but I need the eggs

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

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

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?

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?

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

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?

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!

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.