Godammit, I’m Mad!

Aren’t you guys sick of seeing the studded Isabel Marant booties that cost around $1,200?  Now you can have the satisfaction of knowing that this knockoff version is almost identical.  I hate both versions at this point, but that’s because I am (1) destitute and (2) crippled.

I hope someone hurries up and knocks off those huge Acne platform wedges.  Quick, Steve Madden and Jeffrey Campbell!

When I saw this photo of Lindsay Lohan taking a bow at the disastrous Ungaro show, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Look at the emotions playing upon her worn-out face:  “They love me!” “I’ve finally arrived!” “Now Sam will be sorry!”

She doesn’t even realize how much everyone hates her or how much ridicule she’s about to endure. She is totally, monumentally clueless. The bulging lips are the icing on the cake, as it were.

But check out this Ungaro model. No one bothered to get her a feeding tube, with all the commotion about how awful the clothes were.

Poor girl! I’ll bet you anything that when she looks in the mirror, she sees a fat pig.  This isn’t Lindsay’s fault, even though Lindsay has a lot to answer for. Like the beaded white tuxedo jacket she wore to court today, which I’ve seen at net-a-porter and a bunch of other high-end shopping sites.

The truth is, I just can’t hate LL any more. She has exhausted my reserve of hatred for her and I need to move on.  Her sister might be a good candidate. Or maybe Kate Bosworth? Kate Bosworth hasn’t done anything offensive per se, but her pointlessness is starting to get to me.

Nominations, anyone?

Not too long ago, I applied for a job at the Refinery 29 blog.  They offered me an interview but the job turned out to be in New York.   Reading the following post, I realize that I couldn’t write such awful prose  even with a gun to my head.  It is simply beyond my capability. Ready, set, go:

We’re no newbies to fake tattoos, though it’s safe to say that the glittery unicorns and branded stick-ons from the local bank we used to apply don’t really garner us the same cred as the ones shown on this season’s runway. Delicate bracelets and chains were drawn onto the models at SChanel, and Gaultier paired his spring line with lettered prison tats. Rodarte went for the full monty and Sharpie’d the models’ arms and necks in full Maori effect. Less permanent than really getting pricked, but still pretty badass, we have a feeling that a little hand-drawn ink will start making its way off the runway and onto your arms, chests, and legs.

Jesus, whew!

Maybe my ears are too sensitive, but this just seems aggressively bad in every way: it’s pretentious, hokey, cutesy and irritating.  Is it standard fashion writing, or is it setting a new standard?

Who wants to count the language crimes? I’ll start with the first sentence. “Garner”, “newbies” and “cred” are all unforgivable.  For extra credit, try making it even worse, if that’s possible!

There is a pain-management doctor at the “hospital” who surprised us last week by announcing that he wants to put my son on methadone instead of Oxy’s.

Max’s reaction was, “No, I don’t want to be addicted to methadone!” I decided to ignore Dr. Z, a tense Iranian guy who wears a Jewish skull cap. But on Friday, he came back to warn that he’ll be ordering methadone on Monday.

When Max asked, “What am I supposed to do when I get out of here and I’m addicted to methadone?” Dr. Z answered: “No problem, you come to my office and I’ll write you a prescription.”

Do you hear what I hear???? I hear a doctor drumming up clientele at an acute care hospital. Is this ethical?!?  Do you think for a minute that I’m going to let this cunt fuck up my kid????

I have notified the attending physician and the case manager that under no circumstances will Max accept methadone.  We made a sign to put up over his bed that says NO METHADONE.

If it’s not rabid squirrels, it’s a methadone pusher. It is fucking unbelievable.

Tonight, I was laying on my bed like a beached whale after my day at the “hospital” and talking on the phone to my sister. She was telling me about the three t-shirts she bought today and while she was talking, my mind drifted to the thought: “I’m glad I don’t need a tracheotomy.”

What a funny place to be, after a lifetime of shopping! I know it won’t last forever. When everything returns to normal, I’ll probably resume the mindless pursuit of clothes, boots and jewelry with as much vigor as the next addict.

