Another Dishalicious TV recommendation, since you guys seem to listen to my recs for some reason. The sheer genius of Gene Simmons is evident in Gene Simmons Family Jewels. This dude is not only brilliant, but his family life is pretty typical Jew-style crazy. Kids get embarrassed by dad's dancing and makeup wearing. Mom and dad get matching facelifts. Kids rebel. Kookiness ensues. It will make all of you feel pretty normal.

One of my favorite quotes, uttered by Gene when he was forced into doing a water sport: "I'm a Jeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww! Jews weren't meant to be in the water!"

There's a marathon running on A&E right now and a new ep tonight at 9 p.m. Trust me, you'll dig this. I think.

The Lunatic Lithmus Test

Q: How do you know you're officially a dumb ass?

A: You lock yourself out of your apartment and lose your ATM card in the span of 24 hours.

I'm convinced my ex-boss--the psychotic, social-climbing, nouveau riche one that set up a magazine to be the front for an alleged drug smuggling operation--put a hex on me.

I ran into Luna as I was leaving Mamma Mia. One minute I was checking out a stranger's Chanel bag, the next minute she turned around and I saw her mangy mug. She didn't see me. Shortly after that I realized I didn't have my house keys. The gays dropped me off, I had the doorman call a locksmith and $170 later, I had a new lock with two new keys. I finally have a spare in my car now. The next morning, I went to the ATM to get a statement so I could balance my checkbook. I believe I left my ATM card in the Wachovia machine. I wrote a check at the supermarket for the first time in my life.

I'm having a hard time seeing the silver lining in this weekend, and I have a fucking raging sore throat. But here are two good things that did come out of Friday night. I had a smile on my face for the duration of Mamma Mia and Luna looked like she'd gained weight. An hour before the gays picked me up, I got up on my stepladder to get to my belt shelf. One of the few items in my wardrobe that still fits me well is a pleated Burberry jean skirt that came with a denim belt. I didn't find the denim belt and wore the skirt without it. (There are button closures as well.) When Durrett dropped me off, he said he had something for me in his trunk. It was the belt. I have no memory of leaving the belt with him, but there it was. Burberry belt versus this weekend? Okay, the weekend's shitstorm still beats that, but it wasn't a total bust.

I have a loose plan regarding my book. I wrote six pages today, which isn't bad for me, though I usually like to get 10. The book will somehow incorporate the blog, but what I write for the book is altogether separate material. What I'm thinking about doing, since every manuscript benefits from multiple 'readers,' is excerpting parts of that here. You guys can be my 'readers.' (I know you will most likely accept this assignment, Donna!) Hopefully lots of you will be up for it. I think that by having virtual strangers reading for me, I will get more unbiased opinions than I would from friends and family. So that's my plan.

Ooh boy, Wally just farted something fierce. It's funny how dogs, like humans, leave the scene when they fart.

My first phys therapy session for the loverly lymphedema is tomorrow a.m. I'm hoping they give me some funky thing to wear on the bad arm, so I don't have to walk around holding one arm up like the crazy person I am.

Fluffy Friday

Since I'm such an unabashed TV and movie watcher, I think Fridays are always good for a little fluff. That's why I'm beyond psyched to see Mamma Mia tonight with two of my best gays. The music, which I'm listening to now, is so fun. The cast is fabulous--Colin Firth and Pierce Brosnan (yum) Meryl Streep, Christine Baranski and Stellan Skarsgard. The whole shebang just looks like loads of fun. Have I mentioned how much I love musical movies? Also, I looked up the filming locations for the flick, as the scenes in the movie conjure up images of fabulous Greek isles. But often, as in the "Mexico" scene in Sex and the City, (filmed in Malibu) L.A. locays can play mind tricks on you.

But indeed, this movie was shot entirely on location in Greece and the studio was in the UK. Natch, I know I'll come out of the movie with a huge itch to go to Greece; I've never been. Secondly, I don't know if I've talked about the brilliant Thursday night Bravo show, Kathy Griffin My Life on the D-List. If you like in-your-face, suck-it comedy (which obv you do if you read this blog) you must see this show. This season Kathy's dating Apple cofounder Steve Wozniak, who has got to be the coolest billionaire-dork in the world. The guy doesn't know who any celebrity in the world is, and it's just plain adorable. He wears knee socks, gym shorts, tucked in tee-shirts and a backpack. He's just too cute for words and even went to the gay Bear conference with Kathy, where he had no qualms about being labeled the "billionaire bear." The two of them are priceless together. Literally priceless I suppose.

