Godammit, I’m Mad!

Let me begin with I’m Sorry, because I really am. This blog has devolved into a tale of woe that is much too personal but still not personal enough.   Try to bear with me.

I broke my fucking hip. I KNOW it’s not a good time to break my hip. That didn’t stop me. It was dark outside and I tripped and fell on the concrete driveway. I knew something was broken but I waited a few minutes before admitting that I needed an ambulance. In fact, I think I was pretty businesslike, given the pain and horror.

A broken hip hurts so much, you have no idea until you have one. It is agony. For the first couple of hours, I begged everyone not to hurt me. “Please don’t hurt me!” and “Please don’t let anyone hurt me!” over and over. An ER nurse named Debbie and an ex-ray guy did their best to help. Thanks Debbie and ex-ray guy!

The ER doctor told me that I needed surgery. When I pleaded with him, he told me that it was a really “bad” break and that’s why my leg looked “two inches shorter than the other one.” I still don’t know what he was talking about but he gets zero points for bedside manner.

I will try to cut to the chase. It’s five days later and I’m home. The pain is still off the chart but I’m supposed to try to keep moving. I think there are nails and screws in my hip/leg but oh well.

I will let you in on a little secret. All anyone cares about in the hospital are bowel movements. People want you to have one. Patients in other rooms are desperate to have one. I had a little notice board in my room with a list of 3 goals for the day.   Bowel Movement was number 3, after Reduce Pain and Try to Move.

I hope that no one reading this ever has to endure a broken hip, even if I hate you. Please be careful! Take calcium, too.   Max is doing well and I told him that lots of people were sending prayers and Good Thoughts. I know I can count on you to keep up the good work for him while I recover. xo

Here I am, innocently checking out the headlines at Huffington Post, when I am assaulted by the news that Mackenzie Phillips slept with her father, John Phillips.   Eoow, god, why do we have to know this?!   I will never be able to enjoy “California Dreaming” again.

If you don’t know who John Phillips is, you’re probably not going to give a shit about this. Unless you pretend it’s Miley Cyrus admitting to an affair with her dad. Which she won’t do, even though it’s obvious they are lovers.

Mackenzie is 49 years old now, and she’s already talked quite a bit about her struggles with drug addiction. I’m sure she had a screwed up life, but why must she go public about having sex with her father? I’m thinking that if I experienced incest, it would be good to tell a therapist, but what moves a person to notify the entire world?

Maybe I just can’t bear to think that this stuff goes on.   Am I being mean to Mackenzie? Do you want to know which celebrities slept with their parents or their kids? Except for Miley and Billy Ray, I am so not into it!

If you’re a “name” and you plan to write a confessional memoir, this has certainly raised the bar. Perhaps that’s the silver lining: famous people might consider leaving us alone now.

Today I was at the hospital for 12 hours, waiting for my son’s surgery and then waiting for word about the surgery and then waiting for him to return to his room. The surgery was successful and I am still trying to unwind.

Hospital life is an alternate universe where time is different, people are different, and you start enjoying the hand sanitizer. I’ve gotten so sick of myself and my own story that the sound of someone yelling personal shit into a phone is fascinating beyond belief. I listened to a guy screaming emotionally about obscure family dramas as he paced back and forth, tearing at his hair. I hoped I could lure him into confiding in me before he disappeared down the hall.

Since the hospital Proudly Serves Starbucks, one spends about $15 a day for the relief of having a hot drink to hold when one is kicked out of the ICU for staff changes or Procedures. One soon becomes familiar with all the restrooms, the limited offerings of the gift shop, and the places where one can get a phone signal.

For the fashion-conscious, the hospital is a big wake-up call. I hate the term “wake-up call.” I could have said “eye-opener” but I hate that too, although not with the same intensity. No one dresses with any discernible style at the hospital. In nearly three weeks, I have seen exactly two women wearing Fierce Shoes. One looked like a misplaced prostitute/fashionista, and the other appeared to be a deluded immigrant of some kind. Today in the elevator, however, I saw an old lady (i.e., my age) wearing an embroidered cardigan that I myself purchased last year from the Lucky Jeans store.   The cardigan is dead to me now.

