Archive for December, 2008

Bristol Gets a New Baby

Tuesday, December 30th, 2008

As you all know by now, Bristol Palin has “delivered” a healthy baby boy named Tripp. What you may not know is that I am a highly regarded journalist in my spare time, and here are the facts:

On December 23, a life-size Baby Jesus was stolen from the manger display at the Clover Pass Community Church in Ketchikan, Alaska. The hand-carved figurine had been chained to the church’s nativity scene, but “someone” managed to undo the chain.


As Bristol’s due date drew near, Mrs. Palin had to have Levi’s mom arrested in order to get the boy’s attention. He had been refusing to visit Bristol in her dungeon bedroom at the Palin compound in Wasilla. The drug bust succeeded in prompting young Levi to take a leave of absence from his meth lab job. He reluctantly stayed at Bristol’s side until Todd gave him the signal on December 23.

Todd and Levi managed to sneak the Baby Jesus into the Wasilla Hospital, while the nurses were busy counting bottles of Oxycontin and arguing about how to divide them fairly among the staff.

Bristol was rushed to the hospital by Piper, who is allowed to drive the snowmobile on special occasions.

It was easy to fool the doctor on duty, who was tweaking and texting madly on his Blackberry to Levi’s mom, unaware that she had changed her phone number at the advice of her attorney.

Thus, little Tripp was welcomed into the world, looking a little stiff but just as cute as his brother Trig, if not cuter.

Look at What I Didn’t Buy!

Monday, December 29th, 2008

I have been craving a pair of sequin leggings ever since I saw some on the glorious Queen Michelle. But every pair I’ve seen online were either much too expensive or too shoddy looking. Then I saw these, on sale at Express for $59, minus another twenty per cent.

I started to order them, and even got to the penultimate step, where you review your order before clicking the click that completes the purchase. And here it came to me like a religious epiphany: I have nowhere to wear those sequin leggings, and I wouldn’t wear them even if I did!

The cold reality of that truth was impossible to refute. It would be a complete waste of money. I removed the leggings from my cart and left the website. It was the first time I’ve backed out of an online purchase. It was a fucking miracle.

If you knew me better, you’d know how many unworn shoes I have, not to mention the dresses and skirts I will never wear, because I’m just not comfortable in dresses and skirts. The fact that I’ll never wear them has not stopped me from my appointed rounds, however. My craving was all that mattered. As Vogue magazine used to put it years ago, things were there “to own and collect.” Shoes, sweaters, jackets, whatever.

The impulse to Own and Collect has cost me a fucking fortune. Some of it, I don’t regret. But there comes a point where you know you have six leather jackets…maybe you don’t, but I do. At least I wear most of them, unlike the $650 cashmere dress that I bought because it was marked down to $99.

Knowing that I can live without owning those sequin leggings is a revolutionary idea for me. It’s also a little sad, because it means I’m acknowledging that I’m just too old for some fashions. Nobody wants to see a 55 year old women in leggings. I certainly don’t.

Today, I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a black wool motorcycle jacket when I took my sons out for lunch. I looked pretty good, I think. I checked out the senior menu, but it was all crap. I ordered regular food, and I didn’t think about age again until I smashed my head getting into the car.

I hope I can continue to not shop, It’s a very empowering feeling. It means I’m in control of something, for a change. And it means more sequins left for the rest of you!

A Pulp Fiction Christmas

Saturday, December 27th, 2008

On Christmas Eve, I felt blessed to be surrounded by friends and family, all of us hardcore fans of Pulp Fiction. Unbeknownst to my husband, the entire 4-set collection of Pulp Fiction Action Figures was wrapped and waiting for him under the tree. The plan was to watch the movie and shout out our favorite lines of dialogue.

If you don’t care about Pulp Fiction, this is a good time for you to stop reading.

If you do: Achtung!

Having commented to my nephew, Russell, that The Gimp sequence was always hard for me to take, I settled into the action as Butch and Marcellus were trapped by the Racist Hillbillies in the back of the pawnshop. Becca, a beautiful young girl sitting on the floor near the TV, chided me for not knowing more about ball gags.

As Bruce Willis pauses at the door of the pawn shop, splattered with blood and about to escape, he stops and reconsiders. When he heads back into the lunacy of the back room, I am always moved by his heroism. I turned to my nephew and said, for pointless emphasis, “That’s character!”

“No it isn’t,” Russell replied, with a hint of annoyance at my stupidity. “Butch goes back to save his own ass. You can see the wheels turning in his head as he stands by the door! He’s thinking, if he leaves, he will always be a hunted man. Marcellus has given the order to kill him. If he saves Marcellus, the hit could be called off.”

