Archive for October, 2009

A Good Question Worth Considering

Friday, October 30th, 2009

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After mocking ShopCurious the other day, I was disarmed by the playful response from the site’s creator, Susan. On her ShopCurious blog, she poses the question, What would you like to be remembered for?

I think it’s a great question and not at all a morbid one, despite my husband’s tendency to flip out when I mention my death or my funeral arrangements. Most people don’t like contemplating their existence, let alone the fact that it’s finite. Like Woody Allen, I don’t mind dying, I just don’t want to be there when it happens!

I used to worry about the way people might remember me: I figured they would open my drawers and shriek, “God, did this bitch hoard cashmere sweaters!” That alone made me want to make sure to live forever. Or to give the sweaters away while I had the chance.

But something about Susan’s blog caused me to stop and ponder the question. It’s a hard one. I tried to answer it but I think that at different times in your life, your perspective changes, sometimes radically, and your answer may change as well.

I’m more sure of what I don’t want to be remembered for. I don’t want to be remembered as someone who never lived up to her potential. I don’t want to be remembered for any kind of betrayal. I don’t want to be remembered for caving in to outside pressure.   Most of all, I don’t want to be remembered for failing my children, and that is clearly the toughest challenge.

Thinking about Susan’s blog, it also occurs to me that I don’t want to be remembered for closing my heart to an offer of friendship. I’m here for you Susan, even though I made fun of that horrible rat necklace.

May you all enjoy your Dio de los Muertos !

All New Chance to Spend Money

Friday, October 30th, 2009

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Here is the second offering from Sister Wolf’s Hoarded Fashion Collection .

All proceeds will pay bills and enable the Sister Wolf Boat to stay afloat for the time being. Own a piece from this collection and you will own a piece of Sister Wolf’s tragic history to show off to your children and grandchildren or that bitch in your office.

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Chanel earrings, never worn. Four inch dangling strings of pearls, rhinestones and sparkly double C’s with a diamante bow clip. Guaranteed authentic. These are serious earrings: heavy and eye-catching, they say “I have a rich sugar daddy and you don’t!” I planned to wear them in Las Vegas on my birthday but I forgot to bring them.   $250. SOLD

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Vintage Native American silver and turquoise cuff, with dangling earrings. 1950s or earlier. This cuff is best for a small wrist but it can be adjusted a bit for size.   $110

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Oh dear, how do I explain these skull earrings? My brain saw gold and diamonds and rationalized that it was a must item. 14K yellow gold and diamonds, the little hoops can be worn separately, too.   By Sydney Evans, retail for $725.   $400.

Don’t forget there’s still some Chanel and Vivienne Westwood over here that may be gone by the weekend, so go have another look.

If anything interests you, let me know at sisterwolf666@gmail or at my other email address.

Leave comments at your own risk. I really really don’t want to hear anything that doesn’t sound like “Great, I’ll take it!” Being destitute can make one kind of touchy.

The Wrong Color

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

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I couldn’t help admiring this dress until I read the description. “Black and donkey coloured long-sleeved knit dress…

The attached sweater thing looks kind of mauve, doesn’t it? What color is “donkey coloured,” anyway?

Many hundreds of years ago, when I was a script reader, I had to read a non-fiction book about a small town doctor who was accused of molesting several female patients. During the trial, a prim witness was asked to describe the color of the doctor’s penis. Flustered and embarrassed, she sputtered: “It was penis colored!”

Penises, donkeys, this dress is dead to me.

Another Girl Hates Me!

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

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And not only that, she called me a stupid cunt! See, this is why I’m against comment-censorship. Instead of deleting Ellen’s rant, I would like to deconstruct it. I will need all the help I can get, though. Here is Ellen’s reply to my last post:

dude, don’t hate the player, HATE THE GAME. opiates feel so good. im sure you don’t hate on people who drink booze, and yet look at all the damage alcohol causes to peoples lives. on one hand you are ‘taking up bandwidth’ as you call it, with your endless bitter pap, yet you encourage (nay, harrass) people you don’t even know to ‘look at themselves’ and accuse them of being unhappy and damaged. I think in the case of bloggers who don’t walk their own talk, they SHOULD censor THEMSELVES, so we don’t have to constantly roll our eyes at their bullshit, denial or not.

First of all, why do these people call me “dude?” I feel like the Elephant Man! I AM NOT AN ANIMAL! I’m a   female! Next, “don’t hate the player, hate the game:” Is that a lyric from a rap song? I don’t understand it. Can I hate the player AND the game if I want to?? And also too, must I hate “on” things, rather than simply hate them?

Then the opiates. Jesus. Anyone who promotes the use of opiates is either hopelessly naive or contemptible. It’s like being in favor of drunk driving. The only outcome is prison or death. Anyone who persists in thinking that drug addiction is cool is in for an ugly awakening.

Let’s see, what next. There’s the “endless bitter pap,” but that’s fair enough. One’s person’s pap is another person’s epiphany.

But what about the “nay?” That is a problem. Why does Ellen use the archaic form of “no” in that sentence? Is it ironic or just pretentious bad writing? English majors, speak up!

