Harvard Is the New Black!

OK, fine. I will give Dr. A a chance. After all, he did go to Harvard. He crosses his long legs just so, underneath his black power painting. I must examine it more closely on Tuesday. Hm, I wonder though why so many women in the waiting room (OK, three!) were fat. Does he hate females? I mean, there isn't a psychiatrist on the planet who hasn't got some issue. And a little Seroquel here and there in the wrong hands...

127 Hours

I would rather see a man cut his own arm off than see Dr. A. on Tuesday. But the movie theatre cannot write me a prescription for Xanax. Bummer.

Laugh and Live

Everybody knows this: people who have a sense of humor live longer and are less likely to get cancer. Turns out, though, if your sense of humor tends toward the dark and sarcastic, you don't. Nipped that one in the bud.

My Friend Nora

I was almost eaten by jealousy tonight. It's odd, there's really only one person in the world who causes the green-ey'd monster to come crawling out. Why can I not be happy for her? I don't even understand what my hang-up is. Dear world-traveling, beautiful, insanely blessed friend, I wish you well. And, no, folks. It's not Nora Ephron. My friend is much prettier. Although Nora did look "cool" there for a little while, in the sixties.

Happiness

Welcome, mania, my dear friend. You haven't been around for a while. Today you popped in with the wind. I inhaled and exploded into sunshine. Bright yellow flowers grow in the west and in the east, happiness is an autumn day. Hikes exploring wild sage and rose quartz rocks. The sweet, milky smell of Milan in the morning. Smiles from ear to ear. Love bursting at the seams. Who needs a doctor?

Hope Is a Pudding

I fell in love with a raw chocolate pudding this weekend. I've been thinking about it nonstop, zoning out while sifting through inane intern correspondence at work (a team player? Say it ain't so!). Then, this: a note that piqued my interest, bold and brief. A blog. A smart, creative, unique girl and: her vegan chocolate pudding recipe posting, complete with avocado. There's hope for the future craft of writing. And Butterbaby has her pudding recipe. The intern, alas, she's to good for us.

Bad Things

My Mom's advice: Just don't think about "bad things." OK.

Hurley

I live and breathe all things "Lost." And while Hurley isn't exactly my favorite character (albeit cuddly and cute in a teletubby way), I think about him a lot. Especially at night while wanting to eat the bag of raw cashews I bought for Milan. All Abe has to do to prevent me from engaging in fat-perpetuating behavior is to whisper "Hurley." We even thought about putting his face on the refrigerator. But instead, it features Dr. S, who by the way called me on accident and left a lenghty voicemail I couldn't decipher.

Obama, MD

I've been so preoccupied with how shitty of a doctor I think Dr. A is (he hasn't proven himself to be shitty yet. I just think he is shitty.), and how much he looks like Obama, that I ended up dreaming that Obama was my psychiatrist. And of course, he couldn't help me, because he was visiting India and had to figure out what to do with the Bush-era tax cuts. So my little anxiety problem was pretty low on his to-do list.

Darker My Love

If I had to date, which I don't, there would really only be two options. And both are already taken. Russell Brand and Sacha Baron Cohen. You know, tall, dark, handsome and hilarious. Come to think, Keira Knightly would do, too. She's neither tall nor funny, nor a man. But in a pinch... Sorry, Vince!

L Strikes Again

L. is my friend of sorts, but she is making my life miserable. Without knowing it. Mostly via Facbook. Because you see, I too am a former model with cheekbones and lips. I just got caught by a wicked witch and turned into "fat chick." This week it got so bad, I was watching "Lost" and there was John Locke, who had his paralysis healed during the crash. They flashed back to a scene where he was still in his wheel chair and I gasped. This is me, I thought. These sixty pounds are my handicap!

Palin Power

Yesterday, when I was nursing a panic attack hang-over (almost ran out of hipster Echo Park hair salon with a head full of foils), I asked myself: what would Sarah Palin do? What would a woman do who really is a total tea party toggle head yet feels she is qualified for the presidency? What would it feel like to be so confident, so cocksure, so brazen, so NOT haunted by anxiety and hunted by the past? What would she do? She would roll up her sleeves and run for office. So, as the walls turned black at the Sears photo studio and the merchandise threatened to whirl around me like a tornado, I held on to Palin Power. And it came and went.

