Woo-Hoo Jews!

A Heeb chief of staff and a black POTUS! Ahh, it's finally good to be an American again—except in California and Florida with the fucking homophobic BULLSHIT. Seriously, California, WTF? If I ever have a happily ever after with a man—whom Lisa's psychic said I already know, natch—I'm not gettin' hitched until my gays can. Fucking homophobia. Stupid, obtuse, small-minded ridiculousness.

But I think it's huge that Barack said this:
"It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states."

What a fabulous example of, well, humanity. And I have to say that I'm not hating on Oprah so much after seeing her mixing it up with the hoi polloi in Grant Park. I may actually be warming to her. Nonetheless, should I be published, she certainly wouldn't have me on her book club after my rant about her is published in Heeb magazine. Whoops.

How the hell did I digress? I logged in only to post these pics, since a lot of you fellow Cancer Warrior gals have been emailing me with hair-growth questions. (And all you readers with cancer concerns, I'm always, always happy to give advice on any and all things BC-related.)

So, this is my hair as it stood exactly four months and one week post-chemo (two weeks ago today).


Even my little nugget nephew noticed that my hair was looking better.

"Kobi, remember how I was bald?"
"Yeah?!"

"Do you like this hair better?"

"Yeah."

For some reason I always think that kids—and dogs—won't recognize me with all the hair-changing I've got going on. But I suppose they do.



And there's niece Cunty in Crazy Ass Nicole's arms. Stupid Chicago. Now I can't see Cunty, Kobi, Kutzy and Cubby every day. Stupid Windy City. And now Chicago's even cooler thanks to Barack. I'm never getting these little fuckers back to Florida. God, cuntrag, why can't you just be a snowbird with Burt and Myrn? I'm sure Jim wouldn't miss your crusty ass. Daryl isn't even filling your ugly-ass shoes thanks to stupid med school.

And yes, I know the tatas look rather high and huge here, but it's the way I was posing. . .

I know I said, and thought, that I wouldn't look at them, but I did. After taking the bandages off during my first shower in nine days and seeing that the penis nipples no longer had such huge erections, I figured what the hell. So I looked in the mirror. And let me tell you, my boobs look fanfuckingtastic. Maybe I was a little more freaked out yesterday than I should've been—who me, dramatic?—or maybe the penis nipples were just really turned on. But seriously, seriously my surgeon (Dr. Gary Rosenbaum, FYI) is a genius.

In a few months—perhaps even by February, a year post-mastectomy—if you didn't know my history, I think you'd have to get about six inches from my chest even to notice that something is a little amiss. And the area where the skin graft came from down there, barely anything. When you look at photos of most women's mastectomies out there, they're pretty fucking scary. As I've said before, I have no horizontal scars and the vertical ones will be compeletely faded shortly. Which leaves us with, well, two manmade, perfectly symmetrical, finely crafted breasts. The left breast, the toxic one that had a lumpectomy in addition to mastectomy, is now corrected even more, so that both breasts are basically the same. The aureolas are still stitched and pink—from irritation I suppose—but they're otherwise perfect. The perfect size. And the penis nipples are weird, no doubt, but within a few weeks I think they'll be pretty normal. So instead of thinking of myself as a cyborg, perhaps more something along the lines of Dr. Rosenbaum's David.

With a smaller penis(es).

Well, I'm out like—in the youthful vernacular Laura taught Jeff and me last night—an erection in sweatpants?.

It's nice to see that there are people out there depraved enough to delight in a cancer survivor's tribulations, isn't it? Check out this douchebag's comment on yesterday's post. Seems like a really fulfilled, secure and joyous person, no? Must suck to be you, dude.

Dick Nips

If I weren't going to B & L's election party tonight, and consequently concerned with keeping my eye-puffiness to a minimum, I would be curled up in bed crying. Because: I am fucking sick of this shit, people. I am sick of my boobs. I'm sick of writing about them, talking about them, photographing them, obsessing over them, taking pills to mask their pain, making wardrobe sacrifices to accommodate them, blah blah fucking blah. Seriously. I'm over it. Remember when I proclaimed that I just couldn't fathom women who didn't elect for reconstruction? Well, now I can. Now I envy those women.

You know when you're on a long drive on a nondescript highway and you're in that final hour; those last 60 miles? That home stretch is always the longest part, right? Never mind those 350 miles that you've already logged. That last hour is interminable. Well, I'm in those last 60 miles and they seem interminable alright.

