Just Another Manic Monday

No shortage of drama over the last week and it looks like I'm not the only one. Longtime readers may remember a fellow blogger who was briefly obsessed with me and this blog. (God, I was definitely in my skinny jeans in that photo. Motherfucker.)

I suppose it turns out that he's just a little obsessive in general according to a story in today's NY Daily News. I suppose I shall un-Facebook-friend Scott.

Is it just me or does drama flourish in the spring just like pollen? Drama amongst the friends, career drama, social drama—you name it. I find myself looking forward to the end of season when South Floridians can just chill again.

I had a spy in the "audience" at the barf-tastic "wedding" of Heidi & Spencer Saturday in Pasadena. I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of the event, but suffice to say that I will never get those 30 minutes back I spent on the phone discussing the minutiae of the hot mess that is Spidey. Natch, the whole thing is such a train-wreck that I lapped up every last detail. You're not missing much.

Wednesday I got a phone call from Dr. Laura: "Stephanie we're 10 minutes into the hour and I haven't heard from you."

I forgot my therapy session; what does that say? I'm stocking up on therapy sessions this month and next, as Dr. L is off to the South of France for a month. Last summer it was three months I think—the recession vacay. Dr. L actually read my blog about her during our session and she informed me that she actually did not charge the VIP chemo patient for time she spent at chemo with him. I didn't assume she did as a negative thing—I just pictured this bigwig paying for her time. And interestingly enough, on last night's second episode of In Treatment, Gabriel Byrne's character accompanies one of his patients for chemo as well. (Brilliant show; watch if you haven't.)

In other, more-exciting-for-me news, I found a fabulous college student willing to be my editorial assistant, primarily to help me with my video logging. How amazing is that? When the hell did I become the teacher as opposed to the student? I simply cannot believe that it was eight years ago when I was an NYU graduate student and intern myself. I will be a much cooler boss than Jason Binn though, let me tell you. I'm uber-psyched about this turn of events, as he is proficient in all things I'm not; e.g. iMovie and screenwriting. I'm looking forward to having help—clearly I need it.

And our meeting at Ben and Laura's qualified as his funnest interview ever, which was definitely my intention when I brought a bottle of bubbly to toast the occasion. However, as I found him via Craig's List, my mom has been a little obsessive.

"How do you know the people you find on there aren't murderers?"

"Huh? Calm down, mother."

"MAKE SURE YOU CHECK EVERYTHING!"

I did not put together the fact that my one time using Craig's List coincided with "The Craig's List Murder." Natch, brill timing as usual. First the Natalie Holloway Bermuda incident and now this.

Mom arrives tomorrow and the port removal surgery is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. Weds. I have to be at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. Gah. The doc better be on time; he has a rep for running late. There is nothing worse than delayed surgery, where you're in limbo on a gurney, not yet anesthetized and just wanting to get the operation over with already.

Today I awoke to an empty bed and was wondering where Wally had gone. My bed is too high for him to jump onto, but he jumps off during the night sometimes. Thought he was under the bed; walked into my closet to find him curled up sleeping soundly in my lingerie drawer. Okay. I may be getting paranoid cause I'm a neurotic Jewish dog owner, but his behavior is definitely changing as he ages. He's never crawled into a drawer before, but it was perhaps the cutest thing I've seen in a long while.

Chemo Tour

Yesterday—last Herceptin infusion, meaning LAST DAY in chemo ward. Follow-up protocol is a visit with Doc Schwartz every three mos for blood work, and "thinking about having your ovaries removed before 40."

I have seven-plus years to think about that.

I thought a photo tour of the building I've spent the last year+ would be appropriate as I'm pressed for time. One week from today, my port gets removed.

This is what the port looks like after they've drawn blood to send for lab work:


I go fr chemo ward where they draw the blood, to Schwartz who checks the blood work, back to chemo where they hook up the dangling cord to the IV.

Dr. Michael Schwartz, one of my favorite people in the world:


The trusty IV pole:


Schwartz's exam room:

The Herceptin, or "Vitamin H." I strongly encourage you to watch the amazing movie, Living Proof, about the amaaaazing doctor, Dennis Slamon, who invented this drug.

