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

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

Suck it, Cancer!

Let's Talk About Sex

I know that title got my male readers to click.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What my shaved head?"

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

Phew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dishalicious Does Dolly?

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

Nipple News

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

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

"Small, definitely."

"Me too," H. says.

"Me too," I say.

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

"I know I should."

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

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

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

Brother, aka, Sprinkles is here now. I'm feeling 99% normal. I'm amazed that after all the damage I inflicted on my body as a youth, that I heal so well. I was at the gym three days post-op and actually woke up early and dragged my Ethiopian-stomached body there today.

I'm at hospital now, in my normal bay-view room about to get Herceptin. My doctor officially told me I'm his favorite patient and that my wig is the best he's ever seen. (Holla, Ralf.) Both the female resident and Doc Schwartz were tres impressed with my boobs, which I exposed, natch. I love my new boobies, people.

So, the fucking water weight that is the bane of my wardrobe and self-esteem's existence. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Chemo makes most women stop period-ing, and Doc thinks this has to do with the Ethiopian belly. It can take up to a YEAR to get my period back. It stopped a couple months ago. And I swear it is so depressing putting on clothes that were big on you and having them fit snugly.

And I've got my lymphedema compression garments on all the time, so I'm typing this now in a Michael-Jackson-style glove with the added bonus of an arm sleeve.

I asked the doc to order the CA 15-3 blood test and the CA 125 as well.

CA 15-3 is a tumor-marker: "Why get tested?
To monitor the response to treatment of invasive breast cancer and to watch for recurrence of the disease.

When to get tested? When you have been or are being treated for invasive breast cancer."

"CA 125 is a protein that is a so-called tumor marker or biomarker, which is a substance that is found in greater concentration in tumor cells than in other cells of the body. In particular, CA 125 is present in greater concentration in ovarian cancer cells than in other cells. Its function is not currently understood. CA stands for cancer antigen."

In other news, I feel that I had other news and I've forgotten. It was funny though. You'll have to take my word on that.

Pervy readers, ahem, male readers: Where might I go to peruse photos of topless celebrities?

Mr. Skin charges. And I didn't even know there was a Mr. Skin; I thought it was pure fiction out of Knocked Up. Turns out my friend Boner has written for them.

I got quite excited about the prospect of comparing my tatas to the Tinseltown ones, but then I realized it was not a place for me to browse for nipples on the house.

I am doing important things today like going to the pool and beach, but I wanted you guys to check out one of my reader's blogs. She is a true Cancer rockstar. I'm a beginning reader of Ellie's blog, but I was hooked after the first couple lines of her about me section.

Check it out.

Happy Sunday peeps.

i have my compression garment on my hand--got it yesterday--so no grammar/caps today.
i know i don't look like someone who just got through chemo and scads of other surgeries. it amazes even me.
today was the perfect end to a long-anticipated week.
mom's bff from atlanta popped in unexpectantly. the yacht she was on had engine probs, thwarting their trip to bimini. our luck. we got to spend the day with the ladies on the lovely high cotton. a nice, quaint, 95-footer.

high cotton

high cotton

johnny depp's boat

johnny depp's boat

Drumroll please. . .

I've never been able to don a DVF dress sans camisole or tank top underneath. Now, I can be one of those enviable bitches whose wrap dresses stay firmly in place, on top of the tatas!!!!!!!

Tada, Tatas!

The bandages are off! I look normal in a DVF dress for the first time in months. I will post photos later (clothed, sorry pervs), so check back.

We're now off for some lymphedema garments and then hopefully Neiman's, Saks or Cartier. I think I deserve an end-of-treatment gift, no? Aside from my health, which I'm grateful for, blah, blah blah. Retail therapy though--no comparison.

All is well in the chest department! Final-fucking-ly! Whoo hoo boobies, boobies, boobies, boobies in the house.

The best news? They cover the scars! I am scarless. My surgeon clearly rocks the hizzle. I feel very lucky today.

Note to new readers: I did not have a mere cosmetic boob job yesterday. The implants were the final step in my recovery from breast cancer and a double mastectomy back in February. I'm afraid it's a long story, and you'll have to read on if curiosity strikes you.

I'm feeling a little worse today. Pretty damn sore. And my throat is totally fucked from the breathing tube. Sleeping was a real bitch. Half awake, half asleep, more pain lying down than sitting up. Percocet keeps me up, but the pain is pretty severe without the pills.

