I'm super busy right now so we'll have to settle for a look back, as Jan. 19th marks the yahrtzeit of a dear family friend. Stage IV lung cancer. A look back at Eddie's obit that I wrote last year. Not by the Hebrew calendar (which I think it's supposed to be), but by Western dates.

I'll let Laura tell you about Saturday night. What. A. Hoot.

Gorgeous Genetics

You all well know that I don't often get into philosophical and social issues here unless they are related to me, myself and I—and even then, I just eloquently foam at the mouth.

However, any and all things breast cancer-related pique my interest. Actually, that's not true. We're inundated with info and misinfo, so I pick and choose. The BRCA-related information I do pay attention to, however. Normal BRCA genes in people actually fight cancer; the mutated ones such as mine, up the cancer ante. Therefore, I do remember Norton and Schwartz talking about genetic engineering regarding BRCA genes. I glazed over the topic, as you know I'm not religulous and therefore when it comes to tinkering with genetics in the interest of health, I say "Hell, fuck yeah."

So I wasn't that surprised—but was rather pleased—when Brother emailed me a link to a BBC story headlined: "Breast cancer gene-free baby born." (I guess the Brits do not follow AP Style.)

Yup, due to the familial history of this unborn baby's predecessors, these parents took the ultimate proactive step. And it worked. This is huge. If I wanted a baby, I'd tell him to excise that fucking gene from the embryo or whatever too.

It's quite an interesting story, for those of you new to the subject. And it definitely portends the amazing new discoveries that will continue to improve our opportunities when it comes to health.

Read it, bitches. There is a factual error—so ya'll know I had to comment and correct: BRCA+ people do not have a guaranteed 80% chance of getting breast ca; they have UP TO an 80% chance. Big diff.

No Future Politicians Here

Great weekend. Family friends Friday night and locals Saturday night, not the least of whom is Hemley, back from his Indian sabbatical. He surprised the drunken lot of us at Ben and Laura's, after Ben, Laura, Maggie, Gabe and I'd witnessed the locomotive wreck that was "Shakespeare in the Park;" had downed a bottle of rum, two bottles of wine and that 1980 magnum of Dom that I rescued from the 'rents 3rd fridge between us—all by 9 p.m. (Yes, Macbeth was that painful.)

Defense Exhibits A, B, C and D:


A still bright eyed and bushy tailed Ben


Things went rapidly downhill from there.

The girls were faring a little better.

Hemley's reunion with his beloved Ishkabob. And me.

Time Flies When You're Having Cancer

Last year at this time I was headed to Sloan NYC to consult with the indescribably wonderful Dr. Larry Norton about my options regarding treatment. I'd yet to begin treatment. Had only done the lumpectomy (which had technically rendered me cancer-free already). Was unhappy with that bitchy oncol I consulted with down here, and was slightly on the fence about lopping off the tatas.

Mom, dad, brother and I piled into Norton's office.

"You know we could've done this over the phone," he said.

"Yes, but I wanted to meet you. And it's the perfect excuse to head to Bergdorf's and our jeweler afterward."

"Ahh, my kind of people," he said, in his Larry David-esque way.

He was the final word on my treatment protocol. Hell, he and his team invented the Sloan Protocol for BC treatment that's used throughout the US.

After I asked him what he would advise his daughter to do if she were in my situation; after he said a bilat mastectomy with four months of chemo was my "safest option;" after he told me he trained my now-oncol Dr. Michael Schwartz in Miami Beach; after he gave me the name of the most superb wigmaker in the country (if not the world); after I vetted my surgeons through him; after he told me that yes, Mesko, Rosenbaum and Schwartz would be my BC dream team; after watching mom, dad and brother jotting down notes furiously; and after seeing the anxiety in their eyes—imploring me to have the bilat mastectomy and chemo, my decision was made.

I'd chop 'em off. I would go see Ralf for the wig. I would get Dr. Schwartz. I would endure four months of chemo and countless surgeries to protect my own life for my family's and my sake. I was 100 percent confident that what Norton said went. And so it went.