In the last sentence, Ellen suggests that I don’t walk my own talk. I have searched for the meaning of this expression and it seems to mean “practice what you preach.” Ellen, I wish you had been more specific! I do use a walker at present, so try to go easy on me. If you’re trying to say I’m a hypocrite, then yes, I’m at least as hypocritical as the next person.

Finally, in her follow up comment, Ellen suggests that I’m a stupid cunt, and here I must vigorously disagree. Stupid is such a relative term, after all, and while I’m certainly stupid in my own way, I’m not nearly as stupid as Ellen. Therefore, I remain a cunt, but not a stupid cunt.

Finally, the Cunt Ring!

Monday, October 26th, 2009

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I wasn’t even looking for it, and boom, there it was! Only $31, too.

All the stuff at The Alley Chicago reminds me of the gnarlitude girl, who never tires of saying, “Fuckin RAD!” or “Look at my old man, fuck yeah!” I’m sure that in real life, she’s a very nice girl who doesn’t really love “opiates” even though she cites them in her category “What I’m Into.”

I came across the cunt ring while searching for stuff by Ineke Otte, a Dutch designer whose hideous jewelry is currently featured at ShopCurious. Their merchandise is usually pretentious and overpriced, but normally it’s at least aesthetically pleasing. Here is Ineke Otte’s rat necklace:

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WHY, ShopCurious?!? This is just crap! You can’t fool me by saying it’s an “avant garde piece.”

Obviously, I receive too many news letters from too many shopping sites. I don’t have the time or the will to look at most of them, but they are useful for reminding me of how shallow I used to be. Not that I’ve stopped being shallow, but I don’t pursue it any more. Now when I get dressed, I can honestly say that the shoes I wear are which ever ones my husband brings me when I whine, “Can you put on my shoes?”

The broken hip is a constant nuisance. I am really, really sick of it. But it has given me more compassion for my son, who is still learning to sit up in bed.

“Jeggings” Not Bad Enough?

Friday, October 23rd, 2009

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The insults never stop. ” Jeggings” seemed like a true winner in the Awful New Fashion Jargon category, easily on a par with “Shooties.”

But Stylebop has gone that extra mile with “Jeggins.”

Are they trying to kill me?!?

On the same topic, a popular blogger has recently posed the question, Should a blogger be allowed to censor or eliminate negative comments? The answer of course is, Only if the blogger is a coward or fascist. In the long thread of obsequious comments, however, fifty thousand lackeys offer some version of support, in the form of the same banal manifesto against “mean people.”

Nearly every comment includes the phrase “that being said” or “at the end of the day.”

Mean People Suck, right? It says so on the bumper sticker. As long as they don’t write “at the end of the day” though, they are a breath of fresh air compared to breathless ass-kissers. If you can’t stand up to a comment, no mater how rude or stupid, why bother blogging at all?   Just keep a personal diary and stop taking up bandwidth.

The Nursing Home Gambit

Thursday, October 22nd, 2009

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In the ongoing daily struggle against health-care incompetence, the major event of the week was The Nursing Home Gambit. It began when the chief of medical staff came in to say that Blue Cross was refusing to cover any further treatment at the pretend hospital. He announced this development as he loomed over Max’s bed. Is this correct protocol? Oh well.

Two days later, I called the “hospital” case manager about getting a bed near a window, and she revealed that Max needed to be discharged to a facility with a lower level of care. I laughed and repeated the words “lower level of care” thinking, Is that even possible? I warned her that we would not agree to any discharge until I had visited the new facility.

She gave me the addresses of two facilities that Blue Cross was willing to pay for. My friend Mark drove me to the first one, a convalescent home called something like “Windsor Palace” and located in the hood.

We tried parking in the tiny garage under the building but the stench was intolerable. Mark dropped me off at the entrance, where two old codgers were hanging out in wheelchairs. The codgers seemed pleasant, and one of them helped me when I felt dizzy and nearly fainted.

Inside, the scene was surreal. A “receptionist” sat at a small card table. Next to her, a white-haired old lady sat in a wheelchair, wearing a pink house-coat and a long rosary, wailing mournfully in a high-pitched tone at the top of her lungs. I said in a cheerful voice that I’d come to look around on behalf of my son.

A nice young Hispanic guy appeared and said he had just reviewed Max’s records. His supervisor had decided that they were not able to offer   Max the care he needed. I exclaimed, “Oh thank god!” and he walked me to the door. Outside, waiting for Mark to pick me up, I chatted with the two codgers. They confirmed that no one ever visited any of the residents, although “the CNA will sometimes spend some time with you if she likes you.”

Back at the “hospital,” I called Blue Cross. The guy I talked to said that they hadn’t denied any authorization for care from the “hospital.” Haha, false alarm! Or, more sinister, perhaps the “hospital” just wants to get rid of Max because he requires more care than a helpless old octogenarian with a tracheotomy.

