Every blogger/writer has a few dirty little secrets. Often, it's these unrevealed subject matters that entice readers to read a memoir that includes already-known information. I'm no different. I have several dirty—well, not dirty in that sense, you know I'm quite prude—little ones that are just too revealing.

So due to a major one of those unmentionable 'secrets'—an issue that's plagued me since my college years—I lost it today. As in, sitting on the floor hysterically crying, overwhelmed by the mere organization of my work "basket." (I keep my work materials in a Target faux-wicker basket under my grandmother's antique, travertine card table, how me is that?) I had the suicidal ideations typical of a depressive such as myself. That's the clinical term for suicidal thoughts—ideations. Schmancy. I was a red-eyed, leaky-nosed, Jewfro-d, hot fucking mess.

"Why me? Woe is me." Yada [insert cliched, playing the victim card thought here] yada, yada. It was pretty bad—Klonopin at 2 p.m. and me telling Wally—13-year-old Wally—"That's it! When you go, I go!"

When I was diagnosed with the Breast Ca, I put up my dukes and kicked ass so that I could live for my family, my friends and Wally. I've got too much Jewish guilt to really even attempt suicide, so no worries.

"This is it," I wailed, "This is rock bottom. It has to be. I've finally hit it!" I've had so many false bottoms that I am writing a book, okay? But today—today was really it. That precipice was crossed and I've got nothing to do now but change. Change, which "means adding a new behavior," Dr. Laura says. So even though I wanted to crawl into bed with the remote or one of the three books I'm reading, instead I cleaned and went to Equinox.

There's a super cute and sweet girl who works there whose aunt has breast cancer and we chat about that sometimes as she checks me in. I gave her some of my coasters the other day, the nipple ones, to give to her aunt. So she said today that she gave them to her aunt, who liked them and was going to check out the blog. Well, we started talking about where the aunt is in the course of her treatment etc. And I gave her my post-chemo hair-growing tips. (Which resulted in my fucking, bastard of a Jewfro, but it's better than bald patches.) She said her aunt would be so receptive to that advice, esp cause she's not one of those women who was tragically upset about losing her hair. She'd shaved it off pre-chemo, as did some of her family members for support.

So she—for the love of weed I can't remember her name—was really excited about such a small but useful bit of advice. And though I walked in there ready to kill someone—er, rather myself—I got on the elliptical in a substantially better mood. The truth is, helping other people makes me feel good. Ugh, that sounds so hippie-dippy-liberal-Brother like, but it's true. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to India to work for Mother Theresa like Hemley did. But I love giving advice. I'm a writer, not a reporter. I write from the heart and tell it like it is. Sometimes that helps people, and if it weren't for that, I think I'd of given up on writing a while ago. I'm rambling, but the point is I rallied after a very scary and painful afternoon just by giving another Breast Cancer chick beauty advice. Interesting, huh?

And check out my new calling cards that arrived today. Obv this is a sample from the site; I'm way too lazy to take a photo of mine.

My friend Mel pointed me to the site and I j'adore them.

Holy shit, you guys, I had no idea that the story about the priest at the church a block from my condo was CNN-level material. Natch, I don't read the local papers. But I did see it first, when walking to Ben and Laura's last week I spotted all the news crews outside this church. It's literally one block from me.

I knew this was sort of a busy Catholic church, but let me tell you, the weddings and people I've seen there have been typical Miami tacky. Thus why would I think that some relatively famous priest preached there?

Apparently, he does. And his name is Cutie. Seriously.

Christ, I'm just glad he was 'caught' with a woman and not a 12-year-old boy.

As I'm compiling an outline of the past year or so—centered around surgeries, treatments, events and doctor visits—I'm thumbing through my Filofax and realizing how long of a journey this has been. Seems like just yesterday I was thinking of trading in the wig for a Birkin and throwing away bottles of Klonopin by accident.

Now it's May again?! And I've still not gotten my book together? Aaaaarrrgh. I need a wife and a ghost-writer.

Work, Rinse, Repeat

I've done nothing but work for the past few days. Working for no money—not the ideal situation, but one that most 'artists' are quite familiar with.

