Someone to Call Me Bubbaleh (from The Washington Post)
Someone to Call Me Bubbeleh
By Maura Kelly
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, June 5, 2006; C08
During a book party in a hip bookstore a few years back, four girlfriends and I stood in a gaggle, stretching our necks in different directions, so we wouldn't be caught staring at the men we were gossiping about.
Then an unknown Cary Grant look-alike appeared. My bellybutton went shivery: He was sexy -- but also standing with a woman. "Who's he?" I whispered. My buddies turned in unison to check him out (so much for staying casual), but no one could ID him.
A few minutes later, Cary had disappeared; I decided I would, too. I was getting my jacket from the coat rack when I bumped into him -- still with the babe. She pounced on me. "Haven't we met before?" she asked. I tossed out the names of my most well-connected friends. No dice -- she didn't know any of them -- but then Cary asked why I'd come to the party. As he and I started talking, the blonde silently evaporated, her mission as consummate wing-woman complete. It wasn't long till Cary and I took off, too -- to get a late dinner together.
We started dating. His name was Richard, but he was reluctant to reveal much else: He shied away from talking about his past, or his family; and though he said he did freelance advertising work, it didn't seem to take up much time, or account for his jet-set lifestyle. My friends nicknamed him Dickie Grant, International Spy.
One night, I was telling my shrink, Dr. H., that I was heading over to Richard's after our session, since he lived only a few blocks away from her office, on the Upper West Side. Then it hit me: Dr. H. was the missing link! She and Richard knew each other! After all, they both lived on the UWS! And . . . they were both Jewish! (Never mind that at least a million other New Yorkers are also Jewish Upper-West-Siders. I thought I was on to something.) Maybe they were even related.
When I asked Dr. H. about it, she wouldn't answer -- she's so old-school, she never fields a direct question. Instead, she pressed me to uncover the deeper significance of my suspicion. But I thought it went as deep as this: She was avoiding the topic because I was right.
"Come on!" I pushed her. "Just tell me."
Instead, she repeated herself: "Why would you think I know him?"
"Listen, I know how you are," I said. I figured she wanted me to somehow relate the whole thing back to my mom's death when I was a kid -- because everything related back to that, as far as she was concerned. "But would you please get your mind out of the Freudian gutter? Admit you know him!"
She refused to budge. So eventually I asked Richard (who was independently wealthy, it turned out). He'd never heard of Dr. H. And somehow, with that cleared up, Richard's mysteriousness started to seem more annoying than intriguing. We split. He went back to his life of international spydom; I to mine of international singledom -- with my inscrutable guru, Dr. H.
I was doing my usual drive-by dating -- seeing a new guy every few months -- when I noticed a strange pattern emerging: I suspected each dude was related to Dr. H. I even became briefly convinced that she was a certain make-out partner's mother. Deluding myself was easy because Dr. H. never admitted or denied any blood relationship. Yet I felt a bit like that artist Rodrigue, who put a blue pooch in every painting he made after his dog died. Was I subconsciously more upset than I realized over my breakup with Richard?
Simultaneously, a fantasy I'd started having during the Richard era became more persistent. Though my dream wasn't about Richard at all -- but about Dr. H.!
Yes.
I'd imagine myself . . . in her kitchen, getting pecked on the cheek before hopping on the counter to watch as she bustled about, making us dinner. She'd hand me a glass of wine, scrutinize me, frown, say she liked my new haircut but was I getting enough sleep? After toasting ourselves, we'd tuck into the kitchen nook and catch up a little -- like we would if we had the kind of real relationship I wanted, instead of this doctor-patient thing, where I'm draped over the ottoman picking fuzz out of my navel while she sits behind me, playing the role of disembodied voice.
I didn't mind telling Dr. H. the most private details of my life outside her office, but revealing my deepest desires about her was another thing. When I finally confessed them, a year after Richard and I broke up, I was in tears. Dr. H., on the other hand, was so thrilled I half-expected her to hand me a stogie.
"What do you think this means?" she asked.
"I want you to invite me over to eat?" I blubbered.
"But why do you think you have that wish?"
"You seem like a good cook?" I sniffed.
"Come on."
I thought for a minute. "Well, to be honest -- maybe this is just because everyone I date happens to be Jewish -- but I've started having this weird craving for a Jewish family. . . . A Jewish mother, to be specific." I hadn't quite realized the truth till I said it aloud. "Someone who'll call me bubbeleh! Or tootsala. I'll take tootsala. I know the stereotype is that Jewish moms can be over-involved or whatever, but all the ones I know seem so . . . supportive."
"Keep going."
"And maybe I wanted you to be related to my boyfriends so you could be, like, my almost-relative-in-law. My surrogate mother or something."
As soon as I said mother, I realized what was happening.
"Holy Sigmund," I said, rolling over to look at her. "Was that, like, transference?"
"Do you think it was?" Dr. H. said.
"Totally!" I was thrilled I'd done it. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
I chortled at my own joke. But then I thought: Where does this leave me? How does wanting my shrink to be my mother solve any of the problems in my life? What does it mean?
"Wait a second," I said, trying to do the math. "Does this mean -- am I a lesbian?"
"Do you think you are?" Dr. H. asked.
"Not really." Then I had a better idea. "Will you just give me a hug?" I felt insane the minute I said it. That didn't mean I didn't want it.
"I'm sorry, Maura," Dr. H. said. "That's against my policy."
At least she'd given me a straight answer, for once.
