ButterBaby

but I need the eggs

2011-03-15T13:50:00.000-07:00

Although he is 38 years old now, A. still hates Woody Allen. I was reading this Tina Fey article in the New Yorker and it made me laugh out loud, so I just had to read aloud to A. I did and he didn't get it. Thing is, the piece I read was not a Tina Fey original but a little tidbit in the same article from "Annie Hall." At least A's consistent!

Judge for yourself:

This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs."

Burberry Incognito

2011-03-15T13:46:00.001-07:00

My Mom wears huge black Burberry sunglasses (which I, coincidentally, bought for her) and she says that she loves the feeling of not being seen that you get when you wear huge black Burberry sunglasses. Today, as I browsed the racks of cheap knockoff wares at --- gag --- Forever 21, I felt much the same way.

Juicehead

2011-03-15T13:27:00.000-07:00

ButterBaby is thinking about retiring sarcasm and embracing lovingkindness. How about looking at the coffee cup half full for a change? Oops. Empty again. Drats. Anway, ButterBaby thinks that unless she can invent South Park, which has already been invented by Trey Parker and Matt Stone, and much better than ButterBaby could have envisioned it, she better calls it quits.

Reasons to Retire:
1. ButterBaby can't type anyway
2. flowers in the spring are so lovely
3. now that ButterBaby is more alkaline due to compulsive green juicing, she just doesn't have the venom it takes
4. tsunamis
5. blogging is a dead language, much like Latin

On the other hand, the world is still populated by doucheboats that need to be commented on.

Image source: http://www.brooklynartproject.com/photo/668279:Photo:28402

Who's Your Owner?

2011-01-04T19:58:00.001-08:00

Speaking of compliments, while I generally got zero from the American white male population, middle-aged to older, especially short, Latino men seem to zoom in on me. But the moments are usually clouded by strangeness. Case in point:

you a looka good.
excuse me? you a looka very nice today. who's you owner?
excuse me?
who's you owner?
I'm sorry?
you owner?
what?
you married?
uh, yes.
then you husband, he's you owner!

Drew Barrymore?

2011-01-04T19:52:00.000-08:00

I wonder if fat people in general get a lot of compliments. You would think that we don't, but somehow (oh joy!) I must be an exception to the rule. Says parking lot attendant, who usually ignores me with a frown, to other parking lot attendant, who's usually super friendly: she looks so much like Drew Barrymore. Yeah, you really do. You get that a lot, huh?

Now, call me foolish, but I take that as a compliment.

My friend, Dr. A

2011-01-04T19:45:00.001-08:00

Imaginary conversations with Dr. A go like this:

Dr A: Hi, how are you?
Me: I'm good. How are you?
Dr A: I'm WELL, thank you.

Long silence ensues.

Me: Not to offend you, Dr. A, but did anyone ever tell you you're a shitty ass doctor?
(You know, this is a pretty easy way to make money.)
(Has anyone ever mentioned that you suck, Dr. A?)
(Dr. A, you don't care much for your patients, do you?)
(Hm, Dr. A, I'm really impressed with how much you care.)
(Gee, Dr. A, thanks for putting things into perspective for me, you arrogant fuck.)
(Dr. A, how many black folks graduate from Harvard on average?)

Got Meth?

2011-01-04T19:33:00.001-08:00

I wanted to tell Dr. A that I'd rather have my stomach stapled then try amphetamines. Instead I said that I Googled IT and didn't like the potential side effects. He shakes his head gravely, however with a faint superior smile at the corners of his mouth. He says, like to a child: I'm glad you Googled IT. However, my job as someone with extensive clinical experience is to put everything into a context for you. I want to say: how's this for a context? woman with lifelong panic disorder and hospitalization should perhaps, just maybe, possibly, not do meth. Instead I say, coyly: I couldn't NOT Google IT. He says: that's what I'm here for. Huh? Then, he scribbles something, gets up from his chair, walks toward me and goes: here. the other one won't be good anymore. they are only good for 30 days. And without any other words exchanged, he dismisses me with yet another prescription for a brand-name psychostimulant medication composed of racemic amphetamine aspartate monohydrate, racemic amphetamine sulfate, dextroamphetamine saccharide, and dextroamphetamine sulfate. As the saying goes, coffee is for pussies.

Harvard Is the New Black!