An added bonus is that Kathy's always taking on Oprah. In her quest to become the "red-headed Oprah," on last night's episode she opened the Kathy Griffin Leadership Academy, close to where she vacations in Mexico. And in another ep, she gets "re-banned" from The View, because in one of her stand-up routines, she quoted Barbara Wawa as saying, in response to Kathy mentioning K-Y Jelly: "really, I prefer Astroglide."

On the non-couch potato front, thanks to all you readers who've come forward to talk to me about BC. I always read your emails and appreciate every single one of them. And I'm especially grateful that some of you have actually been inspired to do something after reading whatever dreck I've written. Big, huge shout-outs to my readers who've taken the BRCA test and are brave enough to face that reality. Although I didn't do what I needed to do as a prophylactic measure, I'm always available to answer questions in the best way I know how.

Have I mentioned how my vertical scars are now barely discernible? And I'm keeping alive the hope that my new tatas will be just naturally saggy enough to cover the horizontal scars, which are--because of my tumor location, just on the underside of my left breast--right below the tennis balls.

On another note, I spoke to Wig Guru yesterday. I can go up to NYC as soon as next week for him to put combs in where the sticky tape now goes. So I'm planning on going mid-August for about five days. Last time I was in the city was a week after the first chemo. And though I managed to go out a little, I was not feeling good at all. I did not buy one article of clothing. Not one, people. I'm trying to decide what my post-Cancer (hopefully) treat will be. A handbag, natch, cause they last forever. And I'd like it to be a classic. I find Louis and Chanel stand the test of time best, quality and style wise. My friends are raving about the Louis Neverfull. Reasonably priced, timeless and big enough to fit all my crap. Chanel prices have gone through the roof. The one I bought myself as a 30th bday gift, just over 2 years ago, has nearly doubled in price. Give me a break already. These $2,000 handbags are just sickening to those of us who remember them being 1/2 or 2/3 the price years ago. (Another reason to never get rid of your designer bags girls. They can always be refurbished!)

This time, I'm ready for NYC. I've got my shopping shoes on and cannot wait to see all my great friends up there. So, Aug. is NY and Sept. is Costa Rica and then Vegas a day after I return. (I'll finally have my Oscar de la Renta and Narciso Rodriguez coming-outs the weekend of the wedding, which is shaping up to be the PB meets Vegas event of the season. (I think the head count is now upwards of 400.) Michael is marrying the daughter of the head coach of the UNLV basketball team, which is apparently a top-notch college team. I couldn't even tell you if it's basketball season or not, obv. (But I can't wait to see what all the ladies-who-lunch are wearing.) I'm truly amazed and thankful that these past six months have just whizzed by. Time flies when you're not having fun too.

Finally, I'm thinking of having Ralf cut the wig to an always-stylish Anna Wintour bob. Thoughts?

A belated birthday to Sprinkles, who is now only one year away from the big 3-0. I'm hoping for another fab family vacay next summer to celebrate his 30th. Though I'm sure it'll be in a third-world destination as opposed to Bermuda.

Someone please stop me. I am reading about BC when I'm supposed to be a.) taking a doctor-prescribed day of brainlessness and b.) booking flights to Vegas and Chicago.

Does the fact that my therapist ordered me to take a day of rest from my own brain mean that I'm finally officially crazy? I think it does.

I think my new blog heading will read: "Doctor-Approved Crazy Bitch."

Non sequitur of the day: Can someone please tell me the secret to slicing a mango?

I am aware my self-pity is useless as many friends and fam have pointed out. However, Cali shrink did give me permission to "be sad." Seriously. She asked me to clear my mind and be vapid for a day. No reading, no planning, no Sidekick, no emailing. Okay, so far I've stuck to the no reading part of that command. Except I've been reading online. And the only reason I haven't broken all the other rules is that I woke up at 4 p.m. That's right people. In bed at 3 a.m., up at 4 p.m. Here's the really amazing part of this marathon of sleep: Wally held his bladder and bowels for 17 hours. That's a record-breaker! Go Wally! He's 12 years old (84 human yrs)! I bet Hugh Hefner can't do that.

Seriously though, shrink said the following: It's time for me to seek out other women in my situation. That's where you guys come in. I'm seeking out fellow breast cancer biatches. BRCA-positive women, women with BRCA+ family members. Women who have a BC history in their families but do not know their BRCA status. And those of you who perhaps are thinking of getting BRCA tested and are looking for some answers or opinions. So you readers who qualify or know people who fall into one of these groups, please get in touch or encourage people you know to get in touch.