But for now, everything is skewed. Photos of street style are particularly difficult to take seriously. The trendier the outfit, the more I feel that the person should just kill them-self. See the girl above? What’s the point of her, you know? She was told to wear a peak-shouldered jacket and painful high heels, and she complied. So what?!

On the other hand, fashion is not without its power to amuse when times are hard. Even though I have no urge to buy anything, I can still appreciate this jumpsuit for sale by Mom of Shoes:

It is described as:  Great 70’s lounge jumpsuit in bold houndstooth print. This is a very high quality piece, feels like wool.

Is she having a laugh or is she curating ironically ugly thriftstore crap? What does the word “great” mean in this context? I don’t get it, but it delivered another little frisson of perverse pleasure, and I use the word “frisson” because it goes so well with the jumpsuit.

Thoughts, complaints, etc?

Has everyone seen the pix of Sea’s gay boyfriend?!?!? God this makes me happy. What a gift, know what I mean?

Thanks for the heads up, andrea!

Today, Scott the Physical Therapist put Max in a special chair and took him outside to get some fresh air.

We joined this nice couple, who were also enjoying some sunlight. They have been married for 61 years and she has been staying by his side for 12 hours every day. He had a massive stroke and has already spent weeks at a real hospital before being transferred to the illustrious facility above.

As we breathed in the fresh air, Max and I were annoyed by the brazen squirrels who came much too close to us, even perching on my bench. As their number climbed to four, Max worried that they might bite his bare toes, a definite danger given the aggressiveness of the squirrels, who some morons in the “hospital” have encouraged by feeding them nuts and cookies.

I swung my walker at the vermin, yelling “Fuck off!” when “Scram!” had no impact whatsoever.

The old man mentioned the Boston Celtics, and his wife told him, “Come on, you know we don’t like the Celtics, we’re Dodgers fans!”  He seemed preoccupied with the number 555, but when she asked him if he wanted to go back inside, he answered graciously: “Oh yes, I would very much like that.”

People, are we learning anything from all this? Are we learning that life and health are incredibly fragile? That love is all that matters? That in one moment, your entire world can be turned upside down forever? That human kindness is a precious commodity? That shoes are irrelevant, as are virtually all other consumer goods?

I am still trying to formulate a response to all the unwelcome input that keeps assaulting my consciousness. I never knew the danger of bed sores, for example. I never thought much about total helplessness.

I do know that I fucking hate squirrels. Why do people persist in thinking they’re cute? All they do is spread disease and chew through electrical wiring. I genuinely despise them. I need a means of keeping them at a distance, to protect Max’s toes and my own sanity.

What can I bring to the hospital to repel the squirrels, besides rat poison? Any ideas?

Having now attained the perfect haggard beauty of the suffering Christ, Max is hoping for permission to eat or drink tonight.

Reading the supportive comments here after 12 hours of dragging Biggie and Tupac around the hospital bed is so uplifting, you have no idea. You fuckers are the best. I must have done something right in a previous life. xoxo

1. I asked to see a case manager.
2. I explained my immediate concerns, and used the word Cunt re attending physician.
3. I spoke to the CEO, who listened in horror, gave me his card, and promised a new doctor.
4. The chief of medical staff came in to see Max and ordered some tests and pain meds.
5.  A gastric specialist is coming in the morning.
6. A reader of Godammit.com (Jools) picked me up from the “hospital” and took me to my hip surgeon appointment. To call her an angel is a huge understatement.
7. The hip is doing okay and has titanium rods in it.
8.  A Godammit.com reader (andrea) sent me a Nursing Care Plan for Max.
9.  Another blogger (WCGB) offered assistance and we bonded over the phone.
10. Max and I sang “Don’t Worry Baby” and I believe I was on key throughout.

The moral so far is this: It doesn’t just take a village; It takes the Internet.

Now his  stomach has stopped working. The original hospital says they don’t have a bed.

ileus: