Have we discussed how much I am loving the term 'hot mess?' Genius. I'm having a torrid affair with this phrase. And Chelsea Handler too. Love her.

I find it utterly fascinating, and shocking really, that I'm getting hit on by street people left and right when I have no wig on. By street people I don't mean homeless people, I just mean those dudes on the street who pass you and talk to you, whistle etc. You know, those people. (They are another topic entirely.) Today I walked over to Equinox in a black hat and gym clothes and it was disconcerting to me that men were still hitting on me. Maybe there are dudes who are into sick chicks just like there are chubby chasers. Cancer chasers? Hmm. It's weird. Then again, maybe all they see are my tennis ball tatas. I don't wear baseball caps though; I wear hat-hats. Stylish ones that mom handed down to me. Baseball caps would be a dead giveaway. So most of the hats I wear have brims that cover the back of my neck and my head. Clearly I'm not adept at describing hats. I was never a hat person and I'm sure I won't be after this either.

But it occurs to me that if these construction-worker type men still think I'm hot, then it's possible that more suitable men may feel the same way. Naturally the people I know tell me I look great, but you never know if that's the sympathy thing or whatever. Hypothetically, I could meet a man somewhere when I'm dressed up and in the wig, he could dig me, ask for my number and never be the wiser. Now, the chances of this happening are slim to none, but this could be a good plot line/short story/film/something. Or a really sick, twisted reality show.

I can just hear Chris Harrison doing the v/o now.
"Stephanie is your typical 32-year-old single woman looking for love. But she has a dramatic secret that won't be revealed until she chooses the man of her dreams. Stephanie has cancer. Will the man she picks be sincere enough to stay the course? Or will he run for the hills? Stay tuned."

There are a lot of good stories that can come out of this. Too many for me to edit down. Which is why they are all posted randomly here instead of somewhere else that requires actual organization. I need to focus my story, cater it to one publication and go from there. Problem is, the only magazine I read cover-to-cover is Vogue. And while they do have a first-person slot, who am I kidding? Actually, I take that back. My philosophy should hold true here too. I always start from the top so why not with this as well. Emailing my Conde contacts is going on tomorrow's list.

Brother passed Larry David and Woody Allen shooting something in NYC today. Can you imagine a collab between those two? Off the charts comic brilliance ensues.

I'm going back for accupuncture Friday. I still have a needle in my ear BTW. It's on purpose. More on that later.

I'm feeling fantabulous too. Really about 90% normal save the mouth thing and the back pain/skin stretching BS. As miserable as I was after the last Cytoxin chemo, I'm truly thankful for my 'health' at the present.

On another note, you wouldn't believe how much drawer space I created by shelving my bras. (Don't worry Nancy, they're safely stored.) Now I think I'll need to fill that space with something else. God how I can't wait for normal titties so I can shop again. I can tell you firsthand that painkiller withdrawl is a hellovalot easier than Neiman's withdrawl.

Chemo braniac's moment of zen:
Arrived home feeling amazing from accupuncture--refreshed, healthy, energized and pain -free. Loverly. I had two Publix bags, a shopping bag, a handbag. The pharmacy had left my meds downstairs; they deliver. I got into the lobby, realized that I'd left the house keys in the car. Asked valet to get. Unpacked pharm bag, checked meds. Five.

Thirty minutes later, I have every one of the meds but the fucking Klonopin. Irony: I was scheduled for phone therapy with DR L. in L.A. We spent the whole hour retracing steps, going through the garbage, trying to find those little round fuckers!!!!! I still haven't found them. I fucking threw them away, I'm sure of it. And that, my friends, is what we call chemo brain.

Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go. I'm already sedated. But it occurred to me that, with three more chemos left, I've got roughly twenty-four hours left of treatment.

Natch, treatment is the easy part. Thankfully, this week's side effects were very manageable. I'm tired, but I've still managed to get to the gym. My chemo brain doesn't seem as bad (though I'm sure friends and fam who've heard me tell the same stories over and over would dispute that).

Luckily May is a fairly busy month with some fun distractions to keep me busy. Next weekend headed to PB for Lynn's son's engagement party. It's at one of those homes with a name, so it should be a hoot. Heading home for Memorial Day week, where Dana, Lay Ann and the whole old-school crew will be throwing Crazy-Ass Nicole a baby shower. The world better brace themselves for her progeny. And then before I know it it'll be June and I can celebrate the end of fucking treatment. But the real celebration will be after I get the tennis balls out. I'm growing more and more frustrated with them each day. I really need to plan a vacation somewhere for early August so that I have something to look forward to. Right now I ain't got nothing folks.