2010-11-18T22:29:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-18T22:25:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-18T22:22:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-18T22:13:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-18T22:01:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-16T15:00:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-13T10:55:00.000-08:00

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

Hurley

2010-11-13T10:47:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-13T10:42:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-05T13:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-11-04T18:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-11-04T17:52:00.001-07:00

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

2010-11-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-26T10:20:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-21T11:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-08-21T11:23:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-08-14T11:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-12T12:56:00.000-07:00

Pore size does matter.

Truffle Makes Me Tired - No Truce

2010-08-12T12:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-12T12:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-03T18:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-03T18:05:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-07-29T15:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-29T15:34:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-29T15:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-29T15:26:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-15T16:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-07-15T16:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-04T14:05:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-04T13:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-04T13:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-01T15:44:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-07-01T15:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-01T15:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-15T17:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-12T14:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-12T14:45:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-06-12T14:40:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-12T14:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-10T12:14:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-08T17:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-08T16:57:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-08T16:53:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-06-08T16:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-08T16:36:00.000-07:00

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.

ROSS again

2010-05-29T15:03:00.000-07:00

On my last weekly trail of tears to ROSS in Glendale, which wore one big Armenian frown---of course---I saw there, amid the shoe chaos on the shelf, a shining pair of Sperry Topsiders. I didn't get them. I am late on the trend (they are so 2009) and mama's got nothing to wear them with. What, bindis and hippie tops? You must be kidding!

Starbucks is a Nice Place for the Elderly

2010-05-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

I rush in and out of Starbucks almost every morning with single-minded purpose. How nice, though, to be an elderly retired man getting a New York Times, a large drip and a bagel. Something so satisfying about that slow pace, the leisure, the plain coffee, the crossword puzzle and business section. I'm projecting, of course, and by no means do I want to be an old retired man. But...he had smiling crinkly eyes and seemed happy and you could just tell, he had no issues with his blood pressure---unlike me, whose blood boils with anxiety.

Intern X. Strikes Again

2010-05-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

J: do you have blood on your hands?
Me: I didn't cut very deep.
J: ouch
Me: What is your problem with me having a problem with the fact that X. (let's call him Forest) is utterly incompetent? His hearing aid is not affecting his brain!
J: maybe he's a genius?
Me: like Stephen feckin Hawking? (editor's note: whom I adore)
J: no handicap jokes!

We agree to disagree.

Killing an Intern

2010-05-24T19:21:00.001-07:00

Standing at the door with a gun in my hand, staring at his ear, staring at the... crapped out page, which intern X. ruined. Problem is, intern X. has a hearing aid and thus I am not allowed to fire him, because that would be against the disability act or whatever. So we have conversations like:

Me: This is an image; therefore it cannot be an h1.
He: uh-huh.
Five minutes later.
He: this strikes me as an image!
Me: choking sounds

we try again.

Me: Can you give me three book covers 400 pixels wide?
He: J. Sylvie wants me to give her three book covers. How many pixels wide?
J: ask Sylvie
He: how many pixels wide?
Me: still 400
he: uh. ok

I get three book covers that are 400 pixels tall.

So?

2010-05-22T15:38:00.000-07:00

Ah shit. I started a blog with the word "so." So it has begun. So, the decline. So, Lord shed thy grace on me. So, now what?

Arrivederci! So long, Purgatorio!

2010-05-22T15:32:00.000-07:00

So, after a month in Dante's inferno, I decided I didn't like the stages of hell anymore and went on R. last night. I slept like the east wind, fast and furious and uninterrupted by birds, bees, bears. I slept like a hurricane and when I woke up I was in the eye of the storm, albeit bit cotton mouthed. Today, I was able to play with my son. To let him dictate my every move without the need to straighten out the paintings on the wall or to run out of the house screaming. Nice!

Writer's Block

2010-05-22T15:30:00.000-07:00

I’m having a severe case of blog block. I have not been able to write anything. At all. Ever since I dropped the Remeron and dropped 7 pounds, my mind has been obsessing over a few choice thoughts and I cannot think of anything else but: how do I get Milan to eat? How do I get Milan to sleep? How to I keep him from coming out of his bedroom 50 times at night? Should I have more coffee? Should I take another K.? Should I go back on Remeron, even though I’m so happy to see cheekbones for the first time in two year? Ugh. This is frustrating. I have read enough self help books to know that we humans think about 15 thoughts every day and I definitely can tell what my 15 are, and they are not original. Damn brain. Damn writer’s block.

