by Babe Walker
After the meal, Babette wanted to go out, so she asked Robby to drive her to Roman’s club. Since Robby wasn’t a member, he couldn’t go in, so Babette made him wait for her in the car while she went in, had a couple drinks, and paid with his credit card. Once she was inside the club, she started dancing with her own reflection in the mirrored ceilings and texted Robby a series of pictures of her getting motorboated by a couple different guys and one woman.
At some point in the evening, Roman came up to Babette mid-text and pulled her into the men’s bathroom.
“You’re soooo sunburnt! What in God’s name are you wearing? Are those Candie’s? Oh fuck, you’ve turned. Hi, Babette.”
“Hey, hon! Do you love my shoes? They’re totally fierce.”
“Um, no. Your outfit is death. I get that the nineties are back, but for God’s sake, get a grip.”
“What are you talking about? I’m just in a really good mood, capiche? I have a secret.”
“What?”
“I’m in love. With Robby.”
“I know, and it’s sick.”
“Not Robert. Robby! My new boyfriend that I met online. He’s so sweet. You have to meet him. You’re gonna love him!”
“Where is he?”
“He’s not on the list, so he’s waiting outside for me in his new Nissan Juke.”
“What? I can get him in if you want him in here.”
“Nooooo. No. It’s better this way.”
“Who is he?”
“Some big, muscleman guy. Such a cutie.”
“I know it’s unholy, but I kind of love this side of you. Call me tomorrow, okay? I need to check on Bono’s bottle service. People love him, but I just don’t get it. He’s so cranky.”
Babette spun off into the crowd, dancing with her hands above her head. She made Robby wait outside until the club closed and then had him drive her home. Needless to say, their first date was also their last.
Babette spent the following week going on multiple dates a day with random dudes she met on Match.com, eHarmony.com, OkCupid.com, and some app on her iPhone. The menfolk were really responding to her online presence. Turned out, the cyber-dating community was the perfect place for Babette to thrive. She could act as crazy as she wanted and still get asked out left and right. And even though every guy ran for the hills after each first date, Babette always managed to have a guy around to pay for multiple trips to the Cheesecake Factory, Red Lobster, and all CPK locations within a five-mile radius of Bel Air.
Dating became Babette’s full-time job. She had breakfast, lunch, and dinner accounted for, and had activity dates scheduled to cover every minute in between meals. Sometimes Babette would flit between dates and sometimes Babette would stick with one guy the whole day.
One of her many victims was named Jarrod. Jarrod and Babette met up at a Jamba Juice, then they walked over to a pottery class, where Babette reenacted her favorite scene from Ghost with the instructor while Jarrod watched. Then she made Jarrod take her to a pet store and buy her a puppy. After spending the day in the park with their new love animal, Babette wanted to “put the baby to sleep and go on a double dinner date with her bestie Gen.”
Gen and I hadn’t spoken to each other during the time that I’d become possessed by Babette. That was, until Babs dialed up Genevieve and left her the following apologetic voice mail:
3:45PM: Gensies. I took your advice and started online dating and I love it. Come to dinner with me and um . . . Jarrod tonight? We’re going to The Melting Pot at seven-thirty. The one in the valley. Love youuuuu. P.S. Did you get my “I’m sorry for being a cunt” edible arrangement? Okay, talk to you later!
Genevieve must have gotten the edible arrangement and been curious as to why the fuck I would be calling her and asking her to go to dinner at a fondue restaurant in the middle of nowhere, because she actually showed up to The Melting Pot, with her boyfriend Clark, at 7:25 P.M. Clark happened to be a really hot eighteen-year-old boy that Genevieve met when he and his parents came to an open house she was showing in Malibu. Genevieve prefers not to date people her own age, so her boyfriends are always either much younger or much older than she is.