The machine as it beeps and blinks, indicating that the infusion was finished. Done! "I'm done, I'm done, come unhook me," I exclaimed walking out of the room doing a dance with the IV pole.



A fond farewell to the chemo suites with arguably the best views of any chemo ward in the country.

Good-bye to the building of life, death and rebirth. I will see you again in three months! Ta.

4/20 is the new 1/1

Did ya'll really think I'd let 4/20 go by without notice? Ahhh. 4/20—what a fabulous date. Maybe sometime in the near future we'll actually be able to celebrate this date in a legal fashion, no?

Well, whatever. I so wish I could share with you all the ultimate Pineapple Express episode I had last week with my, er, pharmacist. (Green Crack was the varietal if you must know.) But it's a little too illegal, so I think I have to save that one for the book. What can I say? It's another absolutely beautiful day in Miami and I have no complaints. I'm on a strict work schedule per L.A. shrink; the same work sched that she imposed on one of her uber-big wig clients who also went through cancer last year.

Therapists strictly abide by the confidentiality clause, however, that doesn't mean they can't share other patients' experiences with you. The patients just remain anon. Dr. L has been based in Beverly Hills for 30+ years and treats many of Hollywood's most influential people. (If I told you who I've seen in the elevators I'd have to kill you.) Anyway, last week I was despondent.

My first words to her were, "I think I need to be sent away. Go to rehab somewhere in Costa Rica. Lots of my friends are doing it."

It's the easy way out and natch, she wasn't having it. The crux of my issue is: How do you get back to a normal, working life after Cancer has been your full-time job for a year+?

I'd asked her this many times and she'd told me how many times. But I'm one stubborn old horse; one that needs concrete lists, deadlines and schedules. These are hard to impose on yourself, especially when you live on South Beach where it seems nobody works. The water beckons you, the pool is always there, the beach is blocks away, as are your work-from-home friends.

Long and short of therapy session: "Do your other cancer patients feel the same way? Did they have issues with how to pick up their lives after?"

She told me again about her most stunning example of both perseverence and despondence with regards to pulling oneself out of the black hole of post-Cancerness. This big-time patient of hers, "so big you have no idea. Custom made suits, alligator shoes, Adonis looks—this man is made of cashmere."

He lost his looks, his hair, brows, lashes, everything. He gained 20 pounds. His Italian bespoke suits didn't fit. His alligator shoes sat dormant because of his swelling. Hollywood is a town about appearances. This man lost his professional life and didn't know how to crawl back up. He had an A-list support system. God only knows the bold-faced names who showed up to his chemo treatments. One of them was Dr. L herself. She put him on a strict schedule; with to-do lists every day. For a year, she spent chemo days in the hospital with him. ($2,000+ days accdg to my calculations.) Holding his hand while he checked off the items on his lists. She gave him homework. She's given me homework for years. Often I excell; sometimes I slack. I'd give myself a B+ in the homework assignments I've completed in the 10 years—holy fuck, 10 years—I've been her patient.

"So, it worked for this studio head?"

"Wait a second now, I never said he was a studio head!"

"I know, that's just an archetype I'm picturing." Studio heads typically are at the top of Hollywood's pecking order.

"Yes, okay, an archetype."

"So this guy? Did it work?"

"Yes, he's back. In fact, just the other day he got a check for $500,000."

"Okay, I want that plan."

So she gave me the best homework ever and now I have structure to my days and will bang out my proposal in the next month or so. I've found an intern. How fantastic is that? Now I don't have to watch the videos myself. And I've gotten my Filofax 2007-2008 notes in order. Which brings me to this time last year. Now you'll see why this week has indeed been blessed for me.

