Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book Page 3

  “Glad to see you’re still getting your fiber, Dad.”

  He smiled and put his arm out, roping me into a side hug. “If it weren’t for this one here, I’d probably have keeled over by now.”

  “Dad, please! Don’t be dark.” I kissed him on the cheek and went back to the fridge, maintaining my silent treatment toward the boyfriend in my kitchen.

  Then, “Babe, you remember Charles Dean,” my dad said. I had to make eye contact now, there was no way around it.

  “Hiya, Babe,” said Charles. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Charles Dean. Charles Dean? As in fourteen-year-old Charlie Dean from London?” I asked.

  “Well, a bit more like twenty-seven-year-old Charlie Dean who now lives in New York. But yeah, same guy.”

  I hadn’t seen Charlie since I was eleven years old, but a flood of memories came rushing back when I realized who he was. His dad grew up with my dad and we’ve known each other since we were babies. Not only was he one of my first friends, he was my first kiss. I was eleven and there was no tongue, but it was still totally my first kiss.

  “You’re so much hotter now!” Oh fuck, I really didn’t need to say that out loud.

  “Well, thanks!” Charlie laughed. My dad was thankfully tuned out, looking at his BlackBerry. I could feel my face turning red. “Lest you forget, I was just thirteen years old when we had our fling,” he said with a wink. “I’ve grown into my teeth since then.”

  “So random, you being here.” I tried to play it cool after my minor word-vomit mishap.

  “My girlfriend’s here for work, she’s an actress and she’s doing a few episodes of Californication.”

  “Oh . . . so are you cool with your girlfriend being naked in front of millions of people? I mean, I’m assuming she has to at least show her boobs to be on that show, but I’ve never seen it, so I wouldn’t really know.”

  “Well-done. She’s playing a ‘high-class escort,’ ” Charlie said, making air quotes with his hands.

  “That’s really cute,” I lied, putting some celery stems into the juicer. I had virtually no relationship with Charlie and yet the second he said he had a girlfriend, I was annoyed. I told myself to relax, New Babe doesn’t speak jealousy. “So, you’re in town for a while?” I asked.

  “Just a few days. Figured I’d take meetings with some West Coast clients if I was going to be in LA anyhow.”

  “Charlie’s a big hedge fund guy now, aren’t ya? Doing great for himself,” my dad said with a huge grin. He’d always loved Charlie, I remembered that. I even recall thinking Charlie might’ve secretly been my brother, which was weird because we’d kissed that one time.

  “I love the work, but it keeps me on a pretty strict schedule in New York, so just a short trip. And no offense, you all have a lovely house, but this town isn’t for me. There’s just so much—”

  “Please,” my dad interjected, “I never wanted to live in the face-lift capital of the world, but after almost thirty years, I’ve grown to love this fucked-up city.”

  “You have to be a truly open-minded person to live in a place like LA; I think that’s why I prosper here,” I said, pouring my juice into a glass and walking toward the door. “Hope your girlfriend becomes a big star. It was interesting seeing you, Charlie.”

  “Likewise, Babe. Do let me know if you’re ever in New York. Get my number from your dad, I’d love to catch up properly.”

  “You got it,” I said, almost out the door.

  “Oh, I quite liked your book. I read the whole thing in one sitting on a flight to London.”

  I paused and turned back toward Charlie.

  “White Girl Problems.” Charlie smiled.

  BTW: While in rehab, fueled by Adderall and Diet Coke, I’d penned a memoir over the course of forty-eight hours titled White Girl Problems by Babe Walker. It was basically my life’s struggles put down on paper. When I was finished writing it, I sent it to my dad as part of a “growth exercise” that Jackson recommended. Long story short, my dad (who is an entertainment attorney in Hollywood) loved the memoir, thought it could be a huge hit, and got my blessing to send it out to a few book agents and publishers. There was a bidding war for the manuscript, I got a book deal with a major publisher, it was a New York Times best seller, blah, blah, blah, the end, back to Charlie, juice, my kitchen.

  “You read my book?”