Dr. A

Butterbabies is back after a two-month hiatus. I've spent some time licking my wounds after Dr. S retired. I felt too fragile to lash out, even to myself, too broken to think about fall fashion or fat jokes. But butterbabies has rested long enough. So, without further ado, let us introduce Dr. A, an overeducated, black, fay Harvard man with a limp handshake who has a black power painting in his office. Just this and various Harvard degrees. Nothing personal. He reeks of academia. Here the patient is truly a patient, i.e. less than human, defined by his condition, confined by her prescription. I asked him, in so many words: can you help me? He can't, but he wrote me a new prescription for R. He's good looking. Pale skin. Obama-esque. C'est ca.

Fat Like Me

A long time ago, I accidentally walked into a room full of fat people. Someone noticed and said: I don't think you belong here. I weighed 118 pounds and had terrible anxiety. The person showed me down the hall to another fluorescent lit room where a sob session was in full swing: EA, or Emotions Anonymous. I hated every second of it and never went back. The other meeting I had happened upon was OE, or Overeaters Anonymous, and today at noon in Pasadena things will come full circle. I'm not a closeted overeater, but last night when I could not sleep and our living room must have been 90 degrees, I ate the last of Milan's crackers. And, as everyone knows, 200 extra calories a day add up to 2 extra pounds a month. So here I am, taking the most drastic of measures. The chocolate truffle would be proud!

Boss Lady

I wonder what kind of work Anna Wintour has had done. She doesn't look like a fullblown facelift. Injections for sure. I actually could relate to her in The September Issue. I used to be an ice queen, too, before I became a humanitarian Joan of Arc kind of mentoring figure. I need to sharpen my claws again methinks, and become boss lady. After all, my life's purpose isn't making galleons of unpaid interns happy.

Woman at Work

Sometimes I have to pinch myself and remind that nagging little Butterbaby that I have a room with a view (of the Hollywood Hills), a well-paying, reliable gig with loads of freedom to do whatever I please pretty much, with a doorman who is sorry I am fat and another who has a crush on me, plus a psycho alcoholic neighbour who's a lawyer of sorts and who parks too close to my car (sometimes crashes INTO my car but pays for it) and a French boss who is sophisticated and insane but who thinks I am pretty cool overall, having delivered some of our biggest traffic pushers. Yes, things are good in wonderland, missy. If only I hadn't eaten raisin bread and tons of cheese for dinner, things would be just swell!

Did You Check Your Serotonin Levels Today?

Note to self: stop looking at pictures of L. who is skinny and fabulous and whose life is a cabaret of joys. It's not her fault that you have a problem with your serotonin levels, dude. It's not her fault she's a former model with legs up to here and good muscle tone. Stop looking at her FB profile! That would be a start.

What the Bleep

Dr. S. keeps calling because he wants to give me "that book." But I have already closed that chapter, him having deserted me and all. Do I want the book? I have one of his Osho books that he let me borrow. I never gave it back to him and I don't think he remembers. God, I can be such an asshole.

Blazers?

When blazers came back, I thought I wouldn't be caught dead in one. But then, this past spring I got one. Problem is, I already recycled it, because I didn't think it would be a trend that lasts. And they're all over fall, along with floorlength black skirts, leather string chokers, combat boots and other '90s goodies! SO, what do I do, get another one? Ah, the dilemmas of the sometimes-fashionista!

Skin Deep

Pore size does matter.

Truffle Makes Me Tired - No Truce

Sometimes in the morning, esp. after window shopping and people watching on Larchmont, and generally whenever there's a spring in my step, I want to walk up to the chocolate truffle and say: Let us be friends. Bygones be bygones. Brother and sister in obesity we shall be, my rotund and shiny friend. And I picture me walking into the office building without averting my eyes to the latest economic headlines on that news screen above or studying the stained carpet and elevator doors. I would be able to walk into the building with my wings spread, with a certain nonchalant swoosh, and look the truffle in the eyes and SMILE. But then I remember him gesticulating with his chubby arms to impress on me the enormity of my situation, and I want to claw his eyes out instead.