I was astonished by this interpretation. This is one of my favorite Pulp Fiction moments, and Russell was daring to fuck it up.

“No, it’s pure selfless courage!” I insisted. “Butch can’t bear to leave Marcellus to his fate. The idea sickens him! It’s moral outrage! He’s standing right in front of the Confederate flag for Christsake! It represents racism and hillbillies! He even chooses a samurai sword as his weapon!”

Everyone else agreed with Russell, who tried to soften the blow by saying he was touched by my innocent, benevolent interpretation. I scolded him for being a cynic. And for denying that as always, the subject was The Love Between Men (see a post on that elsewhere at godammit.)

I have discussed this controversy with my experts, and the smartest among them supports my argument. He pointed out that the entire movie is about honor. It is brought up constantly, and explicitly. The watch scene; the statement that you don’t scratch another man’s car; Vince’s determination to put loyalty before lust. Even when Jules lets Ringo go, it’s a point of honor as a newly religious man. Hmph!

Okay then. Comments? Arguments? Pulp Fiction scholars and/or critics, please speak up.

Let me just add that it was a lovely Christmas Eve by any standard. Our friend Mishelle gave out lottery tickets and my kid won $70! Plus, my SweetSpot gifts were a big hit, resulting in a delighted scream of: “I LOVE VAGINA WIPES!”

The Lesbian Stick: A Christmas Story

Wednesday, December 24th, 2008

~this is a reprint from 2006, and a true story.~

Tonight, when I told my older son that I’d found a good Baby Jesus to steal, he reminded me of the Lesbian Stick.

A long time ago, in a galaxy right next door, my neighbors moved away to live near their grandchildren, and sold their house to a Lesbian Couple. The husband Lesbian was Nancy Something, a gray-haired hatchet-faced woman who wore severe eyeglasses and identified herself as a “Pain Therapist”. Her wife was a younger, softer Latina named Concha. Nancy’s opening gambit as a new neighbor was to announce her plan to build an 8 foot wooden fence between our houses, for “privacy.”

We objected to the fence project, and asked the Lesbians to reconsider. Phonecalls were exchanged. Tempers were riled, and property lines were debated. Concha called and told us that her husband would no longer speak to us: she needed time to Heal. We named her Doctor Pain

Doctor Pain hired a pair of weathered Lesbian Workmen to erect the fence. One had a crewcut and the other spoke in an awful Scandinavian accent. I befriended the Workmen, since they liked Laurie Anderson, but engaged in bitter combat with Dr. Pain. The fence went up, blocking the light and lending the effect of a prison compound.

Time passed and I tried not to look at Dr. Pain when I saw her outside. Her voice was piercing and nasal, her teeth looked like they wanted to bite you. We smelled incense coming from her backyard, and wondered if she was burning human sacrifices. I turned my anger toward the big gnarled stick on her front porch…..a “staff” of some kind, around seven feet long, perhaps a trophy from a hike somewhere.

I ranted about the stick to everyone. I hatched bizarre plots involving the stick, and asked friends for advice. Someone suggested that I burn the stick, and send little charred pieces of it to Dr. Pain. Someone else told me to kidnap it, and demand a ransom if they ever wanted to see it alive again. Finally, I ran next door and moved the stick from the left side of the porch to the right side. I was dizzy with adrenaline. In the morning, the stick was back on the left.

At Christmas, my son wondered what to get for me. I asked  him to get me the stick. When he brought it up to our door, he held it aloft, and I tried to sing the theme from “Rocky.” It was a joyous, shining moment; he is the best son a mother could ask for!

More time passed and it was Christmas again. I was desperate for a piece of typing paper and since Dr. Pain’s car was gone, I went next door to ask Concha for a piece of paper. She led me into the house, which was filled with vintage images of saints. Shit!!!!! I told her that I also collect old Catholic Icons, and we bonded under the gaze of St. Theresa. “Come over to my house some time, and see my stuff,” I gushed. On Christmas Eve, Concha appeared at my door with her parents, who were visiting for the holiday. I invited her in warmly, forgetting until that instant that her stick was on display in my bedroom. My life flashed before my eyes. Somehow, I mumbled that the bedroom was messy, and managed to hide the Lesbian Stick under my bed just before she walked in to see my Saints.

Dr. Pain split up with Concha, who stayed on alone for a while before they sold the house. Before she left, Concha and I hugged. I’m sure she found a better looking Lesbian to share her life with. And the stick is leaning in a corner of my bedroom, along with the smaller sticks that Dr. Pain put out on her porch, in a futile effort to replace the original one.

Merry Christmas!