Today it's time for some housekeeping—namely to plug one of my Facebook friend's new novel Busy Woman Seeks Wife.

I'm long overdue in this, as UK writer Meg Sanders—Annie Sanders is a pen name, consisting of her and Annie Ashworth—sent me an advance copy to read. I love reading advance copies; it makes me feel like I'm a part of the publishing world. And I love good beach reads. Haven't you ever thought that being a woman in and of itself is a full-time job? (Or is that just lazy me?) I mean, men don't have to worry about physical maintenance—do they have any idea what our monthly Sephora bills are and how many hours a year we spend on our fucking hair?—and many of them don't even have to worry about domestic chores. Add to being a woman, being a mother with a very demanding job. Alex is just such a woman, and finds herself in need of assitance. But a nanny might not cut it—what she needs is a wife. There are mannys, nannies, baby-sitters, cooks, maids and servants for hire. Why not wives? It may be a Brit-chick-lit novel, but now that I'm thinking of it, I want a wife. I could keep her busy just maintaining my closets, wig, medical supplies and meals. So pick up this book and share it with your girlfriends. Especially your mommy friends.

What else? My lovely and talented editorial assistant is hard at work logging my videotapes from the Cancer year. By the time he is finished, he's going to know more about me than most of my friends and family. He's a lifesaver. And he's writing in screenplay format. Love it. I'm in serious, comitted work mode. I'm getting organized. And by July 4th, I'll have those necessary first 100 pages organized, written and ready to be read by my "readers." Who will then give me unbiased advice before I send the manu to agents.

So that's that. I called Momotaro—I need five inches to get my Jap straightening. Only five. I think I've got an inch or so to go then it's Shalom, Jewfro.

Ahhh, the glamorous, lucrative world of publishing. The six-figure advance checks, the film deals, the Oprah circuit—so glam, so lofty, so not the way it is.

I think I told you guys that my story, Benzos and Breast Cancer, will be included in a Heeb anthology called Sex, Drugs and Gefilte Fish. It's being published by one of the big houses. A few weeks ago I learned I'd be getting "an advance." Andy Borowitz—whose story is also in the book—told me typically anthologies don't pay much. But what's much? I was speculating anywhere from $50 to several hundred, who knew. Sometimes I get $60 for a story; sometimes $800 (though not in a couple years thanks to my non-pitching stance).

I got the check today. My first advance! Proof that I'm a published author. Happy, happy, joy, joy. Then I opened the envelope.


$50. I was kidding when I threw that number out there. Shit, that's not even enough money to buy a bag. How ironic, given the illustration on the Heeb story.

This really depressed me and just think that two hours earlier I'd had a good session with Dr. L wherein she commended me on my progress in the area of finances. This check triggered some things in me—the bad things. The self-sabotaging, self-critical things. Authors make most of their money from advances, if they're lucky. Book sales are great, but the author isn't taking home much from the actual book sales, unless it's a crazy phenomenon like Harry Potter or James Patterson or some shit. WTF. I'm discouraged again. $50—I make more doing nothing. I'm taking Laura to Neiman's outlet now to look for wedding shoes for her. Neiman's with no money, not exactly the best way for this bitch to cheer up.

Close Encounters of the Fashion Kind

It's been a hell of a couple two weeks, as I keep saying. Here's what's been going on. In addition to the surgery, recovery, busy social schedule and normal day-to-day BS of life, my career has really been kicking into high gear. For more than a year my life was on pause; now it's in fast-forward and I can't even find the pause button anymore.

I've mentioned how I found an intern—who's already been promoted to an editorial assistant—and now I need to be organized not just for myself, but for him. Type-A person? Yes. Type-A 'boss'? Seems not so much. I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that I'm in a leadership role over here. Not to mention I've also been in talks with a publicity team, with them helping me massage my plan for world domination. Step one? Turning this blog into something that actually makes me money. My stats are impressive, apparently. Hopefully impressive enough to draw advertisers. That's another story. So anyway, my days and nights have been busy. A big part of my job as a freelance writer/author/blogger is going out. Press events, dinners, lunches etc. That shit takes up a lot of time. I'm not complaining, but when I'm really stressed I prefer to lay on my couch and find comfort in reality TV (Real Houswives finale tonight, woot-woot. Let's see what crazy eyes Kelly (former) Bensimon pulls.)

