Bad Things

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

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Arrivederci! So long, Purgatorio!

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

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

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

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

Flies

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.

Child Abuse

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!

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.

Two State Solution

"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

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?