So the real reason I've been in such a funk this week is not the cancer, the chemo, the future—although that is bleak for sure—but the fact that my bff recently announced that she is moving to Chicago. In about three weeks. Hubby got a better job offer, his family is there, the school system is better, and they have to go.

Dana and I have been best friends literally since birth, when we were put into the same playgroup, and have never looked back. We've been together through every pitfall and triumph of each other's lives. We lived no more than a mile away for 17 years; we were college roommates and post-college roommates. I was there for the birth of her two children and she was there for my cancer diagnosis and pretty much every doctor's appointment and chemo thereafter. Not to mention the countless times we got into trouble together, partied like rock stars, laughed cried, the whole nine. A friendship like ours is truly rare.

If there was big news to share in either one of our lives, I was the first to know about it and vice-versa.

I have had a more emotional reaction to the fact that she is leaving than I did to finding out I had cancer. Of course I am happy for her if she is happy and if they can make a better life out there. But I'm also completely, utterly shattered that she is going to be much more than a car ride away. I know that this is what happens in life; people get married, create families and go where the best opportunities are. I suppose that I've never had to do that. I've been lucky enough to pick up and move where I want, when I want. And I have to admit that I don't know if my decision to move here would have been so easy had she not been here. And I also admit that I thought she'd be here for good. But as I've learned in the past year, nothing is ever really set in stone. People move, die, get cancer, have babies and live their lives according to what happens to them. We all "roll with the punches."

Still though, I haven't slept well all week. When I do sleep I have disturbing nightmares. And I haven't cried this much since I can't remember when. I know that the move won't affect our unique bond, and maybe on top of this I am PMS-ing, but I can't help but feel gutted. She's always been a phone call or car ride away.

When I was in so much pain I could barely move she came over and massaged my back. She's my emergency contact on all my hospital forms. Our fathers grew up together. My grandmother used to take her shopping whenever we visited Sarasota. We are, and have always been, sisters. I guess I now know how my brother (probably) felt when I left New York. Though I can't imagine him being this emotional. And I was never as good of a sister to him as she was a friend to me.

My shrink is in the South of France for the summer. I have cancer. And she's moving. Why the fuck does everything always happen at once? What's next I can't even imagine, but I know, I know, things could always be worse. And I'm being selfish; I know they will be happy there and come visit a lot. I guess this is what being a grown up means.

Okay, so an update on the personal front. Ex-Beau finally got all his shit out of my pad. He had "given" me one of his Macs that he said he didn't use, but sure enough he took it back.

I made sure not to be here when he came—don't need the drama. I was at Neiman's Last Call anyway, which has become a ritual during chemo weeks. As I was running my errands with Wally just now I thought to myself, 'What the hell was I thinking being with Beau anyway?'
I have a weird penchant for choosing men who need to be fixed in some way. Which is odd considering that my only maternal instincts are for dogs. So my love affair with Wally continues while men are not even on my radar.

I've also acknowledged one of my biggest fears re. the cancer thing and the end of chemo: What if my previously lovely hair grows back ugly? I always took my thick, shiny hair for granted. Now I'm fretting over the fact that it may grow back hideous. Also, my hair is naturally curly and I can't get it Japanese-straightened until 6-months post chemo. What this means is I'm going to have a head full of gross, short, curly hair for 6 months; I'll have to wear the wig for another 6 months post chemo, with hair underneath making it that much hotter and uncomfortable.

Profound thoughts on the cancer front. Whatever. My curly hair has come back to haunt me.

I'm going to post some clothing and shoes for sale later for the ladies. . .

Tell me why they call it chemotherapy when there's nothing therapeutic about it. I'm feeling fatigued and am going to take a nap, but wanted to write before I go into la la land.

It was an emotionally exhausting week at home. Have I told you? I cannot fucking remember.

The chemo brain has gotten so bad that when I walked into acupuncture today, I forgot my therapist's name when I signed in. I mean, come on. That's just embarrassing. It seems I'm experiencing all the emotional and physical side-effects this week. I'll spare you the details, but I'm not feeling very happy right now.

I am, however, starting a new biz venture, which my fashionista readers will come to appreciate (hopefully). I should have that up later tonight or tomorrow.