As many of you have pointed out, 10% odds of cancer is what the general population faces as well. Now I'm in step with the general population's risk factor, the only difference being that I've already taken drastic measures. My family and therapist do agree that I should be looking into prophylactic measures as well. BRCA+ women have an elevated risk for Ovarian Cancer as well. As you may or may not know--I didn't know--Ovarian Cancer is a silent killer. There are no early detection devices that have been perfected. The CA 125 blood test is one option, as are trans-vaginal ultrasounds. But for women like me, an oophorectomy is the "safest" option. I have few qualms about removing my ovaries.

I've never felt a strong desire for kids. Never. There's no husband, boyfriend or even potential dates on my radar. I'm not going to have a baby on my own. In fact, even if I did have a baby, I've always wanted a surrogate to carry for me. People thought I was crazy for saying that--I've been saying that for years--but now it would be the only option if I had the oophorectomy. Suck it, breeders. For me it's a win-win. Freeze your eggs, you say, right? Here's the thing doc Schwartz (the onco) said: I would need to have the eggs fertilized before freezing them to have the most success. I did not know that. Gay boyfriend is taken. Scratch that option. What does all this mean? I'm in the clear, people. I now have a legitimate excuse not to procreate. Nobody can say I don't find those platinum linings.

I'm certainly not belittling or trying to take anything away from women who do want children. In your case, the oophorectomy option is an excruciating decision. (Jessica Q. details this option in Pretty as well.) Children are great--once they get past that weird, squishy, newborn phase. Kobi really started to tug my heartstrings when he got past that six-month-mark, when I was no longer afraid I'd kill him by holding him. Now that he's talking--and thinks me saying, 'Boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie, boobie!' is funnier than Seinfeld--he's even more adorable.

Anyway, my next Cancer Project is to look into an early oophorectomy and talk to both doctors and women who are facing similar situations. Like I said, early menopause and no babies versus potential ovarian cancer? It's a no-brainer for me, but I'll still do the research. This subject and the research will also make for good book material. (There's that silver lining again.)

Ah, well, I guess I broke shrink's main rule for today: I'm thinking. I told Dr. L that my day of vapidity would entail a drink and lounging by the pool at the Ritz. Sleeping 11 hours is just as refreshing and much cheaper.

Ladies, please get in touch.

I'm also tickled--these dated words slip into my lexicon thanks to Dr. L., who uses such expressions as 'the bee's knees' and 'slick'--to be on a reading jag of books authored by people I know from the blogosphere. It makes me feel like a real writer. (Two degrees and 12+ years of experience and this makes me feel like a real writer? I'm sure my parents now want to dispute the charges of NYU grad school.)

First up is No Man's Land by my former coworker Ruth Fowler. And next up is Laura Zigman's new book, Piece of Work. Zigman, when I get some money for a real web site, I'm totally snagging your web designer. How cool is her site? A very Bond-esque feel.

That's all for now. I'm continuing my day of vapidity. I'm going to watch a rerun of Ellen. Christina Aguilera's post-baby breasts are ginormous! My god, one of them is bigger than one of my butt cheeks (on a skinny day). They are like a Godzilla-scale handful. My standard go-to vapidity refuge, Neiman Marcus Last Call, is too far. And too pricey.

But tonight, tonight, it's PROJECT RUNWAY's season premiere! I can hardly contain my excitement! One day you're in the next day you're OUT!

I don't think I've said so, but I've become more paranoid and anxious about the BC since chemo has ended. And the onco today kind of validated what I've been fearing.

So here's the deal. Despite me having had a mastectomy, lumpectomy, lymph node removal and all the other BS, the chances of recurrence are not as low as I'd thought or hoped. The majority of women who do have a recurrence, do so within 2 years after treatment. If I'd just had the lumpectomy and no chemo, the rate of recurrence would be between 30 and 35 percent. With everything I've had done, the chance is only cut down to between 10 and 15 percent. I was under the impression it was more like under 5 percent. Ten to 15 percent is enough to make this neurotic Jew extremely paranoid for the next two years. And, here's the really awful part. There's always a chance that the chemo didn't knock everything out.

According to Dr. Schwartz, microscopic cells, which were found in one of my nodes, translates to 1 million cells. Not so 'microscopic.' What this means is: Cells below that 1 million mark are barely discernible. And even though I will be blood tested every three months, there's that 10 to 15 percent chance that there will be remaining, almost undetectable, abnormal cells floating around still.

"What can I do aside from the 3 month checkups?"

"If you start to feel symptoms, then we nip it in the bud."

"But I had no symptoms to begin with aside from the lump, what the hell do I look for?"

"Shortness of breath, lumps in other places."

Fucking fabulous, right??

"What would the treatment be in the event of recurrence?"