Dior Not War

It's probably old hat news to my five faithful followers, but my dreaded intern interviews this week were suddenly illuminated by one fashionable candidate who wore a button that read "Dior, Not War" in a clean, unassuming font. Me wants it. Same intern also wore a chic tight blazer and his hair just so à la late 80s New Wave, with one side shaved, the other long, and a little designer bowtie and skinny jeans. What a fab blogging specimen he was, being picked up by the Huffington Post and writing about Porn Tumblrs. Yours truly felt inspired, uplifted, somehow transcended by creative juice energy of said freelancing 24-year-old would-be-internship candidate. Butterbaby wanted to run to Fred Segal's immediately, with a pit stop at Urban Outfitters, where she would not shop in the Mom section. CORRECTION: There is NO Mom section at Urban Outfitters! Anywway, somehow said intern made me want to completely renew myself from head to toe in the latest "it it it" accoutrements. Later that day, after a cup of coffee and a couple other interviews that were but disappointing, Butterbaby came floating back to earth and Target jeans (no kidding and unmanicured fingernails and general schlumpiness). Sigh.

Venus in Fats

My Dad is afraid of my weight. He keeps his distance. He mourns the loss of his daughter and the arrival of birthing, sweating WOMAN. He doesn't like the sound of heavy, of treading with might. He doesn't like the roar of femalehood. He likes small wrists and delicate swan necks. He likes his Venus in fur, not in rolls. So do I. But hey... give a girl a break once in a while. Or a hug and a kiss. Get over it.

Top 10 in August

1. St. Germain plus Champagne
2. salmon spaghetti
3. lazy beach days
4. True Blood
5. Musk by Kiehl's
6. crocheted headbands
7. Larchmont Blvd
8. Matcha au lait with strawberry
9. M's princess skirt
10. Pride and Prejudice, finally

Power of How?

What the feck am I going to do without him? Who am I going to call when the refrigerator starts talking to me and the walls fall apart? He says he trusts in my abilities to stay lighthearted and to recover. Do I? Can I go to Fresh and Easy and buy prepackaged lunches without running into the parking lot and watching the emptiness? No no no, there is no emptiness. Only fullness. Go read some Eckhart Tolle or something. Go on.

Dr. S and his Footprints

I wonder how many Dr. S entries there will be from now on. He's been, aside from M. of course, and A., THE most important person in my life for nine years, saving me from possible doom and a life in a Glendale mental hospital (just kidding, but sounds dramatic, i.e. good). As the corny saying in his office said: some people leave footprints on your heart. It's been one day and already I cannot remember the whole saying. How willing the mind is to forget. But forgive? I'm angry at his desertion. But all there is are IKEA pillows to beat.

Dr. S Calls It Quits

Dr. S is no more. He didn't die or anything but he may as well have. He retired, deserting ME and all of his patients. He wants to write books and go to ashrams. So do I, but you don't see me retiring.

Rebirth of Uncool

We were sitting at Chango's when some dude walked by with a skateboard. It was striking because dude was in his 50s and wore ginourmous black Frankenstein shoes. Dad says: these shoes are terrible. I says: yeah, but they make him feel cool. Dad says: what do you have that makes you feel cool? I wanted to say M. But really I have nothing that makes me feel cool these days. Dad says: your sunglasses? Me: no, these are my uncool glasses, I left the cool ones at home. Which was true. And so sad: I'm so not cool.

Old People

Old people go to CVS early to pick up their drugs. So don't go early. They pay with checks and like to chat.

Are You Pregnant or are you Just Happy to See Me?