And there are still rats! I was on the balcony last night when it was still freaking light out and one of the little fuckers was scurrying along the top of the wall on the floor beneath me.

Anyway, here are some fun pics from today's session. I asked Chad, the therapist, to snap me while I was being treated. He was a trooper.

Chemo Cakewalk

Plugged into the chemo machine right now. Got salads from Epicure, have the Bob Dylan movie I'm not There, finished a column, possibly set up my male nurse with one of my gays and am wearing "My Boobs Are Killer" t-shirt.

Don't know if we'll be headed straight to Neiman's, but perhaps dinner and Sex and the City again.

Two weeks from today, I am SOOO outta here!

CELEBRATE tonight! I just got my breast implant surgery date! On July 16, one month exactly from last chemo, they'll be swapping the tennis balls for soft, sumptuous silicone implants. Woo-hoo.

Natch I'm doing the Sex and the City thing tonight.

Our cast of characters.

Me: enough said

Dana: bitch and just-popped life-long best friend with a boy named Kobi, a cat named Kuthzy, a dog named Cubby and a daughter named Sumner--where the fuck is the "Ka" in that?

Alison: friend, daughter of one of dad's bffs, granddaughter of grandparents' bff, and mother of two adorable munchkin twin girls.

Lay Ann: friend, granddaughter of another of my grandparents' best friends and daughter of another of dad's friends from growing up

Erica: friend from college with whom I committed destruction of property. bitch deserved it though. . .

Nicole, aka, crazy-ass friend: crazy ass biatch about to pop with the child of her baby dady. The girl has more rings than 3 married woman combined.

So Barbara saged me again today. And yesterday actually. Now I'm armed with sage, a sage stick, a pink quartz Buddha, sage spray, and, brace yourselves, Holy Water. I capitalize it because it's in a clear plastic container with the words "Holy Water" written on it.

"Barbara, where the hell did you get this?" (My first thought was perhaps she bought it because she does the Kabbalah thing.)

"Oh, I just get it from churches!" (She's Jewish of course.)

"You just go into churches and take holy water?"

"Oh, yeah, honey, I just go in there and fill up my bottles."

"Did you make this container and label it?"

"Oh, noo, I bought it in the church gift shop!"

Oh good lord how I love my crazy Jacksonville friends. FYI, all my chakras were aligned. Including the "root."

(You girls were right, she calls it the root and the source.)

You commenters are both right. And I try--I know it's corny as hell--to live my life by the song from RENT, "No Day But Today."

But I'm also a goal-oriented person and I don't think there's anything but pleasure in having a girls' trip with my old friends to look forward to in a few months. Girls I've known since birth, whose grandaparents were friends with mine. So you see, for me, a small part of it is sitting on a beach somewhere lovely. The large part of it is relaxing and enjoying life in the company of my oldest friends.

I can't imagine how bleak life must be without good friends.

I purposely watched the last several episodes of Sex and the City before I left Miami, because Samantha was diagnosed with and treated for breast cancer during that season. She shaved her head, had the side-effects, boasted a kick-ass attitude and always looked fabulous from diagnosis through treatment.



In one episode where the uber-annoying Sarah Jessica Parker aka Carrie Bradshaw is talking to her beau about Samantha's Cancer, the issue of denial arises. Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte utter the phrase "She's going to be fine," about 100 times. In one scene Carrie's beau, Mikhail Baryshnikov, basically shakes her out of denial and says, you must face the fact that she could die. Ah, but how the girls protest with the "She's going to be fine" mantra.



Well, naturally, the first thing you associate or think of when you here Cancer is death, no? So that got me to wondering : Were my friends, the ones in seeming denial, who wouldn't dream of coming to chemo or visiting me in the hospital, expecting me to die? Were they, are they afraid I'll die? And if so, how very silly.



Look people, we're all going to die. That's the only sure thing in life. And yeah, maybe this will ultimately be how I die. If so, what of it? But I wonder if my friends are bracing themselves for the worst and hoping for the best. I wonder who would come to my funeral; I always have.