Men, especially those related to me and/or those who actually still see me as a normal, sexual being, you may want to stop reading here. . . .

But I know this is like a car wreck and you're still reading because you must read anything about nipples. . . .You were warned.

I wait nearly two hours on the doctor. Would you believe they were OUT of Botox? Listen, I may not be able to control the water weight, the hair growth, the fucking residual chemo puffiness causing my eyes to resemble Renee Zelweger's, not to mention the girls—but damn straight I'm going to control what I can. Anyway, I was hoping for a mock brow lift to negate the puffy eyes, but no Botox.

When he finally sees me, as he's un-mummifying my torso:

"Now, don't freak out when you see them, they're going to get shorter."

"Huh? Oh, I'm not looking at them. I never look until the stuff is a little healed."

"Well, you have to look at them. You have to change the dressings every day, and you're going to have to look at them. So I'm telling you now that they're longer and they'll shrink."

"Oh, God." I start moaning. I cannot stand to touch, see or even envision my scars. After the mast, I would scream when I caught an accidental glimpse in the mirror.

So he unwraps me. I look down. And scream a little.

"Omigod. Omigod. Eww." Short breaths. What the fuck did I just see on my chest? "They look like penises." Literally. The nipples look like little, newborn penises. They are foul. Period. Just plain foul. Like little penis-shaped, tee-pees of flesh-colored clay.

"That's what about 40 percent of my patients say. I always look forward to hearing what the reaction is."

"They look like penises." I repeat, quite obviously in shock, looking down at yet another foreign object that is now a part of my makeup.

I'm still in shock over the penis nipples as the doctor moves on, showing me how to dress my penis nipples every day for three more weeks. This, remember, is in addition to the fact that I must wear a bra stuffed with camping foam.

For someone who wants to vomit each time she sees her penis nipples, the wound dressings could not be more ill-suited to her disposition. First comes some kind of nonstick tape, out of which I must cut a triangle for the penis nipples to poke through. Then about five sheets of gauze—or nursing pads for ease—with another penis-nipple hole. Then about five more sheets of gauze—no penis-nipple hole. Then paper tape. Then hideous granny bra. Then camping foam. I'm going to take a photo of the whole getup tonight so that I can remember the proper way to dress these fuckers every fucking day for the next three fucking weeks. FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKK me.

"But my friend in Boston had plastic nipple covers," I say meekly, knowing that there is no escaping this dreaded daily dressing.

"Well, I don't know what they would use, but blah blah," he says. I'm not really listening anymore. I'm mentally going through Wardrobe, thinking about how I've never recycled this many clothes, ever. Ah, the good old days. When I could go nearly a year without outfit repetition. When all I needed to think about was which jeans, which shoes, which bag. Now my jeans have dust—and probably nipple juice and moths, for that matter—on them. Okay, I won't get started on Wardrobe; that will really prompt the waterworks.

Now I really am a cyborg. A man-made, she-cyborg with penises on her fake boobs. I mean, come on, can this whole thing get any weirder? No, right? It's science fiction.

"I can shower today?" I ask, still hopeful.

"Probably not until tomorrow." Lovely. Another party to go to relatively unwashed. Thank god I have an actual bath with a handheld shower head.

He did tell me one good thing though: He took some belly fat along with the skin. So the chemo baby is definitely smaller.

But I still have penises on my tits. Penises. On my tits. Any of my friends who want to see, feel free; I know some of my friends have a morbid curiosity about what's going on under the bandages.

And now Joe The Fucking Plumber is on CNN. We are truly living in a world gone completely mad. Penis Nipples. Joe the Plumber. Nursing pads and bras from Target. Is it 4:20 yet? And now Wally just shit-ploded all over my bathroom again.

Obama as president better be the light at the end of this day or I don't know what.

Suck It, Cryptkeeper!

Please god, let the Cryptkeeper's coffin be nailed shut tonight. Or I am moving, swear it. To the Four Seasons, Costa Rica. Mark my words.

Guess what I woke up to again? Bloody shit—

Wait—the Naked Cowboy is a Republican and just endorsed McCain to Richard Roth on CNN? I'm sure the Cryptkeeper loves that.

Anyway, I think Wally may actually be sick and not just stomach-irritated. Fuck me. Isn't one sickie per apartment enough?