The double date started off all right, despite the fact that Jarrod had ditched Babette and the dog sometime in the afternoon, claiming that he needed to go visit his “grandma in the hospital.” It hadn’t deterred her from securing another date for the evening, and showing up to dinner drunk, with some biker dude named Lonnie in tow. Babette had poured herself into a sequined romper from bebe, which she’d accessorized with a really tacky vintage Chanel chain belt (let’s face it, even Karl makes mistakes). She was also wearing sky high black patent leather Loubs, making it really hard for her to walk.
Lonnie sat down in the booth, and Babette sat on his lap, introducing him to the table as her “new bad-boy boyfriend, Lon Lon.” When the waitress arrived, Lonnie ordered two shots of whiskey and a beer, Genevieve ordered a water, Babette ordered a Long Island iced tea, and Clark ordered a rum and Coke (then he was ID’d, so he ordered a Sprite). Babette drained her Long Island in four seconds and immediately ordered another. She then waved down the waitress and ordered a different kind of fondue for each person at the table, turned her attention to Clark, and began asking him all sorts of questions, like: “Do you like my hair?” “Do you think I need a boob job?” “How did you and Gen meet?” “Where are you from?” “Do you mind if I call you Robert?” etc. etc.
As Babette got friendlier with Clark, Genevieve looked pissed, and Lonnie looked like he was going to stab someone.
“Babe, let’s go to the bathroom,” said Genevieve, flatly.
“Um sure! BRB, guys. Don’t start fighting over me. Or do. Whatever,” Babette said, winking at Lonnie and Clark.
Once we were in the bathroom, Genevieve confronted me.
“Edible arrangements? The Melting Pot? Lonnie? You did happen to realize that he’s, like, a Hell’s Angel, right? Where’s that Jarrod guy you were talking about? You’ve transitioned into Babette again, and you know I love a train wreck just as much as the next person, but this is disgusting. Snap the fuck out of it and stop flirting with Clark.”
“Sorry, but Clark and I are just vibing on each other’s vibes right now,” said Babette. “No need to be jealous.”
“Well, please stop vibing on my boyfriend. You smell like a hooker.”
“No I don’t. It’s Victoria’s Secret. It’s sexy. Clark likes it.”
Gen slapped me across the face, instantly jarring me out of my Babette haze.
“Ow! Genevieve, what the fuck is your problem?! Why is everyone trying to hurt me? Why do I smell like ass?”
“Get your shit together, Babette or Babe or whoever the fuck you are. I’m out of here. Fondue is sick. Stay away from Clark.”
Genevieve left the bathroom, and I collected myself as best I could, taking into account the fact that I was wearing a sequined strapless romper from bebe and a pound of makeup. What had become of me? My obsession with Robert had driven me to madness once again, and I wasn’t going to be able to get over him by dating random weirdos.
By the time I got back to the table, Gen and Clark had left the restaurant, leaving Lonnie alone to wait for me. He gave me a ride home on his motorcycle, which I thought was pretty sweet of him. I guess it is totally possible to meet nice guys online.
When I got back home, I knew what I had to do. I ran up to my room and poured my emotions into the following letter:
Dear Robert,
When we first met, I thought you were really cute. I still liked you even after I found out you were a sports agent, and I fucking hate sports. I think that’s when I realized that we could have something special. (You also gave me multiple orgasms and had an amazing apartment, so that helped.) When we fell in love, I couldn’t handle all the emotions I was feeling so I went a little crazy. I wanted to be able to control myself, but I’ve never been in love with anyone before—unless you count Roman, but he’s gay and even thoug
h we did fuck once, it doesn’t matter because we’re just friends now. And I guess I kind of love this one guy who works at my favorite macrobiotic restaurant, but he has dreadlocks, so it would never work out. But when I told you I loved you, I really meant it. I didn’t know how to cope with my feelings/how to trust you, so I messed everything up. For that, I’m truly sorry. I’m also sorry for repeatedly telling you I thought your dad was hot. That must have been super-awkward for you to hear. He was hot though. Sorry again. Mostly, I’m sorry that I lost you. I miss you. Do you ever miss me? Well I guess it doesn’t matter, because this is good-bye. It’s over, and I know that. I hope you have a good life. I hope you miss me.
