Audition!

“You have an audition.  Check your Casting Networks Alerts for audition details.”

Woo hoo!  I love getting these texts.  I go right to my email to see what it’s for.  Could be anything!… A national network spot…?!  A Proctor and Gamble mom,  a funny shopper, a snarky office worker, a…

ROLE: CANCER SURVIVORCancer-Club-CommercialBlue

Oh.

Hmmm.  A “REAL cancer survivor -Female, 25 – 45.”

I bet my agents were psyched when they saw this – “hey, we’ve got one of those!  Brockett!”

The casting notice read, “We need someone who has a warm, inviting presence on the screen. Someone who can tell the story in a way that hits on the emotional parts but can also deliver it in a way that won’t leave the viewer depressed.  A positive outlook.”

As much as I’d love to quote the rest of the notice, it’s not really Kosher, but I have to tell you it said the actress should have “hair of some length,” but if it wasn’t long enough, “the illustrator can always draw it in.”   Then it says “REAL CANCER SURVIVORS ONLY” in ALL CAPS, which makes me think 2 things; #1, have they been having problems with FAKE cancer survivors?  And #2, the cancer has to be real, but the hair can be fake?  I’d really rather it be the other way around…

I can’t tell you what the product is, because again, not really Kosher, but it is national network and cable, if you are not familiar with the industry that means cha-ching in the thousands and thousands of dollars.

A note at the end says that casting director would like pictures with friends and family during treatment emailed to them directly.

The whole thing kind of bothers me, and I’m not sure why.  I mean I am a commercial actress – I will sell anything (okay not cigarettes.  Well, maybe in Asia.  No – I’m kidding, not even in Asia.  Thailand maybe…)    Seriously – it’s my job.  And I am a REAL CANCER SURVIVOR, and I have good hair.  In high school they called me Blair Hair.  You know, from Facts of Life, I spent a lot of time in hot rollers, but that ‘s really not the point.  The point is – I need to go book this job.images-1

When I get to the audition I see another actress sitting outside the room, waiting to go in.  A beautiful black woman who is completely bald.  As a cue ball.  No hair.  None.  Egg, black egg.  Anyway, I think maybe the illustrator can draw it in…  I also think, maybe I have an edge!

“Weird, right?”  I say to her like I know her.   Like we’re in the same club.  Club cancer.  And I hate that because, well, I don’t know, for the same reason I freak out at the thought of walking in one of those walks wearing a pink ribbon rhinestone emblazoned hoodie.

I look at the scripts posted on the wall.  Happy fluid drawings of a woman banking.  (Ok – it’s for a bank.)  Shots of her smiling, running, shopping…using the ATM…  There is a note explaining that the audition will be interview style, and we should consider answers to some of the following questions;  “What kind of cancer did you have?”  “Can you share experiences with friends and family during your cancer treatment?”  “What has the experience of cancer taught you?”

I head to the bathroom, “what has cancer taught me?”

“What has cancer taught me….”  A peek under the stall doors shows one of the two free, I enter and a moment later the whole thing shakes the sister door is slammed shut.  Then another door slam.  I come out to find another beautiful black woman, standing at the sink fixing her make up.  She has gorgeous hair.

“Well I guess that didn’t go well for her,” she says and eyes the door.

I put it together – she wasn’t the slammer.  “Oh, I guess I missed it.”

“Are you here for?…” And I’m doing it again, the club…ugh.

“Yeah.”

And I want to ask her ‘what kind?’  But I really hate that question.  She volunteers, “uterine, but I’m worried it was too long ago.”

“Well, you have great hair.” I tell her.

“You too!” she says.

I say, ”I wouldn’t worry, as long as you have good stories.”

Good stories.  Positive stories, while smiling into camera, “You know, cancer really taught me to value life.”  “My friends and family mean so much more to me.”  “I really know what matters now.”  Positive outlook stuff you’d find on coffee mugs or posters with kittens at the ends of branches.   Like it’s assumed that somehow surviving cancer is a good thing.  Not being dead comes with an added bonus of the key to meaning of life and knowing who to bank with!

The casting director calls me into the room. Surprisingly he is a very young man, and sweet.  We share a little laugh a little at the absurdity of the casting.

He starts to tape,  “So, when did you find out you had cancer?”