April 21st was the 4th and last chemo cocktail of Adriamycin and Cytoxan. This cocktail was the most potent of my four-month chemo regime. The following four Taxol treats would be easier. You guys know that chemo wasn't all that bad for me—until April 21st. Brother—unfort for him—was in town. That night, I hit the wall. I tried ginger ale, fresh ginger tea, Zofran, Emend, weed, etc. and nothing rid my body of the nauseau. I barely left the house for more than a week. Michael had to take a cab to the airport. It was awful. Really, really awful. (Not to mention that was the week I realized I had rats. And the week a rat crawled into my fucking apartment. I was so drugged up that I just threw my remote at him and chased him out.) My Filofax calendar for that week is empty, meaning I did nothing. (Thank God for this blog—thank God I had the good sense to write so much during treatment.) I, for the first time in my Cancer journey, lay on my couch most days and nights. Was forced to. I could barely walk Wally. I remember my big outing after these cabin-fever days was a walk to Walgreen's, where the A/C was off and I was sweating like a pig in line.

Cut to a year later. Whereas last year I was literally crawling around my apartment, cut off at the knees by the AC chemo, this year here I am. Writing this in my clean, rodent-free, cheap-because-it's in foreclosure apartment, in a sundress, with a Jewfro. This week instead of being couch-bound, I lived the life I'd always lived pre-cancer or no cancer. Wednesday I had dinner at Bal Harbour with Joni, Thursday Channing and I went to ESPA for a spa girls' night. Friday was cocktails at Smith and Wollensky, Saturday was the park with Wally and a pool party with the gays. Whereas last year walking Wally was a chore. Saturday it was an hour of joy with him at the gorgeous new South Pointe Park.



This time last year, this was me:


And here I am now:


Alls I have to say is thank God for Pucci scarves. And yes, I still wear the wig at night. Shut up.

Whenever I think I haven't accomplished anything in my life, I suppose I can just look at those awful photos of me with my bald head, which seemed so normal at the time. I am so grateful. I have nothing substantial to complain about. I am one of the lucky ones. I truly am. Okay, I'm getting all verklempt. There's no crying in fashion.

Happy 4/20. Light up a fattie in my honor and in honor of all of us Cancer patients and survivors. Legalize it! Enjoy nature's bounty! Life's way too short.
xoxoxo

This seems tailor-made for me. If you haven't watched anything with Tracy Jordan, you are seriously missing out. Esp his performances on 30 Rock (follow above link).



And check out my pics from today for a tour of my hood—the nice part; not the aforementioned cracked out part. Though we're only talking about a one-block separation.

Crackheads, Potheads and Models, Oh My!

I've told you about the colorful characters in my hood, no? There's the Scary Tranny at Walgreen's who terrified me until he said, "Girl, your hair is fierce! You look like a rock star!"

The whacked-out, turban clad shaman/homeless man who sages the four-block radius around B&L's house. (I think there is good reason for this; there's some seriously weird energy around there—they're always having electrical problems and shit. One day their oven turned on by itself and nearly scorched their pad.) And the crackhead across the street at 7-11 who often benefits from my fancy dinner leftovers.

In short, people-watching in South Beach is always an interesting sport. Now it seems that one of my very good girlfriends has fashioned herself into one of these characters.

Tuesday night Miss X was set to come over to my place where we'd chill and watch The Biggest Loser and Real Housewives of New York—don't even get me started on that crazy psycho Kelly, whom I used to work with at Gotham. Miss X arrived carrying a black DVF dress of mine that she'd borrowed for a commercial, (she's a commercial model in her spare time), a CVS bag and her large handbag. Miss X is one of those lucky girls who, with her long legs, sick, lean body and gorge face, looks good even in a schmata and house slippers, which she's been known to walk around the nabe in. She sits down on my couch and puts a roach on my coffee table.

"What the hell is that? I rolled a new one for us."

"I smoked this on the way over. You should have seen me on my bike."

"You did what? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Well, I thought it would be a nice, peaceful bike ride and I could smoke a J and relax. But then it turned into me on my pink bike, holding your dress on a hanger and trying to shove my shit into my basket. And then I couldn't really light the joint, but I was sort of smoking . . . "

I am dying by now, doubled over in laughter at the sight of this beautiful model, peddling down our street carrying a dress and two bags, smoking a J. (Marijuana is totally de-criminalized on the beach. We smoke at bars, in our yards, outside, on the beach. The lazy Dade County PD couldn't care less.)

