A Fond Farewell to a Friend

I've often spoken of my family friends and how fantastic they are. Most of them have known me since birth. Many of them grew up with my parents and go back for generations. They are all in essence my extended family.

Last night, the first member of my extended family passed away. Eddie fought his cancer longer than the doctors predicted. Diagnosed almost two years ago, the cancer had already infiltrated most of the cells in his body.

But he was never dour; never lost his sense of humor. From the diagnosis forward he embraced life as I had never seen him do before. He went out with the crew more frequently. He laughed, he got by with the help of friends and family. He went balls out.

He lost his hair but gained his spirit. I remember mom telling me that in the midst of treatment (I think; my timeline may be skewed), he attended a legal conference out of town.

"Why did you go?" mom asked.

"Hell, I had to show everyone I'm still around!" he laughed.

That was Eddie. Wasn't going down without a fight. After I was diagnosed and before he went into hospice, I got to speak to Eddie in one of his lucid moments.

"If you ever need to talk, I'm here. You know I can relate, I know exactly what you are going through."

But he had it much worse than I do. Yet I never saw him complain or lose his humor. He will be missed greatly and remembered fondly. He and his family will always be an intricate part of my childhood. He will, of course, live on. I know many of you cannot grasp how I'm viewing BC—as a gift from above—but I get the feeling that Eddie understood.

I remembered that I recently scanned in some of the photos from my dad's college days. Eddie is pictured in both of them. All the others in the photos are still in our lives, as Eddie will be. I could call almost any one of these men and no matter what predicament I were in, they would be there. And they have been there, since my diagnosis. I haven't been able to bring myself to write all the thank you notes, but I hope you all know how much I appreciate the thoughts, phone calls, letters, concern and gifts. (I've never had so many Saks boxes.)

And since I am unable to make Eddie's funeral, I hope that his family reads this and know they are in my thoughts.

I hope these photos remind you all of the vibrant person Eddie was. Even with his eyes closed and tongue out.

Meow Mayhem

I am always drawn to these uber-fucked up apartment buildings. You'll remember my posh Upper East Side apt with the rampant mice (and more mice) situation. My first Miami apartment with my insanely noisy upstairs neighbor and the condo commandos.

And though I didn't live there, you'll all remember the riddle of the penthouse pooch.
My building at present, like my life, is tres bizarre. First of all, it's still under construction on the balconies, so I can't even open the patio in the BR or LR. And some mornings when I go to the kitchen after having awoken, I walk around in a skimpy nightgown and look out to see construction workers staring at me from my balcony.

You have to valet ALL the time. I took my car out myself with Dawn recently and was promptly chastised by the head valet. And don't even get me started on how much my Wet Wipes consumption has increased due to the number of people who manhandle my car.

The emergency intercom system erupts at random and is always false:
"There has been an emergency in your building. Please cease operations and go the lobby immediately. Do not use the elevators. I repeat: Do not use the elevators."
This happens about once a week.

Then there's the fact that the building manager is a dead ringer for Frankenstein.

Recently they moved around the furniture in the lobby. Yesterday I noticed a sign in the elevator. They are getting new furniture. If any of the residents would like a say in the decor, we are more than welcome to go shopping with them. However, we must be available during the day to go to furniture stores. WTF?!

The latest is the cherry though: A stray cat has taken up residence in the lobby. None of the building workers know how the fuck he got there and why he's still there. Frankenstein is aware of the creature. He couldn't care less. (Maybe he's really a monster.) I got home at 2 a.m. the other week and saw one of the valets carrying this cat out the front door of the building.

"Is that yours?" I asked. Language barrier.

"No. I just fed it."

Ok. Didn't think much of it, since the random, weird occurrences in my life have been snowballing lately. Copula days later, I go down to the lobby during the day and the cat is prancing around like he owns the place.

"What the hell is going on here?" I asked the doorwoman. "Why is this cat still here?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I think it belongs to one of the residents."

"Actually, one of the valets fed him a few days ago. I bet he's come back for more."