I smile right into that camera and say, “funny thing, it was right before my 39th birthday.”  (It wasn’t funny.  Well, it was kind of funny in an absurd waking up on your birthday with a piece of your boob cut out and having people over for strawberry cake anyway type way.)  “But I guess the timing for these things is never good.”

“Did you have chemo or radiation,” he asks.

“Actually, no – (crap, maybe they’re going to think that’s not bad enough) so I offer, “I had a bi-lateral mastectomy,” (oh, that was probably too graphic… too much information?  Positive, the positive…)

“I love my doctors, I was really blessed.  My doctor, Dr. Kristi Funk is actually Angelina Jolie’s doctor (why would I say that?  Am I actually cancer name dropping?)  “She’s great, she always saw me as a well person, not as my disease. I don’t know how I would would have made it through without her positive attitude from the start.”  (That’s all really true, and she’s funny and beautiful and when she took it personally that they couldn’t save my right areola I felt like the luckiest one nippled girl in the world.)  Breathe.

“What about your friends and family?”  he asks.

I look above the camera to the right, like I’m retrieving a meaningful memory, “Well, you really find out who your friends are.  The people who you are close to become much closer going through an experience like that.”  (And some people suck.  Some people are like, “shit cancer!” like it’s somehow contagious, and you don’t hear from or see them until you track them down at their place of employment because you happen to need a bottle of wine and know he works Thursdays and say, “what the fuck – I thought we were friends!”  And then feel horribly guilty because you know that when people react ‘badly’ it’s probably because of their own fears – that as soon as you say ‘cancer’ it goes right into that deep core of fear in the center of us that says – that if it happened to you it could happen to them, and taking it personally is pointless and lonely.

Aloud I say, “Yeah, you learn to really value those people,” and deliver a wise meaningful look worthy of a turban chemo scarf  wearing City of Hope poster woman right into that lens.

And then there it is – “What have you learned from having cancer?”

“What have I learned from having cancer?”  And I know what I am supposed to say – but I hesitate….

Awkward silence, he prompts me again as if perhaps I missed the question, or maybe really never thought about it.

“What have you learned from having cancer?”

(That it’s horrible you fuck nut!  That there’s no real way you can put it in a a pre packaged/bumper sticker/coffee mug/window decal/positive sound bite bank selling kind of way.

That it sucks!  That you think why me?  Am I going to die?  Is it somehow my fault?  Am I supposed to make meaning out of all this myself or am I – as I deep and dreadedly fear, someone who is supposed to make meaning for someone else – like am I freakin’ Barbara Hershey in Beaches when I want to be Bette  Middler or Randy Pausch from the Last Lecture or Susan Komen.  No!  It’s a deep dark place that late at night you can think it would be easier to die then fight with the hard grip of something that is bigger and more terrifying than you are. That it’s even worse because it has come from within you – your body has created it and the whole thought of whether you will win or lose the battle has to do with whether you believe you will or not.

Is that positive enough for you buddy?  Pal?  Can I open a new checking account?

But out of my mouth comes,

“What I learned from cancer… Is that cancer didn’t teach me anything.  The meaning of life doesn’t come pre packaged with any experience good or bad, it’s  a choice, a choice you can make every minute of every day, like Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”  I wouldn’t recommend cancer to anyone as a way of learning that lesson, I am sure there are much easier ways.

So that’s what I say.  Smiling, looking directly into camera.

And I booked it.

No, I’m kidding, that was soooo mean.  Honestly, I didn’t even get a callback!

I’m not sure why.  (Did they want a more difficult cancer?  Maybe an amusing chemo story or two?)

All I know was that it definitely wasn’t because of my hair.

Busts Baps Torpedoes

I recently read that the whole thing about Eskimos having 400 different words for snow was “a linguistic hoax.”  I thought this was pretty disappointing until I got to the part of article that pointed to a study of  the Sami language of Norway, Sweden and Finland, that said the language has as many as 1000 different words for reindeer (never challenge these people to a game of Balderdash, right?)   It made me wonder, from all the thinking and writing I’ve been doing about that area inside the shirt – how many words are there?

Here are the 140 I could find.

I think my favorite is “chuberteens,” or maybe baps…no, definitely love apples…

What’s yours?