Why am I typing? I cannot just sit around. The type-a part of me feels the need to whirl around the apartment Tasmanian-Devil style. Even though I'm on the water and have a great balcony, I'm already getting cabin fever. Mom's here but we can't go shopping yet. The goal is to hit Neiman's by Friday. I think I can, I think I can.

I cannot wait to try on strapless and backless frocks! A whole new world of wardrobe possibilities. And no bras. Ever again.

Photos

Keep in mind (I am telling myself this too) that I'm swollen and sunburned. I have to wear the bandages only for two days. I cannot wait to see them without the bandages. But I'm afraid those photos I won't be sharing.

I'm home. Sore. But the pain is tolerable, with the aid of Percocet, natch. I did well, and even though I'm bandaged, I can tell that the tatas look amazing. Seriously fabulous. I've never, ever had boobs that looked this good.

I'll post a photo shortly.

I want to thank so very much all the people who have reached out to me, encouraged me, complimented me, read my writing and all that good stuff. Through this site, Facebook and everywhere in between. The kindness of strangers is simply unfathomable and has restored my faith in humans.

Being sick is a great way to figure out someone's character. I've found most of my friends to be exceptional. Yet I've noticed selfishness and narcissism in some of my good friends that is incredibly disappointing and often hurtful. There are plenty of people who didn't email/call/text/reach out yesterday to wish me luck. Or today to check in. (And yes, they all knew when the surgery was. You guys all knew.)

One of my very good friends, who'd also neglected to get in touch during the time of my mastectomy, managed to disappoint and shock me further this time.

This is the Before photo. This dress will be the lithmus test for the proper placement of the new titties.

People don't understand why I'm getting new boobs--this is why. These expanders are waay higher than the implants will be. I have to wear camis under all my dresses and tops now.

Fingers crossed that will not be the case after tomorrow. . .stay tuned.

Ta-Ta, Tatas--The Boobage Recap

21 hours and counting.

I want to take the time--in case I die on the table tomorrow--to thank sincerely you guys, my lovely readers. Your encouragement, compliments, notes and comments inject me with the confidence that most writers lack. Your well-wishes, fondness for this blog and my writing means more to me than similar sentiments (about my writing) from people who know me. Natch, family members and friends "love" my blog and effusively praise my abilities, wonder why I don't just publish a book. I tell them to give me the money and I will. But seriously, there is something very profound about having 'fans' who are essentially complete strangers. It is you guys who make me write when I don't feel like it, and tell stories that I don't necessarily think are worth telling. The fact that you gain a few morsels of wisdom, humor, inspiration, what have you, from here fulfills me completely.

I'm up this early because I just had phys therapy. But I was tossing and turning all-night anyway. I'm emotional and discombobulated already. So many different emotions that blur together and make it difficult to pinpoint one concern or trepidation from another.

Last night it occurred to me, for the first time since I told my surgeons I would never have sex again because who the hell would want a single, 32-year-old freak of science. Since then, and since Beau came along shortly after, I haven't given it much thought. My guy friends who know still treat me like a hot commodity. Guys who have no idea still hit on me. That's all well and good. But now I'm wondering if there really are those guys who won't care that I'm damaged goods not only on the emotional front, but on the physical front too.

And what it has me wondering is this: Are guys who will be or are presently interested in me merely seeing me as a novelty? A circus freak? Are they morbidly curious? Do they have a perverse desire to conquest me so they can say they did it with a woman with mutilated breasts? I mean, let's face it, pre-BC, this blog's primary thrust was men and what douches most of them I've dated are. It's hellacious enough dating nowadays, even if you're pretty and polished and intelligent and funny. Did I actually think it would be easier (or even status quo) after this experience? If so, those thoughts obviously occurred to me when I was doped up.

Because today my friends, I'm feeling sorry for myself on that front. I will look whole soon in fabulous clothes. I will fill out my Narciso and Oscar dresses for the wedding. I will look good in my bikinis in Costa Rica. My jeans will showcase my tush, my hair will be glossy, my body back in shape. But underneath, things will never be the same. Ever.