Cancer, it changes you in so many ways. I've become more fearless. More bold. A little less vain. Appreciative of all I have. Appreciative of days where I feel good and am able to be a normal person. Of course I've also become a little more self-pitying, dependent and unmotivated to do much but wake up every day. I've changed in too many ways to name, good and bad. I'm uglier--bad. I'm more compassionate--good. You get the point.

But anyway, I'm kind of down this week because even though chemo is done in June and surgery will be done by July, I have nothing to look forward to after that. Nothing. No vacation, no life-changing experience, no financial windfall or career gratification. I have nothing to use at the light at the end of the tunnel except for the end itself. But July is just the end, when really, what I need is a beginning. And I need to figure out how to begin again.



No biggie.

I am in Jacksonville for a week of family, friends and hopefully, relaxation. Missed my flight Sunday morning, which caused a little tension, but managed to get home by Sunday night. Spent the last two days at our picturesque beaches sipping mojitos and having slumber parties just like the good old days, minus mojitos.

My back is KILLING and I don't know why I can't fuckin' remember to bring my Tempurpedic pillow with me everywhere.

I need something to look forward to in September. I must find a way to get a vacation togther, stat.
For all those fashionistas and seekers of page-turning beach books, go out and get Bringing Home the Birkin. Fabulous, true story. And I think I may have just found my next career. I've read it in 24 hours.

I'm selling my iPod Touch. I can't fucking deal with another gadget.

If one of you readers wants to buy it, we'll skip the whole eBay thing and just Paypal it through this site. It retails for $299, but I'll part with it for at least $50 less.

I've never used it, except to try to use it. If that makes any sense.

My bad

Okay I'm taking this Holocaust email fwd down, cause apparently it's bogus. This is why I usually don't read fwds unless they are funny. So stop sending me political shit, biatches.

I don't know if I've described how swollen the sides of my chest are; just below the armpits. It's disgusting, like someone has stuffed my skin with cheese or something. And the only way to get rid of it is liposuction. So natch, I'm doing it. Working on securing an appt for the silicone sisters for mid-July. Doc is gone until July 14 and it's a 10-day recovery time wherein I can't lift my arms or drive. Grrr.

So far the worst side-effect of this round is the fucking water-retention and bloating. I killed myself at the gym yesterday trying to get everything out and then spent an extra ten mins in the steam room. I'm not even trying on my jeans; just wearing dresses until my Ethiopian belly deflates. NM Last Call was so good the other day that I'm taking two friends back today.

I had a dream that I fell for another poor guy with no job. Probably because Dr. L berated me during yesterday's session about what I learned from the Beau fiasco. And trust me I learned, but this guy in my dreams was really hot. I don't remember the last time I met a hot businessman.

Feeling fabulous, knock wood.

Last night we literally went from chemotherapy to retail therapy. After we left chemo around 6 p.m., we came home, walked Wally and headed to Neiman's Last Call.

We closed the place down. Susan and I scored. She got a to-die-for Dolce dress that was 82% off the original price. And she gifted me a fantastic Narciso Rodriguez dress that was 80% off. Also snatched a pair of Zanotti peep-toe pumps for about 65% off.

I am SO bloated from this new chemo cocktail. I have to take diurects. My jeans don't fit because of the water retention. It's crazy. I usually pee about every hour or so; now I go only like 5x a day. Lovely.

Live blogging fr chemo again. Two to go! Less than a month! Blood levels are perfect, side effects a cakewalk. Mom's BFF fr ATL is in the house.

Ate amazing dinner at Prime 112 last night. We are still stuffed. I've got the first round of drugs going in now--3 hours. Then herceptin for one hour.

Also learned I can swap the tennis balls for the silicone ones in the beginning of July. Hoorah! The accupuncture has helped with the back pain so much. And my energy level is fantastic. I would recommend it to anyone who has chronic pain or is just a little fatigued.

Hitting the Neiman's Last Call tomorrow and hopefully some places tonight if it stops raining.