Over the next few days, the cat moves into the lobby occupying the chair in front of the computer. The doorman, building manager and the valets, for the most part seem to think a cat's presence in an upscale condo building in South Beach is perfectly normal. Mundane even. I'm sorry, but hello, what the hell is wrong with you people? Diseases! Dogs! Babies! Feces! Food! WTF?

Today my favorite doorman put him in the garage and an hour later he was back sleeping on the chair. My realtor had to see it himself to believe it.

I'm going to take a photo of the damn cat before I go to bed.

Leaving for NYC Saturday where I'll be shuttling between Sloan Kettering, Shun Lee, Bergdorf's and Barneys, Norman Landsberg and 5th. Can't wait to see my locals.

Cancer, Bergdorf's Style

Awww yeah. Thanks to an anonymous, lovely and generous family connection, yours truly has scored an appointment with the Anna Wintour of Cancer doctors. Larry Norton is at Sloan Kettering and is: The head of Deputy Physician-in-Chief for Breast Cancer Programs; Medical Director, MSK 64th Street; Norna S. Sarofim Chair in Clinical Oncology. This guy is the creme de la creme.

Infinite thanks to those who made this happen.

My resolution in 2008: To kick ass. One I know I'll keep.

Cheers to 2008!

You must, must, must run out and see 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.' From Moviefone—the NYT review was way too long—"the remarkable true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby (Mathieu Amalric), a successful and charismatic editor-in-chief of French Elle, who believes he is living his life to its absolute fullest when a sudden stroke leaves him in a life-altered state. While the physical challenges of Bauby's fate leave him with little hope for the future, he begins to discover how his life's passions, his rich memories and his newfound imagination can help him achieve a life without boundaries."

This movie, by renowned artist Julian Schnabel, is truly the most inspiring film I've seen in years. It has, in fact, inspired me to write. Starting tomorrow. Ten pages a day. No more excuses. If you have not seen this movie, go see it. No matter what you may be going through in your life, watching what Jean-Dominique Bauby overcame will make your obstacles seem surmountable. Christ, it made me feel like BC is as trivial as a cold. Not that I'm taking away from BC survivors in the least. But, it can always, always be worse.

Happy holidays to all. And now, a peek inside the 3 weeks (to the day) since my Cancer diagnosis. Please enjoy this smorgasbord of quotes from myself, my friends and family members.

D (iagnosis) Day, Dec. 4, 2007
I'm sitting at Tom's kitchen counter, receiving "the call," while someone is removing equipment from his house. I frantically phone mom, everything happening in fast-slow-motion. Come pick me up now I tell her, "And bring the Xanax. I cannot emphasize that enough."

Cut to an hour later, three Xanax having kicked in, making the whole "you have cancer" speech a little more bearable. I think I even said something like "Yeah, yeah, yeah doc, I'm on three Xanax, just spit it out."

Enter Dana, pregnant, hormonal and in shock. I'm reclining on the exam table, mom's crying and the doctor (ex-doctor, that is) is a wreck.

"What the fuck?" Dana questions all of us.

"Hiiiiiiiii. I have CANCER!"

I can still make her laugh and cry at the same time.

On the way home from that visit, in the car with Dana driving and mom in the backseat on the phone to someone:

"Yeah, she's doing amazingly well! Xanax is a wonderful drug."

Upon getting the runaround at Mount Sinai Cancer Center, despite the fact that I'd just received my cute little red "cancer card" that they give you for no apparent reason as it does nothing but get you free parking:

"Well Jesus fucking Christ, we still had to wait two hours. Clearly this card is not platinum!"

Upon hearing from the surgeon that one of my tits will be blue after some test:

"Oh gr-eeaaaaat, I'm not going to have sex for like two years!"

"Don't say that," the very handsome doctor says, "Smurfs have sex!"

Tom's email, after I told him about my bodacious blueboobs:

Subj: It's a Match!!!
My god I have found your future husband!

Upon hearing said doctor tell me that instead of getting implants I could have fat from my ass removed to make new tits (I know, eeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwwwwwww):

"What? Why? So I can have cellulite tits? I don't think so!"

On the way to the reconstructive surgeon's office with Dana and her mom Nancy. We're discussing the autism-vaccine relationship in children when Nancy bursts out:

"I think it's all the chicken eggs!"