It's a bummer that Giuseppe (whom I dated for two weeks when I was 14 and he was 13 and who still looks smokin'), when I met him for a drink on Tuesday pointed at my STOMACH and asked: are you sure you can DRINK? As an answer, I ordered a mojito and sucked it down like the evil baby-killing psycho that I am. Sad, though, that my weight is at an all-time high in the middle of the summer I turn 40. Meh.

Hate It in a Non-Hate-y Kind of Way

I haaaaate Lucky magazine in a non-hatey, kind-of-lovey kind of way: business suitiness. Need we say more? It's at once incredibly playful and at the same time utterly stupid in a Lucky magazine-y kind-y way.

Thetans

I got a message at work. A girl named Theta (Satan? Thetan?) called because she knows I need assistance. What, is she some psychic freak? I do not need spiritual assistance or any other kind of help. Or rather, I need it but do no want it. Maybe she means assistants? But the message clearly read "assistance" and E. said she sounded really weird. And that name! I'm being pursued by a telepathic scientology freak. This hasn't happened since the crows and the Sai Baba people followed R. and I around. Eek!!!

Thetan - Wikipedia: the concept of thetan (pronounced /ˈθeɪtən/ THAY-tən) is similar to the concept of spirit or soul found in other belief systems.

Top 10 in July

1. Dennis Hopper at MOCA
2. Champagne cocktails
3. The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck
4. Soccer on the new TV
5. Mucha above my desk
6. the arrival of the "sausages"
7. dreaming of rain
8. floral prints
9. purple-red lips
10. foie gras

Neck in Question

I wonder if wearing a heavy, knotted, silver, long necklace makes my face look thinner. I wore it this morning and A. said I look nice!

Phenter-Mean!

I must be close to being better (i.e. officially all sane), because on Tuesday, I could really laugh with Dr. S. about the fact that I gained six pounds while taking the diet drug Phentermine. It's supposed to decrease your appetite; instead it increased mine, the way heroine did for A. and made him all rolly-polly. Instead of heart palpitations and agitation, I felt a deep calm that lasted all weekend, until I stopped it cold one morning after stepping onto the scale. Now, that's some serious irony Echo Park hipsters will forever elude. I will gild the bottle and place it on my altar next to shiva the destroyer.

Fat Compliment

Yesterday, as I exited the office building, the OTHER doorman started talking to me. The short Mexican one who is super friendly and always smiles and waves in a kind manner. We chatted and introduced ourselves. Then he said: I didn't know you had a baby. I saw your car seat. You don't look like you have a baby. I asked him why I didn't look like someone who had a baby, figuring it must be because I work with G. or because I wear high heels or look business-womany somehow. And he said, as the golden light of God shined down on us and illuminated us like two holy figures on the Ganges river: You're not fat. Most woman who have baby, they are fat like me. You look good. I almost floated to my car. My feet didn't touch the ground, so silly felt I. What a totally random, silly, untrue thing to say. But how sweet! I am NOT fat in the eyes of I-already-forgot-his-name-but-will-always-remember-his-eyes!

Rock Stars

Milan is officially a little boy. The other day, I found a small rock in the dryer. He must have had it in one of his pockets. Ah, to be 2 1/2 years old!

Peace

Dr. S., whose socks I haven't commented on in a long time, reminded me on Tuesday, when I felt like I had squirted a large lemon into my eye, that all I need to do is be playful and lighthearted. It took the Buddha years under a tree. But I just needed a kind word, 2 minutes and an iced latte. I've been playing ever since and life has been a breeze. As Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi said to his student who wanted peace: Take away the I, take away the want, and you are left with peace.

Handstands are Overrated

What is it with people walking into a beginner's yoga class and first thing they do is a handstand? For some reason it irks me to death.

Gay Fruit

Funny, how all the little Latino fruit stands inadvertently celebrate gay pride with their rainbow-colored umbrellas. I celebrated my own gay pride today as I listened to John Waters talk about irony. Irony is elitism, he said. In Albania there is no camp. Where people are suffering, there is no such thing as it's so bad it's good. Wise words, my friends.