Been on a cleaning rampage this week, tackling the closet and ridding myself of scores of old clothes. Yay, I can gaze fondly at my shoes and handbags now. And when Beau gets his shit out tomorrow, I will really be free of all the baggage.

A really sick, depressing thought occurred to me today. With the price paid for my wig, I could've practically gotten a Birkin bag. Or two Chanels. All those would last me a lifetime, whereas the wig, God willing, will be history in a few short months.

My hair on the head is not growing back like the docs said. If it were, and I had a regular shaved head again, I would totally rock it. Because it's fucking hot here already. I wear the wig out and I'm sweating like a pre-menopausal woman. It's not fun in the 90-degree-heat and 100% humidity.

There's a big symphony party tonight that all my friends will be at and where I should show my face, but I'm not feeling so going-outy. One of my least favorite things to do now is to be cramped in a smoky club, with people banging into me. And the 'hot up-and-coming' 'hood down here for going out, this area near downtown, is just really fucking scary. There are crackheads—literal Whitney Houston crackheads—who don orange vests and try to get money from you to park your car. It's really scary. I don't think it's advisable to put myself in these situations right now, though I'd love a girls' night out at a civilized restaurant or bar. Really, I'm just too old for these clubs.

I've been eating very healthy this week, which actually seems to be making a difference. I'm already a veggie, but I've managed to resist my constant cravings for junk food. Veggies, fruits, proteins and dairy prods seem to lighten the load that is my body.

I'm not one of those you are what you eat people, but since I am supposed to be sticking to a certain way of eating—low-fat, high protein, lots of veggies and fruits—may as well try everything. Really looking forward to that accupuncture session on Monday.

Yes, naturally, there's a fascinating story behind the Beau situation. I'm holding off for a few reasons. To protect some reputations. To distance myself from the emotional drama of the situation. To let go of any bad vibes. And frankly, I'm saving the whole story for something that, well, pays. It's a story that should be told but not necessarily here.

Plus, it's sooooooo fucking long that sitting here typing about it would just exacerbate my back pain. Suffice to say it was a dramatic, ridiculously unbelievable ending and story. We're not on bad terms as far as I'm concerned, but something did happen with him that reverberated in my whole social circle down here, making it more difficult to proceed as usual.

Anyway, I get off on the fun drama, the crazy shit that makes life interesting, but what I don't need right now is drama that brings me down, raises my blood pressure, makes me cry, etc. Dating, for good or bad, is never easy. For me at least. It would be nice if it were, but I think until I come out of this BC BS, I'm taking a much needed hiatus from relationships.

I'm hard-pressed to think of anything non-cancer related, since yesterday was chemo and today was just the follow-up shot. I need to get more of a life, which I am working on.

Natch, now that Beau is out of the picture, my 'rents are eager to get me back onto the Jewish hamster wheel that is dating. One of dad's old frat brothers called him today while we were out. He hadn't heard about the BC yet, just learned through the Jewish grapevine. Months ago, pre-BC, this friend had tried to set me up with a nice Jewish boy who was living in DC at the time. We'd spoken and left it at him getting in touch when he moved back down here.

Well, dad's friend had called to inquire about my health and to tell dad about an article in the Herald today about the BRCA gene. Next thing I heard dad say?
"Oh, okay. By the way, any word on that US attorney that you wanted to set her up with?"

Somehow it's worse coming from the dad. I mean, you expect it from the mom. But when you're dealing with the most intimate and (I'm guessing) most intimidating (to guys) kind of cancer, it's kinda weird for your parents to be focusing on your dating life.

I guess they're just proceeding as usual in their own way, as am I. And on that note, I'm retiring to the couch to watch last night's episode of The Hills. I have allowed myself to be lazy on the days after chemo. But not so lazy—I had an atty appt this a.m., then the hospital, then Publix (the most exhausting part of the day), then had to write a column. . .blah blah. I'm just trying to lighten my guilt about being lazy.

Joe's Stone Crab tonight, yum. Ran into bartender there I briefly dated.
"Hey, how are you?"
"I have breast cancer, but I'm fine."
"Are you shitting me?"
"Nope, diagnosed in Dec., blah blah blah."
"Holy shit! Is that a wig?"
"Yup. Good, right?"
"Yeah, you'd never know."