Love,
Babe
Then I grabbed the box of Robert + Babe stuff from under my bed and headed out to the backyard. I spent the next two hours sitting by the fire pit next to the pool and burning every last shred of evidence of Robert’s and my relationship. It was difficult, but ultimately cathartic. As all our memories burned to a crisp, I could feel Babette loosening her grip on my psyche. I ended the night by reading the letter aloud, then throwing it into the flames, along with the robe I was wearing (I just needed to cleanse myself of everything, you know?). It took another few months, one public hysterical crying fit at Fred Segal after seeing a Robert look-alike, and a couple random make-out sessions with complete strangers, but eventually Babette left my body and I began to move on. To clear up any concern about the puppy that Jarrod got Babette, he’s fine. She named him Moses Martin, wrapped him in a blanket, put him in a wicker basket, and set him afloat in our pool. Mabinty found him and has been taking care of him ever since.
I’ll eat anything, as long as it’s gluten-free, dairy-free, low-carb, low-fat, low-calorie, sugar-free, and organic.
In order for you to understand how I became so in-tune with eating properly, I need to tell you about my “chubby” phase. When I was thirteen, my dad sent me to a culinary summer camp in Napa Valley for eight weeks. I had been warned about the dangers of puff pastry and handmade ravioli by my eighth-grade nutritionist, but I went anyway. I don’t know what to say, except I was young, it was summer, and I thought that my skinny little nine-year-old legs would last forever. Reality is life’s cruelest mistress. Needless to say, I came back home looking as oversized as my Louis Vuitton speedy, albeit a Michelin-level chef. It wasn’t until I noticed a muffin top peering over my Abercrombie & Fitch miniskirt that I realized things had gotten completely out of control.
What weighed heavier on my soul than the extra poundage was the fact that the world would see me as a “fat girl.” I could feel society’s disdain for my lack of self-control. I had nightmares about being the kind of person who would be forever described as “having a great face.” I wanted to love myself, but self-acceptance and unwanted body puff don’t mesh well. I had to take control of my physique and get back in shape.
I went into hiding for the last four weeks of summer. I made my dad fire our live-in chef and appointed myself master of the kitchen. I started with a three-day liquid cleanse detox and developed a diet plan for myself that utilized elements of the Zone, Atkins, and Grapefruit Diets, combined with Eastern fasting traditions. It took three weeks to lose the weight, and one additional week for me to learn to love myself again. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do? Enter my freshman year of high school looking like a total heifer? Do you know how damaging that would have been to my psyche? Not to mention the cruel judgment I would have received from Gen. She has such high standards for me, and I love her for that. Thank God sack dresses were in style, because I practically lived in them during those difficult times.
I’ve since gone to great lengths to destroy all photo evidence of this period of my life and have had countless hypnotherapy sessions with my psychic, Myrta, to try and erase all memories of being overweight. Myrta thinks that I gained weight due to my aura somehow getting crossed with Kirstie Alley’s while Saturn entered my fifth house of fame and fortune. I think Myrta is a genius.
Now I’m obsessed with what goes in my body. Some people (doctors, nutritionists, therapists) have criticized my eating habits, throwing around words like “eating disorder,” “orthorexic,” and “self-flagellation.” Such bullshit. When I say, “No thanks, I’m full,” I truly mean it. I don’t deprive myself-—I have an equally healthy relationship with the food I eat and the food I don’t eat. Plus, look around: everyone in America is fat. So sue me for loving vegetables, sparkling water, and half portions of soup.
Every single thing I put in my mouth must serve a nutritional purpose and also enhance my beauty. That being said, there are some things that I won’t budge on—e.g., dark chocolate. No matter how many health nuts rave about its nutritional qualities, I won’t allow myself to be led right into that trap. First you’re eating one ounce of dark chocolate once a week, and the next thing you know, you’re shoving fistfuls of donut holes down your throat and crying about how you’ll never be as strong or thin as Gwyneth.