Bust, bosoms, assets, mammaries, bazookas, boobs, boobies, bouncers, boulders, bristols, cans, cantelopes, chesticles, chi chis, cones, fooblosity, fleshy milk cartons,

funbags, funbubbles, gazongas, girls, headlights, hooters, honkers, jugs, knockers, melons, milk duds, money makers, rack, saggy bags, sin cushins, snuggle pups,

sweater puppies, tatas, teats, tits, titties, twins, dirty pillows, udders, who whos, bahama mammas, balloons, bawagos, big brown eyes, blinkers, bobambas, bodacious tatas, bombs, bosom, bosooms, boulders, Bristols, brown suckies, bubatoes, yabbos, baps, bust, busts, Cadillac bumper bullets, casabas, chest, chuberteens, cones, gedoinkers, doorknobs, floppers, fried eggs, fugis, gams, gazangas,

jungle, golden bazoos, winnebagoes, mounds, mountains, marshmallows, Maguffies, grenadoes, hogans, honkers, itty-bitty-titties, jalobes, bazongoes,

bazookas, bazooms, bazoos, ninnies, nips, nupies, pair, nice pair, beamers, starter buttons, tads, handles, tatas, tittyboppers, bee stings, jiggers, jobes, rolling hills,

cup cakes, cushions, dairy section, highbeams, hinyackas, knobs, love apples, love monkeys, luscious scoops of flesh, twins, love warts, watermelons, wazoos, whoppers, winnebagos, yabos, mambas, mammas, mamms, massive mammaries, mazabas, melons, milk factories, Mcguffies, mosquito bites, perkies,

melons, milk factories, Mcguffies, mosquito bites, perkies, pillows, pimples, pink chewies, rack, set, smosabs, stacked, torpedoes, twin peaks.

New “Things to Say” & Revised “You Didn’t Really Need to Say That” Page

Thanks for the feedback on the “You Really Didn’t Need to Say That” page.  I think I might have tweaked a few people who might have said some of that stuff – but hey – I did too.  And now I know.  Plus, say someone you don’t like comes down with something you’ll know exactly what to say!  I kid!  That’s just mean.

So here is the “Things to Say” page followed by the revised “You Really Didn’t Need to Say That.”




You Didn’t Really Need to Say That

Here is a page from the book I’m working on.  Most of these things were actually said to me.  Including some that were more bizarre, but too specific.  Like the perky perky health aid at my gyno’s last week who said very condescendingly, (and very perkily) “Did you have your first mammogram yet?”

Let me know if you have anything to add!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Inconvenient Romance – Part II

When the weekend comes, with my mother gone and no immediate doctor’s appointments, I decide to drive north of the city and stare at pine trees until I can breathe again.

I get to the Old Bear Inn toting the disgusting herbal tea and a few self help books and check my email – and this from him, “Obviously both of us are going through a difficult time, which is why I think we need to hit the pause button for a while.  I’d like to move out of my place and file the paperwork, so I can at least feel like I’m officially single.  So maybe we give it a break for a few months and then see where it My reply is both genius and full of humor – I ask him how he can possibly dump a girl with cancer?  And propose, “let’s be friends.”  He replies “100% yes on the friends.  Dinner next week?”

But I’m ok becuase I’m thinking – it’s a romance – that’s what this is.  It’s a romance and every romance has its challenges, and it’s ok – and I’m ok.  This is the part of the movie where the lovers are separated due to war or bad parenting or the time flux continuum, or careening taxi cabs – like in An Affair to Remember and I’m Deborah Kerr on the couch, and eventually he’ll show up  – like Cary Grant full of grace and regret and apology.

We enjoy a summer of careful non dates.  Great restaurants, I wear heels and dresses and he opens doors.  He is lovely; fascinating, interesting, engaging.  He doesn’t talk about his divorce –  I don’t really talk about my cancer. Things are not really going as planned, tests and retests, another couple of minor surgeries.  Physically I’m feeling fine, and  the good news is I won’t be leaving town any time soon – I won’t need chemo or radiation, the bad news is the whole left breast needs to go.   It sucks, but I take one day at time, annoyed by the fact that the trivial phrase so annoyingly quoted to me by one of my doctors, “everyone’s cancer is different” has turned out to be true.

Then late one summer evening we duck out of the Hollywood Bowl early – because everyone knows how Westside story ends.  We walk down to Hollywood Blvd where I put my feet in Natalie Wood’s tiny footprints and my hands in her hands.  We walk along the sidewalk stars and he opens up about his soon to be ex wife.  He admits that up until maybe this very moment he didn’t believe it was really over.