  “Yep. Loved it. I know I’m not your key demo, but I’d argue that we’ve had fairly similar upbringings. So, I’d like to think I get it,” Charlie said.

  “Thanks. Most people read it and don’t think that I’m real, so it’s nice to hear that you loved it.”

  With that, my green juice and I were on our way to the solarium, where I blessed my juice and had a quick meditation before heading to the Equinox on Sunset for a workout. Charlie’s smile lingered in my brain.

  Old Babe would never be caught dead in a gym, but New Babe was all about putting herself out there and interacting with the incredible, positive people found in sacred places like mosques and group spin classes. While at Cirque, I’d gotten into a workout routine where I’d basically do an hour of yoga, followed by an hour to an hour and a half of cardio (depending on my mood). My yoga practice was getting so solid that I could almost do a pinky-stand, which is major. Google it if you don’t believe me. Endorphins were my cocaine and Lululemon pants were my rolled-up hundred-dollar bills.

  I was on minute 173 of an 180-minute elliptical sesh, nearing the end of my meditation, when my mind started to wander . . . Jackson told me to “let the universe deliver,” but what does that mean, exactly? I thought to myself. What does the universe have in store for me, besides mental clarity and spiritual fulfillment? Will I get a job? If so, where? Do I want a job? Not really. Probably best to wait on the whole job thing for now. Charlie was cute. Will I ever fall in love again? Am I even ready to fall in love? The last person I loved made me insane. God, I miss Robert sometimes. He smelled so good and had the best teeth. And he was funny. I mean, not as funny as me, but I don’t really think I’d want to date someone funnier than me. I wonder what Robert’s doing right now? I wonder if he hates me. He definitely hates me. But I’m okay with that. Ohm.

  Just as I was pumping out the last few strides of my workout, I took three deep cleansing breaths, closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I saw one of the most shocking sights of my entire life: Robert was standing about ten feet away from me doing bicep curls. The same Robert who had broken my heart into a thousand pieces only two short years ago. Or had I broken his heart? Either way, I couldn’t believe it. These things don’t just happen, right? I took a sip of my oxidized, electrolyte-infused bottled water, wiped a layer of shine from my forehead, and casually walked over to where Robert was standing.

  “I can’t remember, has the restraining order been lifted?” I smiled. “If not, then I think I have five seconds to move one hundred and fifty feet away from you. But if it has, then . . . hey.”

  “Hi, Babe,” said Robert in a gravelly tone.

  God, he was so fucking sexy. “Hello, Robert.”

  “I thought you didn’t do gyms?” He smiled, putting down the thirty-five-pound weights he was holding and standing up to talk to me.

  Jesus, his arms were beautiful.

  “I’m trying to do more regular-people stuff these days,” I explained, adding, “Also, Fabio works out here, which I love.”

  “Yeah, it’s hilarious.”

  “You’re hilarious.” I gave him a coy smile, not flirtatious enough to seem like I was hitting on him and just solicitous enough to be fishing.

  “You’re pretty funny yourself. Nice yoga pants—namaste.”

  “Namaste, Robert. Namaste.”

  I had no idea what else to say next. So I plastered a huge, confident smile on my face and started slowly backing away from him.

  “Wait, where are you going? We should catch up. You want to get lunch later?”

  “Sure, I’d like that.�
�

  The universe delivers.

  three

  FULL. BODY. CHILLS.

  Last Season on The Babe and Robert Chronicles

  It was the winter of 2011. On a brisk and clear January morning, while at Barneys on Madison Avenue in New York City, Robert noticed Babe as she was buying herself a well-deserved little present (Céline purse). Robert was beautiful in all the ways a man should be. He was 6'4", a successful sports agent with a focus on the NBA, and he was immediately attracted to Babe’s energy. How could he not be? She’s a force of nature and her hair looked especially shiny that day.

  After discovering that he had a great sense of humor, a passion for designer menswear (in a straight way), and a massive but manageable penis, Babe was smitten. These two love kittens were on the path to romance. They dated for a few months, fell in love, and no one could stop them from the wedded bliss that awaited.

