So. Fucking. Nauseous. I guess this is what everyone was speaking of. I'm hoping it will pass by tonight. I can't do anything right now.

Thankful that the writer's strike is over in time to coincide with my bed-ridden ass. And glad brother is here to baby-sit Wally and me. Let's see if his Indian ginger tea helps.

Four down, four to go.

Yesterday was my last Cytoxin chemo treatment. The next four will be Taxol and will be less intense drug wise, but longer in time. Instead of being juiced for an hour, it will take 3-4. Luckily they have a DVD player and I'll have my dad's laptop.

Brother went with me yesterday. My nurse, Audrey, had left, so I was a little nervous about who I'd get. They were incredibly understaffed, so I lucked out and got the supervising nurse, a lovely gay fellow also named Michael.

The good news: Since my eyelashes and eyebrows have not fallen out yet, they won't. Yaaaaaaaaaaay! My hair is still growing in, slowly, so it will start to grow more rapidly after the other treatments. I'll probably rock the shaved head when the weather gets sweltering. The other side-effects—nauseau, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diahrreha, Pepto!—will lessen.

All in all, I think the worst may actually be over. I know I've said this several times. But there are a lot of worsts, so bear with me.

Tom and I made nice last night. And Beau is no longer on the premises. Don't ask, don't know.

My life is too complicated right now to be entangled in someone else's complications.

The documentary footage is coming along nicely, it's just the sitting in front of the TV logging it that gets tedious. I'm one of those people who is always doing something when I'm 'watching TV'—painting my nails, typing, cleaning, cooking etc. So sitting in front of the TV with pen in hand, paying strict attention is very problematic for me.

Anyways, the weather here has been absolutely gorgeous. My balconies are done. Wally's got his bed out there and I've got my chaise. Bro and I are taking advantage of chemo week to go chill by the pool.

Later.

Oh, P.S. I'm going to sell my never-been-used iTouch iPod on eBay. If any readers are interested, lemme know and I'll sell directly to you via PayPal.

I had my last inflation session Thursday. It was not fun. In order to make room for the new silicone tatas to be inserted in mid July, doc has to over-inflate these here tennis ball titties. Now they are probably a full-C/small-D cup, though since they are up to my chin it's very hard to tell.

What's even harder is finding suitable sartorial choices that do not expose the ginormous grapefruits. Luckily I have plenty of camis, but many of those are not even high enough to cover the pseudo-cleavage.

The bad news from the doc: The swelling on both sides of my rib-cage area is permanent, as is the complete numbness under my left arm. Lovely. The numbness—a result of nerves affected by the lymph node removal—I can deal with. The swelling, not so much as it's—wait for it—superficial. Meaning, I have about a-quarter inch of extra padding along either side. Making the clothes fit even weirder. The only way to eliminate the swelling? Lipo. Yep, liposuction at the time of my silicone implants is now on the table. No pun intended. It's elective and therefore not covered by insurance. However, if we do a simple cost-benefit analysis, we'd calculate that lipo is MUCH cheaper than buying new clothes.

We'll see.

Brother flew in yesterday to take this Monday's chemo shift and grab a mini vacay from NYC. And last night was another historic moment—two mojitos with dinner! And I wasn't under the table! Felt good to be able to go out and have drinks with dinner like a normal chick. It was Monica's birthday—hollah—fete, so we did a girls' dinner (plus bro) and then headed to a lounge where the whole crew turned out. Was abfab to be with the whole crew again, and this Cancer Chick lasted until about 1:30 a.m. Sad that I'm very proud of myself for partying again. Natch I made everyone feel the boobs. Actually, I make people knock on them. That's how hard they are folks, you can knock on them. Seriously. It freaks the guys out more than the girls. So now most of my guy friends have felt the tatas au natural at the Bye-Bye Boobie Bash and plastic in present.

Anywho, the back is not feeling so good at all, but I'm going for a deep tissue at 12, so that will help immeasurably. I found this great therapist who lives two buildings down and only charges $75 per hour. That's roughly half the price of a posh spa on the beach. She's so good that she does most of the work with me on my back, going under my body. I so love massages.

My friend Funke had the best line of the night. We were gabbing about how all the girls in our group had big balls, bigger than most of the guys we know.

"But you," she said, "you're the queen of female balls!"

I rather like that. The queen of female balls. Thanks L;)

Hag Sameach. Matzo ball soup here I come.