In the cab on the way back to our cars he asks how things are going for me and I admit I’m getting a mastectomy – surprised myself how hard it is to say the word aloud.  He takes my hand and I squeeze back – missing that natural point where I should just let go then I have to keep squeezing until he has to get his wallet.

We let ourselves in through the gate at my friend’s house in the hills where we have both left our cars.  They are still at the Bowl watching the Jets and the Sharks rumble while we put our feet in her infinity pool.

He tells me he wants to visit me in the hospital after my surgery.  I decide that is a lovely idea because my best friend will be there, flying out to care for me for the week following my surgery, and the hospital is right near my favorite restaurant.  I make reservations for two at Rustic Canyon.  They have the most amazing faro fennel mint salad, and it’s not like I’ll be good company after 7 hours of surgery.

I’ve just been wheeled in from recovery when she rushes into the room with all my bags from the car, “I saw him in the parking lot – it had to be him, and he has a Bloomingdales Big Brown Bag.”

I’m mortified because I have awoken to discover that when you are on IV narcotics you have to wear something called a nasal cannula.  It is a sort of a flesh colored bumpy textured oval shaped piece attached to a breathing monitor tube stuck into your nose – basically it’s a plastic scrotum sack hanging on my lip.

I tell her to turn down the lights and attempt to remove ballsack long enough to try to look casual, but you can only have it out for 38 seconds before the alarms go off –  if you then blow directly into it you’ve got about another minute.

In the Bloomingdale’s Big Brown Bag is a cashmere throw.  A buttery tan cashmere throw.  Come on!  A guy doesn’t do things like that for friends.  He likes me.  I know he likes me – and he did say “a couple of months” and it’s been a couple of months!  I sink into a morphine induced good night’s sleep with visions of his blue eyes dancing in my head.

The next two weeks I don’t remember a lot.  Valium is a mind eraser.

I hear nothing from him.  That I do remember.

When I finally do get emails back he uses ellipses a lot and has mostly vague responses.

Then  “Hey… (dot dot dot)  I probably should be telling you this in person, but it is not an easy one.  I’ve started seeing someone, so that of course makes things complicated.  I hope you understand and can forgive the wimpy email.”

I wait a week and email him back.  I write that I understand, that if someone had walked into my life I wouldn’t have said, “I’m sorry, I can’t date you, I’m not dating a guy named D.”  I do call him a ‘Jackwagon’ for telling me he wasn’t ready to date and tell him I’m looking forward to hearing from him one day when he isn’t such a ‘hot mess.’

But I wonder – would he have been my hero if I had really asked him to be?

Recently I came across an article from the New York Times, okay – Oprah Magazine, where the cancer heroine’s advice was to; “Fully embrace the vulnerability of the situation.  I would never have gotten through it if I hadn’t allowed people in.”  The article goes on to report,  “that even included a new boyfriend, who became so intimately involved in her recovery that she allowed him access to her innermost self. The two became engaged in the I.C.U. and plan to marry next year.”

If I had been honest, if I had backed up that dump truck of fear and loneliness and neediness would the deep truths and tragedies in life been some sort of alchemy for real love like it was for Oprah chick?

What if – what if I had asked him to wait with me in the dark lobby of Cedars Hospital – eerie and empty, late on that Memorial Day Sunday night?  What if I had called him when I was waking up at 4 in the morning during those the weeks of testing from the dreams of doctor’s telling me they had found the cancer in my stomach and bones and brain and that there was nothing they could do and that I felt that somehow this was all my fault?  What if I had asked him to help me with the fertility injections, the weeks of sticking needles in my stomach, or what about that night we were wrapped together on his couch, – what if I asked him to feel the hard apricot pit in my breast as Luke Skywalker destroyed the Deathstar behind us?

Maybe, but I guess I’ll never know.

I do know two things: one, whether it was fear or prudence, I don’t regret my “you can’t handle the truth” executive decision.  If I had unloaded on him, and he had bugged out  – I would have fallen apart, into the abyss – into the darkness of what was happening in my life and that wouldn’t have been pretty.

And two: if that could happen once – if he, love could find me in that surreal and wildly imperfect state when I needed it the most – it could happen again.  I guess it’s hope.  It/he gave me hope – in the darkness – it’s that Saint Francis of Assisi saying, “All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.”