And, as you know, I sailed through last year, and finished up treatment and all surgeries in eight months. I made the right decision. I don't live in fear of recurrence. That slight, eight percent chance of recurrence doesn't haunt me. It's not even an option, I knocked that fucker out of my body and that fucker will stay away for good. Women with the BRCA gene who elect merely lumpectomies, single mastectomies and no chemo live in fear of the cancer returning, and it often does. As I know from countless women reaching out to me.

I read their emails, "I had a lumpectomy and now it's back, years later."

Or, "I had a unilateral mastectomy and I'm unhappy with my reconstruction, do you know surgeons in NY?"

My heart aches—pardon the cliche—for them and I *know* that I made the right choice. I'm cancer-free and plan to stay that way. My tatas are beautiful and scar-free. I go bra-less. I feel great. And short, Jewfro aside—thank god for my Ralf—I am back to my pre-cancer self. And my, how time has flown. Time flies either way, having fun or not. I worry less about the future now than I ever did. I've hit bottom and am back on top. It wasn't all fun, but it wasn't all bad either. We partied and celebrated and laughed our way through a year. My friends and family kept me happy and sane and awash with beautiful gifts and cards and thoughts. My vanity kept me looking good.

So for all you ladies reading, especially those of you who think you *may* be BRCA positive, I urge you to explore all your options. To let your health and future outweigh your vanity and fear. To know that breast cancer can be beautiful and humorous and educational. And to know that so many of you can take preventative measures to kick cancer's ass before it knows what hit it. And, perhaps of the utmost importance, save yourself from losing your beautiful hair and having to start from Jewfro scratch. Get tested. Get a mammogram. Do those self-exams that I never did. Educate yourself by following these simple links.

Take advantage of modern medicine that our mothers and granmothers didn't have. Some doctors *are* miracle workers; and so are some of us Cancer Chicks. That's all.

The good news is that after about five years of having remaining cancerous cells in his prostate, dad's officially cancer free. He was diagnosed several years ago—at such a young age that my oncologists said that was a red flag regarding me and the BRCA gene—and had treatment in the city.

Natch, I was so freaked out when I learned of his cancer that I took it upon myself to find him THE best doctors in New York and practically forced him to go up there for treatment. I think this was around the time that Giuliani and DeNiro were fighting the same thing, so I sent him to their doctor. Since dad's cancer was encapsulated, he was a candidate for a really cool treatment wherein radioactive seeds are implanted in the area where the cancer is. The entire operation took about an hour at Mt. Sinai NY. His doctor, Nelson Stone, biopsies dad's prostate every year. And—though Brother and I did not know this—there have been cancerous cells in every yearly biopsy. I just found that out like last week. But dad said the doc said this is normal; that they could be old ones dying off. Anywho, everything is gone now and the doctor said he doesn't even need a yearly biopsy anymore. (His PSA tests were normal every year despite the remaining cellular anomolies.)

So now, the Green family is officially cancer-free (no kinaharea intended) whereas before two out of four of us had cancer.

The bad news: Dr. Christian Troy on Nip/Tuck has breast cancer and had a unilateral mastectomy on the season premiere last night. I have to say, I was lol the entire time even though I know breast cancer in men is serious. But I am the queen of cancer-induced laughter as you all know. Fucking Sean's in a wheelchair and Christian has breast cancer? I think these writers need to put the bong down.

But as a writer, I can see this new storyline being a useful transitional device into the duo taking on more life-threatening surgical issues. Who knows, maybe Christian Troy will become the new, cable version of my genius plastic surgeon Gary Rosenbaum.

I wrote 13 pages today, so I'm done working for today. I'm sitting in Sinai, getting my Herceptin drip.

When I saw Shrink Melnick last week and told him about my manuscript procrastination, his first question was whether I thought Ritalin would help me focus, since I told him I'm completely organized and focused in all other aspects of my life. And then I had to go into the whole debacle about my first book experience, wherein I got sued, mocked on Page Six (two or three times), Gawker (six times), WWD (three times), the Daily News not to mention scores of other un-noteworthy blogs. Some of you may not know of this saga, so forgive my laziness and follow these links. Though I did win a precedent-setting case against that sleazy company American Media, which publishes The National Enquirer and every other tabloid including Star, where I worked.