"Huh?"

"CHICKEN EGGS!"

Waiting in the boob doctor's office, filming all the while, in front of several other patients. The three of us were cracking the fuck up. They finally called my name, and Dana, Nance and I were in hysterics; the other people were questioning our sanity.

"Pardon us," I said, "Humor is my coping mechanism."

"Clearly," Dana said. But the other women waiting laughed.

"Well?" I said to Dana, "How do you think the Jews would have persevered for thousands of years without their humor?"

A little random out of context I suppose, but when Woody Allen's Gallows humor is the main weapon in your arsenal, it's not such a far fetched concept. Ironically, that was my first doctor's appt. when I wasn't on Xanax. I'd forgot it.

Man, you should see the footage we have. CHICKEN EGGS!

FYI, CHICKEN EGGS! is the new MAJOR. If you don't know what major is, well, then you're like way too far gone to be helped, darlings.

Smurfs Have Sex Too . . .

I can't quite keep it all together, or document every nanosecond of my crazy life—having dinner with my fam and fam friends, godson and girlfriend's at a chi chi rest one minute and talking biz with hip hop friends on the way home—but let me tell you, there are some funny stories coming out of this whole cancer thing.

I think I've told you all that my bff Dana is videotaping most of our hospital visits documenting the Cancer Queens at their finest—from Neiman's to Mount Sinai. We already have enough material to pitch a show, we are all, collectively a hoot. As anyone who knows Lynn, Dana, Nance and I will attest to. Anywho, Monday I went to the Onky for a gabfest. Mom drove in and Dana was in tow. The camera was on. First I had to go to a radiologist in the same building—the mammoth Cancer Center at Mount Sinai. (Have I mentioned that every fucking time I am THE youngest patient in this cursed building???)

Christ, it's Friday and I can't even remember where I was going with the above. Basically, finally, bottom line—everyone I've consulted with is recommending a double mastectomy. That's right—I'm going to have to lop them off, then get implants. That's what they recommend when someone is (most likely) BRCA1 or BRCA2 positive.

BRCA1 and 2 are the genetic anomolies that make Ashkenazi Jewish women more susceptible to breast cancer. Now listen up ladies: 1 IN 4 ASHKENAZI WOMEN ARE POSITIVE FOR THESE GENES. THIS IS WHY IT'S SOOO IMPT TO HAVE GENETIC TESTING DONE TO SEE IF YOU HAVE THIS MUTATION. IT'S A SIMPLE BLOOD TEST. Compare that stat to 1 in 345 women in the general population.

Tres, tres freaky. So girls, get your genetic testing done, ESP if any member of your family has cancer that's not smoking-induced.

I have more funny cancer stories but I must go for therapy at Bal Harbour right now. Stat.

I am mentally and physically fine. And I want to thank all my friends and family friends SO much for all your support, encouragement and gifts. I think I'd better register before it's too late. Who knew? Cancer seems to equal another bat mitzvah!

Well, somehow we did it. Two performances in one night, shuttling from a private jet hangar to the museum of science, and a whole posse of us having to get from place to place on time. It could've had disaster written all over it, but thankfully it didn't.

Ok, so Tomas, almost got himself arrested at the airport party—it was a birthday fete for a prominent real estate developer—shooting pics of the bday boy. And there were lots of distractions. The party—in a huge hangar, with ice bars, gogo dancers, huge stage, beautiful people, performances by Prince and KC and the Sunshine Band. Toasting the bday boy were George Hamilton, James Caan and Brett Ratner. Anthony Michael Hall was making the rounds with literally 5 or 6 women in tow. Seeing Prince from 5 feet away is quite an experience. And we had three videographers to begin our experimental TV project. Let me tell you, if you think I'm a typhoon of drama in and of myself, you should see us all together.

Anywho, thanks to a great driver, a good team, lots of sweat and anxiety, we managed to make it to the hangar, back to the planetarium, and back to the hangar again without any major glitches. The planetarium show was fantastic; great crowd response and fabu debut. I, the erstwhile project manager/agent/publicist/Jewish mother to these guys, had to keep kicking hordes of people off the stage. Dawn, my friend who introduced me to Tom, was cracking up seeing me doing my thing with these guys, kicking people off stage and shit.