I’ve been in charge of the hiring and firing of chefs since becoming a culinary authority at a young age. Due to my ever-changing diet needs and my mercurial palate, the turnover rate for chefs in the Walker household is above average. I am highly selective, and every applicant undergoes a rigorous interview process complete with an extensive background check. Whenever a new person is hired, I always take it upon myself to have Mabinty issue them the list of what foods I will and will not allow to be brought into my home.
Eating at restaurants is something I end up having to do a lot. What? Did you think I stayed home and drank smoothies all day? This is real life, and I have friends and family who like to go to restaurants for meals. For me, dining out is all about dressing for the occasion, experiencing the ambiance, and looking at/smelling the food. I enjoy going out to eat, and I manage to let myself relax my rules here and there when I venture outside of my house. My life is all about balance—yin and yang, etc.—so I like to keep it über health conscious inside the house and then let myself splurge a little when dining out. It’s just the way I live my life. I deserve it.
I’ve found Los Angeles to be the perfect place to dine out while remaining hyper-conscious of your eating habits. There are plenty of raw/macrobiotic/vegan options to choose from. Also, LA has a salad game unlike any city I’ve ever lived in, so no matter where I end up, if worse comes to worst, I can at least get a plate of lettuce with lemon juice on the side.
I like to get very up close and personal with the waitstaff when I dine out. Like all important relationships in my life, it’s all about intimacy and understanding. Whenever a waiter asks to take my order, I’ll take his or her hand in mine and stroke it while softly whispering my order so they’re forced to listen to my requests carefully. This makes them feel special, like we have a deep connection because I’m telling them a secret. Then they do whatever I say. For example:
“Let’s do the Caesar salad, but let’s go with organic butter lettuce instead of the romaine, ahi tuna instead of the grilled chicken, and cherry tomatoes instead of the croutons. Also, balsamic vinegar on the side instead of the Caesar dressing. Oh, and hold the parmesan. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll have six ounces of the grilled chicken breast. It’s not on the menu but trust me, it’s delicious. I’ll make sure to recommend it to all my friends.”
“Can I get the scallion and egg white omelet, and mixed greens with just a hint of truffle oil on the side? And can the omelet be prepared table-side so I can oversee the process? I’m allergic to egg yolk.”
If I’m at a party, I’m there to socialize and have people ask me about the amazing jacket/top/dress/necklace/pants/skirt/shoes/cape/smock/romper/fur I’m wearing. Or I’m there to drink and do coke with famous people. Or I’m there because Brett Ratner invited me. Any way you cut it, I’m not there to eat. Nothing makes people want to talk to you less than if you’re standing by the hors d’oeuvres table scarfing down every bit of food you can get your hands on like some kind of w
ildebeest.
On the other hand, if it’s an intimate affair, like a dinner party, it’s rude to avoid eating the food, so I utilize this go-to device: I keep a mental tab of every dish that comes out of the kitchen and make sure to put a little on my plate. Then I push it around, eat whatever is on my “Yes” list, and rave to anyone within earshot about how amazing the food is. Nine times out of ten this works like a charm. No one ever remembers what you actually ate at a dinner party. I can get through the meal without breaking my diet, and the host thinks I am an amazing guest.
I also consider myself a smoothie connoisseur. They’re my culinary calling, if you will, and a great way to pack a shitload of nutrients into an eight-ounce glass. Over the years I’ve perfected my favorite smoothie recipes, and now I’m ready to share them with the world.
Smoothies:
The Answer to All Life’s Questions
RAW CELEBRATION OF LIFE SMOOTHIE
This smoothie is a super-delish way to nourish your body and soul through raw ingredients and the magic of nature.
SERVES: 1
TOTAL PREP TIME: 7 days
½ cup raw almonds, sprouted and peeled
½ large aloe leaf (gutted)
1 young tai coconut
1 large organic strawberry