  But that never happened, because Babe morphed into the worst possible version of herself, known only as “Babette,” and scared Robert away forever. Babette is a psycho who completely takes over Babe’s life/personality/iPhone when she falls in love with someone. She’s the kind of girl who will fake a pregnancy, text a guy ninety-seven times in one night, wear Uggs to dinner, make a bucket list, and put “eat at thirty different Olive Garden locations” as number three on said list. As soon as Babette reared her ugly little head, Robert panicked (rightfully so) and broke things off, but Babette couldn’t let go, hence the restraining order.

  Without question I had single-handedly fucked up the perfect, promising romance I’d had with Robert the first time around, but in the back of my mind I’d always maintained a sneaking suspicion that there was something driving me, cosmically, to him and to our inevitable happy ending. This was it. Rehab, my current body weight, the positive astrological climate, global warming, the lighting at Equinox—all of the stars were aligning.

  I rushed home with one mission: putting together a masterpiece of an outfit to wear for my rendezvous with Robert. The hardest part about being in recovery from a shopping addiction is the “rule” that you’re not “supposed” to “buy new things.” My previous life was based around buying clothes and then finding events that were worthy of their exposure. I once outbid Anne Hathaway on a vintage Oscar de la Renta ball gown and wore it to her engagement party the following week. Fashion used to be my raison d’être, ma vie, ma mère. But like all obsessions, it got dark, I lost control, and after hitting rock bottom at Barneys (my sanctuary), I had to be shown the light with some actual therapy—easier said than done. Yes, I’d gone through shopping withdrawals in Utah. I had nightmares about Kim Kardashian wearing Givenchy, and I may have attacked Jackson in a blackout rage when I discovered there was no Internet access, which meant no Net-A-Porter.

  When I was at rehab, my look was very mountain-chic. Think Moncler, Michael Kors plaids, Nanook of the North furs, turtlenecks. But everyone else at rehab dressed like they were in an episode of Dawson’s Creek, so it was easy not to think about S/S ’13 Lanvin, and all the sample sales around the world that I was missing.

  New Babe was resourceful. I’d promised myself that I would only go shopping in my closet for the next six months. Despite having at least seven hundred pieces of clothing that still had their tags and a vintage collection, putting together the perfect look was still going to be one of the more harrowing challenges I’d face post-rehab. I mean, I got out of Cirque right as Lagerfeld debuted Chanel’s Fall 2012 collection, which was conceptualized entirely around crystals, so you can imagine how hard it was going to be not to buy six pairs of the embellished Mary Janes.

  I ran my hand over last season’s dresses, thinking about what look I was going for. Robert would smell desperation from a mile away (he’s really observant, for a straight person), so I didn’t want to come across like I was trying too hard. I needed an ensemble that embodied a willingness to accept and understand my past and its foibles, yet represented an even greater willingness to move forward and renew. It had to remind Robert of all of the amazing, wonderful, and magical things about our time together, without triggering any reminders that I had become a maniacal chupacabra at the end. This would be our first post-restraining-order encounter and it was going to set the tone for our new life together. I settled on an Erdem dress, a BLK DNM leather jacket, Tom Ford pumps, a blowout that said “I’m relaxed and free but could still be your wife,” and a huge fucking scarf.

  Robert and I were meeting at Café Gratitude, a restaurant that serves only vegan and raw food, juices, elixirs, etc. Instead of ordering things on the menu by their names, each item is listed as an affirmation, like “I am glowing” or “I am refreshed.” I liked this because it made me feel like I wasn’t really ordering food.

  I arrived at Café Gratitude fifteen minutes early, which was a first for me. I was greeted by a female server who had the face of Blake Lively, the hair of Adam Duritz from Counting Crows, and the voice of John Leguizamo. She was the cutest ugly person on the planet. I’d seen her there before but never learned her name because I generally don’t do names, and also because I’d always just referred to her as “Purple” on account of the two-foot-long purple rat-tail dreadlock that hung down her back. Purple immediately escorted me to my favorite table and within minutes served me my favorite juice, “I Am Energized,” which is a perfect mixture of baby kale, lemon zest, and turmeric. So fucking yummy . . . oh my God. I sipped it very slowly and waited.