"So there I am peddling and smoking a joint and of course as I pass 7-11 [directly across the street from my bldg.] I see two cops pinning down this crazy guy."

"The crazy eyes killa crackhead?"

"No, a new one. Some dirty ol' white guy. And here I go peddling by the cops smoking a joint. Or trying to."

I am dying.

"Oh my God!!! You've turned into one of the cuckoo neighborhood characters!!"

"Oh. My. God. I totally have!!"

We chill, smoke a lot—sorry mother, but I know how ya'll did it in the '60s; I know 'lids' cost $40 back then blah blah blah—and then get the munchies. Of course, I walk her out with Wally and we hand him off and take turns going in and out of 7-11.

"You have such a better selection of ice cream than we do at our market!"

"Yeah, fucking terrible for potheads. Junk food stores that are open all-night."

So Miss X and I are, well, really high. We walk back to my building where her bike is parked. I'm concerned about her getting home.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive? Er, ha, I mean pedal?"

"Hahaha! Biking Under the Influence, do you think they have that?"

"Shit, probably. Text me when you get home!!"

She did, but the text read: "This caramel cone crunch ice cream is un-fucking-believable."

Yikes, it's been a while, again! April is an insanely busy month for everyone it seems. Our weather is on the precarious precipice between spring and summer, so we're scrambling to pack everything in while the sun is still our friend. Yesterday it was 90+ and today it's 66. Ca-razy. Tomorrow I'm heading up to Jax for Passover and a few decompression days.

Lest you all think that I've been slipping in my Gossip Girl duties, I managed to make up for the P. Diddy encounter.

Yes, I was the gawker this time, and the P. Diddy Equinox spotting made it into this column too. Phew.

Lesley's Scene in the Tropics is the place to read about Miami scenesters. Saturday night I went to Casa Tua with a girlfriend who's a member. Casa Tua is a chic private club that offers a refreshing respite from the call-girl-esque crowd that takes over most nightlife destinations on the beach. Anywho, from our perches at the best people-spotting table, we had the best view in the house. My partner in crime, however, gets credit for the initial sightings. I'm just the conduit:) And I didn't even know it made the column until my friend texted me this a.m.

"Alexandre von Furstenberg, image director of DvF, the clothing label founded by former mother-in-law Diane, and fiancée/designer Ali Kay were seen upstairs at Casa Tua on Saturday night. Says our blinded spy, ''She was wearing enough carats around neck and ring finger to open her own Graff store.'' Also at Casa Tua: Owen Wilson in trademark jeans and baseball cap, ``spending the entire time outside so he could smoke.''

And even though almost nobody in this town would notice the confusion, Alex von F. is Diane's son. His ex-wife, Alexandra Furstenberg, nee Miller, was also referred to as Alex—as in, when they were together it was Alex and Alex—so it's an easy slip.

Anywho, the P. Diddy sighting also made that column.

Sean ''Diddy'' Combs was spotted at Equinox South Beach last Wednesday, the same day he played an April Fool's joke on Twitter, announcing his engagement and marriage to his high school sweetheart."

Okay, so onto more important matters—me. The best news? I think I've found an intern to log my memoir/cancer videos for me, woo-hoo! There are about 20 hours of tapes, so this is a HUGE relief for me. It's way too emotional for me to watch these tapes; to see myself as I really was. Drugged up in the chemo ward, slurring a little from the Ativan and Benadryl they mixed into my chemo cocktail. Me being wheeled off into surgery, driving to the hospital with Dana, Mom and Lynn, acting like everything is normal. I just can't handle watching these tapes. And though my friends and family have volunteered to watch for me, I don't think they could stomach this either. It's one thing to remember—our memories are always edited by our brains—it's an entirely diff thing to actually see verbatim what was going on.

