MEDEA DEAREST!
A certain POP DIVA (she’d sue me penniless if I divulged her name!) showed up for her appointment today, more than an hour late. I was about to hurry home (Ostergarrd had made a frozen höödenfrudgen and I was anxious to get home and taste it), but instead I put down my purse and beckoned her to sit. She’s always late and knows that I charge a double fee plus a service charge for her untimely appearances. That’s roughly equal to lunch for two at The Ivy (assuming you order the Chateau Lafitte); a round-trip flight to Las Vegas, and front row seats for the great Tom Jones. My husband Ostergarrd always brings a couple of satin thongs to snap at Mr. Jones. He says it’s a traditional Swedish greeting, but I don’t recall anybody snapping a thong at me when I visited Stockholm. They just said Hello, we never thought anybody would actually want to marry Ostergarrd!”
“Dr. DelVecchio,” panted the POP DIVA, “You must be absolutely famished,“ She set a half-eaten burrito on my freshly oiled Brazilian Rosewood coffee table and tugged at her platinum bangs. “I won’t take up much time. I just wanted your advice on something, OK? How do you like these funky culottes? I found them at Boulmiche. Now that I’ve been seen wearing them, everybody will want culottes. Boulmiche should pay me an endorsement fee.” Suddenly, she burst into tears. “Why won’t my twins obey me? I tell them to stop smart-mouthing me but they won’t listen.” She lifted her sunglasses off her nose, pulled a hankie from her white leather horsebit Gucci handbag and patted her eyes. “I’m their mother, Godammit! Where’s the respect?! They scare me, they intimidate me, they talk back. I’m physically afraid of them! Will you excuse me a minute, Dr. DelVecchio?”
She got up and, dragging her bag on the floor behind her, walked out of the office, into the waiting room and through the bathroom door. I tossed her smelly burrito out the window, onto Wilshire Blvd. From the street, far below, came a woman's scream.
A few moments later POP DIVA returned to my office, smiled brightly, and sat down. Her lipstick was smeared and she was sniffing and rubbing her nose enthusiastically. “I’ve come to accept that my twins need professional help,” she said. “They‘re psychopaths. I’ve decided to send them to military school before it‘s too late, before they create some serious harm. I‘m in fear for my life. I can’t stand the way they look at me.”
“Are you sure the twins will be allowed into a military school?” I asked.
She thought a moment, then pulled a bean sprout from somewhere in her coife. I must have been pretty hungry because it looked absolutely delicious. “Why wouldn't they be allowed in, Dr. Carla?", she said.
"Well, perhaps because--"
"Is it because I'm a celebrity?" she asked.
"No." I said. "It's because--"
"Is it because we're Jewish?”
"No."
"Then tell me why."
"Because they're Chihuahuas, darling. They're Chihuahuas."
Well, that pretty much ended the conversation, which was alright with me. I grabbed my purse, turned off the light and pushed POP DIVA out the door. If you had a frozen höödenfrudgen waiting at home, you'd have done the same!
FORKED TONGUE CUTS BOTH WAYS!
I must remember to speak with a lisp whenever the Middle Eastern Prince comes for his therapy! I'll write a reminder on the back of my hand every Tuesday morning and peek at it during his session.
The Middle Eastern Prince came for his first session today. He was distraught because of his pronounced lisp. Apparently lisping is considered non-dominant behavior in his culture. Even though he is Harvard-educated, he still subscribes to the quaint belief that a man must act like that square-jawed lumberjack in the red flannel shirt and massive biceps, on the Bounty paper towel wrapping. Or that strapping ironworker on the MANHANDLER SOUP CAN, or my plumber Barbaroso, all of whom are probably gay.
As every psychotherapist knows, it's imperative to establish rapport with the patient immediately. This means if your patient leans to the left, you lean to the left; if she uncrosses her legs, scratches her head and fiddles in her purse, you do the same. I do a pretty fair job of imitating my patients in their behaviors, although I draw the line at climbing out the window and threatening to jump. They're on their own there!
Well, the Middle Eastern Prince came to my office today and introduced himself. "I have a thlight thpeech impediment," he said. "Ith there thomething you can do to help me with thith problem?"
"Yethhir, Your Highneth," I said, establishing rapport through imitation. "There ith nothing to be contherned about. Pleathe thit down."
"My goodneth," he said. "Nobody told me you have a thpeech impediment too!"
"I thertainly do," I said. Well, it was going smoothly until Petal called me on the intercom.
"Dr. DelVecchio?" came her voice.
"Yeth?" I said. "What ith it?"
Petal, who is a drama major and who has improvisation training, automatically started talking with a lisp. "I was thinking of having thushi for a thnack. Or thome thoup. It'th a tough choith. Would you like me to pick you up a thandwich? A thardine thandwich, perhapth?"
The Middle Eastern Prince grew irate and accused Petal of mocking him but I assured him she was imitating me and that I fully understood his pain. He seemed to buy that story, which was a relief, since he could probably have her beheaded!
Anyway, he felt much better after his therapy and bounded out of the office and didn't even use the elevator. He took the stairth!
DIRECTOR DROPS DRAWERS FOR UNDERWRITERS
I've got a life of my own, although some people don't seem to notice. This Saturday evening I received an emergency call from The filmmaker, BIG CHEESE. He said he was entertaining at his home in Westwood, was entertaining some investors for a new film. After his wife, MRS CHEESE, had failed to come downstairs to greet the guests, he went to bang on her door. According to BIG CHEESE, she was having a psychotic break. He begged me to hurry over.