The bandages come off today! Woot woot. Now it's time for the granny Target bra with camping foam. And accdg to Mel, camping foam is actually a legit technique that she had to employ after a recent shoulder surgery!

Anyway, happy voting and the next time you hear from me, I'll be wearing a bra for the first time since February. A dubious distinction, as my first post-op bra is Target instead of Cosabella or Hanro. (La Perla—a total waste of money unless people aside from doctors and family members are seeing your girls.)

Debates, bitches! I'm not going to tell you to vote; I'm confident you guys have that under control. And here's hoping tonight is a historic night.

Camping foam, which I had FedEx-ed from REI. Two chunks of this will be residing in both sides of my bra for the next few weeks. The insanity never ends.

Purple Haze All In My Veins

Fucking A., it's going to be one of those days. Post-Cancer Stephanie pulled a Pre-Cancer Stephanie move Sunday morning. After managing to put together my 'sexy'—I'm still not convinced—nurse costume and baking a potent batch of brownies to bring to Lisa's party, the weekend gets a little (purple) hazy.

J. and C. and Wonder Woman (or, shit, was she Superwoman?) picked me up for the long ride to Ft. Lauderdale and, okay, maybe, I ate a brownie before they picked me up. The chef must taste. Well, there were already "Spooky Brownies" on the hors d'oeuvres table. Goody! I may have eaten another one. The nurse costume went off well, the party was fun and an hour was added to our night/morning. They dropped me off around 3 a.m.—no idea old time or new.

I don't exactly remember what happened next, people. Though quite obviously, for reasons to be illuminated in the next grafs, I ate some more brownies. I wasn't drinking and was pretty Percocet-free. Gateway drug my ass. . .

Anywho, I went to bed at some point Sat. night/Sunday morning. 4:20 perhaps? Let's go with that. I awoke this morning. From Saturday night. I skipped over an entire day. That's one way to make the week go faster, right? I stumbled into the bathroom this a.m., a little confused at the daylight peeking in and by the fact that my bandages seemed more askew than after the previous nights' sleep. My watch was still an hour later, as was my 'alarm clock.' I checked the date on my cell phone and sure enough, Sunday had come and gone in my sleep. I went into the kitchen to scope things out. The brownie pan was completely empty. Pre-party, I had left eight brownies in my pan. It was a strong batch too. Well, that explained a lot.

So I found myself awake at 7 a.m. this morning trying to piece the previous 36 hours together. It's no great mystery now that about 10 party brownies + Percocet + Seroquel = 36 hours of sleep. On the plus side, I didn't eat anything yesterday—too bad it wasn't Yom Kippur and I could be a good Jew for once—and have now completely weaned myself off Percocet. (L. send me your addy and the rest are yours!)

Wally made it his mission to shit in every possible crevice of my apartment as soon as mom left. So this gauzed-up bitch, who is supposed to be 'resting,' was on her hands and knees for hours bleaching out dog shit and vomit. But during The Great Sleep, Wally's shitting/vomit issue resolved itself; all the droppings I found this a.m. were hard and crusty thank you very much. Another plus is that I get to watch all the goodies from last night today, so don't tell me what happened on Entourage.

But I'm still on driving restriction which makes life a little more difficult and led me to take a cab today to the hospital where I'm now gettin' my drip.

The cab I hopped into, after waiting 10 minutes for it to come, was filled with smoke and the driver appeared to be the culprit.

"Uh, I have cancer can you put that out?"

He held up his hands to show that he was done, leaving me only to enjoy the stale remnants of secondhand smoke in the back. I'm sure he felt great when I told him I was going to the cancer ward.

On another, more serious note, I have less than two weeks to decide what I'm going to talk about at this Heeb event Nov. 14. I mean, I know I've got funny stories, but I have to choose one that's vaguely Jewish. And I'm trying to get the first hundy pages of manuscript in order for that weekend so I'm ready in case there are any actual publishers and/or agents in town for the 'Miami Book Fair.' (It's the Miami International Book Fair, which I think is big in the Latino world but in the NYcentric definition of the media, not so much. It may even be a translation conference for all the fuck I know.)

By the way, I do believe I am still high.

This is the storytelling event. Please do come.