© 2006 The Washington Post Company
By Maura Kelly
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, June 5, 2006; C08
During a book party in a hip bookstore a few years back, four girlfriends and I stood in a gaggle, stretching our necks in different directions, so we wouldn't be caught staring at the men we were gossiping about.
Then an unknown Cary Grant look-alike appeared. My bellybutton went shivery: He was sexy -- but also standing with a woman. "Who's he?" I whispered. My buddies turned in unison to check him out (so much for staying casual), but no one could ID him.
A few minutes later, Cary had disappeared; I decided I would, too. I was getting my jacket from the coat rack when I bumped into him -- still with the babe. She pounced on me. "Haven't we met before?" she asked. I tossed out the names of my most well-connected friends. No dice -- she didn't know any of them -- but then Cary asked why I'd come to the party. As he and I started talking, the blonde silently evaporated, her mission as consummate wing-woman complete. It wasn't long till Cary and I took off, too -- to get a late dinner together.
We started dating. His name was Richard, but he was reluctant to reveal much else: He shied away from talking about his past, or his family; and though he said he did freelance advertising work, it didn't seem to take up much time, or account for his jet-set lifestyle. My friends nicknamed him Dickie Grant, International Spy.
One night, I was telling my shrink, Dr. H., that I was heading over to Richard's after our session, since he lived only a few blocks away from her office, on the Upper West Side. Then it hit me: Dr. H. was the missing link! She and Richard knew each other! After all, they both lived on the UWS! And . . . they were both Jewish! (Never mind that at least a million other New Yorkers are also Jewish Upper-West-Siders. I thought I was on to something.) Maybe they were even related.
When I asked Dr. H. about it, she wouldn't answer -- she's so old-school, she never fields a direct question. Instead, she pressed me to uncover the deeper significance of my suspicion. But I thought it went as deep as this: She was avoiding the topic because I was right.
"Come on!" I pushed her. "Just tell me."
Instead, she repeated herself: "Why would you think I know him?"
"Listen, I know how you are," I said. I figured she wanted me to somehow relate the whole thing back to my mom's death when I was a kid -- because everything related back to that, as far as she was concerned. "But would you please get your mind out of the Freudian gutter? Admit you know him!"
She refused to budge. So eventually I asked Richard (who was independently wealthy, it turned out). He'd never heard of Dr. H. And somehow, with that cleared up, Richard's mysteriousness started to seem more annoying than intriguing. We split. He went back to his life of international spydom; I to mine of international singledom -- with my inscrutable guru, Dr. H.
I was doing my usual drive-by dating -- seeing a new guy every few months -- when I noticed a strange pattern emerging: I suspected each dude was related to Dr. H. I even became briefly convinced that she was a certain make-out partner's mother. Deluding myself was easy because Dr. H. never admitted or denied any blood relationship. Yet I felt a bit like that artist Rodrigue, who put a blue pooch in every painting he made after his dog died. Was I subconsciously more upset than I realized over my breakup with Richard?
Simultaneously, a fantasy I'd started having during the Richard era became more persistent. Though my dream wasn't about Richard at all -- but about Dr. H.!
Yes.
I'd imagine myself . . . in her kitchen, getting pecked on the cheek before hopping on the counter to watch as she bustled about, making us dinner. She'd hand me a glass of wine, scrutinize me, frown, say she liked my new haircut but was I getting enough sleep? After toasting ourselves, we'd tuck into the kitchen nook and catch up a little -- like we would if we had the kind of real relationship I wanted, instead of this doctor-patient thing, where I'm draped over the ottoman picking fuzz out of my navel while she sits behind me, playing the role of disembodied voice.
I didn't mind telling Dr. H. the most private details of my life outside her office, but revealing my deepest desires about her was another thing. When I finally confessed them, a year after Richard and I broke up, I was in tears. Dr. H., on the other hand, was so thrilled I half-expected her to hand me a stogie.
"What do you think this means?" she asked.
"I want you to invite me over to eat?" I blubbered.
"But why do you think you have that wish?"
"You seem like a good cook?" I sniffed.
"Come on."
I thought for a minute. "Well, to be honest -- maybe this is just because everyone I date happens to be Jewish -- but I've started having this weird craving for a Jewish family. . . . A Jewish mother, to be specific." I hadn't quite realized the truth till I said it aloud. "Someone who'll call me bubbeleh! Or tootsala. I'll take tootsala. I know the stereotype is that Jewish moms can be over-involved or whatever, but all the ones I know seem so . . . supportive."
"Keep going."
"And maybe I wanted you to be related to my boyfriends so you could be, like, my almost-relative-in-law. My surrogate mother or something."
As soon as I said mother, I realized what was happening.
"Holy Sigmund," I said, rolling over to look at her. "Was that, like, transference?"
"Do you think it was?" Dr. H. said.
"Totally!" I was thrilled I'd done it. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
I chortled at my own joke. But then I thought: Where does this leave me? How does wanting my shrink to be my mother solve any of the problems in my life? What does it mean?
"Wait a second," I said, trying to do the math. "Does this mean -- am I a lesbian?"
"Do you think you are?" Dr. H. asked.
"Not really." Then I had a better idea. "Will you just give me a hug?" I felt insane the minute I said it. That didn't mean I didn't want it.
"I'm sorry, Maura," Dr. H. said. "That's against my policy."
At least she'd given me a straight answer, for once.
© 2006 The Washington Post Company
posted by maureen.glendon@gmail.com at 8:15 PM
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