"You're the only one who can help her, Dr. Carla," he said, panicking. "She listens to you. Hurry! This is an important night!"
I drove up a winding hill to their sprawling ranch house and rang the bell. BIG CHEESE answered the door.
"Oh, thank God," he said, waving me in.
I couldn't help but notice he was naked. A lady was playing the piano in the living room and there a dozen people sitting around singing in a foreign language. A waiter passed a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Everybody was naked. BIG CHEESE waved me up the stairs. "She's in the bedroom. Go see her, Doctor Carla! Last door on the right."
I climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, then pushed it open. MRS. CHEESE was sitting on the edge of the bed in a metallic miniskirt with an oversized belt, pulling on a pair of violet calfskin thigh-high boots.
"Oh thank God you're here!" she said, tossing her hair to one side. "I can't decide which shoes to wear!"
"That's what I was called here for?" I said. "To help you decide what shoes to wear?! You had me come all the way down here and walk through a room full of naked people so I could help you choose a pair of shoes? Say, those shoes are quite nice..."
"She looked at me, stunned. "What did you say, Dr. Carla? Naked?"
"Yes," I said. "You never told me you and your husband were swingers. We'll need to discuss this in your next therapy session. And if you think you can trick me into participating in this lurid little scenario, then you're sadly mistaken. I'm a practicing Catholic and we don't believe in taking our clothes off without a good reason."
"Oh God!" she said. "It means the Swedes are here! These investors are nudists. They expect us to entertain them completely naked and do their clog dances and serve them pancakes with applesauce. I wish my husband had told me. Well, this solves all my shoe problems! Where did I put my clogs? Thank God I got a Brazilian wax this afternoon!" She pulled off her boots and ran into the dressing room to tear off her clothes. "I may as well have some fun!" she sang, like the nymphomaniac that she is. "Won't you join us? Your husband is Swedish, isn't he? I'm sure he'd enjoy himself!"
"No thanks!" I said. "The thought of you clogging in the nude with your gallon-size bags of Silicone gel flopping every which way, makes me want to vomit!"
"What about your husband?" she called from the next room.
"My husband does not clog in the nude, thank you!" I said. "He wears his Swedish ancestral thong!"
"Oh, I see!" she laughed. "And is it sequined?"
"Of course not, you silly woman!" I said. How did she know?
A CIVIC MINDED SHRINK!
I'm expecting a very important client today! My receptionist Petal tells me the wife of a very high, federally elected official (mum's the word!) is starting therapy and that I should expect four secret service agents to arrive in tow. I hope they don't sit in my waiting room with their guns drawn. My paranoid schizophrenics might have a hard time with that! Petal informs me the woman is completely self-absorbed and only wants to talk about her own problems!
I wonder if my new client can use her influence to get the pohthole at Wilshire and Dartmouth Blvd. repaired? I seem to run into it every time I drive to work! This must be worked into the conversation very carefully. Perhaps I could tell her that her emotional problems are like potholes in the road of life? Or I could ask if she's got any good recipes for a portobello mushrooms, which could remind me of potholes, which could remind me of the street repairs our community so badly needs. That transition might not be so smooth, but if she's as self-absorbed as Petal claims, she might not notice!
CONSERVATIVE VALUES,
APPLIED LIBERALLY.
Mrs. X is the wife of a nationally syndicated Conservative talk show host (you can’t avoid him!). She came to my office this morning with a serious problem: she caught her husband cheating. She had read his text messages and was terribly upset.
For Mrs. X's therapy, I decided to use a technique that we professionals call “Mirroring.” Mirroring is the perfect technique to employ after lunch, when the therapist is feeling sleepy, as it requires the least amount of energy and annoyance. The therapist simply starts each sentence with the words, “What I’m hearing is…” and the session pretty much runs itself!
Mrs. X sat on my sofa, crossed her lovely, toned legs and wiped away a tear. She said, “I was so surprised when I found that romantic message on my husband's phone, I nearly fainted!”
"What I’m hearing,” I said, “is that in the process of snooping around on your husband's cell phone, you were shocked to find exactly what you expected.”
Mrs. X said, “This is unforgivable behavior from a man who lectures to the entire nation about Family Values!”
What I’m hearing,” I said, “is that you can’t tolerate him being a complicated and imperfect human being.”
Mrs. X stared at her shoes and frowned. They were gold buckled Gucci pumps from three seasons ago and frankly, I would have frowned too. She said, “And worst of all, he’s been carrying on with our nanny. How unimaginative!”
What I’m hearing,” I said, burping up a delicious risotto con fungi porcini from IlCielo, “is that you had hoped your husband would show more imagination than you do. By the way, are you still carrying on with your pool boy?”
“What?” she said, hearing me for the first time. “What did you say, Doctor Carla?”
“I said, how is it going with you and the pool boy?”
“Oh Jesus!” she said. “Thanks for reminding me! I’m supposed to meet him at the house at one o’clock. I’m giving him a brand new BMW and I need to get there early to surprise him. Gotta run! Sorry!” She stood up and bolted out the door, tossing a wad of cash at my receptionist.
“Take your time!“ I called to her, hoping Mrs. X wouldn’t get to the house too terribly early. I'd hate for her to catch the pool boy with the nanny.