Joe's Fault

2010-05-16T15:19:00.000-07:00

I've developed the bizarre, rather ghettofabulous habit of cutting out the fragrance strips from fashion magazines and collecting them. The problem is, none of them smell good on me, maybe because my blood is too acidic from drinking too much coffee. There we go with the coffee again. It always comes down to Joe, Joe, Joe.

Belle of the Hair Ball

2010-05-11T16:33:00.000-07:00

Our house would be a lot cleaner if Abe and I weren't so stressed out. The hair balls I collected today could have stuffed those sausages they're using to mop up the Gulf of Mexico oil spill with. We're suffering from major alopecia, which is making me feel apoplectic. And like Edie Bouvier, I'm a person predisposed to apoplexy. Ah, the belle and beau of the hair ball dance.

I was dancing when I was aaah
I danced myself right out the womb
Is it strange to dance so soon
I danced myself right out the womb

Gerard Butler = Anxiety

2010-05-06T16:55:00.000-07:00

Anxiety means eating too many animal crackers (really good with coffee, actually) and hearing sirens and the turtles I got rid off. Klonopin also means zoning out and dreaming of Gerard Butler, the chubby version, having sex with a young girl on a rock in the water on a Greek Island. WTF?

Flies

2010-05-06T16:52:00.000-07:00

Flies have learned to fly a lot like African killer bees and have been tormeting me for a few hours. Until one landed on my shoe and I saw it for what it was: a disgusting, bug-eyed fly. Flies + bees = flees.

FiP - Faces in Places

2010-05-06T16:42:00.001-07:00

I've been seeing faces in places since I was a kid. If I were a crazy post office or donut eating and chess playing kinda (the two MUST occur simultaneously, otherwise you are NOT that kinda person) person, I'd sue that credit card company. Saw a naughty one with a crooked little smile on a tail light this morning. So cute. Was playfully winking at me. My parents used to be humored by my anthropomorphizing everything, incl. bath blankets, socks and the coffee table, when it was set just so.

See the master at http://facesinplaces.blogspot.com/

Child Abuse

2010-05-04T15:52:00.000-07:00

I forgot to bring Milan's blanket to daycare yesterday, and instead of driving home to get it, after consulting with my Dad (go figure!), I drove to work. Bad mommy!

Envy is...

2010-05-04T15:36:00.001-07:00

... being jealous of bloggers, Tweeters and Facebookers who do not worry about grammar and punctuation, having never heard of "The Elements of Style."

Bad Bindi, Bad!!

2010-05-04T15:27:00.000-07:00

My bindi got me in trouble on Sunday. Thing is, I'd never wear a bindi to yoga class or to Dr. S' office. But I did feel safe sporting a purple one with a golden flower, i.e. a "special occasion" one, to the little Sunday afternoon get-together at my goddess friend's lovely home. Problem was I needed Chambord for Champagne cocktails, and when we finally found the only decent liquor store in what seems like all of ole Eagle Rock, the person behind the counter just had to be Indian. Of course, he addressed my third eye only, with a forehead wrinkled in disdain (his, not mine) while convulsing the lower left corner of his lip in an ever so faint amused tremble. The agony! I just wanted to tear it off, run out and yell, fine, I'm an imposter. Obviously, I'm no Hindu princess. I'm German for chrissake. But I just paid for my limited deluxe gift edition of Chambord and left with my tail between my legs. Meow.

Plastic Posse

2010-05-04T15:01:00.000-07:00

I haven't cared about anything enough to want to write about it in two months. And then I see SJP and her pussy posse on buses and billboards around town, airbrushed to look like tweens. How offensive? Is this what it takes to get 30- and 40-something women to see a shite, guaranteed-straight-to-DVD, fluff-and-fold movie? Touching up those three hags (plus cool Samantha) beyond recognition with plastic faces and plastic-smooth limbs and not even a 19-something fine line in sight? I'm deeply offended as a woman that in this country we are not allowed to age. Not even a bit. Even vintage Barbies look older!

Two State Solution

2010-04-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

"Excessive Anxiety" (i.e. being a total idiot) means listening to an NPR program on the two-state solution with the window rolled down while driving by a Hasidic Jew. And worrying that he wonders why this chick with a side braid is listening to something that concerns perhaps not even him. While really he's thinking about dinner or a parent teacher conference or getting his side curls trimmed.

Parental Perspective

2010-04-27T10:58:00.000-07:00

Having a 2.5-year-old in the throes of the terrible 2's puts everything into perspective, such as the stainless steel IKEA knives rusting in the drawer and the dust bunnies frolicking in the hallway. I don't care that there's an exposed nail where the picture fell down and broke or that my refrigerator has smears of tiny little hands. Uhm, whom am I kidding?