Apparently, there are scads of new treatment cocktails emerging that have proven to be very promising and don't require chemo or radiation. One of these is called Tykerb. He thinks, in fact, that the research is now so spectacular on BRCA+ cancer that he thinks in 2 years BC treatment may change drastically.

What all this translates to for you Members of the Tribe who have a family history of the big C, is the importance of being proactive. Take Jessica Queller who wrote Pretty is What Changes. She took the BRCA test after watching her mother, Stephanie, fight BC and die of Ovarian Ca. Jessica was BRCA+ and chose to have a preventive mastectomy. Thus, her chances of developing BC have been shaved down to (I believe) around 3 percent.

I cannot tell you at-risk ladies how lucky we are to have the BRCA tests readily available. I implore you ladies to research your family history--grandmothers, mothers, aunts, sisters. If they've had it. If they are BRCA+, they may not know it because the test only became popular a few years ago. IF your women are BRCA+ you've got roughly a 50 percent chance of having the gene. Non Jews, you still have a 1 in 8 chance of developing breast CA in your lifetime. Non-Jewish women can be carriers of the BRCA gene as well. Go get the test people. It can be covered by ins., but even without insurance, it's not prohibitively costly. And, hello, it could save your life!!!

I'm happy to report that I got a book deal. Kidding. Maybe one day I'll be able to write that. But for now it's the little things that make me happy. Like the fact that I seem to be peeing with some regularity now. Finally. Meaning, the fluid retention is abating somewhat. I'm not all the way there by any means, but I feel more normal every day. I'm going to try to take a photo of my head later to show you what the 'do is doing. Acupuncturist says the lymphedema is probably not as bad as it should be because he works on my spleen a lot, which apparently has a lot to do with lymphatic drainage. I'm actually looking fwd to physical therapy, as lymphatic massage is quite relaxing. I got one in Positano at our hotel and afterwards felt like I'd taken two Valium. Ahh, the good old days of Valium. Docs are quite reluctant to prescribe it nowadays.

I'm back in South Beach with Wally. And even though last week in Jax was supposed to be a relaxing one, I'm much more relaxed here where I don't have to answer to anyone. The 'rents are great, but all up in my bizness as usual. It's what the Jews do. It's genetic, just like the BRCA gene.

On that note, mom refuses to get BRCA tested and hasn't even had a mammogram in a few years. She's approaching her 60th bday too. Maybe now that I've outed her she'll go to the fucking doctor. God, I am so looking forward to normal boobage that I feel like I should have a coming-out ball in one of the fabulous dresses that hang in my closet with the tags still on cause the tennis balls are not sartorially situated. This fashionista is eagerly awaiting getting back into normal tops and dresses. I think my recent lack of socializing has a lot to do with the fact that I feel so like a freak show in most of my clothes.

I've got my Herceptin shot tomorrow, which is another long day at the hospital. The very green nurse I got last time was a messy injector: I was bruised for weeks and my port has been a little sore. I'm demanding (in a polite way of course) the charge nurse tomorrow.

And, this is one staunch Democrat who thinks that the controversial New Yorker cover is quite amusing. I mean, come on, you know a lot of us are thinking a long such lines re. Obama and the Muslim thing. It can't be helped. After 9-11, Muslims have a major image problem to overcome. I'm completely underwhelmed by Obama and there's something about him that's a little unsettling, though I can't quite put my finger on it. And if he elects Oprah as a VP, I'll vote Republican. Yes, I loathe Oprah. Shoot me. The woman is the biggest megalomaniac in the free world and has such a huge God complex it makes me sick. Oprah is not Jesus reincarnated for shit's sake; she's a freaking talk show host!

And though she does give a lot to charities, she's no Bill Gates or Warren Buffett and, frankly, she should be.

Tomorrow I'm going to share with you the tres interesting way of eating my acupuncturist, who is also a nutritionist, shared with me. It will totally change the way you eat. A hint: Lowfat and Fat-Free foods are just bad for your bod and your metabolism. But before you run out and get a pint of Chubby Hubby, read tomorrow and I'll explain.

My mom is wandering around the house looking for her book, Jessica Queller's Pretty Is What Changes--which you must read, please. This book, for anyone who's been touched by cancer, will most likely astound you, as it did me. I am a virgin when it comes to cancer books. And I'm not sure how many more I'll want to read. Because this one so directly mirrors and illuminates what I've recently gone through. Jessica is a pretty, nice, well-educated, funny, smart, Jewish television writer. Her family is mildly eccentric in the same way that many Jewish families are and her mother and grandmother were major fashion plates. Her dad is an attorney. She has the BRCA gene. Naturally this book hits very close to home for me and my family. Mom is now reading it at rapid speed. Brother will probably read it, while dad remains oblivious as per usual. He's got very odd reading habits.