I'll call you and I can come support you during treatments. Okay. Men respond in surprisingly contrary ways to the BC news. Most of them aren't freaked out; in fact it seems that it brings out the caretaker/provider aspect in them.

Oh, I'm full. And two glasses of wine, woo-hoo.
More chemo tomorrow—happy, happy, joy joy!!!!!!!

I thought this drama queen's life couldn't get any more dramatic, until I was served with a foreclosure notice yesterday. Now, I rent, so it's my landlord's deal, but they have to serve the tenant as well.

Ugh! Just had a fabulous massage and now have to go to hospital so I'm sure that will counteract the relaxation.

More on the hospital visit later today on Cancer Chic(k).

I've created the cancer blog. Check out Cancer Chic(k). (Thanks for the name Tomas!)

The first gay terrorist

My gay boyfriend sent me this photo. Could be the funniest photo ever.


We surmised that this lovely fellow is strutting through Central Park, on his way to Bergdorf's because, "These size 13 booties are killing me do you have a 14?"

If we could read his mind:
a.) "I must get back to mystorage locker with my designer bomb inside."
b.) "I wonder if they've cleaned my room yet at the Chelsea Hotel."
c.) "Sugar, don't make me remove my bracelets when I go through the detector!"
d.) "What, haven't you ever seen a gay terrorist, honey?"
e.) "Oh, Osama don't they cell phones in those caves?"

I've decided to create another site devoted exclusively to the cancer shit. There's a lot of other shit going in my life and it will be easier to try to separate church and state.

I want your input on names. I forgot one below. Fucking chemo brain.

The one I forgot is Cancer Queen.

I'm totally open to suggestions too. . .

Which Name Do We Likey?
	Kick-Ass Cancer
	Crazy Cancer
	Cancer Chic
	Screw Cancer
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Well, I did the pastie shirt thing, and I love it so much I'm keeping these on this shirt. People didn't seem to shocked by it, perhaps because I look normal other than a really bad boob job. In fact, Dana's doctor didn't get it and I had to tell him I had cancer.

Subtlety doesn't go over too well in these parts. I think the painted head thing is a good idea. And I like CG's idea of painting on a hairdo. I could do a Betty Boop type thing.

Dana and I have a big girls' day out today. To the hospital.

"It would be awesome if I could get Jim to watch both the babies and then it could just be the two of us!"

"Ooh, that would be great! Listen to what you're saying—we are actually looking forward to a hospital date as if it's a girls' lunch."

"So pathetic."

Five years ago we were up all night partying and now we're switching off hospital rotations. Today is her appt. I have something called a MUGASCAN (sp) Friday to get precertified for my next round of chemo (Taxol) treatments.
11 a.m.
Anywho, I've hatched a plan for today's visit, natch. What's left of my hair is still coming out, and it's fucking itchy. So part of my scalp is this smooth, bald, baby skin and part of it is stubbly. It looks retarded. What I think I'll do is shave the whole head, and go sans wig or hat to the hospital. Fully made up . . .

12:15 p.m.
Scratch that. I'm not ballsy enough yet. New plan. I just shaved the head. I'm really going to start pushing the envelope and go Gonzo on the street with my video cam.

Today, I'm going to put the skull-and-crossbone pasties on my shirt where my 'boobs' are, and walk through the hospital. Later this week, I'm going to go to Ricky's, buy some body paint and paint my head something cool. Then I'll go out and video people's reactions to that. Fuck it. Makeup on the head? Why not? I could do temp tattoos, etc.

I think it's a brill idea, but then again I'm functioning on chemo brain and am crazy to begin with. Maybe I'll have Dana paint my head cause she's a fab painter.

Canvas ideas anyone? I could do something really fucked up like the Israeli flag. Then people wouldn't think I had cancer they'd just think I'm some militant Zionist or something. Then I could go up the road and freak the shit out of those ultra-Orthadox robots.

I think I've found a new career: crazy but well-dressed street person! Maybe a new way to meet guys too. Really freaky ones probably.

I neglected to mention, I think, that my brother and I watched Ratatouille while he was here. I agreed to watch it because I figured my rat race days were long behind me. I think I will these things into existence. I actually found myself sympathizing with the rodents in the flick. I don't want to jinx myself, so I'm going to stop with the rodent talk now.

And if you all think my story is inspiring—let's wait and see how my attitude is in a few months—
Elizabeth Daniels, the founder of Waiting Room has really overcome a shit ton and in the process of successfully fighting malignant melanoma, managed to create the magazine, counsel other CPs and keep up with her awesome photography. Check out the portraits of all the celebs. Elizabeth is a total rock star.