Fogey

2010-04-25T15:34:00.000-07:00

I was wondering with great anxiety whether having a hotmail account dates me. Shall I switch to gmail like all the hep young things. Oh no! What to do?

What's-Her-Face?

2010-04-25T15:25:00.001-07:00

Another author published a book about in which she writes about you know, what's her face, doing the same thing as you know, what's her face. After she woke up her eyes looked almost puffy yet saggy like what's her face's.

A sad state of affairs, the publishing world.

Note from the author: what's her face is NOT SJP, just a writerly convention of weak scribes who "write like they talk, you know."

Make Believe

2010-04-25T15:14:00.000-07:00

When I was little, my grandma would receive these fat, thicker-than-a-phonebook "Quelle" (the 'source') catalogues. I would cut out pretty women in sundresses and lingerie, pretty girls in shorts and braids, handsome dark, tall men to go with them, accessories galore like gloves and hats and jewelry; and then of course sofas and coffee tables and lamps; refrigerators and ovens and microwaves; and lawnmowers and toolsheds and pretty sheets and fabrics and throws. There was nothing I couldn't have, nothing I couldn't make mine. Today, the same exercise with the latest issue of Elle didn't yield the desired results, just an empty need, a gnawing humger for Balenciaga's Bauhaus sandals and Jessica McCormack jewelery. And overall a feeling of want, of not having enough, of being a dope for not having the millions to buy the million things I crave, which aren't even real except for on the pages of a magazine---just like those pretty girls with their hats and refrigerators and Louis XIV imitation chairs.

shine on you crazy diamond...

2010-04-22T11:14:00.001-07:00

Life is a paradox. You won't find anyone who thinks more about what other people think than yours truly, the sarcastic bitcher. Mom has been telling me all my life not to care, while modeling not caring about others at all, which backfired in that Butterbaby cares more than necessary. Dr. S. continues in this fine tradition, but I will always compare myself to better moms, skinnier/prettier girls, more accomplished writers, faster thinkers, more kittenish kittens. You know who you are my delicious friends. But for the most part, 99 percent part, I leave my friends out of these comparison studies. I, important me, compare myself to perfect strangers. Not perfect as in perfect 10s. There aren't that many to begin with, mostly 7s and 5s, but perfect as in I don't feckin know them and why the f do I care what they think of my fat ass or why I’m crying behind my sunglasses on a sunny day or why I wear strappy heels with sweats. People are a judgmental lot though, so maybe that's why I worry. I mean, I'm given the road rage finger a lot. That should tell you something. But hey, at least I’m being noticed. Even if it's just my senior citizen driving style when M's in the back. Oh, ramble on, you crazy diamond. Thanks, Pink Floyd, for giving me the freedom not to make sense. Yummy Syd.

Out Of It

2010-04-21T14:40:00.000-07:00

Why are people based out of LA? We aren't they simply based in LA?

Sans Mots

2010-04-18T15:23:00.001-07:00

Gag Me with a Roast

2010-04-17T15:30:00.001-07:00

It's astonishing how many Japanese manga images come up when you Google the word "gagged." I'm all for S&M; it can be loads of fun when it doesn't involve the Marquis de Sade's kidnapped villager babies, but c'mon. If you need your meat all bound and muzzled, go have sex with a rump roast.

Meh

2010-04-17T15:24:00.000-07:00

Has butterbaby run out of steam for good? Nothing to say, eh? Cats got your tongue? Come on, say something? But all is quiet on the Western front. No Armenians to make fun of. Chocolate truffle is not misbehaving. The lawyer gives me compliments. The diner lady is not worthy anymore after she adamently told me that she refuses to make grilled cheese anymore. Not enough money in it. Hubby is cool behind his wizard beard and hipster striped shirt. And little old me wallows in depression like a motherfucker without my mojo. Meh.

Shopping Carts

2010-04-12T15:00:00.000-07:00

You can tell a lot about people criss-crossing the parking lot with their shopping carts in front of grocery stores. You can tell whether they're coming or going. You can tell by their posture. If they are about to go in, their stance is straight and their grip is firm. If they're done and about to leave the cart next to your car, where it will leave a ding, their gait is furtive, their stance stooped over slightly and their grip loose, like they want to let go off something dirty.