It's a book that could literally save your life, a friend or family member's life. I especially want my girlfriends with family histories to get tested (you ladies know who you are), but it's obviously an intense issue. This book manages to be a funny, touching personal memoir that's also very informative. Sure, I had statistics thrown at me left and right, but I glossed over them. When I read Jessica writing about them, I began listening again. And, I'll be honest with you, the stats are really. Fucking. Scary. If you are BRCA positive, you have an 87% chance of developing breast cancer. BRCA negative women--meaning everyone else--still have a 1 in 10 chance of developing breast cancer. Think about that. One out of every 10 of your female friends will get breast cancer. Likely more than that if most of your girls are Jewish. Read Jessica's book for all the deets; my mom is reading it in bed right now so I can't get to it. This genetic testing stuff is really just too crazy for words.

But I'm tired. And my hair is growing back very strangely. Wah.

What up Doc?

He changed my surgery date. Less than two weeks before it was scheduled. Basically, they messed up on the calendar, not realizing that his schmancy surgery with a bunch of European doctors was the same week. So, he's telling me that an out-of-state groundbreaking surgery with a team of international specialists takes precedence over my tata swap? That's what I'm up against? Okay, fine. If they were American doctors I would've put my foot down. But, Europeans are another story. I suppose these American breastesses can wait 13 days. But these deformed, stretched to capacity tennis ball balloons are not happy indeed. This puts off my post-surgery Neiman's retail therapy plan as well.

He apologized profusely; I said, "It's okay. Just throw in some Botox and we'll call it even."

"Hahaha."

"I'm just kidding." (I'm not kidding. I'll remind him as I'm being wheeled into the OR.)

Seriously though, now Brother must change both his airline ticket and his work schedule, mom must rejigger her work schedule, and poor dad rearranged court dates and other impt things and now must reconfigure everything.

I think all that probably equals the price of some Botox. As it turns out, I'm fine with this new schedule. It gives me more time to get my sorry-ass body into fighting shape. Aside from my jeans being happy about this proposition, it's actually an important factor. The better my physical condition is--as it was pre-chemo--the more realistic I can be about the size of my implants. Meaning, this extra 7-10 lbs I'm lugging around must go so that I can see how the implants will look relative to my size. When I get back to my normal size, I may reckon that a slightly smaller CC implant will be more proportionate to my body type.

Anyway, I'm still languishing in Jax with the doggies and the yard and the old friends. My car is in the shop for it's annual physical, and I got a really nifty loaner, a spanking new C300. I hate my car, but this model is so sweet I'm wondering what would happen if I just got on I-95 with it and never looked back. It might be worth driving a car with "Brumos Motor Cars" splashed across the rear window if it meant a brand-new benz. This rationale is naturally in direct conflict with my recent musings that I want to trade in my gas-guzzling German ride for a lower-priced, Japanese car since I hardly drive. I never claimed not to be a hypocrite. But this whole $65-to-fill-my-tank thing makes me sick. It literally turns my stomach. Everytime I fill up, I am filled with disgust thinking, 'Great, another $65 for the terrorists and Bush. Whopee. Fuck those bastards!!!!!!!' Talk about road rage. And FUUUUUUUUCK you Bush. I hope you trip on your way off the podium when you relinquish your throne to a liberal.

I'm wondering what happens after cancer. It was almost easier to battle breast cancer than to think about 'the future.' What I mean by that is--chemo, the surgeries, the follow-ups, the doctors' visits, the hospital stays, etc. were essentially my full-time job.

Though I've continued to write my columns and other articles, I'm now pondering exactly how I can consolidate my past six-month cancer trip into an actual body of work. I have the footage, the writing material and an artistic vision, but the question is: What makes my story different than all the other cancer books, shows and documentaries? (Perhaps your opinions may help me here.)

Is it my humor? The fact that I've been so open about it to the point that I've shown you both photos of my mutilated tatas and a shot of me and my pink pee pee? Maybe it's the odd phenomenon that I didn't have more than the slightest emotional hiccup over losing my breasts? (I think I lost them in a Bergdorf's dressing room.) My luck in terms of my support system and medical assistance? Or, ladies, is it my MO of dressing for chemo as if I were having a ladies' lunch?

As the person who's living the story, I'm too close to it to mine the gems, which is a common experience for writers. I'd like your input nonetheless.

