgeon will tell you that you will absolutely not be symmetrical after a unilateral one with reconstruction. But to have one and not even attempt to put it back--I think there's some kind of psychotic mindset going on there. Like some kind of self-mutilation thing that's probably in the DSM-IV. Like a cutter or something. Meaning, I think women who do this may have some kind of strange desire to be physically freaky.

Perhaps there's a reader out there who's in this situation who can illuminate me on electing this option. I don't understand the rationale at all. Please explain. I can't even look at photos of women who are like this, why would you want to look in the mirror and see that?

There are so many different levels of this BC issue. It's hard not to get enmeshed in it. Especially when you are enmeshed in it. Uhmmmmmm, something else. . .can't remember. Read the story though, I'm sure you'll have a visceral reaction to it in some way and I'd like to hear your thoughts.

Oh, I think a good match for me would be a man with one testicle, no? Testicular cancer seems to be a good match for BC and I always did have a major crush on Dan Abrams. Wonder if he's on Facebook. . .

Jesus Freaks out in the Street

Tiny Dancer probably is my favorite song. I cannot live without this song of Elton's. It is in rotation each time I write. I think I could be addicted to this song. I love how just when you expect it to be over, it's not. It always brings me up. Remember the Almost Famous scene on the tour bus? They all were hating on each other, moody and bickering, and then Tiny Dancer comes on. And all is right with their world again.

As you all know, I've been in a real craptastic mood the past few days. Just raging. Everything's made me mad or made me cry. Part of it is my general noncancer personality. I can be bitchy, selfish, short-tempered, ugly, ungrateful, spiteful, blah blah blah. The list goes on and on. And when I am those things, you'll know it. At this moment in time though, when I have a really big reason to be happy because I am cancer-free, these horrific blue moods are, well, disconcerting. If I hadn't missed therapy for the past couple weeks, Dr. L. surely would've said what reader Audrey did in her commentalysis:

"sometimes at the end of a (VERY) long ordeal like cancer treatment there is a surge of pain and rage that's been repressed so you could use all your strength for the battle. This is NORMAL. This is part of the process. And it will pass and you will feel the relief on a much deeper level. And I hope you can take in the love and admiration for you from so many of us out here; it is huge.Your book? Will sell. If you published your blog for the last year it would be better than most of what's out there. Have faith. Your "voice" (which is spectacular) is already being heard and will continue to be. In the meantime, you are blooming where you are planted. :) Quite fabulously.xxooAudrey"

Audrey, I'm impressed with your analysis either way, but especially if you've never been therapized.

I am sick of everything. I just got my blood tests back and am officially cancer-free. Why isn't that enough? It should be, right? But it's not and here's why. I'm sick of giving, giving, giving and getting nothing back. Fucking sick of it.

The only God I believe in is karma. If I can help someone, I do what I can. Even if it's merely connecting people, which it often is. I do it. Because I can. And because I think that what goes around comes around. Well, I'm waiting. For it to come around. I've been waiting since God knows when. Since I got my master's at NYU a couple months after Sept. 11. Waiting during the ensuing two years to get a "yes" phone call about a job amid the 100s of "nos." Where did it get me? A lawsuit. Some nasty stories in Page Six, Gawker, the Post, WWD, the Daily News etc. A rapidly decreasing self-esteem. A practically forced move to Miami because I couldn't cut it in New York--career-wise, I mean.

You guys wonder how I didn't lose it when I found the cancer. Because--I'd already hit rock-bottom mentally. Several times. I was a failure when it came to the career I'd always envisioned. When I was younger, I didn't dream of marriage, kids, and a white picket fence; I dreamt of an editorial position at Vogue. At a slot in the world of journalism that I revered. Well, guess what? None of it happened. None of my silly little dreams came true. Not a one. So cancer? Nothing compared to already being a complete failure at everything you were supposed to be a success at. Cancer=an enemy I could fight. I am no threat to failure.

So fuck it. Fuck you, journalism. Fuck you, publishing. Fuck you all. You readers, some of whom are professional writers, like my writing, my "voice," which is one of the most important things in writing. And that's gratifying; I'm not bullshitting you when I say that each and every one of your comments bolsters my often low confidence in my skills.