Sickie Goes to Saks

Well, after staying up till 4:20 (heh) Monday night/Tuesday morning, I woke up feeling only marginally refreshed. So we decided to head to the Saks outlet 20 mins away. Usually we hit Neiman's first and then maybe Saks, but yesterday I needed sunglasses, which Saks has hundreds of. We didn't expect there to be a buy-one-get-the-second-one-half-off sale in the shoe department. So we were waylayed. And then we carried two pairs of mint-condition Choos to the register. In addition: a pair of Chloe shades, a Calvin dress and a few other things I can't remember, but will be a nice surprise when I find them in my closet. I probably shouldn't have tried on about eight dresses, what with the extensive bandaging and all, right? I start to get paranoid and tell mom we need to go back to Plastic Surgeon and have him re-dress me. I called the office from Saks and told them I wanted to come in.

We arrive at the office. "Doc, I just can't sit still and I think I moved the bandages doing something."

"Or maybe at Saks?"

"How'd you know I went to Saks?"

"You told us when you called."

Bloody percocet brain.

"I told you we were going shopping today! You said I'd be 'fine' in a day!"

"And you wanted Opium suppositories? If you think the Percocet makes you speedy well. . ."

"Those make you speedy? Huh. I've smoked Opium before and it sure as hell didn't make me speedy."

But I digress. My bandages were a hot mess, had slid up and down, but luckily I didn't do any damage. He wrapped me tighter and told me to chill out, not lift things and restrict my arm movements.

We wen't home, chilled for a little, then had a two+ hour dinner at Michael's with Ben and Laura. I mean, a girl has to eat, right?

So today we had to return a couple things from yesterday's Saks excursion, but we figured we'd check out Neiman's first. Mom was fixated on me getting a red cami that would cover my bandages to go under my sexy nurse Halloween costume.

"Mom, what difference does it make if the bandage shows? Everyone knows what's going on; I think the bandages make it legit."

Single gals with Jewish mothers, I'm sure you can guess where she was going with this:

"We-ell, what if there's a cute guy there?"

Natch, mom was way too psyched when I found a lacy, red Natori cami that would be perfect. The golden ticket out of singlehood though? Probably not.

I told mom she had an hour on the dot to do Neiman's. I tried not to carry anything, and I wasn't going to try on anything. So as I chose my wares I simply handed them to the woman at the accessories counter. That solved the not-using-the-arms thing. Mom tried on the cami and a sweater dress I ended up getting; luckily we're close to the same size. We would've probably stayed into the wee hours save for the fact that I began to feel on the verge of throwing up. Fucking Percocet. I've only taken 1 1/2 today, so that means the pain is better and I could be done with these fuckers by Friday.

But we're being good tonight; staying in, watching Obama and junky television. Oh, the camping foam—Doc had told me to go to Bass fishing store to get it. And as we were leaving the mall, we saw a sign for that very store. And we meant to go there today to get "camping foam" for my bra, yet, I'm sorry to say, Neiman's trumps all.

Aureolas—Ouch

This was a more complicated surgery and recovery than I anticipated, but naturally I was still up and running as soon as we got home from the hospy. For reasons psychologically unexplored by me, I seem to be unable to sit still post-op. Odd, considering that on a normal night I'm perfectly content to chill on the couch. Especially when Gossip Girl is on. What a surgery day treat. Like candy, that show. And I devoured the first book in less than 24 hours this weekend. Anyway. Arrived at hospy 8:30 a.m., only to have them running an hour late. It's so utterly bizarre to me that I have more anxiety on a normal day than I do pre-surgery. Think that's a good topic for Dr. L. this week, no?

When Plastic Surgeon came in to prep me, he brought a worn, plastic box stocked with his tools of the trade: washers from Home Depot and Sharpies.

Adding the aureolas—which they spelled areola on all the official papers—is a skin graft. They excise the skin from just above your pubis. As in, right above your hairline. You can probably guess where I'm going with this.

He began by drawing in the skin graft area, a horizontal, inch-deep, three+-inch wide, half-moon shape. (JKD, I need help with compound modifiers, FYI.) He takes the skin, then stitches up the remaining skin together in a modified tummy tuck fashion. (Unfortunately, this area is below the chemo-baby roll of flab.)

"You'd better not give me hairy nipples Doc," I said. That really can happen. Can you even imagine?

"Well, you've kind of thrown me off by shaving."