The one guy I had to repeatedly kick off the stage . . .

It occurred to me this a.m.—er, make that this afternoon—that I am good at this whole managing thing precisely because of the one trait that has made me a resentful full-time employee at other, more rigid establishments. I like bossing people around. I like being the leader. I like having control over situations. Hell, I like being able to kick people off the stage and have me listen. I can see why Ari Gold is such an asshole. If you're not tough with everyone, nobody listens. So I finally get to be tough. It's cool.

Check out the planetarium photos from the lovely and talented Tomas Loewy. These couple of me are tres bizarre. I somehow manage to successfully mimic a squirrel in one of them.

At the planet-arium . . .

The cool photos are Tomas's; the bad ones are mine!

At the airport party . . .




The boys, United Content Providers DVDreams and DJ Tom Laroc at work. . .

Just the facts:
Stage 2, high-grade infiltrating breast cancer. Most likely I'm a carrier of that fucked-up gene that many Ashkenazis have. Waiting on DNA analysis. Waiting on MRI. Will have to have lymph node biopsy. OYYYYYYYYYYY. WILL MOST LIKELY HAVE TO HAVE CHEMO-FUCKING-THERAPY. Can you imagine how weird jewelry will look on a baldie?

Xanax has been a Godsend, as have my family, family friends and friends. I do not know how people go through this kind of stuff without a support network. Thanks to all of you who have reached out, written and called.

The upsides are that I get to milk this Big C thing until I kick it's cliched, sick little ass. And obv. I will have a second opinion at Sloan Kettering. Followed by retail therapy at Bergdorf's. Neiman Marcus, Apple, Bal Harbour and Merrick Park have already soothed me immensly. And working with crazy musicians is a fantastic distraction.

And I feel fine. My best friend has been filming everything—from me waking up after the surgery to driving to the oncology center for the diagnosis, wherein my mom, her best friend from PB, Dana and I took over. The footage is really hilarious and we're going to keep it going.

But I'm still out every night, proceeding normally, feeling good. You know, I've always lived by the philosophy of do what you want and love because life is short. Of course now it's more of the same, but I'm going balls out.

Cancer, Shmancer

The cherry on the sundae that is my life: My breasts are toxic. That's right folks, I, a 32-year-old perfectly healthy woman, have breast cancer.

A big shout out to the overwhelming support of my friends, family and family friends. We caught it early, it's encapsulated, I'm young, prognosis good, yada, yada, yada. In the words of my doc, "this is not a death sentence." Bottom line is I have to get radiation whether it's spread to the nodes or not. I will find out whether it's metastized or not in the next biopsy.

It's totally fucked up. Maybe I'm still in shock, but I'm proceeding as normal. Working, hanging out with friends, going out and partying. This little thing with a big C ain't gonna take this woman down. Fuck cancer. Cancer seems like a walk in the park frankly compared to what I've overcome throughout my life and esp the past five years. So I'm ready; I've got my dukes up; I've got the best doctors (or rather am in the process of securing them; bring it on you invasive, pervasive murderer of humankind.

Oh, and I seemingly have license to do whatever the fuck I want for as long as this shall last. That's a plus. And when all my fam friends call to see if I need anything, I say, "yes, PRESENTS!" Also, I will be throwing a big cancer party/breast cancer awareness event. I will be registered at Neiman's and no, I'm not kidding.
As if CANCER could change me.

Bedtime: 4:30 a.m.
Wake-up time: 8:30 a.m.
Snapples: 4
Items purchased at Neiman's outlet: 7
Xanax: 3
Blunts: 2

Por que?
Lumpectomy tomorrow, 9:30 a.m.

Bring on the drugs, sympathy, catering to and presents.

My new favorite thing: Cut Paper Fashion. Saw them at the Lincoln Road street fair Sunday. FAB.

The Manhattan Once-Over

Today my new partner/client/boss and his team met with a party planner for an event we may be doing. I sort of knew who the event planner was, as I'd written about her co. before. And, like any woman knows, we speak our own, nonverbal language.