Here is the thing to keep in mind: If you are considering a nursing home for one of your loved ones, it may be more merciful to simply kill them, if Windsor Palace is the norm, and I believe it is. I personally would much prefer to end it all with a quick blunt object to the back of my head than to spend my last months or years in a stinking hellhole where nobody reacts to my screaming and the CNA might spend time with me if she likes me.

Adam Goldberg: YES

Monday, October 19th, 2009

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I saw this photo the other day in juxtapoz, a stupid art magazine that my adopted son* Chris brought over.   I was stunned by the glory of the poster on the wall: NO YOU SHUT UP is the single most brilliant statement anyone could possibly make. I think it may be my next tattoo.

The photo is a still from a new movie called (Untitled), a satire about the contemporary art scene. Sign me up! Not that I’ll ever get out to see a movie, but, you know, theoretically.

Adam Goldberg is making a real comeback in my life after maybe being the guy in the Sarah Palin is a Cunt shirt. Last night, my kid got us a copy of The Hebrew Hammer and we laughed our heads off until the disc got screwed up in the last act and froze.

* If you don’t know about my adopted son, we became friends on MySpace through our shared appreciation of Deadwood. Chris lost his mom many years ago and I volunteered to adopt him. My family has accepted this situation very graciously, and why shouldn’t they?   I also have an adopted daughter, but we haven’t been able to meet yet.   If you need to be adopted, let’s talk when I’m not so overwhelmed.

Your Chance to Spend Money!

Sunday, October 18th, 2009

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I haven’t been able to work since August, and now there is a pile of unpaid bills. This is not a “boo hoo, poor me” thing, it’s just a fact.   As you know, I was formerly a highly paid tabloid journalist. Now I am screwed.

So! Here is the big push to raise funds.   You can buy a fanatastic piece of Sister Wolf’s Hoarded Fashion Collection  while at the same time aiding in a humanitarian effort. It’s like painting a chair for the Dying Children, ONLY BETTER.

Above and below is a beautiful Chanel handbag from Neiman Marcus in immaculate condition. Never worn, hoarded for no good reason.

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All the usual shit included: bag, box, authenticity papers. Click on the photo to enlarge it.

Below, Chanel laquer bangle with rhinestones. It’s a wavy shape, rather than a plain circle. Perfect for any occasion, bla bla bla.

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Next, and this breaks my heart, is a leather purse by the amazing Natalia Brilli. Softest leather with sculptured hand thingy. Big enough for lipstick and a credit card. Wonderful in every way.

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If you wear a US 10 or a Euro 40, these Vivienne Westwood boots are both collectible and wearable if you can walk in heels. They have been in their original box under my bed since I bought them from Coggles.com.

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Made in Italy, real leather, hidden platform, fierce, to die for, etc etc.

Remember my Vivienne Westwood horns-tiara? Want to own it? Just say the word.

And remember this Sharon Wauchob coat from Sharon Osbourne’s private sale? Size 4, never worn, duh, only hoarded. Heavy black cotton with lots of weird designer details.

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Okay, so.   If you’re interested in any of these things from the Sister Wolf’s Hoarded Fashion Collection  , let me know. The bag = $600,   bangle = $150,   little purse = $125 SOLD,   boots = $450, coat = $80. SOLD

DO NOT LEAVE COMMENTS unless you want me to kill you.   “Nice stuff, I wish I had the money” would just embitter me further about my situation. Contact me at sisterwolf666@gmail.com or via my other email.

* Notice my walker in the first photo? I could have cropped it but no, that’s how awesome I am.

Waiting For Mr. Capote

Saturday, October 17th, 2009

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Mr. Capote shares a room with Max and has the side with a window. It’s also the side with the television. I used to assume that the window side was reserved for V.I.P.’s (i.e., people with better insurance) but now I have no idea how the beds are assigned.

We want Mr. Capote to leave, so Max can have the window. I don’t want him to die, just to leave.

At first, Mr. Capote was just an obscure and disgusting nuisance.   He is 79 but looks   much older, with a bald bullet head and hunched posture. Every so often, he grunts “Son of a bitch!” with great feeling. No one comes to visit him. Ever.

Most of the nurses and aides have trouble with his name. They call him Mr. Caputo, Mr. Capoat, and at least once, Mr. Cooper. He never corrects them. He sits at the edge of his bed for hours at a time, dozing off and leaning sideways very precariously. He has breathing treatments and physical therapy.   I believe that the toes on one foot have been amputated. He pees in a big plastic bottle that he keeps on the tray where he eats.

For the first time in two weeks, a caretaker engaged him in conversation. He is from central California. In other words, he’s an actual person, not a thing to be warehoused in a gray room in a pretend hospital.

Today, I asked Mr. Capote if I could use the lounger chair that had migrated from Max’s bedside into Mr. Capote’s side of the room. He said “Sure, go ahead.” When I had trouble moving it due to my walker, he even made a move to get up and help me.   I told him, “No no no, I can do it. We don’t want you falling and ending up like me!”

Where is Mr. Capote’s fucking family?! I still want the window, but when Mr. Capote is discharged to god knows where, it will be a hollow victory.