So this breast cancer study is in the news this week about the correlation between alcohol and hormone-receptive breast CA. I called my onco's office and they hadn't heard about it, which makes me think it's not v. impt, but I'm bringing the story by the office tomorrow to get Dr. Schwartz's opinion. It's not on the Sloan Kettering site, nor the NCI site, giving me more pause about its validity. And this example just strengthens my belief that instead of taking the "news" as gospel, we all need to dig a little deeper for the real truth. Natch, as an 'insider' myself, I've always known this to be the case, but just wanted to share. The New York Times, WSJ, CNN—none of them are independent, completely factual, unbiased or even totally accurate on a regular basis. It's all BS, so take it all in, but always do your own research and draw your own conclusions instead of completely putting your faith or health in the hands of talking heads.

That's all. I've been completely lazy and tired today and instead of exercising have been sitting around watching The Rose again. What a fantastic performance by the Divine Miss M.

Hallejewyah—they have finally finished my balcony, a mere six months late. For Miami, this is pretty much on time. Things move so slow in the South, from the drivers to the old folks to the damned construction projects.

So, on a balcony-related note, another bizzaro story courtesy of my building. Let's be honest here, I seem to choose the oddest buildings on the planet in which to reside. It must be something I do unconsciously, to keep the drama alive. Monday night when I was doing my stretches at 11 p.m. or so, I got a knock on my door. I had Bam come with me to open and it was my neighbor. She'd locked herself out of her apt and wanted to know if she could climb over my balcony to reach hers. My balcony had been locked from the outside again, so she had to go door-to-door asking others. We went to the window to watch her progress. Sure enough, like a cooler, less pasty Toby McGuire (sp), she was heaving herself up from the floor below onto my other neighbor's balcony. She landed, hurdled her way onto my balcony and we clapped. We motioned for her to remove the wood plank from by balcony so we could get out. We joined her out there, and we all realized that between my apt and hers, there was no floor dividing the balconies. We thought surely she was foiled, but with Bam's assistance, she hopped over the railing, walked over the balance-beam like ledge, climbed over and landed squarely on her patio. She totally rocked it. Now, if it were me—who can barely walk down stairs in my Chanels without tumbling—I would have fallen and broken my neck. Not to mention the fact that even when my arms were totally cut—a long fucking time ago as now I have just started using free weights again and am disgusted by my lack of tone and flab—I could never do a pull-up. Anyway, quite a cool sight.

I'm totally back in gear this week in type-A mode, kicking my own ass to get my documentary ready to go by June, which not only coincides with the end of my treatment but will leave me enough time to earn some of my own dough and bring a little to the table when my lease expires in August. I'd love to buy this pad, and the market is so in the toilet that it just may be feasible. Right now I'm trying to save what little disposable income I have to take myself on a vacay when I'm done with all this cancer bullshit. Don't know where I want to go yet; somewhere on the water, not too pricey or dangerous. Maybe Jamaica, the Ritz there always has really good deals. But I think Mel stayed there and it wasn't so hot. Then again Mel, I am probably totally wrong about that. I have sucummed to "Chemo Brain," which is like early-onset old-person forgetfulness. I'm now in competition for the 'rents, saying things three times and forgetting when I did what. Luckily I'm so anal I write everything down.

I've pretty much stopped writing aside from this here blog, for many reasons. A., it's too time consuming and requires me to sit at my K-Mart- (seriously) bought desk. B., it's just annoying and honestly I'm so over expending energy re. agents, editors and all those bullshit people. Frankly, life is too short to rely on people with no creative vision, who are boxed into the formulaic, B&N-dictated publishing world. Screw 'em. C., video is much easier, allows one to be mobile, and merely requires me to log footage in front of the TV. What do you know, my one hellish semester in broadcast journo at NYU grad under the dictatorship of Marsha Rock (makes Bonnie Fuller look nice) has actually paid off. Moreso than my magazine track, which yielded me Gary Belsky's guidance, but little else. (A word of advice, NYU grad school in journalism is a total fucking waste of money, so go for Columbia.)

Anyway, I'm mining my family connections from Hollywood to cancer orgs to documentarians. I'm tres fortunate to be blessed from birth with stellar contacts. A major advantage of being a Heeb with very outgoing and plugged in parents, family friends and other Jews. Being a Jew of a certain type of background is good. And being privileged is also good, I won't pretend it's not. I'm not ashamed of it, so save the hating comments. It's just a fact of life. Instead of having to climb the ladder, I can pick up the phone. Now, this also means that when I fail, it's even more humiliating. But I'm more confident in this project than in anything else I've done before. Maybe it's because it doesn't so much involve writing, which I am naturally insecure about. It also helps that I look decent on camera, have funny people in my life and am always swirling with drama. And the whole camera-adding-ten-pounds thing doesn't really seem to hold true. And if it does, woo-hoo I'm thinner than I look in the mirror.