Knowing that we were meeting in a family's airplane hangar with their ginormous jet, and knowing what I new about the woman, I told Tom that he needed me at this meeting to speak this woman's language.

So this is what I wore, which is completely relevant to the story—grandmother-vintage Pucci top, jeans, classic black Gucci pumps, classic black Chanel bag, Dior sunglasses and my usual day time jewelry.

Anywho, we did indeed speak the same language. In the car, Tom said something like, "Damn, she looked you up and down, like hardcore."

"Yeah, I told you. That's normal, that's what girls do."

"But she kept doing it."

"Yes, she was giving me what I like to call the Manhattan once-over. When you walk in Manhattan, especially on the Upper East Side, there's a ritual that most girls do in order to assess another girl's style. If someone was checking out my ensemble, her eyes would go from feet to handbag, up to the face, then down the entire body all the while checking out your jewelry, makeup, hair, body."

"So it's no big deal?" T asked.

"No, it's like how we judge each other at first glance. It's just what we do."

"She was being so rude, just staring."

"Nope. I did the same thing."

We get home. The blunts are lit. The Snapples are being drunk. United Content Providers, which consists of Tom and several other artists, are performing at the planetarium soon. They do video DJing that's too complicated for me to explain and if I describe it wrong, I won't hear the end of it from Tom.

Soo, I remembered that South Park did an episode about the "planet-arium."

"I have to get it, let's find it."

I Googled it and found it in the second season. The episode is called something like Rodger Ebert is fat.

Tom types Roger Ebert and then I tell him there's a "d" in Rodger.

He starts laughing. "I typed in the word Roger and corrected the word to reefer."

The Real Dream Job

I would make this a day-in-the-life entry, but each day has been quite distinct.

He tells me that I'm stereotypical in certain ways, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, as he's a stereotypical DJ.

He gets offered cameos in LL Cool J. videos and turns them down, albeit for work.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

A night at his house often means cooking, friends stopping in and out the revolving front door and lots of laughs.

He harassed me into taking the "Make a Donation" button down—I never even thought about it still being there—so I could "feng shui up" my blog.

And then he smokes a blunt or two.
And then he drinks a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

He is my new boss/partner/client/friend. And let me tell you, every day I spend working with him is a crazy fun, bizarro, alternate-universe kind of experience. He seriously needs his own reality show, for I can barely put pen to paper all his ridiculously funny lines.

Last weekend took us to Ingrid Casares' party at Karu and Y, and before me and the other guy knew what was up, Tom had commandeered the DJ booth and proceeded to play for a good hour or two. During the week I found myself at Mansion while it was closed, sitting on a couch that countless people have fucked on, watching T and his partner rehearse. Another night this week, he donned his chef's jacket at 11 p.m. to bring a dish to one of the owners of bar Love Hate. Did I mention that the jacket said "Love Hate?"

And then he smoked a blunt or two.
And then he drank a Snapple Lemon Iced Tea.

Jesus H. Now I have to go back to the dreaded mammo room to have the other boob done again. This craziness doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon. Social distractions and pseudo-work are really the only things keeping me sane right now.

A primer on my daily routine, before I share the below story. Wake up round 10:30. Go to gym. Eat lunch. Start working in the afternoon. My friends know my routine, natch. Meaning, they know I'm nonexistent before about 10:30.

The following served as my introduction to my now "partner," business-wise. Wednesday I awoke to the sound of both my home phone and cell ringing continuously. I have a text from my friend Dawn that reads "I just pimped you out." Huh? I then had a follow up text from a number that I didn't know that read, "Awake?"

I think next I called Dawn and said "What the fuck is going on?" Well, her friend Tom, whom I've never met, had called her in a tizzy that a.m. He had to audition for the Food Network later in the afternoon, and was in desperate need of someone to go over to his house and help him out with typing up the application. By this time it was about 12 p.m. He begged Dawn to help him, but she was on her way to Boca. Nothing I can do, she told him, but I have a friend who works from home and is a writer and she'd be perfect. "But I guarantee she's at home sleeping right now." Hence the bombardment of phone calls. So I'm like, okay, whatevs, always up for an adventure.