"Oh," I said, "I thought that would help." I don't know why that came out, suddenly I'm modest? I'd debated on whether to shave or not; in the end vanity won out as usual.

"My friend joked the other day that if I really wanted to revolutionize the way people viewed things I should start adding nipples to butt cheeks."

"Eww." Plastic Surgeon has an even drier sense of humor than me.

He then proceeded to draw in different nipple sizes on the girls. I told him at this point, the less skin he took the better, and I trusted his judgement on size. Plus, hawk-eyed mom was assesing the size as well. I had no mirror and was merely looking down. He drew and drew, editing in his beneficial perfectionist manner. Moving them to the left and right, up and down. Mom just now reminded me that once we decided to go smaller, he switched out the washer for a totally ghetto, used roll of surgical tape. Love it—a complete dichotomy of high and low culture, perfect for your's truly.

Once the nip-size was decided, he then traced them within the graft space. So you can imagine what a considerable amount of flesh we are talking about from Down There. Laura had told me that the excision site would be really sore and tender because the nerve endings were exposed, so I sort of knew that would be the worst part of recovery. Remember, I have little to no sensation on the girls. Thus, no real pain at the site of the placement. So we have the skin graft, the shaping of the actual nipples—"like little tents of skin," he described—and the liposuction of the flanks. And this is the unfortunate part for me—the wound dressings are nearly as extensive for this surgery as they were for the mastectomy. Because you can imagine the precision and delicacy of the nipple area. Oh, I nearly forgot that he also did a little corrective procedure on the bottom of the left boob. So we're talking four separate procedures in one shot today. He really took his time, in a good way; it lasted nearly three hours.

What this means is seven days of wound dressings that are in tube-top formation, not to mention the one under the underwear. And get this—the bandages on the actual aureolas are sewn onto my skin. I couldn't even believe. Have you ever even heard of this? I was blown away. Anywho, it's sponge-bath time again for seven days. Sucky for many reasons, mostly because this week I have like two benefits to attend on Wednesday and a friend's annual Halloween bash Saturday night. This totally throws off wardrobe. I got my 'sexy'—a relative term regarding me these days—nurse costume already, which will now be rendered even more graphic thanks to the bandages that will be poking out.

Oh, I forgot the best/worst part. I have to wear a bra again for like three weeks for compression purposes to help the lipo! A bra! Well, I never. Not since February anyway. Said bras will be stuffed on the sides with "camping" foam—as if I knew what the fuck that was. Again, the mix of incredible and basic technology. All things considered, this whole mastectomy and reconstruction process is staggeringly impressive and amazing from the perspective of "can you believe what they can do nowadays?"

Percocet makes me speedy and I'm completely wired yet I should be resting for Neiman's and Saks retail therapy tomorrow. So if this post seems even more rambling than usual, it's the drugs.

And for the record, I have been camping.

A new era will commence tomorrow my good people: the era of the nipple.

By Monday afternoon I shall be a more well-rounded woman.

Does the Cannibus Cup have a baking contest? If so, I'm going to shut it down next year. Mint-chocolate chip partay brownies. Could you die? Eat more than one and you just may think you will.

The cherry on the sundae of the sign stealing escapade:

I'm very fortunate to have such liberal parental units.

Also, Brother sent me this link, which is pretty fucking cool for The Economist. Crazy cool, actually and evidence of the small-mindedness of America. Rather, the small mindedness of Real America.

Honestly, how the fuck can some of my *best* friends vote for a ticket with a woman so. . .so. . .so, uh. . .indescribably re-fucking-tarded.

Political Action Chick

Some people give money. Other people volunteer, go to rallies, canvas and the like. That's way too normal for me, and obviously my attempt at 'rallying' was a complete, germ-ridden debacle. So I'm doing my part in my usual, unconventional way.

I'm currently in the place called Jesusville until Sunday. Yesterday as I baked with the old school crew and tried to tune out EVERY ONE OF THEIR REPUBLICAN VOTING ASSES WHILE THEY INSULTED THE DEMS AND PRAISED THE REPS. I was very thankful for my liberal, informed, educated and worldly upbringing. I'm still of the belief and cultural mindset that ALL GOOD JEWS SHOULD, BY VIRTUE OF OUR OPPRESSED HISTORY, BE DEMOCRATS for fuck's sake. But that's just me. And well, all of New York, where my brain still resides. (Luckily, you don't need a brain to function in the South. Did you know that? It's our state motto: Brainiacs beware!)

