The Good Doctor
Despite having dispersed sufficient funds on therapy in the past decade to put a gold crown on the Statue of Liberty, I’d never been to a Freudian. This afternoon’s appointment was my last ditch effort to find a cure for my demons. If the Freudian method didn’t work—I comforted myself—the Kevorkian definitely would.
Dr. Shlomo Meshugeneh was known far and wide as the best Freudian in Weehawken, New Jersey. His patient roster reportedly read like a celebrity who’s who and included Gary Coleman from Diff’rent Strokes, teen-idol Leif Garret, and the red-haired kid from the Partridge Family. The waiting room was empty which I naively chose to interpret as a testament to his success rate. His receptionist was a heavy-set woman in her 70’s wearing a telephone headset and squawking to a caller.
“You couldn’t just become an accountant like your brother Nathan. No-oh. You were to smart for that. And then you went and married that shiksa Maureen. We told you from day one that wasn’t going to work. Honestly, there aren’t enough hours in the day for me to express how disappointed your father and I are.”
Without missing a brow-beat, the Freudian-nightmare of a receptionist motioned to me with a crooked finger to proceed into the doctor’s office. She continued her rant as I entered the office and closed the door behind me.
Dr. Meshugeneh lay on his back on a leather couch, one forearm resting on his forehead in apparent exasperation. His other hand held a cell phone to his ear.
“Mother. Mother. I’ve have a patient waiting. I have to go. Can we please discuss this another time? I’m hanging up now. Goodbye.”
He ended the call and sighed.
“Always with the shiksa thing. Like any of her own marriages were perfect. Please, have a seat.”
He motioned to a leather wingback chair that faced the couch on which he was lying. I thought this a little unconventional but sat and crossed my legs. The doctor continued.
“Maureen took me to the cleaners in the divorce settlement. She got the summer home on Staten Island, the Chevy Blazer and Mimi the Shih Tzu. She left me our Jack Russell Benji saying she no longer cared to share a home with ‘anything that had testicles’. When I pointed out that Benji had been neutered, she countered with ‘Like your mother did to you?’ There was no reasoning with that woman.”
“I appreciate you fitting me into your schedule.” I started but the doctor talked over me.
“I have this recurring dream where I’m making love to my mother. We’re both enjoying ourselves and then, out of nowhere, a band of gypsies approaches our booth at the Keg and begins to laugh at me. One of them—a short man with three nostrils—points at the table and asks ‘Are you going to finish that?’ I say ‘No. It’s all yours.’ He summons a waiter, complains that the steak is over-cooked and asks to exchange it for a medium-rare cabbage roll. What do you think this all means?”
“Doctor, I don’t really feel qualified to interpret your dreams. I’d much prefer if we spent this time…” But the doctor interrupted.
“Macaulay Culkin had the same reaction and I’ll tell you exactly what I told him—I can’t help you unless you’re willing to help yourself. Ok, let’s try something different—a little role playing. I’ll play myself and you play my ex-wife Maureen. It won’t be difficult. Just act bitchy and ungrateful for the thousands I spent on liposuction to get you down to a size 9.”
I was starting to have concerns about the effectiveness of Freudian analysis. All the same, I decided I had nothing—besides $200 an hour—to lose by humoring the good doctor. So I played along.
“Shlomo, I think your relationship with your mother is having a negative impact on our sex life. I’m no longer satisfied.”
The doctor’s head snapped in my direction, a look of hurt in his eyes. He leapt from the couch, ran to the door, flung it open and left the room without a word. I waited a minute for him to return. He didn’t.
As I left Meshugeneh’s office that afternoon and saw him sobbing on his mother’s shoulder, muttering something about gypsies and Oedipus, I decided I was cured—of my desire to seek help from a Freudian.
Dr. Shlomo Meshugeneh was known far and wide as the best Freudian in Weehawken, New Jersey. His patient roster reportedly read like a celebrity who’s who and included Gary Coleman from Diff’rent Strokes, teen-idol Leif Garret, and the red-haired kid from the Partridge Family. The waiting room was empty which I naively chose to interpret as a testament to his success rate. His receptionist was a heavy-set woman in her 70’s wearing a telephone headset and squawking to a caller.
“You couldn’t just become an accountant like your brother Nathan. No-oh. You were to smart for that. And then you went and married that shiksa Maureen. We told you from day one that wasn’t going to work. Honestly, there aren’t enough hours in the day for me to express how disappointed your father and I are.”
Without missing a brow-beat, the Freudian-nightmare of a receptionist motioned to me with a crooked finger to proceed into the doctor’s office. She continued her rant as I entered the office and closed the door behind me.
Dr. Meshugeneh lay on his back on a leather couch, one forearm resting on his forehead in apparent exasperation. His other hand held a cell phone to his ear.
“Mother. Mother. I’ve have a patient waiting. I have to go. Can we please discuss this another time? I’m hanging up now. Goodbye.”
He ended the call and sighed.
“Always with the shiksa thing. Like any of her own marriages were perfect. Please, have a seat.”
He motioned to a leather wingback chair that faced the couch on which he was lying. I thought this a little unconventional but sat and crossed my legs. The doctor continued.
“Maureen took me to the cleaners in the divorce settlement. She got the summer home on Staten Island, the Chevy Blazer and Mimi the Shih Tzu. She left me our Jack Russell Benji saying she no longer cared to share a home with ‘anything that had testicles’. When I pointed out that Benji had been neutered, she countered with ‘Like your mother did to you?’ There was no reasoning with that woman.”
“I appreciate you fitting me into your schedule.” I started but the doctor talked over me.
“I have this recurring dream where I’m making love to my mother. We’re both enjoying ourselves and then, out of nowhere, a band of gypsies approaches our booth at the Keg and begins to laugh at me. One of them—a short man with three nostrils—points at the table and asks ‘Are you going to finish that?’ I say ‘No. It’s all yours.’ He summons a waiter, complains that the steak is over-cooked and asks to exchange it for a medium-rare cabbage roll. What do you think this all means?”
“Doctor, I don’t really feel qualified to interpret your dreams. I’d much prefer if we spent this time…” But the doctor interrupted.
“Macaulay Culkin had the same reaction and I’ll tell you exactly what I told him—I can’t help you unless you’re willing to help yourself. Ok, let’s try something different—a little role playing. I’ll play myself and you play my ex-wife Maureen. It won’t be difficult. Just act bitchy and ungrateful for the thousands I spent on liposuction to get you down to a size 9.”
I was starting to have concerns about the effectiveness of Freudian analysis. All the same, I decided I had nothing—besides $200 an hour—to lose by humoring the good doctor. So I played along.
“Shlomo, I think your relationship with your mother is having a negative impact on our sex life. I’m no longer satisfied.”
The doctor’s head snapped in my direction, a look of hurt in his eyes. He leapt from the couch, ran to the door, flung it open and left the room without a word. I waited a minute for him to return. He didn’t.
As I left Meshugeneh’s office that afternoon and saw him sobbing on his mother’s shoulder, muttering something about gypsies and Oedipus, I decided I was cured—of my desire to seek help from a Freudian.
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