On that note, I'm eating like a pig since the BC. I just found out last week that on chemo weeks, one of the drugs I'm on is a powerful steroid—the nurse said I could get good dough on the street for it—used to stimulate my appetite. The fact that I've always got THC-loaded baked goods may be a factor too. All in all though, my increased appetite hasn't led to that much visible weight gain. When I do cardio now, my heart rate is much higher than before chemo, requiring me (or leading me to surmise) that I can do 30 minutes a few times a week instead of my previous routine of five days of hour-long eliptical sessions per week. Granted, my body is softer and more cellulite-ridden, but frankly I don't much care. I mean, when you have rocks in your chest, three ports above your ribs, no nipples and are bald, it's kind of hard to be as vain as one once was.

Which transitions nicely to a story idea that my photog friend proposed. Cosmo is doing this massive photo shoot tomorrow of thousands of women in bikinis on the beach. Don't really get the point, but then again I don't read that rag so I'm prob missing something. Anyway, Tomas suggested doing an alternate shoot with photogenic BC chicks such as myself, and pitching that to them. Well, even though the lovely publicist seemed receptive, the editors don't appear to be. (Big surprise right?) So we'll do it at another time, pitch it to other rags and pubs, and if they don't bite, fuck 'em, I'll find a home for it somewhere else. Brill idea right? All credit goes to Tomas though. I was going to do the shoot Friday, but it's an all-day thing and brother comes in that day. Plus, I'm not into the sheep-herding aspect of it just to be one of 1,200 faces. Not my thing, y'all know I prefer to be a leading lady as opposed to an extra.

Anywho, I've spent the last coupla days at Sinai with Dana and Cunty, so I'm taking a day for myself, catching up on some chores, and heading to the shrink later this afternoon. My shrink is so cool that I actually look forward to the sessions. He's this genius dude who's my age with five practices under his belt. Makes me feel like a total loser in that respect, but our sessions are more gossipy than usual therapy sessions. I love therapy. I think everyone should be in therapy instead of buying those craptastic, Oprah-endorsed self-help books. What's the deal with those anyway? Can't people examine themselves instead of reading other people's 'wisdom'? At least in therapy these people are actual medical professionals instead of those Eckhart Tolle (sp)-types who, as far as I know, have no professional background.

And lemme make it clear here to anyone that rant offends, as you seem to extract granules of wisdom from my dribble, which I find very rewarding. However, I'd like to think that I don't preach so much as just keep it real and vent my personal bullshit. I do enjoy reading other people's memoirs, as I think that's how you can really glean useful knowledge. Two of the most impactful such books I've ever read are Elizabeth Wurtzel's Prozac Nation and Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. If you've ever struggled with depression or the loss of a spouse (or are a writer), read those books. Prozac Nation was what led me, at age 20, to discover that I was clinically depressed as opposed to just another miserable biatch.

Okay, I'm out. Hag Sameach to all my fellow tribe members if I don't get back here before Passover. Not that I'm a devout Jew, but it's a fun holiday involving food and family and fun. Who knows about that whole wandering the desert thing? Whatever. I'm going to go stuff my face now.

Introducing Cunty (aka Sumner Violet) Silver—eight pounds, three ounces with a hearty appetite for nipples!

So this a classic one. Bff Dana is about ready to pop with baby #2,
Cunty Kozy Kabbalah Silver. She's scheduled for a c-section @ Mt. Sinai—my second home—tomorrow. Well, we've all been thinking that she's going to go in early b/c she's huge, swollen, having Braxton Hicks contractions and has been feeling like shit since Friday. Plus, Friday night I had a dream she went in early, and often I have premonitory dreams.

So yesterday I began calling her on my way to lunch at Bal Harbour with my dad's cousins, around 12:30. Actually I texted her before that too. Still hadn't heard from her after a two-hour lunch. On the way home I called her hubby, her cell, her home—no answer anywhere. Next I
called her brother Daryl and asked him if he'd heard from her. He'd talked to her in the a.m. and said all was kosher then. D. is a doctor and didn't seem worried, so I let it drop for a while. About two hours later, I was sitting at my pool and still hadn't heard from her. Dana's absentminded on good days, so I didn't think it would be out of the ordinary if she went in and somehow didn't manage to call. So after about four hours of no communication—we usually speak several times a day—I called Mt. Sinai directly.
"Has Dana Silver checked in yet?"
"Not yet but I see that she's pre-registered."
Ok, so I relaxed a little. A few minutes later she called.
"Where the FUCK have you been? I just called Sinai!"
She started cackling.
"Oh my god, I've been at Rik Rak [salon] for four hours! My back is
killing me, my cankles are out of control and my ass is completely
numb."
"You kept your beauty appt? Are you insane?"
"Well, yeah, but I have to look good for the hospital."
"You're fucking nuts, the salon is uncomfortable even when you're not about to pop!"

