Dinner Guests

K. asked me, OK, which five dead people would you invite to your dinner party? Let's see: The Marquis de Sade, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Dorothy Parker... This is so hard. Andy Warhol? John Lennon? Gandhi? Paramahansa Yogananda? Sylvie Plath? Jean-Paul Sartre? I think I would definitely need talkers, people who can hold forth in a salon setting without killing each other with the salad forks. And Miller and Nin as a combo might be kind of lame. As to alive people: David Bowie, Bret Easton Ellis, Francis Bacon (is he alive?), Nithyananda, Joan Didion.

Friends are Not 4ever

Just when I thought I lost a friend, I gained six. But it's hard. I was talking to J. and she described to me a fantastic setting of kicking it with the kiddies, eating, drinking, smoking and fantabulating while the little ones run around in their jammies, and it's all good vibes and good fun and the kids are totally included. And I'm sad, because I don't have that and don't know if I ever will. But what I do have is D. with stories of selling John Lennon his first car and spying on Twiggy in her kitchen and X and Y and Z and U and K, all smart and artists and intellectual and fun. And I just once again need to learn to be OK with what is vs. what is not.

Fecal Matters

As M. is upstairs banging his head against the crib I'm talking to my Mom on Skype. Says she of the great advice: It's time for potty training. And if he makes a nice poop, you reward him. I'm like, reward him with what? With chocolate! But mom, Milan doesn't eat chocolate. Well, yeah, that poor little thing never gets to eat anything good. Never even gets a cookie or sweets. That poor little thing. I'm going to send him a care package. And my Dad goes, yeah, you can show him pictures of other kids pooping so he will get used to it, and you know he can eat "Kinderschokolade." It's especially made for kids. Yeah, it's so good for you, I had seven fillings by the time I was 7. That might be a bit hyperbolic. But still.

Just a Lazy Saturday

I really didn't need another "LA = Hell" book, but here I am waist deep in "I'm Losing You," and only half a box of Ritz Crackers and two cups of coffee eased the pain of chore whores, frequent fisting and pedophilia. Why am I reading it just when I'm going off antidepressants? And why does it feel so dated? (Snapple, Victoria Principal for chrissake---I'm lucky I even remember her). It's definitely no Day of the Locust---yet still it was somehow befitting by comatose state on the couch today. It's the kind of day when I cannot bear music or looking in the mirror, so bring on the Babylon.

Award-winning Books

Milan has only two award-winning books. The rest are random gifts and tomes I picked up at the thrift store down the street from Dr S.' office. They are 29 cents each. Does he have a realistic shot at future brilliance if all he reads was published by random houses I have never heard of? And will I go to hell if I don't use 7th Generation dish soap?

The Fat Lady Sings

The time has come. After getting into an altercation with my Harley-driving, noise-loving lowlife neighbor across the street, during which I called her a bitch and she called me a fat cow, Dr. S. has finally agreed to allow me to come off the R. I'd rather be called a vicious cunt or an ugly whore, but fat cow had me curled up on the sofa sobbing for three hours. So now, my task at hand is devising ways to prevent me from becoming a raving lunatic as the soft cushioning of the drug is being peeled away, minute by agonizing minute. When you first take R., after a very short time, you feel like the most normal, happy person in the whole world. You sleep at night and wake up in the morning thinking of coffee instead of Sylvia Plath vs. Hemingway ways to go. You can take care of your baby without wishing it were dead. You can have friends and conversations and make plans that don't involve knives. Then, after a few month of bliss, you notice that---egad---you have gained thirty pounds, but you reckon being fat is superiors to being suicidal. Then the fat just stays and next thing you know you're a fat cow and that's that. The fat lady sings.

Angry Russians

After almost a week of avoiding I. we finally made up, and he even reluctantly agreed that on overcast days the colors of spring flowers were quite nice in California. Good thing we have so many overcast days.