After the gym today I ran into Whole Foods to pick up my pathetic frozen dinner, when, at the register I had a fashion encounter like no other. I spotted a woman at the next counter who was wearing a shirt I have. Not just any shirt, mind you. A Gianfranco Ferre top that I'd bought in Rome three years ago. The very same shirt that I pulled out when mom was here last week to see if she could mend the delicate back side of it—a sheer, silk layer festooned with white-and-red polka dots. I never talk to strangers in stores, but I had to speak to this woman.

Turns out, she'd also gotten the top at the same Ferre store near Piazza Espana (the Spanish Steps) about three years ago as well. Well, there's a sign here and that sign is, I need to get that fucking shirt mended already and begin wearing it again. It's a really lovely shirt (see below) and sentimental. I made two big purchases that trip—we did Amalfi, Positano and Rome—that shirt and a little YSL, white patent wristlet. We had one shopping day in Rome. While Michael, Dad and I were content with a week on the Amalfi Coast, Mom insisted on a couple days in Rome. To shop. So on that day, we all received our "shopping money"—don't even bother commenting—and the men dispersed.

Mom: "Where do you want to go?"

I am very familiar with Rome's famed shopping streets. I've been there several times; mom had only been once I think. She was determined to find something fabulous.

"Well, I'm going to wander around this area and just go in stores where I know I can find something within my budget. I'm not bothering with Prada, Gucci or any of those. I'll probably stick to the younger lines."

Mom: "Okay, so should we split up? I want to go to all the stores."

We had a couple hours, okay?

"The streets are very confusing mom, why don't you just come with me?"

Natch, she went on her own. I wavered on the price of the Ferre shirt, but the sentimentality of it won me over. Not only is it a fantastic, whimsical shirt, but it seemed made for me and this family vacation that was like no other the Greens had ever taken. The front of the shirt boasts a map of Southern Italy and reads: "I want to live my life and not record it."

Ring me up. In a couple hours I had two great purchases that would last as lifelong mementos of this unforgettable trip.

Mom and I met back up.

"So what did you find?" I asked.

"Damnit, I didn't find anything. How did you find stuff? I wasted so much time in Gucci and then just wandered around; where are all the shops. Damnit, I should've stayed with you!"

I showed her my finds and she was even more upset. Still, she hasn't learned to stick with me when it comes to shopping advice, but she's gotten better. This day of non-purchases led to perhaps one of the most insane Nancy Green shopping moments I've witnessed.

Cut to the airport, on the day of our departure:

Nancy was purchase-less. Unacceptable. If you've been to the Rome airport, you know that every store on Via Condotti is also there. Gucci, Prada and one of mom's faves, Etro. Less than an hour before boarding, I see mom wandering around the airport in shopping mode, eyes on the prize. She dad and I go into Etro. Mom starts manically trying on things left and right. She zeros in on the raincoats, for which she has a minor obsession. She's trying on slickers with no regards for time, asking dad's opinion and then not waiting long enough for him to answer. They start announcing our plane.

"Are you guys really doing this? Seriously? You're shopping as our plane's boarding? Come on, this is pushing it even for you mom."

Etro is certainly not cheap. And imagine the airport markup. In short, a raincoat from Etro is what fashionistas call an investment piece. Mom is the type who, on shopping excursions, shops, compares, thinks and then buys. She is not an impulse buyer, unless she's suffering from temporary shopping insanity brought on by a fruitless day on one of the world's best shopping streets.

I left them looking at four-figure rain coats, thinking, "Not even mom is crazy enough to buy something like this at the airport, 15 minutes before takeoff."

I was ensconced in my seat before they'd boarded. When they did board, I laughed out loud (and cringed a little) at the Etro shopping bag in mom's hands. Alas, it made her happy, it's a fab coat and she still enjoys it. And her friends and I have gotten many giggles over that Nancy story. Probably the funniest and most unusual impulse buy anyone in our fam has made. Until I make some real money that is:)

Michael and I on our last night in Rome:



Me and the forbidden lover, aka, Afrika Baby Bam.