Meanwhile, godson Kobi, who at 20-odd mos, has begun talking a lot, is jabbering away in the background.

"Have I told you the lady and the fountain story?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Kobi, what does the lady at the fountain have?"
"Boobies?" the little booger said faintly.

She starts cracking up, encouraging him on, and she puts the phone to his mouth.

"Boobies, boobies, boobies, boobies!" Now Kobi's really having fun.

Meanwhile, at Rik Rak, Dana had gotten into her usual shenanigans. She'd never been there and I had been there when I worked for that psycho social-climbing charlatan in (fake) Chanel. So when Dana sat down with the hairdresser and was asked who recommended her, she decided not to mention my name. Instead the charlatan in Chanel popped into her head. But she could only see her face and totally blanked on both psycho's name and the name of the advertorial—er, magazine. Instead, another mag I wrote a story for popped into her head.

"Oh, it was the editor of Modern Luxury [Miami]," she told the stylist.
"Dana, the editor of ML is a man. And what the hell were you thinking anyway?"
"I dunno, my brain was all over the place and I couldn't remember the
psycho's name!"

Natch, the stylist runs over, grabs a copy of Miami magazine, and throws it into Dana's lap. The stylist starts flipping through the pages and gets to a photo of the publisher on the masthead.

"Is that her?"
"Oh my god, Dana. What the hell were you thinking? Oy!"
"Stephanie, I'm not kidding you, I'm just all over the place. I don't know what I was doing. So she points to this blonde woman in Modern Luxury—"
"Leslie Wolfson, the president."
"Yes! And I said, 'That's weird, I know a Leslie Wolfson, but that's not who I'm talking about.'"

Dana finally describes the psycho to the hairdresser and then the woman says the psycho's name. Lo and behold, minutes later Lesley Wolfson walks into the salon. And as Dana's leaving, the charlatan in Chanel is checking in. Brilliant.

Well, Dana hasn't popped yet which means I'm to report to the hospital at 9:30 a.m. I'm actually psyched to be going to the hospital this time. No chemo! Babies and cake from Epicure! And finally we'll find out the damn kid's name so we can all stop calling her Cunty.

Maybe I'm just in a pissy mood cause I'm PMSing or maybe I'm hypersensitive to the whole BC issue thing, but I find the following solicitation email I rec'd from another writer to be in extremely poor taste. Agreed? Or am I really a woman on the verge? I would tear this e-mail apart word by word, but frankly I'm too tired even to waste the energy. Case in point that not all Conde Nast mags are, well, decent. Grammatical errors are included for your enjoyment.

"I am working on an an upcoming health story about breast cancer for the October issue of Annoying Women's magazine. I am looking for ethnically diverse women who live in the New York CIty area between the ages of 20 and 40 who can come into the Annoying Women's offices to see if they can find lumps in a prosthetic boob. SNACKS AND REFRESHMENTS WILL BE PROVIDED! Plus this is a great opportunity to SCHMOOZE and meet EDITORS!

We're booking appointments on two dates: April 28th or April 30th and each
appointment will run for about sixty minutes (but we'll try to keep it under
an hour). Candidates may be photographed and quoted during the sessions!

This is a great opportunity to contribute to an interesting story, meet editors and explore the Annoying Women's office!

If you are interested, please email me at XXX by Monday, April 14th 9 a.m. with the following information:

1. first and last name
2. age
3. city and state
4. your email and number
5. Which date you prefer to come in: April 28th or April 30th.

*You will be contacted by a Annoying Women's editor in the next week to schedule your time to come in to the office.

PLEASE FORWARD TO YOUR FRIENDS!"

Oy, oy, oy, oy. Exclamation points!!! Breast Cancer!!!!!!!!!!!!! Refreshments!!!!! Meet the editors and feel some tits!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So here's the latest. I'm feeling pretty well. We had a minor 4 a.m. interruption Weds morning wherein Brother called mom and me at my apartment to tell me that he received an extremely odd txt from Beau. It read: "Love you like a brother, see you on the other side."

Well. Beau had gone out with a mutual friend for a meeting around 11, and when I spoke to him last he was at the Delano. Next thing I know, he's sending my brother crazy-ass messages, not answering his phone and it's 4:30 a.m. And he has my house keys. So mom and I walk downstairs with Wally, and who is driving up into my valet? Beau, thank God for him. Long story, don't ask.

After Monday's chemo, Mom, Beau and I had a three-hour outing at Neiman's Last Call by the airport. I got a hot little MK bathing suit that actually covers my tennis ball tits, a pair of Piazza Siempone denimn shorts and a nightie. Beau scored three pairs of $200+ jeans for about $40 each. Humph. We went under the guise of seeing if they had the Oscar dress I got in a size smaller so that I wouldn't have to alter it. They didn't.