Next Tom calls me, explains (barely) what is going on and asks if I can help. He lives a few blocks from me and says he's got to get the food cooked and the questionnaire done by about 2 p.m. "Tom it's after 12 p.m. and I just woke up."

"Brush your teeth, throw on some clothes and get over here. You can impress me another time."

"Oh-kay."

"Oh, and can you stop at Epicure to get me some heads of butter lettuce and some white vinegar?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

I know Epicure—similar to Gourmet Garage but even more upscale. They're not going to have Heinz white vinegar, I know this, but he's the foodie and assures me they will. I get in the car, race to Epicure, grab two heads of butter lettuce and search in vain for the damn vinegar. No dice. I race over to Wild Oats, find some white vinegar and race to Tom's pad.

This is the first thing I see when I walk in. And chronic is the first thing I smell.






What's with the clothing pyramid is my first question? (Clothes he's getting rid of.) Tom's in the kitchen amid a pile of food. We make brief intros and he sits me down at his computer. I type away while he dictates, he smokes and cooks, we hit it off like two old friends. When I'm done, I read the app and it says he needs two photos and a copy of his license.

"Okay, ready to print," I say.

"Yeah, that's the thing. I have no way to print."

"Uh, Tom why the hell did you wait till today to do this shit?"

"That's a whole other story," and natch, the chronic wafting through the apt. rendered my question moot anywho.

"I need you to go to a copy shop, print this, copy my license and print the pictures and meet me at the Hotel Astor."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Please Ms. Green, I'm begging you," he pleads, "I can't do this without you."

He offers me money and a bag. Take the bag, leave the money. Race out again to the closest copy shop. Closed. Call him in a panic—I think by this point I was more concerned than him—he tells me another shop to go to. I race into the shop; they don't do copies or print anything and can't help. They point me to another shop around the corner. I'm now running down Washington Ave. in SoBe, parked illegally. I tear into the shop, they do it for me, then I race to the Astor. I run into the lobby and Tom is nowhere to be found. I ask a guy sitting at the counter if he's seen Tom. No, he hasn't, he says, but he may be in the casting room already. I run upstairs and knock on the door of the casting room.

"Hi," I pant, "Has Tom arrived yet?"

"No, he's late and should be here any minute," CD says.

"Okay, I have his paperwork, he's on his way."

Go back to the lobby and wait. Even when I'm a complete mess, I'm always early.

By this point the CD is pacing in front of the door. Tom ambles in, shades on, chef jacket on. I run over to him and hand him everything.

"Thanks, assistant," he says.

"You're welcome." I make my exit.

While in his apt. earlier he had asked me if I'm organized—hello—and decided he needed someone like me to help him organize his career. Sure, I say, I work from home and have some time on my hands. Tom is a deejay, video artist and private chef. He needs a publicist, manager and assistant all in one.

Meanwhile, he'd promised to cook Dawn and me dinner that night. . . . To be continued, as we had another episode yesterday.

But his You Tube videos—especially the Marley one at the bottom—will give you some idea of this unique character who's entered my life.

I had the craziest day ever, which I will discuss later when I have time.

In the interim, when I spoke to brother yesterday, he told me that this well known psychic in India said "your sister needs to have her breasts looked at in the next few years," in so many words. Uh, brother could have told me this a little sooner, but weird nonetheless.

The psychic also said that I would marry someone very wealthy, with long hair and a substance abuse problem. As if I would marry someone with long hair.

Breastesses

I've been debating on whether to divulge this information to the public. And I've decided to only because I think it's important for women to know about. This is not a ploy for sympathy by any means. And I haven't even gotten any retail therapy out of it—ahem, mother.

A few months ago, I found a lump in my boob while in the shower. I had just had my annual exam the previous month and the biatch didn't find anything suspect. I kept putting off going to the doctor, but with the constant bombardment of BCA month stuff, I finally bit the bullet. It's a nasty old thing—mushy, moves around and right where the underwire of my bra hits. Instinctively I didn't think it was a big deal—it's not hard or round or stagnant. Whatever. Long story short, 2 klonopins and a best friend and godson in tow, I saw the doc. He did an ultrasound, found the "mass"—isn't that a comforting term?—and thought it looked okay. You know the doctors and malpractice, they really won't tell you anything definitive.