Orange County Noir

2010-04-04T15:11:00.000-07:00

I never recommend anything, mostly because most things suck, but this one is too good to pass up. Thanks NPR and www.akashicbooks.com! Quote: "Orange County Noir takes you for a hardboiled tour behind the Orange Curtain." When the NPR journalist voiced incredulence that dark things could be lurking in sunny Laguna Beach, one of the writers quickly reminded her of "Blue Velvet." Easy enough to figure out!

Wizards

2010-04-04T15:08:00.001-07:00

Says A., who knows all things scenish: The new Cypress Park hipsters with long hair and beards down to here are called "Wizards." How perfect. To be admired in their natural habitat, spinning records and sipping beer, at "Footsies," the former scene of my only bar crime.

Brain Sync

2010-04-04T15:04:00.001-07:00

Irony not lost on me: snacking on Milan's Trader Joe's multigrain crackers while listening with headphones to weight loss brain sync CD at 11:30 p.m.

Cinna-Buns

2010-04-03T15:38:00.000-07:00

There's a bag of Cinnabon toast rotting at the bottom of the hill that is our backyard. I hurtled it there after A. told me that's how Kirstie Alley got fat. It wasn't so much this simply fact, which he gleaned while sitting in the bathroom, reading one of N's tabloids. It is because he was comparing me to her. Basically calling me "Kirstie Alley trainwreck fat." I suppressed a few tears. Then I hurtled the toast as hard as I could. Thing is, I had never even heard of Cinnabon toast until I had some that very morning at B's house with a hardboiled egg and a cup of coffee. Such a fat fest of a breakfast, I know.

Can You Help Me with This?

2010-04-03T15:31:00.001-07:00

Armenians strike again in Glendale. This time at the Starbucks on Western. As I get my latte, 5 mins. late for my appt. with Dr. S., a tall, skinny, embattled looking man in a suit approaches me, holding up a large piece of paper. Out of the corner of my mental eye, I'm thinking he's going to ask me for money. Instead, he says: can you tell me who this is? His piece of paper is actually a pencil drawing of a clownish looking figure with a big nose. I say, sorry, I don't know. Again, he implores: can you tell me who this is? Me: I'm sorry, I'm running late. He drops the paper, looking crestfallen. Groucho Marx? I yell as I exit the Starbucks. Yes, thank you, he says.

Drugstore Pushers

2010-03-25T10:32:00.000-07:00

Drugstores like CVS and Rite Aid are funny places. I wonder who came up with the little compartments for lipsticks and polish, the ones that push the next product in line forward when you pull one out to look at it more closely. And then if you don't like it and try to push it back in, it's an almost impossible act. So the inventers---or marketing geniuses---figured, the potential buyer will go "oh, I cannot get this lip gloss back into its slot. I guess I'm STUCK with it and I need to now BUY it. Because if someone sees me trying to push it back in, and pushing the whole back row back, they'll think I'm putting back a USED product that is technically now MINE, simply because I pulled it OUT. So I just have to bite the bullet and buy it. Shit." Maybe that worked 20 years ago. These days, people just drop stuff on the floor or shelve it somewhere else, like in the diaper or hair accessories section. Too funny, these trickster marketing drugstore pushers!

Fish Lips

2010-03-22T15:22:00.001-07:00

After seeing a picture of myself from Friday's mom's night out, I've decided to toss all (merely topical, no injections!!! I swear) lip plumpers. I've developed a Meg-Ryan/Lisa-Rinna/Jessica Simpson trout mouth. Egads!

Jonesing for Joe

2010-03-18T14:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel compelled to state the obvious, such as that I'm addicted to coffee and the painfully reasonable reasons for knowing this:

1. First thought in morning: coffee. Second thought: Milan needs milk. Third thought: Shit, but I need coffee first. Fourth thought: but poor Milan! Guilty conscience ensues...

2. Fifth thought after first latte with lots of foam and cinnamon made by loving husband and which is so substantial, one ought to think it would suffice for a week: Man, I feel like this didn't even have caffeine in it. Asks: Are you sure you put coffee in mine or did you hog it all for yours? Hubby insists there was lots of coffee in latte. Grumpily makes a pot of coffee. 2 Cups.

3. Buys coffee con leche at daycare.

4. Gets to work and makes coffee.

5. 2 p.m. doubes over with stomachache, coffee-induced.