Sadly, right now--well, about a week from now in reality--I will be ready to get back out there again. But I'm fearful of what or who will be 'out there.' Probably the same old schmucks who were out there before. They couldn't handle a girl with opinions, balls, humor, independence and intelligence. How are these men going to take on all that plus the not so pleasant gift that awaits them under my shirt. Talk about baggage.

I know this doesn't give you ladies facing the same thing much hope, but I'm not feeling very hopeful today. It's almost embarrassing that it took me so many months to reach this obvious conclusion, but all it takes is a minute catalyst and then I'm thrown into the mentality that most women have about losing their breasts. I'm still not mourning my former boobs. I'm mourning my future romantic prospects. And the body that I was blessed to have and never appreciated. And now I'm only getting older, wrinklier and more jaded. And more mentally unstable, if that's possible.

And now a look back at my BC journey.
The discovery of the lump. The diagnosis. I'm never going to have sex again, Doctor. A mini recap. A mini hair breakdown. The requisite inappropriate romance with the hip hop loser. The Bye-Bye Boobie Bash. Disturbing the peace. Post-op pics. Another early sign that Beau would turn out to be a complete tard. The first tears. The mom-klonopin episode. Please do not look if you are medically squeamish or do not wish to see the mutilation at these naked photos of the tennis balls.

Tomas Loewy's pre-surgery boob portraits

Let's talk about silly, unimportant things today shall we? Like my new obsession with the phrase "bitch tits," which Chelsea Handler calls her dad. Bitch tits are just a more satisfying label for man boobs. Bitch tits is so much more fun. Guys can get BC too in their bitch tits. Weird, huh? It's not that uncommon either.

My colleague at Heeb magazine introduced me to the new, hipster phrase "slam pig." I don't find that one quite as satisfying as my other favorite, "hot mess." Sorry B.A. You'll have to come up with a new one to impress me.

I am *so* beyond excited that this is my LAST WEEKEND with the tennis balls!!!!!!! I get real-fake boobies Tuesday! They changed my surgery time to 7:30 a.m., so now it's less than 90 hours away. (I think. I suck at rudimentary math. I'm a creative type you know.)

Nora, Plastic Surgeon's secretary called me yesterday as I was leaving lymph therapy.

"We've moved up your surgery time from 2 p.m. to 7:30 a.m."

"Yay, I don't have to go so long without drinking or eating."

"Yes, so be there at 7:30."

"So when is Doc getting back in town?"

"Not till Monday, why?"

"Oh damn, I wanted to sneak in some Botox. But I suppose I can wait."

She laughs. Why do these people think Botox and Breast Cancer don't go well together? I mean, you may as well kill two birds. He did it one time while my tennis balls were being inflated.

"I'll bet this is a first for you Doc, Botox and inflation at the same time."

He rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "Are you kidding me? This is South Florida."

Oh how I love the So Fla Jews and their stretched, plastic faces.

I left the lymph bandages on for 12 hours. After going to the gym and sweating in them, they itched like a motherfucker. So I rationalized that 12 hours at a time should suffice. And it was incredible; after I removed them, my left hand was 95% normal looking! And it still looks good today. Finally, good medical news!

Check out my latest accessory. Soon it'll be all the rage. Bergdorf's will be stocking them next to the Loro Pianas on the first floor, you'll see.


This is the prize at the end of the lymphedema rainbow. Nice, huh? I had my phys therapy this a.m.; I woke up on time. These bandages, which run from the tips of my fingers to the top of my arm, are the first step of treatment. Soon they will be replaced by compression garments. I'm supposed to wear this thing as much as I can, but it will probably wear out by Saturday. Thankfully, because Saturday we'll be having a Ta-Ta to the Tennis Ball Titties night out.

Fuck me. And fuck lymphedema. These bandages are very uncomfortable and seem to be deferring pain to my back, behind the left tit. I have a feeling I'm going to rip this thing off in a fit of rage later on today. I have to go to the gym, drive, walk around, eat, type, shower--the whole nine with this mummified arm.

"Tell everyone you got attacked by a shark," Phys Therapist said.

"Can I take it off before it wears out?"

"Yes, if your fingers turn blue."

"How blue? I'm really paranoid about stuff like this. My fingers are tingling already. Is that normal?"

"Yes tingling is normal. Bluer than they are right now. "

They were already a little purplish.

"Okay, so blue, blue, like your scrubs?"