Yesterday I had to go for a diagnostic mammogram in the Mt. Sinai Cancer Center; I was not comforted by the fact that I was by far the youngest person in the entire building. I had a series of mammograms done; like six total I think. This time it was Xanax—I have major white coat syndrome and find it impossible to go to a doc sober without having a panic attack. So the radiologists read the thingys, and they say the same fucking thing as the first doctor. "Well, you definitely have a mass on your breast." No fucking shit, biatch, I can feel the damn thing. However, apparently ultrasounds and mammos must be done; the mammography was to rule out any other suspicious spots. There were no others.

Now the next step is a biopsy, wherein I will have the doc remove the cyst or whatever the fuck it is. They won't truly know whether it's CANCER until after the biopsy. But, shit, if I'm going under and there's a long recovery time, these girls are getting lifted too.

Here's the thing ladies, I have NO history of BC in my family. I am 32 years old. That BS you always hear about starting mammos at 40? Not true. You should have your first one at 35 and then yearly ones at 40. I don't think everyone knows that.

The main result of all of this is that I am not sleeping well and popping benzos like Tylenol. Oh, and I've also made my things to do before I die list. This a.m. I looked in the mirror and I have the most hideous, darkest bruise I have ever had on the side of my rib cage where they jammed my left tit into the damn machine.

When I was in the first doctor's office with Dana, completely fucked up, I made her do the medical Q&A while I interrupted the cute, single, Jewish doctor with vanity questions.

"If it's what I think it is, you can just leave it in there forever."

"Doc, I'm single. The last thing I want is some guy feeling me up and feeling that."

"You're going in for a biopsy, you're taking this nasty thing out. And can you do a lift while you're at it?

Anywho, please forward this post to all your 30-ish friends and tell them to start getting mammos at 35; earlier if they have cancer in the family.

I will keep everyone posted. And seriously, don't feel sorry for me. I've done more in my 32 years than most people have in a lifetime.

Fabulously Awful

Tomorrow I will unveil my first ongoing feature series on Dishalicious: Retail Therapy

In the same way that NYC is the fashion capital of the world, Miami often can be the anti-fashion mecca. We've got the most major stores around every corner and designer duds at the ready, yet night after night fashion mishaps mar Miami's landscape.

We take the worst of the worst at the hottest haunts, dissect their sartorial slip-ups and, in the
process, provide you—and natch, them—with some much-needed retail therapy. Along with my friends Dawn and Durrett, we will be highlighting these design disasters on an as-needed basis. (That could potentially mean every night we go out here.) Check in for some rather amusing ensembles tomorrow.

In the meantime, I've been lazy with photo and beauty, luxury goods and features postings.

Rocking Halloween, raging hangover the next day and super busy with life.

I can't approve comments at the moment, but Paige, funny as ever and loved your latest 'clumsy' entry. And Anon, I don't think eating Uranus is the solution to my current state of affairs, but thanks for the suggestion.

As a grave, profound aside, is anyone else as obsessed with Gossip Girl as I am? It's like 90210 but better cause it's all about the 10021. This week, when S. and 'Lonely Boy' were making out at an intersection in Meatpacking, I realized that I had done the same in the same location a few years ago. Sigh. I am really missing NYC right about now. Yet I find myself relating to the parents in GG more than the kids, which is totally scary to say the least. Christ, I'm old. Whoever said your 30s are so much better than your 20s must have been smoking something serious.

I miss my 20s; at least then I could write off my stupidity, immaturity and recklessness to being young. Being an adult kind of sucks in my opinion, esp. when your adulthood turns out to be less than you hoped it would regarding your career, romantic situation and what not. Sure, you become more comfortable in your own skin, but that doesn't necessarily equal happiness. When I was 17, did I ever think I'd be sitting here blogging to lots of anonymous people as opposed to being some fabulous, successful magazine editor? Uh, no. If I had a crystal ball back then, surely I would have changed courses. But you know, the past is in the past and all that BS.