But seriously, what is the point if I don't get paid to do this? This that my parents spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on at Emory and NYU, ostensibly to buy the education that in former decades would've ensured an illustrious career. And where has it gotten me? Scads of pro-bono writing, which is great. Happy to do it. Happy to do anything to get my story and name out there. But where will it end and what will it yield? I cost money. My life is not cheap. I spend time doing this when other people, a lot of them complete fucking hacks, get paid. to do the same thing.

How can I continue to write a book that has, as my dad so nicely pointed out when I wrote my first book, "has a one-in-a-million shot" of being published? (Thanks dad.) Is it worth wasting another several months of my life for another shot in the dark?

What is the point of me fighting cancer if I can't harness what I've gone through in a meaningful way. I can't focus on what I know I should be focusing on because I know that--writing--will only yield a 1% chance of success.

So here's the deal. I'm speaking at this Heeb event in November. It's a fantastic opportunity and is a part of the Miami Book Fair. I'm working on a large story about my cancer exp (with a twist) for the upcoming issue. And I can't get my feeble mind around the concept of how I'm going to turn this story and this storytelling event into something that will catapult my nonexistent career into an existent one.

What do I say at the bottom of my story? 'This passage is excerpted from Stephanie Green's upcoming memoir for which she has no agent and publisher.' !? Real professional right?

I need serious guidance and help from someone in the industry. I need serious, stable help. I need a life/career coach. I need a whole hell of a lot of non-material things. You guys are great and motivating. But the bottom line is none of you is in the position to give me a book deal or an assignment that pays. (Or worse yet, you are in that position and you're not that into me.) Talk about giving away the milk for free.

I have shit to do. Tonight I was going to party my ass off like it's 1999. Now all I want to do is curl up in bed with my bong and my dog. I'm sure as hell glad my dealer lets me run a tab. Because, guess what? I'm broke, as usual. I'm a real, not-so-hot mess right now. And haters, save your hating comments, I don't approve them anyway in case you haven't caught on to that fact. At least I know my haters are complete fucking morons.

I am 32 years old, cancer free, smart, funny and attractive. Some say talented. Well, where is that going to get me? So far, nowhere. I'm sick to death of being me. Sick of it. Sick, sick, sick, sick. When you have an overwhelming desire to listen to all of Elliot Smith's songs and are bald, crying, depressed and have fake, nippleless titties, sometimes it's hard to see the light. Even though I try. Maybe I'm finally PMSing. Or maybe now that all this BC BS is behind me, I have to get back to a real life that I don't have, career-wise, which scares the shit of me, with good reason.

I'm not happy. Not happy at all, people. I'm the opposite of happy. I want to scream. Instead I'm going to the gym. If I'm going to be miserable, I may as well be skinny and miserable like all the other JAPS. A JAP, that's the extent of what I am. Period. I'm resigned to that now. Fuck me. And fuck everything else that is in my way.

My CA 12-5 and CA 15-2 blood tests came back clean. I am officially cancer-free!

I am celebrating with wine, HG and a showing of Pineapple Express, which I will naturally be watching in the manner it was intended to be watched in. Fucked up.

Suck it, Cancer!

Let's Talk About Sex

I know that title got my male readers to click.

Let's talk about shoes. That just got 'em to click out.

Seriously, what I want to talk about, aside from boobies (below) is my latest obsession: Facebook. I hate myspace and had an account but went on maybe every few months. I was on the fence about Facebook and only joined a couple of months ago. Now, I fear that I spend as much time on there as I do playing with my poor, neglected dog who probably wonders what the fuck that metal object with a screen is always doing on mommy's lap. For me, Facebook is an amazing networking tool. Yeah, it's cool to catch up with 'old friends,' but I don't lose touch with really close friends, so that's not why I likey so much. Me likey because I now am 'friends' with a ton of writers/journos and other figures whom I greatly admire. And what's rad about Facebook is that since it's more intimate than myspace, a lot of these writers are actually reading my crap. Not only that, a lot of them seem to like my writing. This praise is, well, extremely fulfilling. I may not work at Vogue or even have a regular job for that matter (offices suck ass), but this silly little platform appears to be enough for now.