And how can I be resentful of that?  I can’t be mad.  This surprises nobody more than me.

An Inconvenient Romance – Part I


So all week I’m wondering – when’s the best time to tell your date you have cancer?  Definitely after you order – maybe during appetizers – do you let him finish his entrée? After cocktails.  Yes, definitely after some cocktails.

All I can think is that in a couple of years he’ll be sitting at a dinner party and someone will be telling a story about “the worst date ever” and he’ll be like – “no, no – I’ve got a story!”

I met him May 21st – the day after I found out I had ‘the big C’, at my friend Mike’s annual Opening Day of Polo Season Picnic.  Mike doesn’t play polo, we don’t know anyone who plays polo, but he’s a chef and he likes to theme his events.  It was also “The Day of the Rapture.”  The irony was not lost on me.

I had spent a sleepless night on my friend’s couch – surrounded by baby toys and fear.

Being around people helped – nothing they said did. That morning I got up and put on a white dress, pulled my hair in a pony tail and drove to Will Roger’s State Park because,  one – I had rsvp’d.  Two – Mike’s an excellent chef, and three – what the hell else was I gonna do?  I just found out I had breast cancer!  WTF?!  Nothing I could do wasn’t going to feel surreal – why not be eating grilled tenderloin and farmer’s market salads under giant eucalyptus trees while ponies played polo?  And – there would probably be pie.

So there I was pointing out to everyone at the linen covered picnic tables the fact that clearly, none of us had been raptured – and there he was – across the table, a couple seats up: adorable.  No ring.  And smiling.  At me.

So I ask him, “Why is it that Jesus didn’t want you?  What did you do?”  He looks for a second like he is considering answering me honestly – his blue eyes amused, then thoughtful… and I am confused or maybe stunned.  The last thing I expected to come across – on ‘picnic/rapture/just found out I had cancer’ day was an adorable, eligible single man.

After the polo match – I convince him to join us at a friend’s wine tasting that most of the group will be attending the next day.

I’m still in a little bit of a state of shock – and by the time he gets to there I’ve eaten my way through the cheese and charcuterie display and tasted all the wines.  Twice.  Maybe three times. He offers to drive me home we end up at Westside Tavern eating burgers, drinking wine and shutting the place down on a Sunday night.  He is smart, adorable, and easy to be with in a way I stopped thinking was possible after one too many bad match.com dates.

The next day he emails me with the offer, “Would love to take you out – more of a proper date.  One with a corsage, some sort boating or horse carriage ride and fondue.”

God he gives good email.  Even his punctuation is good.  I respond with equally witty replies.

There is no way my week couldn’t be going better – except for the cancer thing –and doing all the stuff you do when you find out you have cancer.  I call my agents and tell them I have to take “a cancercation.”  I go to the Tao of Wellness for acupuncture and start drinking copious amounts tea that looks and tastes like it was made from stuff scraped up off of a forest floor.  I realize that stuffing myself self with delicious food is a really poor choice for a body that needs to be fighting cancer and decide instead to freak out and eat nothing but organic, sugar free, gluten free dairy free, whole foods.   I get support from close friends – don’t tell anyone else, – it’s cancer and there’s no way to gracefully insert that into casual conversation.  I tell a few people inappropriately.  Because.

I’ve decided to move back to the East Coast for radiation and possibly chemo following my surgery which is scheduled for the following week so I’m busy giving everything away and packing everything else in my apartment into large plastic bins.  I don’t know when I’m leaving and I don’t know when I’ll be back – another reason I should probably tell my date.

That Friday night we are sitting in a tiny romantic Trattoria in a table too close to the restrooms and we’re almost done with our entrees by the time I tell him.

“I know,” he says.  He knows – how could he know?

“You told me last week.”

I told him last week?  Now – I remember having the thought that it wasn’t fair not to tell him – when we were safe in his shiny warm Lexus flying down the empty freeway late Sunday night – I also remember a burgers and cheese and wine.   A lot a lot of wine.

“You don’t joke about something like that.”  He says, “everyone’s got their stuff.   I’m in the middle of a divorce.”

He takes my hand and from the restaurant we walk around the block.

The sprinklers are going off all over the sweet Larchmont neighborhood and he’s careful to guide me around the sidewalk puddles and spray.