"Yes, but you'll know. You'll have intense pain."

Happy, happy, joy, joy. Good god I am getting sick of this shit. Really, really, really sick of it. You assume that after the really annoying stuff like, you know, the chemo, the mastectomy, the expanders, the hair loss, the bloating, the nausea, the fatigue, blah, blah blah, that things will lighten up. But nooo, there's more! You get an encore composed of physical therapy, more nausea, colds, sweats, pain from your port moving around, dry mouth and more. AND you have to start shaving again. (God is definitely not a woman, people.)

Seriously though, this lymphedema seems like it's going to be a real bitch. There's no "cure." And there's no way to predict how long it will last or whether it will go away for good one day. My therapist is very well-respected and well-known down here. And, from what she tells me, it's a chronic condition that you can maintain and keep at bay by avoiding certain things. One of those things? Steam rooms. I heart steam rooms. I'm a spa whore. There are few things I like more than a eucalyptus-scented steam room. Especially since I'm retaining so much water now. Whenever I make it to Equinox, I use the steam room. Often, I bring my own eucalyptus spray bottle with me in case they didn't disperse enough. (Eucalyptus is a great, natural way to repel fleas and tics, so I mix it with water and spray it on Wally before walks.)

Now, I'm advised to never use steam rooms.

"Never?" I said, almost tearing up. "Never??" Even in September when I'm at the Four Seasons in Costa Rica or Canyon Ranch in Vegas? Seriously?

"Well, I'll put it to you like this. People who have high cholesterol aren't supposed to eat certain foods. And if they do it's at their own risk. So, an occasional steam might not hurt, but you just never know. You're taking a chance."

Fuck it. Bring on the cholesterol-filled omelette with a side of greasy fries and Ben & Jerry's for dessert. Beauty is pain. Never has there been a truer statement when it comes to breast cancer.

Oh, I thought you might want to see my hair-growth progress, so take a gander. There's not quite enough hair yet to make me want to sport the bald head in public, but it's almost there.

Suck it, Crotchrot

It's hotter than a nut sack on fire outside. Seriously. I'm thinking of several things today. Occasionally I have thoughts. Usually, when I think of a line or a story that I plan to write, I jot it down in a notebook, or I make my brain remember it by repeating it over and over and over.

So, let's talk about Oprah, shall we? Her name on this blog will be Crotchrot henceforth. I have a long-lasting hatred of Crotchrot and everything associated with Crotchrot. I know most of you probably worship Crotchrot. And it is still a free country--I think--so we can agree to disagree on the subject of Crotchrot. My problem with Crotchrot is that she has the biggest messiah complex of any celebrity out there. Face it, the woman thinks she is Jesus reincarnated. Or maybe she thinks she's a direct descendant of Jesus. That's entirely possible as well. This woman needs serious therapy. Or waterboarding. Crotchrot needs to get a real shrink, not Doctor Phil Guffaw. (Someone needs to shoot that motherfucker too. Or run him over with a tractor.) I have watched maybe one episode of "Oprah" in the past seven or so years. And it was the Sex and the City gals promoting the movie, so I had to watch. Crotchrot seems to evoke in her fans some sort of hallucinogenic, brainwashed mentality. Okay, why? I really, truly want to know what the hell people see in Crotchrot. Do you think she's smart? She's not. She gets swept up by these dime store, borderline retarded authors like Eckhart Tolle. Don't get me started on that douche. Anyone who's been therapized could've written those asinine books. (No offense to my new-agey friends who read him though.)

Crotchrot "reads" a book by some jokester and takes it as gospel. Then she espouses it on her "Book Club"--gimme a break, when the fuck does Crotchrot have time to read? I'd bet 100 million dollars that she makes her interns read books and then has them compile the list. I'm waiting for the show where Crotchrot brings out her own stone tablets and proceeds to edit the Ten Commandments. So, a very profound thought occurred to me while I was showering last night. (I actually have to shower regularly now because I have hair again.)

