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