What I’d really like is to slowly re-accustom myself to non-Hospital Life, but that is not going to happen anytime soon.   Maybe I can at least cut down on the coffee but that is even more unlikely.

The weirdest part of all is coming home to my other life, and to my computer. The stuff I paid so much attention to is vaguely absurd, but somehow comforting. I just saw some pictures of Tavi at Fashion Week, dressed like an old lady at a bingo table in Miami. I’m waiting for her to take off that dwarf costume and go “Ha ha, suckers!” Not because she’s too sophisticated to be a kid but because her style is so fucking awful.

That’s it for now.   Who wants to come up with an idea for a contest where the prize is that dead cardigan?

I have a feeling that before too long, we will all be sick of this 82 year old model but for now I am pretty damn impressed. The clothes by Joanna Sykes are genuinely age defying, aren’t they? Silver leather jeans and a nude silk shirt seems like an obvious combination now that Sykes has put them together but I never would have thought of it.

This outfit looks even more beautiful on a more conventional model. What is not to love here?!? If Patti Smith could see this shit, she might even give up her customary black on black.   Patti, we are ready for a change, just this once!

I’m often annoyed at myself for getting married in gold leather pants but now I’m thinking it was a good idea after all.   This was either 8 or 9 years ago, I can never remember the exact date. If I can hang on until I’m 82, I guess I could wear them with a nude silk shirt, preferably by Joanna Sykes, who is a fucking genius.

Last night I attended the annual Port of Los Angeles Lobster Festival, drawn by the promise of a KISS tribute band composed of midgets.   It was a warm, humid evening, and hundreds of people wandered around happily wearing stupid red lobster hats, drinking beer and enjoying the opportunity to have a blast for only $7.

Bikers, home-girls, dock workers, head-bangers, shirtless Samoans, old people and little kids mingled together in perfect harmony.   When “Shorty’s Little Kiss Band” took the stage, it was a sight that brought pure joy to every face in the crowd. Raucous midgets in KISS make-up are the answer to everything! I didn’t recognize most of the songs but I figured out how to do the heavy metal hand sign and hollered appreciation with all my lung power.

From now on, I will be proselytizing that “Midgets Set You Free.” It’s the best time I’ve had in months. You can check out some other midget acts for hire over here at Shorty’s Little People Talent agency.

This is not a Mom Blog, but Sister Wolf is nothing if not a mother.   And nothing makes a mother feel more like an animal than when her child is in danger.

My child has been in the hospital for just over two weeks. It has gone from terrible to better to good, and back to terrible. From critical condition to stable condition. Then back to critical.

I’ve noticed that all my animal instincts have been activated. I have never felt more rage. I was ready to kill.   I threatened to kill more than once. When I encountered an incompetent nurse, I appealed to the head of administration to keep her away from my son. We haven’t seen her again.

I have stayed up all night on sheer adrenalin. I’ve been scared to death and maintained my composure.

Now I have to deal with some fucking idiots who pumped my kid full of opiates and then reduced them so quickly that he went into serious withdrawal, which was the most horrible thing I have ever witnessed.   Fuckers! Why can’t I kill them?

All I can do is watch over him and do my best to make sure that one of the best hospitals in the US doesn’t make another mistake.

When I sit beside his bed, I love him as much as the day he was born. I could look at his face for hours, and I do. I love the way he smells, even when it’s awful. I am flooded with maternal adoration. I wish he had fleas so I could pick them out of his fur.

I will probably take this post down soon enough, but for anyone interested, that’s the current situation.   In my exhaustion, I asked my husband to help me organize my priorites.   Here is my list:

1. Get Max well.
2. Drink water.
3. Revenge.

I may lose my appetite for revenge, but I did have the brilliant idea of keeping a water pistol in my handbag. Why didn’t I ever think of this before?! When someone makes me mad, I can just squirt them in the face!