I'm still chilling at the parents and cancelled my trip to Chicago for tomorrow. It's just too much right now, this close to the July 16th surgery. For 30+ years the 4th has been our version of a family reunion. It started as a fraternity reunion for my dad and his college buddies and blossomed into three decades of partying it up on a beach somewhere each July 4th weekend. The result is a delightfully tight-knit group of parents and children who look forward to a tradition that most people don't have the pleasure of experiencing.

Basically, it's a big, Jewish boozefest with all the essential accouterments. First it was my parents and their friends partying when they were my age while my generation was still in strollers. But it's more fun now that two generations of all the families get sloshed together. And the adults --senior citizens now--drink us under the table and end up four sheets to the wind dancing around with washcloths on their head. This year, mom forgot to eat before downing some Grey Goose, so the entertainment portion of Friday night was provided by her. The supporting cast member award has to go to the other Nancy, whose exact comments will be kept in the vault per her request. And no, you cannot have my shoes along with my bras, Nance. As if.

Jew Crew holiday get-togethers, in my experience, usually translate to too much liquor, too much food and lots of bitching about Bush. Good times.

The shrink is back, the shrink is back! After a month in Europe--being a 90210 shrink has its benefits--she's listening again.

I marveled at how cathartic it was talking to her after so long. When you're in therapy for a while--like 12 years--you often get desensitized to the process. I guess absence makes the brain grow fonder too.


I realized today that I actually got cancer at 31, not 32 years old. I found the lump sometime in August, perhaps even July. My birthday is in September. Yes, I waited to see a doctor when I found a lump. It started out very small, so I waited to see if it would go away. It got bigger, but not out-of-control big. The nagging in my brain began during Breast Cancer Awareness month when we're inundated with commercials and PSAs about BC. I went to the doctor in November. I don't torture myself over the procrastination. The protocol would have been the same regardless. The only thing I would have saved is time--I could have an inch of hair already if I'd gone to the doctor in September.

Now that I'm done with the hard stuff I finally feel free enough to begin reading about BC. Meaning books and memoirs by people about the whole BC experience. I'm pretty selective and there are just SO many of these books out there, but I struck gold the first time with Pretty is What Changes by Jessica Queller. After her mother died from ovarian cancer after she'd beaten breast cancer, Queller tested herself for the BRCA gene, was positive and had a prophylactic mastectomy. What caught my eye about this book amongst the dozens I've been given was that Queller is a writer/producer on Gossip Girl. OMG. The book's really good though, and for any of you with a history of cancer in your family, it's a must read.

On the lymphedema front, my awesome, lovely, kind cardiologist I saw today wouldn't let my surgeon off the phone until he agreed to see me before I leave for July 4th. Thank God for doctors who are family friends. It makes such a difference. Cardiologist says it isn't bad, but that I should get into therapy asap so it doesn't get worse. In the interim, I'm supposed to elevate, squeeze one of those rubber ball things and avoid salt.

If the doctor wants me to start therapy before my tata swap on the 16th. I'll have to cancel a coupla trips, but nothing is coming between me and my new tatas!

Lymphomaniac

When is the fat lady going to sing? Seriously? Do you think I could just pay a fat lady to sing to me? Would that work?

I mean, come on folks, all I'm asking for is a little good news in my life right now. Instead, I get lymphedema.
Lymphedema: edema due to faulty lymphatic drainage

Edema: an abnormal infiltration and excess accumulation of serous fluid in connective tissue or in a serous cavity

In English, insane, out of control swelling in my left arm, hands and fingers. It's common when your nodes are removed, as the fluids redistribute themselves to the wrong places. So instead of all my fluids circulating symmetrically, a whole hell of a lot of them are in my left arm, which is where the nodes were removed. It requires therapy; putting on those tights that you get in the hospital to help circulation and a bunch of other stuff that I was unable to digest. But I won't be able to start that until August between traveling and then the tata swap. And the Herceptin? I will be having until April. I thought this saga would be under a year start to finish. Wishful thinking.

I know this latest health complication is (hopefuly) just a minor inconvenience relative to this whole entire ordeal. But it's the little things in this that have been adding up to a big old hot mess. OMG, I'm going to have to be one of those people who walk around the plane so they don't have to sit for long periods of time, which could lead to blood clots. FUUUUUUUUUCK. Dr. Schwartz says, from what he can tell it's not a blood clot, but from my understanding this is what leads to dangerous blood clots if not treated early. Okay, now I'm getting freaked out just sitting on my couch and watching TV. I'm going to have to do what my mom did to 'diet' in college--jumping jacks during the commercials. She claims she lost about ten pounds that way, but the woman has never weighed more than 115 lbs.

In summary, things are pretty much sucking all over. Heading home on Thursday for several days, so I'll get to chill by the beach, with brother and the dogs and the peace that home affords me.