Anyway, my procrastination is due to the fact that I'm scarred by my first foray into publishing and have a deep-seated fear of rejection this time around as well. Even though I have much more support and a much better work this time around, not to mention the assistance of powerful authoress Laura Zigman, whose latest book is ready to help you find love. I'm the first one to admit that Dishalicious was a piece of chick-shit, which I wrote in three weeks when I was 28. Also, it was fictional, which simply isn't my forte. Cancer is the New Black is a no-holds-barred memoir.

I forgot where the hell I was going with this post. My other cancer friend is sitting down the hall from me in another room getting her last chemo. Oh, what a world. I'm broke. I didn't lose any weight since last time here, and this new year is not off to a very auspicious beginning. I'm blah today. Tres, tres blah.

Well. This was an interesting beginning. I had a baking request for the beach party, so I headed over to L.'s apartment around 6:30, knowing the brownies take about 2 hours start to finish and stressed because I had to hangout till they were done, then go home, change, walk Wally and get ready. So we baked and had a good ol' time. Ironically, our friend from college who, 10 years ago, was our go-to guy for baking materials, was in town. I hadn't seen him in 10 years, so not only was it fab to see him, but appropos that he was there while we were baking. Also appropriate that he was there while I took my first bong hit in many years. Like, a two foot one. One hit and I was done for. Really. So high.

"Yeah, you used to like my four-footer," J. said.

"Really? I can't fucking remember."

J. remembered Wally, said I used to come over with him in my arm and chill out at his place, with his beloved, deceased pit bull, Sage. I vaguely remembered that as well.

So it's like 8:30 by the time the brownies are done. I'm high as shit and dreading going home and getting ready. But I do, and it's like 10:30 by the time I leave the house. No cabs, natch. So I drive a few blocks east toward the ocean and park several blocks from the party. Walk another ten minutes—did I mention I'd eaten a brownie by this point?—and see the party. Darkness surrounds the drum circle. So I walk with my bottle of cheap champagne—wasn't bringing the magnum of Dom there, obv—my sheet, water, etc., falling deeper into the sand with each stumbling step. I couldn't find those bitches anywhere, and nobody was answering cells. So I plopped down, spread out the sheet and lay prostrate, thinking that was the easiest option. Finally they call me back and Linds walks over to collect me. They were literally right next to the drums. About 10 of them. In my defense, a.) it was really dark and there were clumps of people everywhere and b.) everyone looked the same. Seriously, everyone dresses the same here—in white. But yes, I'm sure the brownies had something to do with it. I found the crew like 20 mins shy of midnight. Had a teeny cup of Veuve after tasting the crap I brought, chilled out. Apparently people were actually requesting my brownies, so I felt quite popular. Not really. I tend to get antisocial when I eat the brownies, while my friends typically get giggly. So I lasted about an hour and a half and was home by 1 a.m. I was with my friends, which is the most important part. But it doesn't really seem like a new year to me. I think my 'new year' was probably the end of the surgeries or Dec. 4, the anniv of my diagnosis. Anyway, hope ya'll had happy ones.

From Bergdorf's to Beach

The happy part is hard, but the healthy is the most important, obv. Last year my resolution was simply "to kick ass," which I think I did. Prob first resolution I've kept. This year, it's Publish My Book. So, I'll have to stick to that one too.

Last year I rang in the new year at a cool party house right on the bay, in a chaise lounge, sipping Champagne and watching the fireworks. This year I'll, uh, be with the whole crew at a hippie fest literally on the seediest (public) beach here. You guys know my love for public beaches, so the fact that I'm doing this on NYE is a testament to my fabulous friends. Drum circles. BYOB. Blankets and flip flops. And me. Ha! My main dilemma is, natch, what shoes??? No flip flops for me. And go out at nights in flats? Why I never! I'm 5'4. Luckily I have a pair of cute, Tod's platform sandals that won't sink in the sand. And I've got jeans. Which will most likely be accented with a vintage Leiber belt. You can take the girl out of Bergdorf's, but you certainly can't take the Bergdorf's out of this girl. And I'm baking my special brownies upon request, for $5 each. And of course, the most important part is that last year I had cancer and am now cancer free. Where's my present? (Hopefully, it'll be my condo in foreclosure, selling for half what it's worth.)