I guess neccessity really is the mother of invention. And mothers in crisis are not to be fucked with.

Here is   new comment from “renee” on a post from last year about an eBay nemesis:

FIRST OF ALL SHE IS A TALENTED DESIGNER AND DONT YOU WISH YOU HAD THE IDEA FIRST WELL YEAH OF COURSE YOU DO THATS WHY YOUR SO BITTER. INSTEAD OF APPRECIATING HER BEAUTIFUL JEWELRY YOU SPREAD NASTINESS. YOU GO AROUND TALKING TRASH INSTEAD OF HONING INTO POSITIVE THOUGHTS. YOUR PROBABLY A REAL WINNER……. BE MORE AWARE CAUSE MAYBE ONE OF THESE DAYS THE SPIRIT OF THE TIGER MIGHT JUST COME AND BITE YOUR BIG ASS MOUTH….. NOW SHUT IT ALREADY
SPREAD LOVE NOT HATE

Wow! Why is renee so mad?! Why do people who want you to spread love seem so enraged and possibly insane?!

Here’s the problem, as I see it: “You’re” and “your” are not interchangeable. People who can’t get that straight are no good for anything.

Please feel free to register your own grammatical pet peeves, for me or renee, below.

These jeans above, by Rich & Skinny, are the Rider Boyfriend Jeans and sell for $200. They have an unflattering yoke and sag in all the wrong places. Why are they called “Rider?” Why would anyone want them?

Even better, if better means worse, are these Boyfriend Jeans by Dsquared 2.

These jeans sell for $775 and I think you can see where the money went. Stained with paint and grease, ripped and patched, these jeans tell the world that you are both edgy and wealthy, gullible and shameless, spoiled, dumb, trendy and very very fierce.

This coat has been sealed in a big package, laying on my couch for nearly two weeks. My son’s accident brought my world to a halt, and I couldn’t bear the frivolity of opening a package.

Tonight, I felt it was time to check out my last impulsive and misguided internet purchase, so I tore the bag off the coat and squealed happily at the sight of this giant shaggy Kate Moss thing from Topshop.   I don’t have a full-length mirror, so my husband took a photo to help me see how great it looks. I may not be Carine Roitfeld but ha ha, now I can look like a Yeti too.

I didn’t see the whole show but so what, I’m still doing the Exegesis.

The best thing this year was Kanye West fucking up Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech. Yes, it was rude, and why not? Taylor Swift is a godawful singer and has made me sick ever since the knowledge of her existence was thrust upon me during an episode of Saturday Night Live. A tall giraffe of a girl with stupid ringlets and inappropriate lipstick, she bleats out her songs in a strained voice that makes my throat constrict in sympathy while wielding an over-sized guitar and playing up to the pederasts in the audience by kneeling down on the floor and flipping her head around.

Yay for Kanye West! He loves to make a scene at awards shows, and he couldn’t have picked a better victim to mess with. Ever since he told the American people on live TV that George Bush doesn’t care about black people, Kanye has been my hero.   Tonight, he won my appreciation for making that big awful girl shut the hell up.

Beyonce’s performance was fantastic. Her legs were bigger than ever, in her never-ending tribute to My Little Pony. Pink was especially androgynous as she demonstrated her acrobatic prowess during a torch song about a bad relationship. Her boob was out but covered by a nice pasty.

Jay Z performed a rap song while his pants fell down, and Alicia Keyes appeared to understand why he is a star, much to my confusion. When I remarked to my husband that Alicia is gay, he snapped at me, even though it’s not my fault.

Lady Gaga looked ridiculous and thanked “the gays.” Do they like to be called The Gays? You would think she has learned the protocol by now.

Let’s see, what else? Green Day was embarrassing, Janet Jackson looked fierce, and Russel Brand feels no shame about his shapeless flabby arms, which he flailed around to no good effect.

That’s all I remember. Let me know if I forgot anything important.