From the first tape (the lumpectomy) where you see and hear my mom saying on camera: "The good news is the doctor said it's absolutely nothing."

"Snapple and water, I need drinks!" My first concern after a surgery that required me to be liquid-less for 24 hours.

"It's absolutely nothing." Famous last words that would come back to haunt us—and probably that fucking moronic surgeon—for a year. I wonder if that surgeon ever thinks about me, wonders how I'm doing and feels the slightest bit guilty about him giving us all false hope.

From that to me in Lynn's car on our way to our first consult with that bitchy oncologist I dumped for Schwartz, telling Dana, Mom and Lynn: "I don't care what they say, I'm not chopping off my boobs."

It's heartwrenching to relive these episodes and to really see the emotions that play out on my friends' and family's faces.

So an intern will save the day. After these tapes are logged, it's a simple matter of editing and copying and pasting. I will have to read, but not watch, the story of my life over the past crazy fucking year.

Stay tuned for a review of my Facebook friend, UK writer Meg Sanders' new tome, Busy Woman Seeks Wife—a smart chick-lit read. It's available now in the states. She kindly sent me an advance copy to read. Moi? Very flattering, no? Ta for now.

P. Diddy Don't

Ironic that an hour after I write my first hip-hop related post in like a year yesterday, I go to Equinox and have my first-ever (I think) P. Diddy encounter. I need to wear contacts or glasses to see far. If I'm just working or at home during the day, I wear prescription sunglasses. If I'm at home at night I wear glasses. Translation, sans-prescription I can't see details from very far. So I walk in to Equinox around 3:30 yesterday and head straight over to where the Cybex Arc ellipticals—my fave—are. There are only three of them in the gym. Two were occupied and the third had a drink and something else in the water holder. I tried to get the attention of the dude in the adjacent machine to see if anyone was using it. Walking over I thought he looked a little like P. Diddy, but I wasn't wearing glasses or contacts.

"Excuse me? Excuse me?" (I so didn't want to tap him if it was Diddy.)

He turned around and still not quite realizing it was indeed Diddy I asked him, "Is someone using this?"

"Nah that's mine, is it in your way?"

By now I realize it's him and politely ask him to remove it. I use every part of any machine I'm on. I can't go without at least a 20 oz water bottle, and at Equinox, where they don't have individual TVs—ridiculous when membership is $100+ per month—, a book. That is the worst punctuated sentence ever but whatevs. Anywho, I needed that water holder is all I'm saying and it's really annoying when people leave their shit on machines they're not using. I mean, I feel like I'm back in that episode of Seinfeld where they're at a gym and Elaine likes the guy who doesn't wipe down the equipment after he uses it. I'm reading Shantaram at the moment; it's 933 pages. Since the TVs suck, I read at Equinox, which I prefer anyway. So my elliptical looks like this: water bottle in cup holder, the 900-page dog-eared, India-bought Shantaram on the console, clipped in the middle with a hair clip to keep the pages down, and Wet Wipes. Okay, so I asked Diddy to move his stuff, he was cool about it.

The place was empty but everyone from the trainers to the older, frumpy white woman next to him was talking to him. My celebrity MO is leave them the hell alone, unless it's someone you really love and just can't help yourself or you actually know them. So I'm reading my book, going about my bizness. He's making some phone calls, talking about meeting up with the person on the other end for a drink, saying he's still recovering from WMC, wants to either get out of the house or chill at the house (I wasn't eavesdropping that carefully.) He gets off the elliptical and doesn't wipe it down despite the fact that he was sweating a lot. His trainer or bodyguard or whatever is hanging around in the weight area actually lifting weights while Diddy is sitting on the bench using the phone more than the weights.

So he leaves. I notice how short he is and how he has really scrawny legs. It's a funny episode and whatever, but I legitimately thought his star had really faded and therefore didn't even think to write about it. And I briefly thought about tipping off my friend Lesley Abravanel at the Herald, who's the funniest gossip girl ever, but again thought, 'Eh, who cares if Diddy is at Equinox.'