Tuesday we went back to hospital to get my immuno-booster shot and bid farewell to my nurse Audrey. My blood counts are fine, meaning my immune system is healthy. Afterwards mom and I brought Epicure lunch over to Dana and Jim's—she's going in for birth this Monday. She won't tell anyone the name of the damn girl, so we are going with Cunty or Kozy Shack or Coconut. (Godson is Kobi, Cat is Kutzy, dog is Cubby.) The 4 a.m. events had me up till 6 a.m., mom left at 8, I had therapy at 2 p.m. and then I made it to the gym for the first time ever on a chemo week. So I guess my body is getting used to the poison.

I am gearing up for a couple of photo shoots that will require me to don a bathing suit. In a week. That's about all the Equinox motivation I need. Keep your fingers crossed that these shoots accomplish what I hope they will.

And all you sexy BC survivors in the greater Miami area, please get in touch and I'll fill you in on the details of this photo shoot.

Chemo Live Blogging

Well, I'm live-blogging from my lovely chemo suite right now. Waiting on bloodwork to make sure my blood count is on par. Today I am dressed down in loungewear (Bleu Clair) and our crew is diminished--just mom and me. Dana is a week away from giving birth.

Yesterday Dana, Myrna and I met mom, Lynn and Gail at Sawgrass Mills for a little retail therapy. And I discovered what I've been searching and longing for my whole life--the perfect, fabulous Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress. At long last, my soul mate has arrived. It's haning on my closet door so I can behold it's beauty. It's not strapless as I'd hoped to wear for the Ciklin wedding in Sept., but it's still fantastic. Typical Oscar frock--fitted bodice full ballerina style skirt. Black silk with red swirly motifs gracing the botoom of the gown. I'm so in love.

Anyway, still waiting on the actual chemo to start. More TK.

WARNING: VOMIT-INDUCING PHOTO

PLEASE DON'T SCROLL DOWN IF YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE MY MUTILATED BREASTS.


I just figured full-disclosure was in order so you all can really grasp what us BC-ers deal with.

I was just inflated and the doc did about a half of what he did last time, so the pain isn't as bad and I have Percocet just in case. Or for fun. He also gave me the go-ahead to start using weights again with my arms. Bam was brave enough to both take me to the doctor and watch him inflate me and to take this photo. He rocks.

Anyway, as you will see, looking at myself in the mirror is not so pleasant these days, but I'm getting used to it. The weird nipple-like protrusions on either side are the ports into which doc injects the silicone. The 'breasts' are supposed to be uneven and really high; it's not until after the real silicone ones are swapped in that they become bodacious boobies a la Playboy. That surgery will occur a minimum of one month after chemo ends. And that's when the nips go on, which are crafted from part of my breast skin and part of my skin from the pelvic area. (At first doc joked that they'll come from the nipple bank.) Then, the color—I suppose I can choose brownish or pink nips—is tattooed on. You can bet those will be the only tattoos gracing this Jewess' bod. All this puts my final, final hurdle in mid-to-late July. I'm hoping I'll be done and done recovery and surgery wise by August.

I've got Lynn's son Michael's wedding in Vegas at the end of September and simply must look ravishing in a strapless Oscar or Valentino frock. I carry a Valentino ad with the dress I'm salivating over in my Filofax for inspiration. Whatever gets you through the day. Sadly my family thinks this is normal.

If you have a weak stomach or are a family friend and don't wish to view this, stop reading now. I'm putting the one of me in clothing first. Beware.

I don't know if this link will work, but on the top right side of this page is video of Robin Roberts at my awesome wig guru's crib getting her head shaved.

Ralf has generously agreed to try to put me in touch with some of his big-wig clients regarding my documentary/reality show I'm working on.

I'm still doing a book, but it's going to me more avant garde than your standard memoir. More TK. I'm off to Lincoln Road to do some column research and spend my Victoria's Secret gift cert (thanks Susie!).

Moi, A Menendez?

First of all, time for some bitching. I have THE worst, most aggravating mouth sores and inflammation from the chemo. This was def listed as a side-effect, so I'd been doing my preventative measures using special toothpaste, mouthwash, spray etc. Apparently, my offense had nothing on the fucking chemo. My mouth is completely inflamed. It's hard to talk. And unfortunately it feels better when I eat, so I'm shoveling ice cream and Reddi Whip in my mouth like there's no tomorrow. Pretty soon I'm going to be rolling myself into chemo treatments.