When he drops me off at my door he gives me the sweetest kiss.  I breathe him in and touch the back of his short hair.  I cannot believe my good fortune.

We both cancel our Saturday plans and have a next day date.

I bring sushi to the barren landscape of his apartment.  His ex has taken most of the furniture.  It’s empty and echoes.  On the couch we make out like teenagers and don’t watch Star Wars.

Then everything starts to happen in a cancer avalanche – my mother arrives, more doctor’s appointments, more packing.  Memorial day is Monday, the lumpectomy the next day, and then the day after that – my birthday.

But all that week – the sweetest, funniest, emails.  I don’t mention the “C” word, but he knows, I know.  And I know he knows – and he’s still there, and the fact he agrees to drive out clear on the other side of Los Angeles to celebrate Memorial Day in my friend’s tiny apartment with my mother their 9 month old twins is too good to believe in.  He helps me grill on the tiny porch – we are a team – responsible for perfectly cooked chicken.

He comes to my incredibly awkward impromptu birthday party and brings me a Kate Spade scarf – from the Kate Spade store, wearing whimsical purple polka dot socks under his expensive business suit.

I think I might be a little in love.

Part II – Next Week

 

 

Porn Porn Porn Porn Porn – Sitnspin – Comedy Central Stage 2.9.12

It’s late on a Tuesday night and I’m in my apartment surfing for porn: more specifically – breasts.  At first I Googled “pretty breasts,” and mostly got pictures of Scarlett Johanson, girls in tank tops, and many many websites of Sarah Palin photoshopped topless.

I’m researching – because I’m getting an involuntary boob job – the big “C.”  I had a mastectomy because lefty was trying to kill me.

I’ll be fine.

My Doctor, who I love – her name is “Tiffany” – which I really feel is unfortunate name for a world class plastic surgeon.  Tiffany is a cheerleader/waitress/stripper name.  She is pretty, academic pretty – 40’s, no make up with, cornflower blue eyes, wire rimmed glasses and always always a great dress with heels and a stylishly tailored doctor’s coat.

So Tiff is reconstructing me.  It’s a bizarre process that involves tissue and muscle expanders that I am learning about as we go.

Here’s something I didn’t really digest from all the literature I didn’t read – part of the process of making a boob from no boob would involve getting my breast inflated (which isn’t nearly as much fun as it sounds), on a weekly basis.  What happens is Tiffany taps into my temporary expanda-breast with a pile driver sized needle – and then squeezes in a hundred cc’s or so of blue solution with this thing that is like a cross between a syringe and a super soaker squirt gun – and my boob gets bigger – like filling a water balloon.  (Trippy – right?  And kind of cool – if it weren’t a body part.)

She can find the needleport because of a magnet in my breast – I found this out when Tiffany pulled out a little device which I totally recognized, “is that a studfinder?”  She said, “yup,” and turned around and ran the device along the wall until we found the best spot to hang a picture frame.

And here’s another thing I didn’t really get about my build a boob project; that in order to stretch everything out to accommodate a perfectly reasonable C sized implant, appliance boob would have to be inflated to an inconceivable 600cc’s – the size of a baby’s head, and I would have to sport this massive lone hooter, riding high and wide – complete with pokey edges and seams – like a football in a skin bra, – for 2 ½ months before she could cut out the Tupperware torture device and replace it with a regular, soft, squishy, implant.

Now, my breasts have always been unenthusiastic B’s – which is fine – that’s why God invented Victoria’s Secret push up bras – but now in the presence of her unnaturally high and incredibly round sister – righty – looked sort of dejected, pendulous – Porn Boob and Sad Banana.

So – if I ever wanted to have prayer of them looking like they could live in the same bra – implant in righty.

This is when she suggested I might pick out a pair.  “I just want them to look alike,” I said.  Apparently boobs are like snowflakes, all unique and special in their very own way.  Tiffany had a binder in the office I could look through, but suggested I might want to do a little researching on my own, bring her my preferences.  She says she puts them up on the OR wall and it makes her quite popular.