The one entertainment show I am obsessed with is TMZ. Obsessed. I DVR it and swear I'd move out to LA to work for Harvey Levin. Well, I get home today, play TMZ and what the fuck is on? Diddy outside of Equinox!? They're speculating on whether he shaves his legs. (Not that I saw.) Fuuuuuck! I cannot believe it made TMZ and I didn't tip off anyone. What kind of gossip gal am I? I'm an accomplished tipper-offer and I really dropped the ball on this one, folks. But y'all are the second to know and TMZ wasn't on the machine next to him.


Man, I probably could've gotten paid for a camera-phone photo! Aaargh!

I've Been Wondering . . .

What the hell ever happened to Afrika Baby Bam, remember him? The then-married ex-hip-hop star I shacked up with post-diagnosis? (I can now identify this 'relationship' as part of my Cancer-induced post-traumatic-stress disorder. )

It probably would've been easier on my nice, Jewish parents had my PTSD taken the form of uncontrollable anxiety, depression or isolation. My Sept. 11 PTSD was perfectly socially acceptable—anxiety, fear, eschewing of public transport and avoidance of both AA and United for years. Plunging into a scandalous affair with a black, penniless, uneducated man-child—oy. In hindsight, I get the heebie jeebies thinking about this affair. Yeah, I was completely batshit and my friends and family were afraid to tell me, not wanting to add any stress to my then-Cancerous life. My dalliance was psychologically comprehensible though—I'd just been diagnosed with Breast Cancer and was taking any and every distraction I could get.

And my family and friends were perfectly lovely about him, seeing as they saw me smiling and having fun despite my diagnosis. Well, the happiness was definitely mania that led to this uncharacteristic, risky behavior. Ugh, my poor parents.

Anyway, ocassionaly people ask me what ever happened to him. And the truth is I have no idea. He has become un-Google-able. Removed his mySpace page etc. (Isn't a musician taking himself off mySpace the kiss of death?) The reason he's popping into my mind of late is due to this popular song on the radio called 'Day and Night,' which I just discovered is by an artist with the proper name of Kid Cudi. It really sounds like Bam, so I Googled him. It's a morbidly curious sort of Googling I'm doing—did he kill himself? (He had bouts of suicidal ideations and is bipolar.) Did he pack up and leave Into-the-Wild style? (After I made him watch that flick, he had fantasies of doing the same thing.)

It was also the Winter Music Conference last week; the largest gathering of dance music professionals in the world. Yet he was—as I deduced from the handful of advertisements I paid attention to—nowhere.

Alas, I admit that I like that he's evaporated, easier for me to gloss over that whole episode. In my PTSD mania, I was convinced our affair would comprise a large chunk of my memoir. Now, I don't even think it warrants a chapter; perhaps a graf.

If anyone knows anything about this dude, lemme know cause I feel like I may become obsessed until I get to the bottom of this.

Update! Emily pointed me towards this. Priceless. Though now I'm at the mercy of my new friends who didn't know me back then and are DYING. All that makeup cross-dressing stuff started with me, I'm afraid. I obliged him one night when he asked me to paint his face a la Ziggy Stardust (below) and it seems I've created a makeup-wearing straight man.

I am sliding down the slippery slope of nonblogging. But I've been thinking of you, truly, I have. Feel like I'm about two days behind in everything. Palm Beach was fabulous and since getting back Thursday night, I've just finished unpacking.

Dad: "This is all yours? You've only been here two days. Jesus, Steph."

"Well, I didn't know what I would feel like wearing or what we'd be doing. And I'm leaving with more than I came."

Oh, D'oh. Never say that to dad or hubby, right? I'm sure many of you ladies can relate to the "I'm-leaving-with-more-than-I-came packing phenomenon." I'll usually make it work by throwing out stuff I don't need—half-empty shampoo or toothpaste or something—and carrying another shopping bag (or two or three). It's much easier when you're driving.