Happy and healthy New Year's to all of you. Your readership, support, and encouragement means a whole hell of a lot to me, so I thank you and wish you a prosperous 2009. May all our dreams come true, no matter what they are. As long as they're not evil, that is. I know I have quite a few sickie haters out there. So they can suck it and have a shitty new year, while we try to make the world a better place. Or something like that.
xoxo

PS, Please pick up the new issue of Heeb, my story is a 4-page spread with some very cute illustrations.

Happy, healthy and prosperous new year's to all you bitches. And to my fellow cancer warriors, keep on kicking ass for as long and as hard as you can.

Healthy, healthy, healthy ladies, you're all in my thoughts.
xoxoxo

Mom and Barbara, she of the baking and saging fame. (In that post, it was right before my lymphs were removed and I was still sporting the alien drains, but I managed to prioritize nonetheless. The saging worked—my lymphs were clean:)

Kobi, the slightly confused ring-bearer.

Poor Tessie Lou, forced to wear her doggie diaper while in heat. If anyone has a stud-worthy little nugget, Tessie is ready for some action!


The happy couple, flanked by their family and friends. Blake, btw, is Dana's younger brother. Seven years younger than us, I watched him go from diapers to pre-school to high school to stay with us in L.A., which involved his bleached hair, the LAPD and stage-dancing with someone named—I kid you not—Dorito.


Kobi saying: "Why can't daddy change my diaper while mommy is nursing Cunty?"


I had to have a photo of him trying to say "cheeeeeeeeeese" while crying.


Cunty with grandpa, the cashmere blankie that my mom knit for her and her daddy's AmEx. Hmm, you'd think she were mine. Maybe an Eber will finally shop at Neiman's with me! Watch out Harv!

Dana and me at the rehearsal dinner.

Dana, me and Barb.
So, this is how I've recently been sporting the hair. I don't mind it, though I've yet to go out in SoBe with it. At night that is. During the day, this is me.

Me and the little nugget—see, I don't always make him cry.

Dana and me after the rehearsal dinner.

And just a note about my fashionaholism; I subconsciously decided to wear the same little Prada bag this weekend for the first time since Dana's wedding four years ago. Sick, I tell you!

Seriously, Why Do I Have to Be from HERE????

Merry Christmas to all my Goyim readers. Happy, happy, joy, joy, red lights and mistletoe and all that BS.

Let's take stock of what's going on the Green household, shall we?

Brother was gifted an $1,800, last-minute plane ticket to India where he will spend the holidays with one of my best friends, who is staying with Brother's girlfriend's family. Very cruel, right? I think so, considering the only thing I ever want to do is get the hell out of this country.

Stephanie was gifted with, well, nothing. Not a card, a check, a tzchotcke, a gift certificate. Nada. And I assure you there's no surprise present lying around. I am the Samantha Baker of Hanukkah this year, so it's highly fitting that I did the Sixteen Candles reality tour in Chicago a couple weeks ago.

My presents? Dad refusing to let me sleep past 10 a.m. and repeatedly banging on my door when I try; mom badgering me constantly, 'so what else is new?' (since the last time I spoke with you five minutes ago? Nothing!) A house full of barking dogs and a neighbor's yard with chirping bullfrogs outside my upstairs window. Not to mention the fact that I cannot get wireless on my Mac, so the work I was planning on doing--not happening. And a city, I am not exaggerating in the least, where the ONLY thing open on Christmas is the movies. Seriously, not even the gas stations are open in Jesusville. The only reason I'm here is for Dana's family's wedding. Otherwise, I'd be at the pool in South Beach. I hate this 'city' so much I can't deal. Too bad there aren't anymore homophobic signs for me to vandalize.