I don't think I shared this story with you, but Lay Ann thinks it's one of the funniest ones ever, so even though it makes me look like an evil sociopath, I'll share. Since the Dec. 4 diagnosis and subsequent surgeries, treatments etc., my mom had been staying with me for more than a month. Of course, after a week we were ready to murder each other. Natch, she was just trying to help, but she was an anxious mess, which just frustrated me. I pop Xanax for anxiety. She knits and makes these sighing noises that signify the onset of tears. The woman cries at everything; good news, bad news, commercials, good-byes etc. So for the first couple of weeks the waterworks were nonstop. And the anxiety, my God, she made Woody Allen look chill. So one night early on she was really frustrating me. I think we'd argued about something and I sent her out to CVS cause I needed a breather. Look, it's really difficult when you are completely in control and strong but your family is falling apart. I needed her to snap out of it and be strong, at least when she was around me. I know it's insanely hard for a mother to watch her kid go through this, but 12 years of therapy puts me ahead of the curve, whereas she's more the denial, Pollyanna type.

So, she went out to CVS, and I was just completely at wits end with her and her constant worrying. I ground up one of my Klonopin into a fine powder. There were some leftovers I knew she would nibble at when she got home. I sprinkled half of one into her spaghetti and the other half into some hummus. I think I even left the hummus on the counter, hint hint. Sure enough she came home, we made nice and she later went for the food.

In my defense, the pill was .5 mg total and given the way she eats—like a bird—she probably only ingested .25 mg max. Baby dose. Also, I'd suggested this to my shrink and he didn't have a problem with it. I love my shrink.

Nothing noticeable happened except for the fact that she calmed down and slept very well. Very late the next day. I didn't tell her. It was kind of a blip in the radar given the circumstances of that month.

So when mom and dad were in town and they kidnapped me to go to Jax with them, we stopped in WPB to have lunch with Lynn and Alan. My dad is very impatient. He was getting uber-frustrated and basically throwing a temper tantrum that we had to get off the interstate to get to City Place in WPB. He was behaving like a two-year-old. And it was Lynn's birthday so while he was bitching and moaning, mom and I were telling him to shut the hell up, what did he care what time we got home, it was Sunday. Anyway, by the time he dropped us off—after going the wrong way b/c he didn't listen to me—he was about ready to kill someone. Even after we sat down with our food, he was still bitching. "Relax already," we said. "You're acting like a child."

"Yeah, I'm the one with cancer, so calm down already, or I'll dose you with something to calm you down like I did mom."

"What? What do you mean you dosed me? With what?"

I explained the whole story, which everyone found quite funny. Even mom. Though she did compare me to the Menendez brothers.

I've also dosed em both with some pot brownies of late. They know about it all though. Luckily they're a bunch of old hippies so they don't mind my subversive shenanigans. Dad didn't know I dosed him with the herb at the time, so other lawyers reading this, don't blame him. It was ALL me. Damn straight.

I'm going to do some budget shopping today at Marshalls. Yeah, you heard right. This little princess has been sticking to a strict budget—no shopping, no daily Whole Foods runs. Publix and cooking at home. It's really much more fun and I enjoy being on a budget. I'm actually under budget. (And under-shopped.) Luckily mom's in town Sunday and we'll be at the outlets. I'm long overdue for some retail therapy. And now I can buy shit that doesn't require a bra. Yipee!

HAIR

Soo, my hair started falling out yesterday. As you know, I'm already shaved. But while Bam and I were sitting at the pool, my scalp was itching under my hat; natch, I scratched. Next thing I know, I look down at my fingers and they are COVERED in hair. Sure enough, I lifted my hat and the entire rim was lined in 1/8" hairs. Of course, it was a little disconcerting, but right on schedule. You know me, type-A till the end, always meeting my deadlines.

We immediately went upstairs, I sat in the bath and Bam shaved the head completely. It actually didn't feel so weird, but was def traumatic. Thankfully my sense of humor is intact, the Xanax scrip is filled and Bam is here to hold my hand so to speak. The nastiest part is the hair flying everywhere on me, so that my arms looked like (a?) Sasquatch. I have a thing about hair anyway and am never without my lint brush. So you can imagine the squeamishness I felt with my own little hairs all over my body and face. Eww. I mean, I carry a lint brush to Dana's house with me due to her pug and her Siamese cat who shed like motherfuckers. I even roll it over my face.

We got the whole thing on video. And yes, those are my tennis ball titties. I know how gross they are so save the comments. The good news is that they are almost a full C cup, so I am only going to let the plastic surgeon inflate them a tiny bit more. Cause let me tell you, my deltoids are still smarting from this skin-stretching nightmare. It's really, truly, disgustingly foul. But, surprisingly, the scars on the breastesses have almost completely faded, so I guess I have skin that heals pretty well. Can't wait to have normal, fake, silicone titties like all the rest of the South Beach women. And yes, ladies, (Nancy P.) my bras are all up for grabs.