Intimate Grooming: Just Say Ick

Tuesday, December 23rd, 2008

The Intimate Grooming market seems to be booming, based on the success of a product line known as “SweetSpot.”   I’ve noticed these products at beauty supply shops over the last year, and now they are hard to ignore. My friend Rebekkah and I were fascinated recently by an entire shelf of this crap, and I’m ashamed to admit that we shrieked like ten year old girls hearing the word Tampax for the first time.

Eeeooow! This shit is not only ridiculous, it comes in Basil Grapefruit and Geranium Lavender.   They want you to Celebrate “That time of the month” by wiping, misting and washing your special place, Down There.

Is that celebrating, or is it obliterating?

I really enjoyed the SweetSpot website, with its wacky euphemisms and made-up words like ‘sweetification.’ They also throw in ‘self-love’ for those women who can hear the word ‘pleasure’ used as a verb without wanting to throw up.

Ladies, do you want your man’s Package to smell like grapefruit and basil? How about oil and vinegar? Let me answer for you: No.

Even though I find the whole idea of feminine grooming to be absurd and insulting, I’m planning to give the On-the-go Wipettes as Christmas gifts, because laughter is the best medicine,   every day of the month!

Why Did God Make Rick Warren?

Monday, December 22nd, 2008

I’m not happy about Obama’s choice of Rick Warren to deliver the invocation at his inauguration. Why is there an “invocation” anyway, and why does religion have a place in the inauguration? If religion plays a role in this event, why have a big fat Christian evangelist and not a Jewish rabbi or Buddhist priest?

I thought Rick Warren was just kind of harmless until I learned that he is a staunch opponent of gay marriage and an unrepentant homophobe. He was an outspoken supporter of Proposition 8 in California, and he compares gays to pedophiles and pizza.

On the other hand, he defends himself by saying that he’s crazy about Melissa Ethridge and that he’s “eaten in gay homes.” I guess that means he’s even eaten GAY FOOD, too!

What an idiot. Change Melissa Ethridge to Aretha Franklin, and gay homes to Black homes, and you’ve got an idiotic statement from an obvious bigot.

What makes Christians so frightened of gays?! It makes even less sense that the rest of their belief system. Thank goodness we have attorney general Jerry Brown to ask the California Supreme Court to invalidate Prop. 8, saying it “deprives people of the right to marry, an aspect of liberty that the Supreme Court has concluded is guaranteed by the California Constitution.”

I’d like Rick Warren to mind his own business and let the rest of us live our lives as we please, whether Purposeful or Purposeless. He is welcome to Melissa Ethridge though.

Should We Blame Mrs. Palin?

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

Needless to say, I was thrilled to hear that Levi “the Impregnator” Johnston’s mom was busted for drugs in Wasilla. Sherry Johnston has been charged with six felony counts of misconduct involving Oxycontin, a drug commonly known as ‘hillbilly heroin.”

My first reaction was to think, Ha ha, let’s hear anyone try to disassociate Levi from his mom, as if he had no idea that his mom was a dope dealer. Please! One can only assume that Levi loves Oxycontin as much at Track Palin does.

There is obviously nothing to do in Wasilla but do drugs, and have sex. Oh, I forgot guns and church. So basically if you don’t want to pray or shoot anything, you’re stuck with sex and drugs. Who can blame Levi or his mom or Track and Bristol? I’m sure that every other house in Wasilla is a crack den or meth lab, and god bless ’em.

But now upon learning that Mrs. Palin has “no comment” and “nothing to do with the arrest,” I have to think that she’s behind the whole thing. Maybe, just maybe, Levi thought he could get out of marrying Bristol, now that Mrs. P is only a dumb governor and not the V.P. And maybe Mrs. P decided to let him know what happens to those who don’t cooperate with her agenda.

I can almost hear Mrs. P. barking at Todd, “You call the State Troopers and tell them to arrest that little bastard’s mom, right now! I’ll be god damned if I have to raise one more of Bristol’s babies!”

The poor Johnston family! You don’t fuck with Mrs. P, that’s for sure. And also too, if Bristol doesn’t give birth today on her due date, maybe she can wait until Christmas day and claim Immaculate Conception!   Let us pray.

A Boot With a Mission

Tuesday, December 16th, 2008

The first time I saw this boot at Barneys online, I was truly stunned by its awfulness. What could be uglier?!   Wasn’t Louboutin supposed to be the holy grail of footwear?!

I even tried to find it again to show my BFF, but I forgot where I’d seen it. Tonight, I came across it again, and it still fills me with horror and wonder. What is the point of this boot? What a fucking monstrosity! And look at the price! Even Kate Moss herself couldn’t pull off something this grotesque.