Bitter? Yes. See, us Jews are not required to have the 'spirit of the season,' thank fucking god. So today I will go to the gym--the JCC rather, the only non-theatrical place open in Jesus-fucking-ville--and probably go see Marley and Me.

And my Hanukkah gift to myself is a trip to the Left Coast for the anniversary of my mastectomy around Valentine's day. (Cause heaven's forbid I should be gifted with a plane ticket anywhere even in the continental U.S., forget about another continent.) I will finally be reunited, in person, with Dr. Laura, get to see Lay and Jill and Kim and Hank and all my long-lost LA friends, and perhaps take a jaunt down to La Jolla to stay with some family.

Oh, and my apartment will not be sold on Jan. 5, rather that is when the judge will make his summary judgement on how long I have to vacate. Probably 60 to 90 days, longer if we can negotiate a rental with the bank/new owner. Well, guess what bitches? I ain't moving. I don't care if I have to squat. I love my apartment. Wouldn't that make a fine human interest story?

"Well-dressed, Deranged, Wigged Woman Refuses to Leave Bentley Bay Apartment."

I'd love to do an apartment swap with a like-minded gal in the City for the month of March perhaps. So if you know anyone into that, hook me up. You've probably seen photos of my apartment, but being on the water in South Beach in March isn't too shabby. Me? I'd prefer to be wearing my shearling in New York and sitting in Bergdorf's shoe department people watching. Bah humbug.

Big Pimpin'

You all are familiar with the lovely and talented author Laura Zigman, the de facto founder of Chick Lit with her national bestseller Animal Husbandry. (Which was made into a film starring no less than People's Sexiest Man Alive, Hugh Jackman.)

Laura is also a Breast Cancer chick, who was diagnosed about a year (I think?) before me. She's been an amazing cheerleader for me and my writing, going so far as to agree to read my manuscript before I send it out, not to mention helping me in the agenting process. What a woman! And a seriously funny and sharp writer. Someone who can (b)rant about the Container Store and have you laughing out loud, well that's pretty rare.

She has a new book out, along with matchmaker extraordinaire Patti Novak:

Get Over Yourself!: How to Get Real, Get Serious, and Get Ready to Find True Love

So for your singleton friends, I think this is a perfect gift, assuming they have a sense of humor and self-awareness about being single. Which hopefully they do, otherwise being single would be a real bitch.

In the self-pimpin' department, please go out and buy the "Wasted" issue of Heeb magazine, which you can find at B&N and other large book chains. Seeing a story in the context of a magazine can't compare to reading online. And it's so important to support cutting edge mags. Not to mention the fact that Heeb is fucking hilarious, with regular sections like "Urban Kvetch" "Schwartz of the Month," etc. If you're a Jew or token MOT, I guarantee you'll get hooked on the mag.

Anywho, I'm off to catch some rays before Dana's brother's (Blake) wedding this weekend. I'll get to see Dana and the little nuggets for the second time in one month, so that's a bonus. I don't know if the whole crew will have the time—or place—to bake this trip, but rest assured, we'll try.

Woot woot! The new issue of Heeb Magazine is out and my feature is online! This should negate my previous post.

SAD

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a form of depression, wherein: "people with seasonal affective disorder (SAD) experience a much more serious reaction when summer shifts to fall and on to winter. With seasonal affective disorder, fall's short days and long nights may trigger feelings of depression, lethargy, fatigue and other problems. Don't brush this off as simply a case of the "winter blues" that you have to tough out on your own. Seasonal affective disorder is a type of depression, and it can severely impair your daily life."

As most of you know, I am a diagnosed clinical depressive. Have been most of my life. Currently I'm on Lamictal and Pristiq. But I've never been terribly affected by SAD—the acronym is just too obvious to deride—save for lately. The convergence of the end of Cancer treatment—which, psychologically evokes "chemo and surgical withdrawl," seriously—and the beginning of a New Year (not to mention raging PMS) has left me feeling empty. (I've even sickly fantasized about taking early measures regarding the removal of my ovaries, having decided that there's no way in fucking hell that I'm going to go through IVF in order to freeze my eggs when I don't even crave children.)