Just returned from engagement party at Palm Beach estate. Each time I'm at happy occassions such as this, I'm left with one pervading thought. How nice it must be for parents to have children who follow the traditional blessed course; college, grad school, marriage and children.
That's what every parent wants, lets face it.
They certainly don't dream of a single, 32-year-old daughter with cancer who's lying in her PB hotel room blogging on her Sidekick while watching "Must Love Dogs." Waiting for the klonopin to kick in and kill the demons.
I feel sorry for my parents. They did everything right and what do they have to show? No in-laws, no grandkids, nothing even to boast about their children. A waiter and a CP (no offense brother).
Nights like tonight, where I am confronted by everything I've always wanted and hoped for, just serve to highlight what I don't have.
What I never will have.
"My next mission is to find you the perfect guy," Donna said.
Wouldn't that be nice? If single, perfect men were just lined up for an aging, single, unsuccessful breast cancer bitch? Get in line guys.
I feel like some people think it's that easy, finding a life partner. Like picking out a pair of Choos. As if. Tomorrow I can go get a pair of Choos on Worth Ave. A man? Not bloody likely.
Nights like tonight, I don't see the point. Fighting for things I will never have? Searching for a man who can put up with me? Aspiring to greatness?
I have more of a chance of getting cancer again, which is like 3% or something. (And I know I'll be lucky enough to crack the top 3%.)
Really, what is the fucking point without love? What? And what the hell is the likelihood of finding 'love' when you are a self-loathing, hideous CP?
May as well pin my hopes on winning the lotto. I need a fucking joint.

You go Ellen! I called this yesterday as soon as I heard the gay marriage ban was lifted in Cali (HG can attest to that).

Ellen rocks. Long live lesbianism, people.

Question of the day, courtesy of gay boyfriend: (said in his thick Mississippi accent) "If you wear Depends and you buy them in bulk, why on earth would you put the box out for recycling?"

Just another funny thing he stumbled upon while walking his Jack Russells last night. I'm being spoiled today by another gay beau who's generously cooking me lunch at his pad. I love my gays.

This could be my worst flying nightmare ever. I think this guy deserves at least a million. I would've, well, jeez I don't even know. Taken down the pilot? Thrown my Wet Wipes at the crew? Jumped out of the emergency exit? A thousand and one things before I listened to the crazies telling me to sit on the toilet. I mean really, to me that's equivalent to water-boarding.

I pulled up behind a really funny Hilary bumper sticker yesterday that read: "Just vote for the bitch." Actually made me want to vote for her. And frankly I don't think she's a bitch. Just another dyke with a bigger set of cajones than most men.

I woke up again—this is like the fourth time recently—to Wally poop all over my bathroom. At least he has the decency to do it in the loo. He's really quite the intellectual, that one.

I've developed some interesting, annoying new side effects. Swollen everything, including my eyelids, which look like they do after a night of drinking. Dry, peeling, itching hands that the onco is calling in a lotion scrip for. Insurance probably doesn't cover La Mer. I actually sprayed some eucalyptus on my palms and that stopped the itching immediately. But I'll get the lotion too. Products are products and if I have to get my beauty rocks off at the pharmacy instead of Sephora, so be it. On the cancer tip, I've decided, per Elizabeth's suggestion, to continue to write about it here. As she says, it makes it more a part of my every day life as opposed to putting it over there in a box.

Looking forward to a relaxing weekend in Palm Beach, though I'm still fretting about what to wear to Lynn's cocktail party. Palm Beach exists in its own fashion microcosm. I don't own any Lilly, but I'm thinking a pink Pucci top will suffice. And mom's wearing Pucci too, now that I think about it. The reality is that tennis ball titties and process of elimination will most likely dictate my ensemble though. I think I should just start a blog called tennis ball titties.

And finally, though I've been an Idol abstainer for a few years, I've been watching this year. Natch, I'm totally into David Cook, but can we just talk about the creepy poor thing that is David Archuleta? Yeah the kid apparently has the stage dad from hell, but since the beginning I've gotten the whole child-molestation victim vibe from the kid. I think that if he wins, his life is going to come crashing down by the time he hits adulthood. And his money will no doubt go into dad's pockets. Too bad you can't make your parents sign the equivalent of a pre-nup. Okay, it's beautiful out today so I'm going to enjoy the great outdoors. Translation: I'm going to sit by the pool in the one bathing suit where my tennis balls look normal.