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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bad Bindi, Bad!!

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.

shine on you crazy diamond...

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.

In short(s): I live in an ivory tower, bitch!

I don't know what to make of this. Dr. S. is retired and only seeing select patients on Tuesdays, which means he's seeing like 16 people max. And he always led me to believe, or so he said, that not only do we have a special, mutually fulfilling relationship, but that he was fascinated by my particular case in particular, it being a rare semi-psychotic yet totally mundane phenomenon. In short: he made me feel like I belonged to a small elite of super patients, worthy of his Punjabi wisdom, cultivated by not just Yale but many a stay in an ashram (over the past ten years he's regularly escape back to India). I hate to say "in shorts" twice, but yes, in shorts: Dr. S is my guru. So, imagine my horror, when I saw two of his other patients this past Tuesday, two fellow tribesmen of the fellowship of the SSRI. Patient A. trots out of his office, barely lifting his feet off the ground, tattooed from head to toe and wearing a jean jacket that could use some severe laundering. Then bursts in Patient 2, slamming the door and answering her cell: 'Why You Callin' Talkin' Stupid?' Hangs up. Phone rings again: 'Yo, don't be fuckin callin me like that, fool.' I'm just living in my ivory tower (ivory towers are a little racist, I know, but Patient A is white, and obviously, Dr. S is brown and my husband is heavily tattooed, so eat that!), but I really feel kinda weird now.

Happiness is a Butter Dish

As I happily reported to Dr. S today, I woke up feeling happy. After seven days of almost total anhedonia, I feel like a normal human being ready to do stuff, such as exercise, by an onion and leeks, get shit done (see adventure in Glendale below) and not want to stab myself in the eye. Total figure of speech. Totally. Dr. S, also happily, in his South Indian accent, agreed that I seemed less "bummed out." I was startled by the colloquialism from this elegant, erudite and eloquent man, but I let it slip. Then he quoted in Hindi a yogi, who recommends not wasting your heart on the many, i.e. shallow, meaningless exchanges with lots of acquaintances, but lavishing your love on the few. Like the yellow butter dish from www.anthropologie.com. Alas, the yellow one is already sold out.

Girl, Interrupted

I'm feeling a little unhinged these days, even though Dr. S. is firmly planted back in the cesspool of my life. And even though fall has finally arrived with crisp mountain air and dying leaves. And even though M. couldn’t be any yummier. What's up? I need me some shopping therapy and a big glass of red wine and a day of watching Twin Peaks while eating pie.

Guilty Pleasures

Shoulder pads on the other hand can be way cool. But why am I thinking so much about fashion? Why am I not thinking about preschools and vitamins and baby wipes and bottle feeding? What happened? Am I maybe becoming my shallow, materialistic (vs. maternal) self again? Have two years of intense work in the Zen school of Dr. S. accomplished nothing? Case in point: $20 dollar exercise class at glam studio followed by shoe shopping at Zara and an overpriced Latte at Le Pain Quotidien, while stowing M. away at daycare. And he was clinging to me leg this morning. Can we say GUILT?

Where is Dr. S.?

I fucked up. Dr. S. is not returning my call. Because I cancelled a session 2 weeks ago. And I was a coward and had A. call him. And then I was scared to call him. And now he probably dropped me as a patient. Because, after all, he is retired and was only seeing my out of the enlightened goodness of his yogic heart. But no more. Every day I'm a little worse. Every day I crumble a little. What will I do without him?

Spite

Dr. S. is so Indian. He kept referring to my Mom as an old woman. My mom is 60 years old and not at all matronly. He is just as presumptuous as other people, despite being a PhD-holding psychiatrist and meditation expert and whatnot. I thought as you evolve toward higher consciousness, you see things more clearly, i.e. with less Avidya, but we are all and remain all human. He assumes, for instance, that A. is offended in his "manhood" if I don't "allow" him to spite my mom a little. Or rather, I said I know that his real reasons for not wanting M. to sleep in my parents room is not concern over M. but to spite my mom. And Dr. S. said it's ok to allow spite some sometimes. To keep A.'s manhood intact.

Crackers, Jack!

I ate a whole box of whole grain crackers last night. They were meant for Milan and were supposed to last all week. I ate them the way Homer Simpson eats the contents of Marge's jewelry chest after taking an Ambien. I ate them at midnight when I couldn't sleep and the whir of the air conditioner was driving me to stare at the dark walls. I ate them after drinking a glass of water first. I ate them after I took a Klonopin, which only helped in that I ate the crackers slowly and dreamily, like a lazy machine. I woke up with crack pieces sticking to my sweaty chest.

I told Dr. S. He laughed. Then he asked: Did you eat them very fast? Me, no slowly. He: Like one after the other. Did it take 1/2 hour? Me: no more like an hour. He: when you started, did you know you were going to eat the whole box? Me: are you kidding me? hell no. just one or two. Or five. Me: this is the first time ever I've indulged in what you guys call binge eating. He: yes, it's very funny if you can laugh about it. Me: this is what I think of myself: I. am. a. fat. pig. and. I ate. like. a fat. pig. Then I had to laugh. He laughed too. It's good to be light-hearted about this, he said.

And gave me a prescription for dopamax, just in light of the seriousness of the situation (i.e. 1400 calories to the box) and some prescription strength folate, so my feet don't fall asleep. Well done.

Dr. S.

I forgot I actually do have another hero or two: Dr. S being one of them. Even though, it turns out, he buys into the stereotype (can one even call it that?) that Jews are miserly. And I was talking about a fRENCH PERSON! But Dr. S is elderly; and from South India. And he meditates a lot. Still. Jews. And saying this to a German. Very uncomfortable. Kept thinking, to distract myself: 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store.

Cranky Caller

Nothing much to write about when your modus operandi is survival. And yet, yesterday I was okay. And today I am still okay, even though I cried a little at Dr. S's office. He offered that I can call anytime and be silent on the other end. I can call him in the middle of the night and just breathe into the receiver. Obscene, isn't it?

Meditate on This: Fat

For the first time in my long and fruitful relationship with Dr. S. he doesn't get me. By saying that I hate myself and think I'm despicable I am not denying fat people basic human dignity. All I'm saying is that I hate myself in this fat suit. I don't deny fat people the right to live or the pursuit of happiness. By all means, go for the cakes and eat them, too. I'm just saying, that for this former kitten, being fat poisons my life and my relationships. I cannot be free and spontaneous or even witty and clever. I'm bound and gagged. That's all I'm saying. But he's an enlightened being living in quasi nirvana where we don't even have bodies. I cannot blame him. When he looks at me, he sees right into my soul.

Blindness

This being the beginning of the New Year, I of course honor the tradition of unattainable resolutions. In that spirit I told Dr. S. today that once and for all I want to lose weight. I told him I hate myself, am disgusted with myself, don't recognize myself etc. You get the idea. I also told him that I compulsively seek out fat people in crowds. Just to loathe. He came up with a brilliant idea. Losing weight at this critical juncture would be the absolute worst thing to do, because it would buy into the lie that I'm not worth loving. I said, but being fat makes me want to kill myself. It's like, going blind would make me want to kill myself. Or being in a wheelchair. The latter two being number 9 and 10 on my scale of suicide-worthy scenarios. Being fat number 2. So, it's like saying blind people don't deserve to live? Like we might as well just round them all up and shoot them? This is not what I'm saying, I said. I just want to lose weight. I'm tired of being fat. All he said was, we have a lot of work to do.