You know that after you come out of the other end of a potentially life-ending illness, that your life should be changed in some profound way. More time with the kids or family or travel or charity, any number of ways. And of course you all know I have been changed profoundly, but now the question is what do I do about it? (Aside from the actual physical writing part, I am mentally stymied by what has to follow: finding an excellent agent who will 'get' me.) Were it not for the Herceptin that I have to receive until spring or summer, I think I'd already have sold my possessions and set off on a sabbatical to a far off place I've never been. And I'm hoping that after I finish Herceptin, I will do that. Perhaps go to a country with little funding for women's cancers and try to educate people or whatever. Something Cancer related. And the apartment situation isn't helping either.

But anyway, happy holidays! Haven't I added some Xmas cheer to your week? At the very least, for those others feeling blue around this time of year, take heart in the fact that there's a whole shit ton of "SAD"dies out there.

Are you SAD?

It's All Our Disease

I was going to write about how my week only got worse, and then I checked Ellie's blog. Ellie has been a faithful reader—and Internet friend—for the past year. She was diagnosed with a rare form of BC, and has really been through the ringer, to say the least. Yet she's always upbeat, complains little and just radiates goodness through her blog.

I was stopped dead in my tracks when I checked her blog today and read her announcement that she has brain cancer. There are many subcultures associated with cancer. And several of my Cancer friends I've met online and via email. But these are still friendships nonetheless, even if we never meet face-to-face. So when I read Ellie's words, I cried not for myself—as I have been doing most of the week—but for her and her shitty, doo-doo brown luck. All I ask is that you all keep Ellie in your thoughts and/or prayers, no matter whom or what you worship.

And I'm serious when I say that I'll come visit you Ellie, where ever in the Pacific Northwest you are.

This could be one of the worst days in a while, from top to bottom. Wake up after a restless night without having gotten my requisite 8 hours. Foul mood to start with, likely due to PMS. I look down to count the new hairs on my tatas, and oh, what's that? A whitehead on my right nipple, where the penis is still erect. Ahh yes, not only pubes on the nipples, but ingrown pubes that produce whiteheads. Couldn't wait for Dr. Rosenbaum to see this twist.

Mom and dad, neither of whom are speaking to me anymore, are apparently in New York for dad's annual prostate cancer check up at Sinai. (You guys knew dad got prostate cancer under 55? Yes, he's to blame for my faulty gene. But he didn't have to have his dick cut off as I did my tits. Nor did he have to go through chemo. Or nearly ten surgeries. Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

My primary reason for seeing Dr. R today was a Botox touch up, because after last time, I needed him to do a little correction. They were out of Botox, natch. Again. Apparently, people stock up before the holidays. Pretty fucking sad, huh? (I'm not in any rush for the holidays—I'm a Jew, our only real holiday is New Year's Eve—I was just due.)

The good doctor went so far as to call some other doctors in the building. Everyone was out. Fuck me. Leaving the doctor's office, I got a text from Sprinkles—if you're going to insult me Michael, then Sprinkles it is—calling me an idiot. So my parents and brother are sitting at Trattoria Del Arte, next to Jennifer Aniston no less, presumably discussing what a terrible daughter/person I am. Apparently, it's possible for your parents to shut you out and kick you while your down, with cancer. That's comforting, isn't it?

When I get like this, it's all I can do not to tear up in public. So I tend to let myself tear up in the car and do some deep breathing before I go into Epicure to pick up my pathetic dinner of marinated vegetables.

I arrived home, having already decided to forgo the Mondrian—opened on my street—tonight in light of my mood, and checked the mail. I've been served before. I know what the envelope looks like. Seems that my landlord—who, ironically sent out a mass email today that he was now working in Phuket, Thailand, the fucking wacko—is finally being foreclosed upon. My apartment is slated to be sold on the courthouse steps January 5th. Happy fucking New Year!

On the plus side, I have a new best friend who will aid in my mental recovery.