6. Has another sip.

Logan Aqua Freedom Brush

2010-03-18T14:34:00.000-07:00

This must be SPAM, given that the press release was not only written in ALL CAPS but also in bold, two major no-no's in PR writing 101. But here it goes: Lindsey Logan's Mom has released a toothbrush, the so-called LOHAN FREEDOM BRUSH. The person who wrote this SPAM is a genius, because I actually clicked on the mail piece and opened it, probably downloading oodles of destructive viruses. But I couldn't resist the siren call of the train wreck called La Lohan.

Abundance

2010-03-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

I have a thought and it materializes, completely mania free. How cool is that? I must be tapped into the source, the eternal well spring, the spice of life, the holy grail. Seek and ye shall find. Straight is the gate and yet those worthy shall enter. Visions of Hironymous Bosch and Breughel torture the inner landscape, then angelic light like a death and moving real fast trough the past to the inner witness, glowing with silent, immobile wisdom from the beginning of time. Prawns and jellyfish and baby sharks inside their eggs. Fantasia. The making of the glorious world. The second coming is near.

We Do It All for the Snooki

2010-03-12T20:51:00.001-08:00

Just to clarify: Having grown up in an intellectual, leftist upper middle-class household with ballet and music lessons and trips to Italy (or Greece, or Spain...) in the summer and winter sojourns to the Alps, I'm in no way biased toward those who grew up in a trailer park and try to rise above it buy buying fake Prada and Chanel off the back of a van or whatever to better themselves. People are people and we're all just trying to make it, n’est-ce pas? I mean it. I love all people deeply, including hillbillies in the Ozarks (i.e. my dear husband's nearest kin) and loud Harley-driving Snooki types across the street. I don't discriminate at all! Cross my bleeding heart! Just thinking about it gives me stigmata!

Heels Over Heads

2010-03-12T20:39:00.000-08:00

People who shouldn't wear 5-inch plus heels:

1. people with really large heads (like the red queen)
2. people with anterior head carriage (like most people)
3. really short people (not midgets, midgets are cool)
4. fat people (like me, but I wear them anyway)
5. people who can't strut their stuff
6. people who wear the wrong season's heel, like circa 2005 pointy toes (though they're coming back in turqoise soon. stay tuned!)
7. people who wear stripper heels shoes (unless they're made of this season's hot lucite and are platforms by a major designer; Fredericks of Hollywood is not a major designer)

There you have it.

Chanel for Sheneneh

2010-03-12T20:28:00.001-08:00

There's really no point in looking me up and down witha sneer in the elevator when you carry a huge screamingly fake Chanel bag and have ginormous acrylic nails with black tips and giant white Chanel logos. It doesn't say you're money, well-traveled and sophisticated. It says you grew up poor, that you really really like Chanel but can't afford it. And likely have a smallish brain. Coco would have turned in her grave. So who's the sad bitch, white girl? Heidi Montag fan or something? Truth is, I'm oddly jealous. I think I need to go vomit.

Time Flies like a Banana

2010-03-04T06:59:00.000-08:00

I write in a rush, with the furies riding in the crook of my neck, because any moment there will be a small pitter patter and a cry for milk. So I cannot censor and craft and edit and shape. Everthing must fall from my fingertips like ripe fruit. If they are not ready, they shall continue hanging, In the meantime, thoughts tumble and drop and rot on the ground. Ah, these toddler years are precious.

Exposed

2010-03-04T06:51:00.000-08:00

J. forwarded me a blog with some kid's hook-up page where she writes about being f...ngered and boo...ie-f...d and other such acts. And I was thinking of how much we expose ourselves today. In our blogs, our social networking sites, the terrible tabloids. It's like shaving your pubic hairs in public or masturbating in the marketplace (old term, I know, figuratively, mes amis!). What kind of world will this become where there is no privacy? There will be no mystery, no glamour. What good is it if all of your friends know all of your weaknesses? We think that's honest, you know, to have no secrets. And we think it's somehow cool, to be exposé, which means at least that we exist. If we don't expose, if we have no fame, even if just on a small FB page, then we might as well be dead. It saddens me.

Psycho House!

2010-03-04T06:46:00.000-08:00

Novel Aborted Part XVII: Yet another attempt to write "a novel" (not THE novel) has failed in its bud. They move into a rented house on a sunny day. The journalist in me goes crazy: What kind of house? A Craftsmen. Are Craftsmen two stories? Can they be? Or is it California bungalows that only have one story? Can it be Victorian? How likely is that? There are hardly any Victorians in LA, or are there? And I want it to be painted brown. And I want there to be an extra shutter, a fake shutter, with no window behind it. But do Victorians even have shutters? Do Craftsmen? Fuck it, I give up on page one.