I couldn't help myself so I Googled "lymphedema treatments" and found a helpful Mayo Clinic explanation.

Have I mentioned how much I love salt? Now it's my enemy.

The young, postmodern Cancer Patient: I'm sitting on my balcony with Wally, in my bathing suit, with my laptop and bald head exposed. The downside to this is that I can see my reflection in the computer screen and it ain't pretty. Luckily the boaters don't get too close.

That photo above is from my own balcony, from which most nights I view a spectacular sunset. Therefore I know I shouldn't bitch much. But it's been one roller-coaster of a week. Being inside my brain is like riding Space Mountain.

Between Dana leaving and the BC BS, I'm pretty emotionally spent and unmotivated to do much. My left hand is so swollen I can't see the veins. My watches are leaving marks on my inflated wrists. And no matter how much I sweat, pee or detox, I feel so disgusting. I imagine I feel like a preggers woman about to pop.

And here's the kicker. I popped into the cancer ward today. (How is it that I've gone from popping into Neiman's and Bergdorf's to this?) I was already at the hospital for my MUGASCAN, so I went to talk to one of the chemo nurses about the swelling and water retention. Now, survivors and even my docs told me that the side-effects work their way out of your system in a couple weeks. And I was hoping that would be the case with the swelling.

Not so much. The nurse told me it takes 4-6 months for your body to get back to its pre-chemo state of wellness. That means October. No hair. Sausage fingers and arms. Fruit fast. I've barely been holding it together this week. All my body is craving is carbs, carbs and more carbs to boot. Specifically, cake from Epicure. My chemical romance with the benzos is about the only thing that really helps me when I get so anxiety ridden I can't sit still.

I'm actually watching Enchanted for god's sake. I need a bona fide fairy-tale to take my mind to fantasyland. I think I'll go book a trip to NYC for August. And a Botox session for next week cause at this rate I'm sprouting new wrinkles every day.

Check out my new friend Janelle's fashion line Orangia. She's taking on New York now so remember you heard it here first!

Breakin' the Law, Breakin' the Law

Sitting here with Dana . We're going to recap some of our funniest stories while Kobi is presently eating an entire container of cottage cheese, Wally is under the bed, Cubby the pug is snorting and Sumner is sprawled out on the bed sleeping with her eyes open.

An early start to retail therapy:
When we were in my old house, I had a lovely peach room and bed with a canopy. Apparently, I've always had a penchant for fashion. Dana and I liked to pretend that my room was an upscale boutique. We can't recall what we 'sold' but we both remember organizing things, making the room attractive to 'buyers' and dressing up and putting on makeup.

The origin of my snake phobia:
It was my 11th (I think) birthday. I walked over to my closet to get a pair of Mary Janes for our trip to the mall to spend my birthday cash. As I reached for my shoes, a garden snake slithered out. I screamed, freaked out and ran down the hall to mom, meanwhile Dana was cracking up, so mom didn't believe me. It wasn't until I started bawling that mom believed me. Dad was in the bath. So Dana and I hid in the hall closet while Brother, who was only like 6 or so, caught the snake and carried it out the front door in a brown paper Publix bag.

The Continuation of my snake phobia:
Dana is a pretty successful practical joker and loves to prey on my weaknesses. My parents' street is very wooded with all kinds of animals lurking amongst the foilage. The snakes come out in full force once it gets hot. Dana and Nicole show up at my front door one day and greet me by throwing a dead snake at me. They picked up roadkill, carried it to my house and thought it was just the funniest thing ever.

New Year's Eve:
It's 9th grade. We were going through our slumming it phase and hanging out with these total white trash losers who were like 17 or 18. We were 14. It was New Year's Eve and for reasons unknown, our parents had trusted us to stay home and baby-sit Brother and his friend Michael. Well, naturally we had other plans. As my parents were getting ready, Einstein over here is trying on her new clothes, putting on makeup, getting the bangs up to superhuman heights and being an idiot in general. Both my parents and Dana's parents were attending the same party that night, which happened to be at one of our teacher's homes. Brother was always cool and was under strict instructions to cover for me. Before Dana had come over, she had gone through the same ritual--coated her hair in Aussie Scrunch Spray, put on makeup, etc. As soon as mom and dad left, we gave the boys instructions.

"When mom and dad call, tell them we are in the shower." Brilliant, foolproof plan.