Okay, so I'm pissed, politically speaking, right? The McCain/Palin signs are all over the place. I knew I was in trouble when, after six fucking hours at the MIA airport, I overhead the Jax-based pilots talking about their love of all things Palin. (God fucking help me with this one, I literally want to start crying when I think about her being in the position she's in.)

Then yesterday's kitchen-baking experience--me and Wally, the lone Dems among four JEWISH REPUBLICANS. Well, you bitches know I love you, but I fucking HATE that you are voting for the Cryptkeeper. (You guys love to call me a snobby, Jappy bitch and make fun of my Escada belts? Well, I looove calling you ignorant, redneck bitches, bitches!)

So today, I'm on my way to the Jewish Community Center to use the gym. I'm driving down a major street in Jax., comparable to US1. Right around where my Temple is, I see a "Yes on 2" sign. "2" is a proposition to add a no-gay marriage thing to the Florida Constitution. Anyway, I just cursed aloud and proceeded to drive to the JCC.

After a vigorous-though-water-weight-fruitless workout, I drove home and saw another "Yes on 2 sign," adjacent to yet another McCain sign. Well, before I knew what had come over me--aside from my usual angry psychosis--I was making an erratic U-turn. I peeled onto the side street, hopped out of my car and proceeded to remove the two offending signs. I threw them in the backseat of brother's car, hopped in and merrily made my way home.

I shall continue my mission later in the day. Yeah, yeah, I know it's illegal, but guess what's worse than law-breaking? Homophobia. Nobody fucks with my gays.

Now that I've written my requisite five-pages today, I think I'll go on another ride and see how many "No on 2" signs I can collect. I live in a fairly Jewish area, so maybe I'll go cruise the other side of the tracks and do my part for intellectual, elitist, liberal, lefty Heebs everywhere. Who says one person can't change the world? Anita Bryant, watch your back, bitch.

What's the saying? Laziness breeds stupidity? Surely then, South Florida is the Dumbest Place on Earth. My disdain for the "city" of Miami is growing exponentially by the minute. I live on "the beach," which is the Miami equivalent of living "Downtown." "The Beach" is South Beach. An entity unto itself. South Beach is not nearly as utterly inefficient and well, completely retarded as the rest of Miami Dade.

I love my neighborhood. Love my friends. Love the water and the vibe and the pedestrian nature of my hood. Once you cross the bridge, however, all bets are off. Miami—the Miami that you know from TV and movies exists on the beach—turns into not only a third-world country, but an altogether hopeless sea of incompetence, mediocrity and English as a second language pile of shit.

Miami is not a city, okay? There is no civil infrastructure as far as I can tell, what with buildings taking decades instead of years to build, non-existent sewage systems in a hurricane center, ineffectual politicians and local leaders, deplorable fashion senses, disgusting non-bathers and—my favorite—crackheads disguising themselves as valet parkers.

What's set me off this time? Well, it seems like every time I try to do something vaguely political or charitable, my efforts are foiled by the COMPLETE FUCKTARDS who run this noncity. Case in point: yesterday's hot mess of an Obama rally. Oh, yeah. Brilliant idea for this germaphobe who would rather be suspended from a trapeze wire than rub up against masses of sweaty, unkempt people. I had the foresight to pop a Klonopin before arriving; I should have taken four.

Despite our getting there an hour+ before his apparent holiness was to appear, we stood like (smelly) sweaty cows waiting to be slaughtered by the heat. En masse, we waited on the steps for an hour, ostensibly to go through one of the FOUR metal detectors the GENIUS organizers erected for THIRTY THOUSAND people. Brilliant, ken? You would not believe. Imagine the most crowded subway you've ridden on, then add loud chanting, pushing and the 90-heat and 100 percent humidity. Obama went on, we were still not even through security. At the 11th hour, the Einsteins abandoned their security posts and told us there was no room for us. Except, we could walk about 20 minutes around the perimeter of the ghetto park to go into the overfill area. As fucking if. We hightailed it out of there and I Wet-Wiped my entire epidermis down upon getting in my car, which, by the way was decorated with an $18 ticket. Oh yeah, I was real happy.