I've officially turned into an old, Jewish Yenta. The evidence is mounting and I would be found guilty in any court of law. I take Splendas from restaurants often. I can't help it. Splenda is expensive and something about the royal blue and yellow packet screams at me: Take me, take me home, Jewish lady. I need a nice home to sweeten up! I say "oy" a lot. Like, a lot. Oy. I complain about my aches and pains. And then I complain when the pills constipate me. I eat pitted prunes. Seriously, I love pitted prunes.

And then there's the fact that Wally stayed at the Ritz with us in PB. I didn't bring dog food with me; partly because I was lazy and partly because I thought they'd have a decent doggie dining menu, as many pet-friendly hotels do. When I realized we were staying on the club level, where complimentary food is set out for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I knew I'd made the right decision. Wally lunched on cold cuts of turkey breast and other unidentifiable meats and dined on brisket, chicken breast and other meaty things I could not identify.

Dad: "Steph, why don't you just go to Walgreen's and buy some fucking dog food already? You're going to make him sick giving him all that meat!"

"Do you know what they put in dog food? It's like horses and body parts. Real meat is so much better for him!"

Dad: "If he shits in here you're in big trouble young lady!"

He didn't shit. He looooved the Ritz-Carlton Palm Beach. And he loved meeting the other Malteses, Poodles and mutts that were residing there as well.


I was supposed to get the nipples tatted up tomorrow a.m. but I cancelled. I just don't feel like dealing of ten days of bandages during these busy weeks of season. I'm very happy with the progression of the girls though. Seeing the same people a month or two apart—Lynn, Alan, Kim and David—makes you realize how much you've changed. Your tits, I mean. Look how small they appear! I love having not-so-busty boobies.



I took some touristy shots of PB for those of you who've not been there. (See I do think of you!) After about an hour on Worth Ave—and a twenty minute convo with the diamond expert at Cartier, further evidence of the tanking economy when a Cartier salesman has nothing better to do than talk to someone like me who's clearly not buying—I got bored and walked to where it meets the ocean, which was a dazzling ombre sheet of blues this weekend.


Worth Ave. is the Rodeo Drive of PB, where all the finest retailers dock.

It intersects with Ocean Blvd., which is one of the most pristine, exclusive and expensive residential streets in the world, shown above. (This is where Donald's Mar-a-Lago, the former home of Margerie Merriwhether Post, looms. Worth Ave hits Ocean at one of the condo spots; there are some very old condo buildings on the same street as new $30,000,000 manses. Touristy me. Note the sheer awesomeness of the Ralf, even while windblown. I bow down to Ralf Mollica.


The Ritz has a brand-new Steiner Spa in-house called Eau Spa. The spa was really impressive and I was not expecting it.


The staff treated me very well, and I had an invigorating facial the day of my departure. The in-spa gift shop is also adiorable.

And in other news, in the past week or so. . .

I've gone on my first post-cancer date. It wasn't hard at all and the C word did not come up. I've joined team B&L in their sure-to-be successful upcoming Web venture. I've cut the bangs on the wig to the point where I actually really like them now. I've plucked in areas no woman should ever have to pluck. I've switched eyeshadow brands (Smashbox to Chanel). I've reluctantly had to switch lipgloss shades, as Chanel discontinued my mainstay, Force. I picked up #102, Eclipse. (FYI, the cosmetics and beauty staff at the Saks on Worth Ave. is incredibly retarded and unhelpful.) I've shrunk a little more. Made some new friends, seen some old ones. RSVPd to one million events and actually shown up to about five. And last night celebrated Laura's 26th bday with the crew.

Oh, and Dana is preggers again! Another busy year for her ahead. . .Off to the gym and a rainy night in at B&L.

You guys are probably getting sick of my anniv posts, but whatever. Can't please everyone all of the time. One year ago tomorrow was my second chemo treat. I'm in the process of uploading all of my 20+ dvr tapes from the past year+, and I'd just done this tape yesterday. I simply can't even watch these tapes without breaking down; uploading these mothers is a huge task that is time consuming and tedious. After I upload them, the transcription process will be even more time consuming and I just can't be bothered, as I need actually to write and edit. So I've posted an ad for an intern/aspiring writer to help log. Me? Have an intern? Well, despite my fiduciary shortcomings in the career department, I do have a lot I could teach an aspiring writer. Like how not to get sued or end up on Page Six. (Actually, many writers prob want to end up on Page Six.)