Here it is: If Crotchrot decided to use her power for evil, she would be our generation's Hitler. Think about it, if Crotchrot started her own political party, her acolytes would follow her to the gas chamber if she told them that's where her fucking book club was meeting. If Karl Marx were alive today, he would proclaim that "Oprah is the opiate of the masses." I'm certain of it. And though I've never read anything by Jonathan Franzen, he is my hero for refusing to be in Crotchrot's book club. Go muff diving with Gail and just shut the fuck up already, Crotchrot. Thus, another unlikely hero emerged yesterday. Kid Rock proclaimed: "My real-life villain... Oprah Winfrey, she rubs me up the wrong way. I just don't believe her. Maybe it's because I'm not one of the 150 million brainwashed women who heed her every word." Hells yeah. (Let's ignore the fact that he said "rubs me up" instead of "rubs me." They don't have very good schools in trailer parks so we can't blame him.)

I have another major dilemma today. And it's a doozy. You guys know I am not a morning person. Early rising up for me means 11 a.m.. Typically I go to bed around 2 or 3 a.m. and sleep for at least nine hours. However, tomorrow I have a physical therapy appointment for my lymphedema arm at 8 a.m. This means I have to be asleep by 11 p.m. at the latest to squeeze in my requisite eight hours of sleep. I got up at 12 p.m. today. So I'll have been awake for only 11 hours today. That's pretty pathetic. But I've managed to cram a lot into today. When I know I have to wake up early though, I toss and turn all night telling myself to go to sleep cause I have to get up soon. Natch, that results in me looking at the clock every hour, and yelling at myself to "go to sleep already you dumb bitch you have to be up at 7 a.m.!" So I'll pop four Xanax tonight, I think. (Spare me the lecture, Dad, they're only .5 mg each. And I have Cancer so I can take all the drugs I like. Ha ha.) Which means I'll have to take the pills at 10 p.m. I ate dinner last night at 10 p.m. people. I'm very worried about this.

And finally, on a completely unrelated note, does anyone know the shortcut for an em dash on a PC? I'm lost. I'll post some photos of my sprouting hair later, probably at 3 a.m. when I'm not sleeping.

Toodles, Tennis Ball Tatas

A few thoughts on men. As far as I can tell, this whole BC BS has become something of a screening process better than any other one I can imagine. Most women in my situation have extreme feelings about losing their breasts. As you habitual readers know, I really didn't. Sure, in the very beginning, a few weeks after diagnosis, I did say typical things, like "They're not lopping off my breasts! Fuck 'em."

As the stats swam in my head though, I knew I had to do it. When I was vetting doctors, my standard question about my options--lumpectomy vs. mastectomy--was "If I were your daughter, what would you tell her to do?" That question almost always gets doctors--esp MOTs--to reveal their opinions. Good doctors won't say to you, "You need to lop off your breasts if you want to live." So when they told me my options, after they did their spiel, I asked the question. When Larry Norton said, "Having a mastectomy is your safest option," I knew that that was the final word. In my book at least.

I think it only took me a couple of weeks to get used to the idea of losing the tatas. Because, I never liked my tits. Period. If I could start over and kick cancer's ass by getting new boobs, well, that was killing two birds in my mind. I know I'm kind of in the minority here, in that most women seem to think that their boobs are what make them a woman. I suppose I can understand that, but sometimes I can't. And having gone through it, I feel even better about my decision. I'm totally looking forward to the big tata swap a week from today. I cannot wait to have perky, mushy, perfect breasts that require no bra. Cannot. Fucking. Wait.

Oh, I've digressed. The guy thing. Here's what I've noticed and what I will share with you cause I know a few of my readers are BRCA+ and face some tough decisions regarding whether to have prophylactic mastectomies. They have reservations about what it will do to their love life, breast feeding etc. Don't ask me about the breast feeding thing cause I don't give two shits about that. But what I've found with guys and this process is this: The good ones don't care. Period. In fact, the good ones seem to be impressed by my "strength." They tell me I kick ass, or am a rockstar or what have you. Ladies, if they can't handle what you must do for your health, fuck 'em. One out of eight women get BC. That means that one out of eight guys have had a woman in their family who's had BC. And more often than not, these men have an immense respect for women such as myself who don't let their lack of real boobage affect their personal life. In fact, if you really think about, women with implants don't have their real boobs either. They have scars, too. And we all know that implants certainly don't scare men away.