Why, Stephanie, you say, don't you know better than to go to a public place like that when you hate pedestrians and crowds? Yes, I do. But I was trying to be a regular woman of the people. And, guess what? I'm just not. I'm sorry if the only way I can tolerate masses of people, concerts and sporting events is from the comfort of a skybox.

Actually, you know what? I'm not sorry. From here on out, I'm being true to ME. No more public events. Unless I'm watching them from a glass-enclosed, fully stocked private area.

Have I mentioned that adding to my ire of the past 24 hours is the fact that I'm sitting here at Miami International Fuckport since I missed my 4:10 flight because they need you to be here TWO hours in advance for domestics? Lovely. Then I didn't make the standby list. Now I'm waiting for the 8:30 flight; my bags are arriving in Jax right about now, but I won't be there till 10:30.

The more I have to leave the beach, the more I want to leave this state. I'm thinking it may be time to go West again. Even L.A. is better than this sorry excuse for a 'city.'

I want to go to sleep for four days and wake up with nipples and Percocet. At least I'll no longer be sleeping alone. Wally will be waiting for me at the airport. Can you believe I'm still this huffy after THREE Xanax? Time for another. Wake me when this is over.

Heeba Storytelling

Drumroll (very quiet one) please. I suppose this would be my first official speaking gig as a writer. Does that even mean anything? I have not a clue as to what my piece will be about—my run in with the Bermudian police the morning after my 30th birthday and the subsequent walk of shame on a two-lane highway back to our bungalow at the five-star resort? Dosing mom with Klonopin? Attempting to dose dad with pot brownies? Dropping ex-beau off at the Miami bus station and never looking back? Crazy Ass Nicole's 4 a.m. disappearing act?

This breast oncol on the Today Show just now said that 20 percent of Breast Ca is found by self exams, as mine was. You all may remember that I began to feel the lump less than a month after my yearly gyno exam. Gah.

I'm leaving tomorrow for Jax until Sunday, when mom and Walls and I drive back here for the final Nip Surg on Monday. Dana and the nuggets will be in town, so I'll get to teach them some new four letter words. In the interim, before my 4 p.m. flight tomorrow I am: going to my primary doc for a pre-op exam today in Aventura; rushing back to the beach to try to get to the massive Obama rally downtown; packing for a cooler climate; making sure all my paperwork and hospital stuff is in order; cleaning so apt is presentable for mom and Wally; squeezing in acupuncture and as much gym time as I can get so as to rid myself of my chemo-baby belly. Does that sound like a lot only to me?

Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm going to the gym. Again.

Baracking the Vote

I've officially voted for the first time since 1996.

Nip(ple)/Tuck

Aventura Bloomingdales tomorrow from 1 to 3 p.m. in the Elie Tahari department for those of you who want to see this hot mess in person.

(And FYI Tahari ladies, this is the only thing that has compelled me to enter Bloomingdale's in nearly ten years. So bow down bitches:) And it's the ONLY thing that could get me to the Aventura Mall, which is apparently the Jappiest mall on earth.)

One week from tomorrow is the big Nip addition. Maybe the girls will look more normal and not *so* fake to me after nipples? Symmetrical concentric circles instead of a blank wall of flesh. At this point, I'm so completely over the boobs that I just want to get the FINAL surgery over with. The fact that I'm going to have nipples, well really, what difference does that make? Is it supposed to make me feel more feminine? Like I can finally get back out there and be a normal single gal since I'll have nips? The truth remains that I've felt like a normal single girl for some time despite being sans-nips. Now, if I were to have had a blind date or something like that, it would've certainly been awkward telling him about the no-nip thing. Okay, so I guess the nips are a non-issue cause I'm not dating and therefore the only people who've felt the girls lately are my friends. But through the clothes at least, the dudes doing the feeling up don't seem to notice the lack of.

You know what would make me feel hotter and more like a woman? Fitting into my fucking jeans. Is it possible Plastic Surg could lipo water weight? Or would my body just generate more fluids? Ugh.

So I threw up this morning and had to take an Emend—a hardcore anti-nausea pill left over from chemo. It really does take up to six months for the fucking jet fuel to worm its way out of my body. Good God bring me normalcy again, please.

If you didn't check out Living Proof on Lifetime last night, watch it tonight at 8 p.m. I learned a ton about Herceptin that I didn't know about. Amazing story. Amazing doctor who literally saved thousands upon thousands of Stage IV breast ca women. Fab cast as well.