The evidence:




Some lighter material. . .

Dana engaging in her fave hobby at chemo. They actually bring around sandwiches, salads etc while you're there. Yeah, my camera is totally ghetto and overexposed during daylight. I cannot for the life of me figure out what's wrong despite reading the manual. If anyone has a Casio Exilim and can help, I'd be very grateful.

Kobi loves my dad. Apparently after our pre-chemo dinner Sunday night, he kept saying "Mark." Meanwhile, I haven't heard him say my name in ages. Ahem. Though he is proficient in all food names and "boobie." The kid can put away food like nothing else. Whenever he goes to Rosa Mexicano, he polishes off nearly a whole tub of their guac. I'm not shitting you. It's hilarious.



The Silvers decided to celebrate St. Patrick's day on Easter Sunday. They were all, coincidentally, donning green.

So Afrika Baby Bam from the Jungle Brothers, aka Beau as you all know him, and I are getting crazier by the day. I think I'm rubbing off on him. Poor thing. And what's with this lame ass site? They publish my ghetto photos and keep talking about Bam's 'homosexuality;' are there not any other rumors for them to harp on? The comments are the cherry on the cake—every single one is an advertisement! Enough said.

I'm not very coherent at the moment. The cancer drugs not only make me fatigued and queasy, but they totally fuck with my short-term memory, for real. Lots of weird stuff happening as usual. Last night Bam and I were sitting on the couch flipping through the channels after The Apprentice—can someone please tell me what the winner actually won??—and I saw Oxygen's Snapped pop up on the guide. Dad had a case many years ago that got a lot of press. His client allegedly hired some thugs to kill her hubby cause he was stepping out on her with a teenager. Ick. The trial was live on Court TV and was the focus of an episode of Snapped and A&E's American Justice. Anyway, last night I paused on Snapped and hit info. Sure enough, dad's episode. Just random.

You guys should see Bam and me—plus Wally—padding around my apartment day by day. I'm having hot and cold flashes like a motherfucker, so my AC goes from about 65 to 80 in any given hour. Bam's always cold, so he walks around with my cancer blanket. He slept in my pink Natori bathrobe last night cause he was cold, and I stripped off my nightgown in the middle of the night cause I was boiling. And he's pretty much allergic to everything, including dogs, so natch Wally loves him and insists on crawling all over him and trying to lick him. Wally usually hates men I bring around. Today I'm sitting here doing this and cleaning, while Bam's out practicing for his 5 a.m. performance. It's the Winter Music Conference this wkd, so all the industry people are in town. My ass will be passed out obv, but if I were healthy I'd love to go see him do his thing.

If my deceased relatives are watching my life from up 'there' right now, I wonder what the hell they are thinking. . . .

Today we logged footage from the first tape of my ongoing documentation of this whole cancer thing. The first tape takes us through me waking up from my lumpectomy—when we all thought the lump was benign—to the visits to the oncologists etc. I have to say, I have a very entertaining posse. And sadly, my mom and Lynn look better on camera than me. Time for some more Restylane. And my hair looks so good on camera. I always took my hair for granted; now I want it back. I just want this whole thing to be over with already. As usual, the waiting is the most unbearable part.

The Bald and the Beautiful

My fabulously talented friend Tomas Loewy found the perfect backdrop—a long admired canvas of his—for my proper baldie portrait.

Does this say book cover or what?

Chemo Cometh

Monday was my second of eight chemo sessions. Dad, Dana and Dana's mom Nancy were in tow for some comic relief. My nurse Audrey hooked us up with the private corner unit again with water views. Dad left yesterday afternoon and Beau drove in last night to take the lead.

The medicine in this syringe turns your pee pink. Audrey calls it 'big red.'




The side effects have been minimal this week. No night sweats or increased urination. This product you can buy at Wild Oats/Whole Foods called Black Cohash, works miracles on the night sweats and other menopause-like symptoms. A little bit of nausea, but no biggie. Hair not falling out yet, and after watching our video footage I'm missing my own hair and hating BANGS. Ugh.

They have to take my blood pressure via my leg . . .



Anyway, only six more to go! And I tried on one of my bras today—almost there, so one more inflation session and I'll be the full-C I once was.

3 more months and counting.

Below are from the 1st chemo, I can't remember if I posted these or not. The drugs fuck with my memory for damn sure. The boobage has "settled" since then.

Group Hug

My South Beach debut of the wig went well. Beau and I joined my gay boyfriend and his real boyfriend for a night of long-overdue culture. The New World Symphony had a performance featuring John Adams and electric violinist Tracy Silverman. It was lovely to have a night out that didn't involve a bar. The fab four of us grabbed a bite on Lincoln afterwards, and the wig seems to be a hit.