I also love--because I am not a phone person--that I can go on for a minute and see what my friends are up to. The status updates save time; I can see which of my friends are doing what and whether I want to join. If I owe someone a phone call but go on Facebook and see that they are slammed for the day, that buys me another day of not having to call them.

On the boob front, which I know is all you guys care about anyway, let's see. . .

When I walked into physical therapy, Muriel screamed, "Oh my God, you look so good!"

I was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress over a white tank top and cropped, white workout pants, so I was stumped. I was also sans hat or wig.

"What my shaved head?"

"Your boobs!! They're back where they should be!"

Phew.

Then I met up with Gay Boyfriend and he hadn't seen me with the new tatas. He assured me that they don't look as big in person as they do in the bathing suit picture. He hugged me hard and then released. "Oh I forgot did that hurt?"

Actually, it didn't. I do have some sensation there, but it's hard to put the level of it into words. I can feel myself touching my skin and that's about it. People keep asking me if I'll have nipple sensation, and I will, eventually. But here's the thing--maybe you ladies can help me with this one--what is the BFD about nipple sensation?

A dude sucking on my teets never did it for me. Sorry boys. I tolerated it, because clearly you guys like it. But in addition to the nips not being any sort of erogenous zone for me, it's kind of sick. It's completely Freudian and whether it's sexy or not I don't want some 32-year-old baby trying to milk me. And, yes, for the record, I think breast feeding is completely revolting. I'm sure you women who do it love it, and I have no problem with it, lord knows I've watched Cunty and Kobi latch on to Dana's African boobies enough times. But, eww, so not for me.

So there you have it, nipples--eh. Whatever. Probably another reason I didn't much care about losing the titties. I could always take 'em or leave 'em. I guess I left 'em, huh? Do gay men suck on each other's nipples? I'm going to poll my gays. Once again I've gone off on a tittie tangent. So I'll continue. Tomas has generously photographed me along the way, from pre-mastectomy to post, pre-chemo, post-chemo etc. You can see my former boobage in all their saggy glory in the above link. And, in my opinion, it's evident why I was so ready to get rid of them. Now it's time for him to snap the post-tennis ball tatas. I'd like to wait for them to settle, but I'm wondering if I should do it without nipples or put some kind of pasties on them or something. I'd like the photos to be pretty enough to enjoy, and I just don't know how I'll feel about looking at my nipple-less breastesses in print. The below shot of me he snapped just after I'd started chemo and shaved the head.

The "Time To Shop" piece behind me is one of my faves of his and it will eventually be my coffee table top when I earn some god damn money that I don't spend on stupid things. BTW, don't you guys love how many different words I can come up with for boobs? I'm so smart.

Finally, I'll be in NYC from Aug. 16th to 21. So friends, blog readers, writers, colleagues, non-perverted/psycho readers, hit me up and maybe we can do lunch. I mean drinks.

Dishalicious Does Dolly?

Well, Hemley took this photo at the Standard yesterday. I'm finally rocking the shaved head when it's too shitting hot out there. I didn't realize how HUGE my knockers look. They'll settle down (literally, down), but jeez. I hope I'm not bigger than I was before.

Nipple News

Sprinkles and I went to the Standard hotel's pool today and were hanging with a friend amid at least 15 topless women. The Standard in Miami is pretty European. So imagine my delight at a pool area riddled with boobies. Small ones, big ones, ugly ones, pretty ones, fake ones and a few pairs of real ones. So we all got into talking about size. H. is gay, but was particularly interested in this conversation topic.

"Just get the kind that most straight guys like." (Imagine an adorable Cuban accent.) "What do most straight guys like? Michael, what do you think?"

"Small, definitely."

"Me too," H. says.

"Me too," I say.

"But you should do a survey," H. says.

"I know I should."

Hence, below. If you'd like to share. I'm sure all the ladies out there are as curious as I am. It's anonymous, so vote your hearts out dudes.

What size?
	very small
	small
	medium
	large
Free polls from Pollhost.com

What color?
	light pink
	darker pink
	light brownish
	darker brownish
Free polls from Pollhost.com