These ghetto boys pick us up in their car that we used to call the Hellrider. Right away, the driver told us he was tripping. Well, were pretty innocent nice Jewish girls and I don't think we really understood what tripping does to you. We don't remember the sequence of events, but we both recall the driver was basically in a reclining position about three feet from the steering wheel driving. We ended up in the parking garage at the now defunct Jacobson's and the acid dude was driving around the garage at warp speed. We also went to the Landing, which is an outdoor, mini South Street Seaport type of place. It was Jax's Times Square and filled with rowdy, drunken adults. Two 14-year-olds had no business being there.

We got back to my house around midnight and saw Harvey's, Dana's dad, car parked outside the house. We panicked and had another brilliant idea. We through our shoes into the bushes and put our purses in the mailbox.

"Ok, we'll tell them we just went for a walk."

"Ok. That will totally work."

We crept into the front door and Harvey, an intimidating and strict father, was planted in the foyer.

"You get your ass over here now."

While we were out, the 'rents had called, and one of the Michaels had done as told.

"Uh, she's in the shower."

Natch, both sets of parents raced home. From that point on, we were on and off restriction for most of ninth grade. And the kicker: We had to go to class on Monday and face our teacher whose house the party was at. She called us out in front of the entire class, saying something like,
"So, you guys were quite the conversation topic at the party."

The Spacemobile

We still had some very WT friends. The same year, in one of our breaks from restriction, we convinced our parents to let us go hang out at this girl Rhonda's house. Our parents insisted on talking the our friends' parents before allowing us to go over to other people's houses. Mom spoke to Rhonda's mother, who was a little drunk I think. Nancy and Nancy were leery of letting us go over there in the beginning. We got over there. The mom was completely wasted. The dad was a character out of "To Catch a Predator." Literally leering at us. The three of us went out with some other WT boys; meanwhile it hadn't escaped mom and Nancy's attention that this family was a little off.

We got back to her house and saw the lights of my mom's Spacemobile in the middle of the street. Busted, again. Back to restriction.

Dana Detox Diet

I asked acupuncturist today about a detox diet that didn't involve the master cleanse or fasting. He suggested the fruit detox, which is: 1st day only solid fruits. 2nd day only fruit juices (including those Odwalla smoothies and stuff. 3rd day back to solid fruits. Totally doable. So tonight my dinner will be fruit salad. And I bought this Chinese tea from Whole Foods. He says that will definitely help me pee. I mean, I peed like two times today and I drank 1 large cup of coffee; one Snapple; and 30 oz of water and counting. UGH.

We finally have at least one foursome for the Costa Rica trip and I'm beyond psyched. Jen is the only one who hasn't booked her plane ticket yet, but she is definitely in. And a friend from college and L.A. is joining us, which is fabu because I haven't seen her in like seven years!

I'm kind of bewildered (and grateful, natch) at how good I feel and how the only apparent side effect I'm still having is the bloating, swelling--my fingers are sausages--and mouth thing. And the hair loss of course. I drove around bald today; it was fucking sweltering. But now I'm thinking that I need to go see Ralf the wig guru to cut the wig and have him show me how the hellI'm supposed to secure the wig when I have just like a 1/4 inch of hair. I can't use the wig tape cause it's so strong it pulls out the hair. I suppose there may be other kinds of toupee tape that aren't as adhesive.

Dana leaves Thursday a.m. I rescheduled my MUGASCAN and have the day to be with her. I think I'll take a few Zannies. I'm going to dedicate the next several posts to hilarious stories of our 32 years of misadventures together, so I think if I bring over the laptop tomorrow she can dictate to me while I write them up. That should keep us laughing instead of crying.

And I'm determined to make an indelible impression on Kobi before he leaves. I shall teach him a curse word. Jim already got fuck. How funny would it be if I pointed to myself and said "bitch?" He already knows me as Stephie though, so it probably wouldn't work. Ooh, I know. I'll teach him dick. Or cock. I will demonstrate on Wally and Cubby. Loves it.

Hey the kid won't remember living in Miami, but he'll sure as hell remember "cock."

And Crazy Ass Nicole the hole is having a baby on Friday. Inducing of course, for which I do not blame her one single bit.

And I think I just burnt the water I was boiling for the tea. Fuck.

A moment of laughter and cursing for the legendary George Carlin.

And while we're at it, a moment for Tim Russert and Bo Diddley too.

Life, death, life, death. Shit happens. Time is short, people. And I'm still bald. Everywhere.

I can't believe Dana's leaving. I'm going to be comfortably numb and in denial probably until I go to Chicago. And I'm sure leaving Chicago is going to unleash the waterworks. I'll double up on meds for that flight home.

Our last dinner downtown tonight with the Glassman Girls (who are going to be a triple threat soon), Dana, Jim, Kobi and Sumner.

I've put some stuff up on eBay.

Wouldn't it be nice if you could sell your entire self on eBay?