Anyway, these fucking tapes are taking me forever. It takes my Mac 60 mins to upload a 60 min tape into iMovie and I just can't believe in this day and age there is not a FF button on importing. Any ideas?

So one year ago tomorrow, second chemo. Dad and Stark were in tow. Dad, valiant in his efforts to remain in one room during a six-hour chemo infusion despite his rampant ADHD, made it through with only one off-campus trip—to the deli. Dana and I did count his bathroom jaunts though, which I recall creeping into the double digits. (Hey, the man did have prostate ca.)

Fitting then, given my cancerversaries, that the 'rents are in Palm Beach for the week and I'm heading up tomorrow morning to join them, with Wally in tow. A drive up to PB is much better than sitting in the Ward. April 21st—no coincidence that it's the day after 4/20—will be my last Herceptin infusion. Meaning that I can get out the port/catheter later in April. Meaning, no more chemo ward!!!!! Finally! The port removal is officially my final surgery; the nips are being tatted up March 30.

The port removal is a biggie—I still get squeamish touching that area, feeling a foreign object the size of a quarter under the skin and occasionally, when I try to 'massage' the right tata down to be as low as the left one, I feel the whole fucking thing and start to black out. The port is a thing that has a catheter going directly to my heart. So that if I feel deep enough, I can feel the alien cord, and that's what freaks my shit.

If your insides look like this, wouldn't you freak too?

Eww. Ick. Why did they give this woman love handles though? Anyway, where the fuck was I going with this? Oh, right. I called Peggy in my breast surgeon, Thomas Mesko's office, to schedule the port surg.

"What kind of surgery is it?"

"Usually, it's an in-office procedure where he just numbs you up and yanks it out. Would you be comfortable with that?"

"Ooooh! Hell no!! I need to be knocked out for that shit! It's like pulling the drainage tubes out or a catheter where it feels like an alien tube is being pulled out of you? Shit, no, knock me out! Surgery!"

Frankly, being abducted and probed by little gray beings would excite me more than feeling that otherworldly slithering of tubes in my body. And lidocaine compared to anesthesia? Sign me up for the drugs, Dr.

So that's why I've elected to go under for my last surgery. May as well have one Vercet-Valium cocktail to celebrate! Anesthesia—is niiice.

On another note, I 'straightened' my hair using Ralf's Welleda formula. Remember those old-school pre-Asian straighteners? The ones that give you horse hair? Yep. Instead of a Jewfro, I now have coarse, unruly tufts of hair that make me look like the Joker when I wake up. Sigh. Guess I have a legit excuse to wear the wig for longtime. Will try to post from PB; though we'll be at the outlets for a day I'm guessing, so we'll see . . .

Tee-hee-hee. I don't know that I'll be welcome at Sotheby's in the near future. My site meter often enables me to see the domain names of companies with employees who are reading. Today, I not only got a hit from Ringling.com, but several from Sotheby's. God, these people must have Google Alerts set up for any and all things company related.

As usual, I'm unrepenant. However, I think I'll change the name of the Brit who helped us. He was sweet and don't want to get him into any hot messes. Still . . . it is Sotheby's we are talking about here. They should be forthcoming in their appraisals and they should expect that sometimes they are indeed dealing with people who just may talk about what is actually going on where the sausages are made.

There is so much bullshit floating around in this world, and I call it like I see it. From mastectomies to Mikimoto. More later, I'm off to the pharmacy.

Slumming at Sotheby's

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

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

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


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

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

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

"So what would you sell it for?"

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

"What?! What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh, do you mean Edith Ringling?"

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Normalcy is looming ahead, finally.
Ta until later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chad squeezed me in and I hobbled into the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Cancer IS the New Black

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, maybe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Year C-Free

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






Look how they've shrunk!!!!

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

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

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

One More Day

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

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

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

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

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