  I was sitting alone, letting my mind be still and active at the same time, when something that Jackson said popped into my head. He’d been teaching a master class on Instinctive Well-Being, and I had fallen asleep during the seminar because it was boring as fuck. As I slept, Jackson knelt down right next to me and whispered, “It is very possible to be clear of your soul’s beliefs that you are limited, and to be clear of your physical ailments and misalignments, if you can engage with your own sagacity. Unlimited awareness is within you. You are a beam of light that is part of God and a part of the universe.” Those words of wisdom seeped into my subconscious and had gotten me through some tough times in rehab, because it made me realize that Jackson may be a fucking hippie crackpot, but he knew me a lot better than I thought he did.

  The sight of Robert walking into the restaurant snapped me out of my meditative trance. I’d forgotten how tall 6'4" actually was. Plus, he was wearing a suede Bottega bomber jacket and perfectly tailored Prada pants. I stood up as Robert walked toward my table, and when he was right in front of me, he stopped and just stood there, staring at me, communicating with his eyes everything good and bad that stood between us. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Then he threw his arms around me and picked me right up off of the ground. I felt so small in his huge arms, which I obviously loved. He smelled like he’d just stepped out of the shower after spending two long hours on a treadmill. Our bodies were totally recognizing each other. We took our respective seats.

  “You look amazing.” Robert smiled.

  “So do you,” I blurted out a bit too loudly. I started sweating. Keep it together, Babe.

  “Are you nervous? ’Cause I gotta admit I’m a little nervous, and I’d just feel better if we were both nervous.” He was so cute when he said it.

  “You weren’t the one who lay on your boyfriend’s stoop for a week in a puffy North Face jacket begging him to ‘give our unborn baby a second chance.’ You have no reason to be nervous . . . Or maybe you do.”

  Robert laughed. “True, but then again, I did dump my fake-pregnant girlfriend, so maybe we’re both dickheads.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So, how is our baby?” he asked.

  Is he flirting with me? Am I going to flirt back? “Oh, he’s fine. I named him Bruce and sent him to a toddler boarding school, so hopefully we’ll never have to see him again . . . Seriously, though, I’m great. Never been better.”

  “You look like you. Like the real you.”

  “Thanks. So what brings you to LA?
”

  “One of the Lakers needed knee surgery, so I flew out for that. He kind of needs someone to hold his hand through everything. I’m here for a few weeks while he recovers.”

  “Did it go well? Is he going to be able to play again?” Even I was impressed with my thoughtful line of questioning.

  “That’s sweet of you to ask. Yeah, Reggie’s gonna be fine. I just came from Cedars. I actually introduced you to him a couple years ago in New York, and when I told him I’d be seeing you today, he told me that life is all about second chances.”

  “I happen to agree with Reginald.”

  “Yeah, and then he shit himself. He’s on a lot of painkillers.”

  “Ew. Well, he’s lucky to have such a good guy rooting for him.” This made Robert smile, and feeling emboldened, I said, “Can I be honest with you? I’ve thought about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot. I’m sorry I turned into such a fucking psycho at the end—”

  “Babe. You don’t need to explain. I get what happened in New York. I totally understand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I forgive you.”

  I wasn’t expecting to hear those words come out of his mouth. Obviously I’d hoped we could put the past behind us, but I never thought the day would come that Robert would forgive me for being such a nightmare. Was this some kind of pity thing? God, I hoped not. I’d rather be hated than pitied. My heart was sinking.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, staring into my juice.

  “Mabinty. She sent me your book. Or at least an advance copy or whatever it’s called. I got it in the mail randomly one day about a couple months ago with a note that just said, ‘Read dis, boy. Trust me. Love, Mabs.’ ”

  I was shocked that Robert had read my book, then I was horrified, then I was angry, then I was embarrassed, then I made a mental note to fire Mabinty, then I deleted that mental note, because Mabinty’s like my mom and what she’d done might have been a good thing, then I got anxious because I realized that meant Robert had read all about my labiaplasty, and I said: “What the fuck are you talking about? You read my book? You know about my old vagina?”