And then it came to me: This boot would be good for throwing at George Bush! Imagine it hurtling through the air, it’s purple fringes flying, as it makes its way to its deserving target. Now, I see its beauty. I feel like Edward Teller!

Now, can someone give me $1,575 plus tax?

The Eating Issue

Sunday, December 14th, 2008

Last week, it was Oprah. Now, it’s Rachel Zoe.

Oprah has gone public with her weight gain, revealing that she’s addicted to food.   I certainly sympathize with Oprah; I feel that inside the Slim Me, is a Fat me, who will take over if I’m not vigilant. I’ve never been fat, but I know that fatness is a state to be avoided at all costs. In our society, prejudice against fat people is so deep-rooted that even those seen pictured with fat people are judged more harshly, ‘according to studies.’

Poor Oprah can’t keep anything secret, so she might as well use her own weight problem as a means of connecting with her audience. But is she an addict, do you think?

Everyone has an opinion on Oprah. Some New Agey woman wrote a piece about Oprah’s weight gain at, explaining to us that Oprah’s eating stems from “shame.” She even went on to point out to Oprah which chakra was messed up.

Which chakra of Rachel Zoe’s is messed up? She insists that she’s thin by nature, but surely no one can look at her and see anything normal. This woman is starving, but she doesn’t believe it. When she looks in a mirror, she probably sees the weight she still needs to lose. Rachel Zoe has probably struggled with anorexia all her life. Is she addicted to not eating?

I’ve only known two or three women who didn’t have a screwed up relationship with food, and one of them was probably lying. Food is our enemy, much of the time. At best, it’s an enemy we’ve called a truce with. I don’t believe that eating too much is an addiction, although it is clearly a compulsion for many people. Food equals comfort, and eating helps to stuff down feelings we don’t want to experience. Oprah could stop eating without undergoing withdrawal. She could eat less if she decided to!   Just eat less, Oprah!

Rachel Zoe is another story. She is so afraid of ending up like Oprah that she’s developed a pathology. She probably won’t be able to help herself. She needs clinical care but she will resist getting it. I’ve seen girls who are perilously thin but still terrified of eating an apple. Nothing gets through to them; their brains aren’t processing correctly.

When I was a kid, my father would point out overweight women and express his contempt for them. I knew early on that I didn’t want to be fat. Being fat meant being unlovable.

Eating is a loaded issue for women, more so than for men. To simplify: Our loveability is linked to our physical appeal. For men, it’s linked to their achievements.   If you had a daughter, how would you help her avoid a conflicted relationship with food? And who do you most identify with, Oprah or Rachel Zoe?

Poor Jennifer Aniston!

Thursday, December 11th, 2008

Dear Jen,

I know you want some positive attention, and posing naked is always good for that. But here’s the problem, and I say it with all due respect: Your chin is the deal-breaker.

Your nose came out great, especially after the last tweaking. It’s verging on adorable, in fact. I bet you’re wondering why you didn’t get a cute nose way back in the day. You were probably thinking that your healthy girl-next-door look was attractive enough to allow for a less than perfect nose, and you were right, because look how rich you are! You must have a zillion dollars from Friends. Your nose wasn’t an issue back then, remember?

The Brad thing has really screwed you up, and I’m so sorry! I can’t imagine anything worse that seeing the hussy who stole your man on every magazine cover, leering at you with those huge enormous lips. I don’t know how you survived the public humiliation.

But you’re never going to be beautiful in the way you want to be! You’re a great girl with a great, toned body, and your hair always looks so nice. Why can’t that be enough? Your cute nose only highlights the chin situation. It’s something you could talk about with Reese Witherspoon if you weren’t in such denial!

Jen, I feel your pain. I wish Vince had stuck around and given you a baby, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be. Your thing with John Mayer does help to position you as a sexpot but realistically, that guy is just bad news. He’ll fuck anything that moves, and plus there’s that awful Guitar Face thing where he looks like he’s getting a tetanus shot….ugh, you know what I mean.

I wish I had some good advice for you, but I’m not a psychiatrist (even though I play one on TV, haha.) I do know that nudity is not the answer. You won’t get Brad back and it makes you seem a little desperate. Have you considered just minding your own business instead of going around trying to prove that you’re a hottie even though you’re no you-know-who?

If I were you, I’d spend my time spreading rumors that Brad is a lousy fuck and has herpes. Then I’d marry a hot young Latino and kick back, watching TV and ordering shoes from Saks while Angie has 50 more babies with stupid names and 50 more tattoos to mark her ownership. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about my uterus falling out!

Just trying to help,
xo Sister Wolf