Okay, – I had promised my friend Sarah Zankou chicken lunch for driving me to my appointment that day.  Now we had a project – porn!  So we strategically triangulated our position – the Doctor’s office – newsstands likely to have porn, and chicken.  Figuring two breasts in hand were worth a stack in a stand we hit the Zankou on Sepulveda Blvd and headed over to Centerfold International Newstand on Fairfax.  I got a Hustler, 2 Playboy’s, and a Busty Beauties and Jugs because it came as a Big Boobs 3 pack for $8.99.  The bonus magazine sandwiched in the middle?  Over 40.  From December 2010.

The $42 magazines were a bust – no good just plain frontal nudity – the women were bent into all sorts of weird shapes with hot pink dildos or penises or other women’s faces in the shot.

So I, of course, had to resort to the net – and was frustrated in finding only the lame selection of Scarlett Johansons, girls in tank tops, and fake Sarah Palins.  Until I figured out – there is something called “Google Safe Search” – and you can take it off – then let me tell you – it’s a whole new world out there.  Now when I Google “pretty breasts” I get thousands of sites and blogs with options to view “big tits, firm tits, perky tits, smaller tits, teen tits, outdoor tits, secretary tits, pierced nipples, larger nipples, pointy nipples, puffy nipples, big light colored areolas; with dildos and paint guns, appliances, fruits, gourds, pasta, sports gear, automotive tools, and farm equipment.

Women, – naked in bedrooms, in dorm rooms, basements and attics, in houses, on rooftops, in foreign countries, – at the beach, on haystacks, by koi ponds, perched on rocks, in poppyfields, and wooded glens, and my favorite: in a clock shop; mostly looking angry, surprised, or Russian.

There is an entire website of  just “bent over schoolgirl uniforms”!  And lot’s of guys leave reviews and critiques – like one by fantassdick182 who said quote “of Kaylee’s ‘undercarriage,’ I mean the pussy and anus area, I haven’t seen anything that flawless since a butterball turkey, too cute to put into words.”  But at least you tried fantasdick182, at least you tried.

It’s “a whole new world” of tits that’s bizarre, gross, hilarious, disgusting and sometimes pretty hot.

I have this great new drinking buddy.  She’s a pretty blonde, black nerd glasses type chick who is completely coincidentally a surgical oncologist.  She friggin’ loves her job.  She prefers working on Gastroenterologic cancers – gut cancers – the more complicated, undefinable, and incurable, the better.  We were sitting at the bar at Delanceys eating fancy pizza and working our way through all the beers on tap, there are 23, when she tells me that before she was wrist deep in a spaghetti of small intestine she did a plastic surgery rotation and never wanted to do it again – it freaked her out that they would sometimes do 5-6 elective cosmetic boob jobs in a day, strapping woman after woman – their arms straight out in a tee shape, inserting implants then raising them upright – a crucifix in the OR and everyone would step back and cock their heads – then look from the breasts – to the pictures, to the breasts, then they would lay the woman back down and repeat the process until they felt they had achieved the desired results – great titsthese great porn quality tits – that I will soon have, even if I did have to get cancer to get them.

Cancer – fucking worst word in the English language.  It’s always unhinged me – even before my diagnosis, and made me do stupid OCD things, like: I never drive on Santa Monica Blvd between 14th and 20th so I don’t have to pass the John Wayne Cancer Center.  I don’t eat any yogurt if it has that stupid pink ribbon on the lid.  It makes me think of how I absolutely won’t watch Beaches or the ending of Fried Green Tomatoes – Mary Louise Parker wasting away in that bed leaving Mary Stuart Masterson to raise her one armed kid.

I think of being 15 up in my best friend’s pink bedroom late at night, her desk lamp on, her little radio playing “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” while we are both pretending to sleep the night they carried her mother out, dead,  bundled up like a baby in a black and rainbow afghan.   After years of breast cancer and months in a hospital bed in what used to be their dining room – I hadn’t even recognized her that afternoon.  Her mouth gaping open, her eyes vacant.

Suzy’s bedroom, her Chessie Railroad System kitten poster thumb tacked on her pink wall and “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.

So – after a few cocktails and several dedicated hours of searching, by the wee hours of Wednesday morning – I had found and printed out pictures of 12 pairs of really “pretty breasts.”  My ideal pair are rounded up from the bottom – but not porn globey on top, well, maybe a little porny.

I trust Tiffany will be able to build them.  If you want to weigh in on my new sweater puppies I put the pictures up on my blog – CancerCation.  I’m also taking suggestions  – so let me know if you need some help undoing that Safesearch.