I'm probably also an exception regarding my attitude about being single. Sure, I'd like to have someone aside from Wally to come home to. But I also value my alone time a lot. Not having to answer to anyone. Not having to move clear across the country because of a job my hubby has to take. And I don't care if I never have children. (I can tell you I will never push something out of my v-jay-jay. Once I remove the ovaries, I have a legitimate excuse to pay a surrogate if I so choose. I've always wanted to pay a surrogate anyway.) Don't get me wrong, if a child was thrown into my lap I wouldn't throw it off the balcony or anything, but would I get up in the middle of the night to feed the little nugget? Hell no. That's what nannies are for. That's their job, people.

Okay, so where am I going with all this? I just think that now that I've been through this, I'm not going to have to deal with the whole bullshit first-date-screening process. If I'm set up, the fixer-upper will have to let the dude know what the deal is with me. If he can't handle it, fuck him. If he can handle it, and actually respects me for what I've dealt with this year, I think that's a pretty good indicator that he's probably a decent guy, no?

On the superficial front, I can tell you that my chest is looking good. The vertical scars are looking good. They're actually hardly visible close-up and from far away, I imagine they're barely discernible. The horizontal scars are under my 'boobs' due to the fact that I had expanders. (I think that's the reason.) If you're hefty and a candidate for the ass-fat titties or the stomach fat titties, I think you have that horizontal scar on the boobs, which does look pretty scary. You have much more scarring with the FLAP (ass-fat) procedure. And if all goes well during my tata swap, the real fake boobs will end just at or below the horizontal scar. Meaning, when all is said and done and I've done some laser whatever (if needed) my tatas will look pretty normal.

Is that not a fair price to pay for, well, your own life? I think so. I don't know if that really helps anyone in their decision making process, but this might. When you go for a consult with an onco, ask he or she for the statistics of BRCA+ women who don't have a double mast. If you cut one off, chances are it'll come back in the other one. Not to mention the fact that your tits will be ugly and lopsided and just plain weird looking.

The scary stats: According to my notes from Larry Norton, if I were to have elected just to have a lumpectomy with no chemo, I'd face a 60% chance of recurrence. With a lumpectomy and radiation? A 20% chance of recurrence.

With what I did: an 8% chance of recurrence. That 8% means I have better odds than the entire population of women. Not to brag or anything. Anyway, those are my thoughts for today. My friend just gave me some awesome dark chocolate hearts that just happen to be cooked with medicinal marijuana from Berkeley. Ah, I love food. Especially when it's laced.

I was just now interrupted by a neighbor knocking at my door. She needs a corkscrew cause she was trying to open a bottle of vino with one of those old-school openers that I don't know how to use or why people still use them. So I let her in and she opened the bottle.

"Thank you so much! Would you like a glass?"

"Oh, no thanks. I've got to go to the gym. But I like the idea!"

If anyone wonders why people like Fla., that should be a sufficient answer. Work ends at 4 p.m., and then you're off to pick up your chocolate hearts or open a bottle of wine. It's a tough life down here, lemme tell you.

Look Out Martha Stewart

I always get confused--when you have green snot, are you supposed to use antibiotics or is it vice-versa. Obv. I'm not feeling well. I cannot let this postpone my surgery next Tuesday, so I'm resting up as much as I can.

So, I'm going to bake the only thing I know how to bake. And my friend gets has chocolates for me that come from Berkeley and contain medicinal mari-j-uana. Yum. Hey, if I have to sit around and write/watch TV, why not make it fun? My throat hurts so much I can't talk.

Ironic that I go through four months of chemo without a compromised immune system. But over July 4th all the rents' friends had a sore throat thing. Despite my obsessive Purell-ing and Wet-Wiping I managed to catch it. Grr.

I had my phys therapy lymphedema orientation today. Next session she'll wrap my arm and hand. I'm supposed to wear the compression sleeves--which I will get as soon as I talk to insurance--pretty much all the time. I mean, I'll take the fuckers off when I dress up and go out, but I don't mind wearing them around during the day. It sounds perverse--well, it is perverse--but I like having tangible indicators of my illness so that other people know I'm not completely healthy. That's sick, right? Maybe it's because I'm soo tired of having to tell people I am sick because I look "so normal and healthy." The compression garments combined with my shaved head should do it though. Having people ask, "What the hell are those things?" at least gives me a natural opening to 'splain my situation.

Any homespun cold/sore throat remedies are appreciated. Except hot tea recs, that doesn't do it for me. Toodles.