That vacation—fashion foibles and all—was one for the record books. If you haven't checked out the photos, they are here.

Retail Therapy Is the Answer

I am exhausted. I always neglect to remember that my body needs rest after surgeries, not constant stimulation. I've been going like the Tasmanian Devil. Out five nights a week, and one of them a surgery day, led me to a 12-hour slumber last night, sleeping through the entire day. I had not been sleeping at all. I mean, this is me merely five hours out of surgery done up in a Bergdorf's top, Pucci Scarf and Dior sunglasses—with Lynn and mom.


On the way home from Neiman's to boot. Who the hell does this? It's really odd isn't it? If ever there were an argument for retail therapy though, this would be it: Look how happy [and insane] we are!

Dear Cancer: I Quit

I know you guys are dying; on the edge of your seat awaiting my brilliant recollection of the port removal and the subsequent end of my tenure as a surgical patient. Well, wait no more. Wednesday at 5:30 a.m. mom and I headed to the Mount Sinai Gummenick Ambulatory Center for (what better be the) final time.

By 7:30 I was going under—Vercet and something else that equals 'twilight'—and by 8:30 I was awake. And, unfortunately, talking. Some people cry when they wake up from anesthesia; I talk. In this case, about a family friend who's moving here and looking for an OBGYN practice to join. Even under anesthesia I'm a connector. So not normal.

"Are we done?"

"Just finished."

I think you're basically 'awake' when you're in twilight, but the Vercet gives you retrograde amnesia and the other stuff makes you not feel anything, so where does that leave you? Completely fucked-up for about an hour. As soon as I was in recovery, I was ready to go. I would've run out of that room with the fucking IV pole attached and my plump ass showing if it had been up to me. By the time I got into the room where you sit in chairs, change your clothes and get the IV out, I was operating at 100 percent. I was a lot more sober than I thought I'd be, unfortunately. Mom and I drove home, stopping at Epicure first, natch, chilled out for a while and then Lynn arrived from Palm Beach.

So we were sitting around my apartment for a few minutes, wanting to just "relax," since I did just have surgery after all.

"What do you want to do?" I asked them.

"It's up to you. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know—you decide."

"We-elll," mom says, "what are our choices?"

"I don't know! Bal Harbour? The park? Neiman's outlet?"

"Steph, I will do whatever! You decide!" Lynn says.

After about two minutes of internal debate: "Oh, fuck it. Let's go to the Neiman's outlet. It's our cancer tradition. I think we have to go." We don't want to piss off the karmic cancer Neiman Marcus gods after all.

So we headed for the Dolphin Mall and spent an hour or so at NM Last Call. (Good prices now FYI.) I picked up a frilly little DVF mesh sundress and mom snagged a cute pair of Manolo flats. Blue patent leather—"I don't have any blue shoes," she reasoned. We need every color on the Pantone chart, you know?

We headed home, chilled out for a few minutes and headed for a celebratory dinner at Smith and Wollensky with Ben and Laura. I've never had issues with Wollensky's—in SoBe it's on the water and is quite lovely. Wednesday night though as the four of us vegetarians dined—I like steak house sides, okay?—a stray cat strutted his stuff all along the patio, waiting for scraps. Our waiter was a real prick, and I bit into and then spat out a big hunk of bacon that looked like a crouton in my chopped salad. It was kind of a ridiculous scenario. I'd had four hours of sleep, a surgery, a shopping excursion and a big dinner. I slept for 12 hours afterwards.

So what're the post-op effects? I have steri strips over the port site. My right boobie is verrrry swollen and the area around the tape is really fucking itchy. (The really cool thing though is that because the port was basically invading my right tata for more than a year, now that it's out my uppermost right rib will shift back to its normal position and consequently the right boob will drop, according to accupuncturist. Once he told me that, I could feel the difference between the left and the right girl; I could actually feel the right rib laying higer than the left.) I have to wear the strips for a week or so, and then go back to Mesko next week. Which reminds me the nurse didn't call me back yest and I must get in before he goes on vacay. Photos below and more later. xoxo

One last surgical smile


After a long day, I didn't feel like wearing the Ralf.



Ben and Laura, our Bradgelina




Ben's alter ego—Jewlander

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.]