Dad arrived today with my beloved four-legged guy Wally and the chemo crew rocking Sinai tomorrow will include Dana, her mom Nancy and Dad. Wally, Beau and I are now sporting similar haircuts—we are all shaved. Wally is the most hirsute of the trio.


Durrett, Afrika Baby Bam, yours truly and Steve. Notice how the new boobage doesn't exactly fill out the Vera bodice. That's cause my titties are nearly up to my chin stretching the skin until the silicone goes in post-chemo.



On Lincoln Road—and no, we did not color coordinate on purpose. We just Got it Like That.


Dad and I at dinner at Perricone's for Easter

My mini-breakdown was naturally fueled by the unfortunate convergence of PMS and menopause-like symptoms that are the most annoying side-effects of last Monday's chemo. Many thanks to all you supporters and fans for your thoughts and prayers. I truly appreciate each and every one of you to no end.

I woke up soaked through with sweat two days post chemo; the sheets were soaked; the duvet was soaked, the pillows and all. Beau was there to take care of me. It got better but lasted about 5 days. Jeez I empathize with you menopausers out there. My god.

Not much time—debuting the wig tonight for a long-overdue girl's night out. Sans the alcohol for this CP. NYC was fine, I will dissect it later. For now, the photos will suffice. The wig man Ralf is a fascinating man whose experience of 40 years in the wig/hair business has garnered him relationships with our times' most interesting characters—Doris Duke, Loretta Lynn and Helen Gurley Brown among countless others. Got myself a quality digicam and have about 3 hours of footage of my experience with him. Absolutely priceless. He recently did Robin Roberts and they filmed a segment for GMA or some other show.

So here go the photos. Friends and family might want to brace yourselves for the shaved head, but not to worry. I am totally cool with it and Beau loves it as well. Who knew I had a perfectly round head under all my Jew-fro hair. (I've been Jap straightening it for 5 years.)

First Ralph cut me with scissors. He eases into it, as most women are emotional, but you know me—I told him to bring it on.


He left my bangs, some hair around my face and in the back, so that while he sewed and fit the wig, I could go out for lunch (Saks), don a hat (shearling) and get used to the feel of a shaved head. Cool.

Brother, the photog, had just caught A Chorus Line, and told me to do the dance pose a la the show. Hence the retarded stance.

Mom and me

A mullet-haired me next to my wig, while it was still uncut.

Brother thought I looked so funny and ZZ Top-ish from the back, that he conceived this photo and I went along.


Me with the new 'do, after a delicious dinner at Fresco where the wig made it's East Side debut. This dummy is the wig's BFF. And no I didn't draw on it, it came like that.


And me as a baldie.

Would I ever have thought that I would dread going to the city? Would I ever have imagined that I would be sitting at my computer with a mutilated, butchered, grotesque chest, hormonal and crying, feeling two alien life forms stretching my skin while Beau pops out to take a meeting? Could I have envisioned myself getting on a plane and showing the TSA people my fucking hospital card (resting in my fucking Prada wallet, natch) that reads: "BardPort Implanted Port with open-ended catheter?"
It has a product code and a lot number. I have a fucking product implanted in my chest. (It's a registered trademark of C.R. Bard, Inc., or an affiliate!) Would I ever have thought that my life would be this strange, surreal, real, full, empty, meaningful and meaningless at the same time? I don't fucking know. I don't fucking know anything anymore. I just want to lie down and relinquish control of my life to someone else. Someone who cares about it more than me perhaps.

All I know right now is that I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. My dog? My family? My friends? Myself? It's certainly not the latter and it must be the former, but is that enough?

"Where do you see yourself in six months when this is all over?" Beau asked me last night.

I don't fucking know. Okay? I don't fucking know. I told him I saw myself going on a much-needed vacation, California or back to the Amalfi Coast. (Hey, if I do die this year, at least I got that vacation, right?)

But the truth is, right now all I see is a fade to black.

I felt ill earlier. Beau and I went for a walk along the water. Cleared my head but I still felt physically ill. I have no appetite yet I am supposed to feed myself six times a day. With like healthy shit and shit. So we went to Wild Oats, bought some fake chicken and Beau made some dinner for me. It's like I'm watching this utterly psychotic person's life go on from a distance. I mean, this can't possibly be me can it? But it is. This is my life. Whatever this is.

Beau just walked to Lincoln Road and called to check in when he got there.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes," I said, snuffling into a wad of paper towels.

"What are you blowing your nose?"

"No," I said, laughing, "I'm crying."

"You're crying?"

"Yes. I'm writing and I'm crying."

"You're writing and crying, like what's her—"

"Ha. Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give."

"Yeah!"

Yeah. Maybe, if the book ever does come out, you'll get the reference then.