And even I (close observer of society as I am), didn't realize that Lilly Tartikoff was the primary fundraising force behind this drug. All I need now is my Hollywood husband so that I can be a badass fundraiser like her. A Hollywood husband who doesn't pay much attention to nipples, that is.

Pottea

So a couple of my girlfriends work for Elie Tahari, who designed this cute BCA tee for Bloomingdale's. I am planning to be a part of their in-store event this Monday at the Bloomingdale's in the Aventura Mall. I'll be speaking or something along those lines, perhaps reading an excerpt of my recent story. In any event, those of you readers in the area who would like to stop by and say hi, I would love to meet you. I think it's around 1 p.m. I will post the details as soon as I get them.


I have more diet, beauty and wellnes tips from Acupuncturist. My eyes have been really puffy of late, most likely another lovely side-effect of the jet fuel. Naturally I've got every 'miracle' eye cream under the Neiman's ceiling, but nothing has been reducing the swelling. But you know, tea bags usually do the trick. Except the ones I'd been using.

"So, this may seem like a really crazy question, then again, coming from me it's not so crazy," I said to him Weds. "What kind of teabags should I use to reduce puffiness?"

Bet you'd guess green, huh? Since that's all the rage and everything. Actually, it's 100% black tea that works makeup miracles. Black tea has uh, "blah blah, the most antioxidents of all teas, blah, blah nutrients," (all I could hear was that it worked) and is a natural astringent and toner, he said. All I know is when Chad talks, I listen. First of all he's a brilliant acupuncturist, a nutritionist, has a doctorate in Eastern medicine and is a wealth of knowledge in general about food and health.

Thus, I knew I was going to ask him about those seven fucking pounds. Actually, he said, he just got some samples of metabolic supplements that are made up of all-natural Chinese herbs. He said his patients have been responding really well and sloughing off water weight in mere days. Bring it on. He knows the dude who makes it, and I don't think it's on the market quite yet.

As it turns out, Chad is also an Herbalogist (sp?). One of only 200 in the country licensed to prescribe Chinese herbs medicinally.

He hasn't really explored supplements/herbs with me yet, since we need to get my baseline health back up first I think.

Well, you can imagine one of my next questions:

"Do the Chinese ever use marijuana herbs?"

Ahhh, yes they do in fact. And here's the great part for all you smokers out there: You can brew some fairly potent pot tea using stems. How awesome is that? Apparently it's a really mellow, physical high a la pot brownies that the Chinese used during meditation to help them reach the highest state of consciousness. Cool, no?

So not only did I get a massage and acupuncture this week, but diet, beauty and tea recipes as well.

Gah. I SO want to get out of this country, go on sabbatical somewhere where there's nothing to do but write and be in nature. Why don't I? Well, bimonthly Herceptin shots put a kink in that plan. I can't imagine being in India or Africa having to go to a hospital. No way.

How cute are my little nephew and niece? Kobi looks like he's already got his photo pose down. That is just the cutest face ever. But poor Sumner—looking more and more like her cunty mom every day. What if her first word is cunt? How fabulously appropriate would that be? One can only dream. Dana and I will be reunited in Jax next week, unfortunately—I'd much rather a trip to Chicago than Jax. But I'll be going home to see her, retrieve Wally and drive back up with mom and Walls for my BIG NIP SURG on the 27th.

Bring it on. THE last surgery. Well, until the ovaries have to be removed, anyway. Yeah. I don't
think it ever ends. And that's fine. That's why it's important to suck the marrow.

OMG—Sarah Palin on SNL?! Noooooooooooooooooo! I knew it was Tina Fey all along.

Heeba Hair

The hair is coming in fast and furious. Thank fucking god! The eyelash hair isn't coming back in quite as thick though, so I'm going to try a product I wrote about recently.

I'm telling you ladies, those chemo hair tips I've been sharing with you really do work. my hair is coming in exactly as it was before, natural highlights and all.

I Am a Warrior

I'm so sick of the fucking pink ribbon and all its merchandising. Is breast cancer a business? Nope. And we're not victims or survivors. We are warriors. So I've created a group for us on Facebook.

Please join "I am a Warrior," if you want to fight in Prada, not pink.

Stupid Facebook only lets you invite 100 people at a time, so please join using the link and share with others!

XOXO
Your favorite breast cancer biatch