Fucking Chemo Can Kiss my Ass

I woke this a.m. (okay, this afternoon), and as I was on the phone with my gay boyfriend, who also happens to be my realtor, I decided to check the balcony for fresh rodent droppings. Lo and behold, there were a few new ones.

New readers may not know that I'm somewhat of an expert on rodents. Due, unfortunately, to my up-close-and-personal experiences with their kind. Yesterday, I got rid of all the old ones—there were a lot. Their droppings are toxic, and you shouldn't vacuum them up b/c then the toxic shit is in your vacuum or whatever. I'm even more germaphobic now than ever. Soo, I donned latex gloves and a face mask, and threw each individual dropping off my balcony.

My building manager, who bears a striking resemblance to Frankenstein, did not respond to my phone message Friday: "Hello, this is Stephanie in 604. A rat crawled into my apartment last night. I have cancer so this really isn't good for my germs."

My next step tomorrow will be alerting the neighbors and causing a ruckus.

"Only you," Dana said. "In my seven years of living here, I have never heard of anyone having a problem with rats."

I'm telling you, I'm going to get past life regression therapy to get to the bottom of this and other issues.

I'm feeling marginally better. Utterly fatigued though. Slept till 1 p.m. today, woke up nausea-free but exhausted. It's getting hot here. I haven't donned the wig since Monday. I'm really looking gross, let me tell you. My head is completely bald in the places where the wig tape is and stubbly in all the rest of the parts. My leg hair is growing back in more rapidly.

Anywho, my big adventure today, aside from a massive clean sweep, was a walk to Walgreens. The drugstores are even worse here than in NYC, b/c the cashiers often don't speak a lick of English. Not one word, seriously.

So I'm in line, sweating my ass off in my wig, wearing makeup and looking somewhat presentable for the first time in a week. The dude in front of me has a Chihuahua on a blanket in the front part of his buggy. A little girl got too close to the dog and it erupted like Cujo. I started laughing at the dog, then the power went out. It's almost 90 out. I just started laughing hysterically. This was my big outing; I needed what I was about to buy and there was only one person in front of me. The registers still were working, and I had no intention of leaving sans products. After about 30 secs, the manager starts telling everyone to go outside. Nobody moves. The cashier continues to ring up the items; the registers still worked. I don't think she was being defiant, I honestly think that she didn't understand what the manager was saying because he was speaking English.

Anyway, gay boyfriend is coming over to cook me dinner tonight. One of many reasons why gay men are so much better than most straight ones.

I thought Entourage was back again tonight? WTF? I need my dosage of Lloyd and Ari Gold. Seriously, don't network execs understand that there are bored cancer patients at home waiting for the good TV to start? Yeah, I know, pathetic, but what can I say? I have barely left the house in five days. . .

This chemo is fucking bullshit, lemme tell you. My 90210 shrink refers to it as "jet fuel." Somehow this doesn't comfort me. Let's hope it's at least fuel from a private jet.

At long last, a story about my BC not exclusively for you guys. The Upside of Cancer
in Waiting Room magazine.

Oh, while watching TV last night with the door to my balcony open, a rat crawled in. Yeah, you heard me. A rat. In South Florida. Only me. Seriously, I think I was the Pol Pot of rodents in my past life and this is my payback.

Yesterday was the worst bout with nausea I've had yet. Let's hope it's the last battle. Michael left at 5 p.m. yesterday to go back to NYC. And despite the fact that we didn't do much but hangout, go to the pool, chill with friends, eat, go to the hospital and hang around the apartment, I think it was just the type of vacay the doctor ordered for him too.

The weather was abfab, natch, today it's gloomy again. The apartment is clean, sanitized and the patio furniture is finally in its rightful place, on the patio. This means that Wally's erstwhile bed, the Pier 1 love seat, is no longer his.

So Wally is back sleeping next to his mommy, the only problem being that my bed is too tall for him to jump on and off. The little booger has me at his beck and call now.

But it feels fantastic to be organized, cleaned and ready to get back into the swing of things. After I do some stuff for Elizabeth's Waiting Room Magazine, then it's onto logging my docu footage etc.

Though at this point, I think I'll be opting for lipo at the time of the tata transition. These puffy packets of swelling around the sides of my chest are fucking disgusting. I mean my whole upper body is pretty much right out of a horror picture, but at least I can correct these blemishes.

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.