My life totally and completely sucks right now. Seriously, seriously sucks ass.

After the UPS debacle, Ben informed me—and calculated online—that FedEx could do the whole overnight shebang for $56 including insurance. But I got lazy today, haven't unpacked the $8 UPS box yet and will postpone the dyeing till after the holidays.

I've been using a flatiron on the Jewfro with excellent results. A choppy, Sally Hershberger-esque 'do that is so cute that I'm tempted actually to go out at night sans wig. Scary Walgreen's tranny told me the straightened, choppy 'do looked "fierce, like a rock star," and trannies—especially crackhead ones—speak the truth. I tipped him for his kindness and as I was walking away heard him say, "Girl, you so fierce! This is enough to buy a Whopper." You must picture these words coming from a six-foot-tall, reed-thin, black he/she with a weave longer than my wig. (How does he afford to maintain that weave, I wonder?)

But I digress. I spent the early part of today writing for Juli B. in bed. Don't know why I don't do that more often. My bed rocks.

Now—listen up ladies—I finally am confronted with a BC issue that doesn't merely involve hairy nipples or chemo. Rather, I must figure out how to tell a blind date about this little thing called Cancer. A doctor, no less. A plastic surgeon actually. I should've just told Laura to tell him about the whole thing to weed him out. . .

Ooooh, Wife Swap where the husbands switch. Forgive me, I must watch. More on this issue later.

Gee, that went well. So well that I'm sitting next to an $8 UPS box containing my $4,300 Ralf wig.

I confirmed with mom that I should insure the Ralf for the full amount. In my mind, I remembered UPS charging $1 for every $100. So I was thinking about $40 to insure the Ralf, and then what ever the cost of overnight shipping was.

"I need to insure this [box] for $4,000 and I need it over-nighted to New York," I said to the UPS fellow.

"What's in the box?"

"A wig."

"Sorry?"

"A wig."

Betcha he'd never heard that before. He sold me on a second box to encase my box, which I'd wrapped with paper medical tape. (I knew they'd tape it up additionally.) So he wraps the second box up, and I fill out the extensive shipping label. And then he tells me it will be $200-something to overnight it. What. The. Fuck. Insurance, it turns out, is $2 for every $100—so $80. And then like $120 to overnight a package? Seriously, WTF? I know I've overnighted packages before and no way I paid more than $50, let alone hundreds. So I'm standing there like an idiot trying to crunch these ridiculous numbers and time constraints. Problem is that I need the wig back for the Friends of the New World Symphony gala Saturday night. Ralf was going to dye it a little darker to match my natural color, which he would see from the sample I enclosed. That would take a few hours, then he'd turn it around and have it back to me by Thursday. Okay, so what about second-day? Still more than $150. 3rd day—too late to get it back it time.

"Uh, I'm afraid I can't ship it today at all," I said, while thinking 'no fucking way am I shipping it faster than standard ground if insurance is $80.'

"But you went ahead and wrapped it and everything. . ."

"That's okay you can just bring it back and keep the shipping label."

I thanked him and turned to leave.

"Ma'am gotta charge you for the box."

I got back in the car, marveling at this rather unique situation. My cell phone rang and it was Laura.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm sitting here in my car looking at an $8-UPS box containing my wig."

I explain the story. "So essentially I left my apartment and wasted gas just to buy an $8 box from the UPS store."

And I'm sure you're thinking, 'Oh, well, at least it's all ready ready to ship.' Except that I need to wear it this week and I will most certainly not be shipping via UPS when I do send the Ralf up to Ralf. Oy vey.

Anywho, I don't know about you, but I'm eagerly anticipating the new Ryan Seacrest sure-to-be trainwreck TV debut of Momma's Boys tonight. And I'm putting my $4,308 package in a corner of my room so it doesn't piss me off anymore.

What am I doing? Getting ready to go to UPS to overnight the wig to Ralf, so he can color it and ship it back to me by Friday. This is probably the closest I'll get to having a couturier at my call, and I quite like the fantabulous customer service. It's going to be a hefty chunk 'o change for the postal insurance.