A Case of Nasty

So I said, when I saw the gift, which was actually awesome, despite looking like a clown dildo, "I thought it was, uhm, I thought it was, uhm, it looks like .... something NASTY." What the #$%&? Do I have Tourette's or something? Am I 5 years old? I must apologize. Or will that make it worse? What would Miss Manners have to say about blurting out stupid shit to well-meaning, gift-giving awesome people who have no reason for said gift other than being totally cool and nice and awesome... and yours truly is a total idiot for even using that word in any context. I mean, what a stupid-ass, Janet Jackson-ass kinda word is this anyway? Nasty. I need help.

Boho Boohoo

I just read somewhere on the stupid MSN.com that peasant tops are so Sienna Miller 2005. What the feck? I just got three, and my dear compadre, the beautiful D. wore one last night, and she is a style queen who knows what's up! Or maybe it's just the boho chic mom outfit du jour because the cotton breathes so nicely and absorbs toddler slobber so well. Ah, who cares. I'm rocking one as we speak.

New Shoes, Baby!

Baby's got new shoes so to speak. Butterbaby needed a new outfit, so she got one with hipster birds. She hopes that doesn't scare away her 1.29999 readers. It was time to update to a more stylish template, folks. Plus, all that blogroll crap or whatever it's called should be on the right, because that stands for the future in the brain, whereas the left is female and thus passive. Or something. My brain is zippadeedooda-ing today.

Coffee is No Joke

I. just told me he read that coffee prevents diabetes. Very cool. All I have to do now is to continue imbibing and I can stay fat. Yeehaw.

Truffle Suffers Bed Bugs

Karma has bitten the chocolate truffle in the ass. I overheard him and another man talk about the truffle's bed bug problem. He has bed bugs! He must have imported them from France. Hehe.

Hello Wine

Hello Kitty sells wine now. Greater souls have blogged it well. Just thought I should mention it. Hope it's as good as the Ed Hardy sangria. Hey, I'm NOT kidding.

Anxiety Eats Your Brain

I should sue anxiety. Anxiety killed my sense of humor. Anxiety is a double murderer because it also killed my joi de vivre. I'm feeling mighty litigious. I've never thought about it before, but I really think I have a good case against it. It should get at least life without parole.

Interns

Interns are making my life miserable with their lack of education, common sense and attention span. Pay feckin attention when talking to me and don't uload a paragraph that says ??? or a sentence reading: the XYZ hotels opens in 2008. No, the problem is not that it should be "is opening." The problem is that it's feckin 2010 already!

Free English!

Let it be known that as of today, June 8, 2010, I will give up all claims of having perfect grammar skills and writing proper English. I will get with the times and TTYL, go OMG when necessary and even LOL. I will stop capitalizing proper nouns like paris and jacuzzi and t rex and hyphens will have to eay shit too. so do commas and em dashes and quotation marks and really any kind of punctuatiuon whatsoever i will also stop caring about transposed letters and typos can go feck themselves too the entire english language is up for anything goes partty animal hey i'll take it any way i can get it because i am as of today an idiot no i did not get my citizenship but i have decided to lower my standards just to make life easier for myself. hey if ulysses can do it or was that james joyce. whose the writer and whose the book?ah who cares!!!!!!!!

Merry at the Marriott

Palm Springs is for desert foxes, golfers and gay bikers. Not for this mamasita. Especially when holed up at the JW Marriott in 108 degrees without a mojito or an air conditioned suite to escape to. Yes, the enire "city" (collections of resorts, a Ralphs and a Starbucks) was without electricity during half of our stay, which is a REALLY LONG TIME. Complete claustrophobia. Nothing like being stuck in the desert without espresso. And sparkling water. And an A/C. Other hotel guests (said desert foxes) seemed unfaced, concerned as they were showing off their perfectly sculpted and starved bodies in the "drunks pool" and at the bar, where you could still get a Corona---only if you showed ID when looking under the age of 38! Unreal. Strict Marriott policy, which is idiotic because the day before they did not care and did not ask for IDs, so they are being inconsistent motherfuckers. And may I add "inconsiderate," being that it's feckin 100 plus in the shade and my toenails are curling themselves to a crispy frie.