Godammit, I’m Mad!

Costochondritis is an inflammation of the cartilage that connects the ribs to the breastbone. It’s extremely painful and feels like a heart attack that won’t go away. The first time I had it, I called 911 and in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, I kept whispering to the EMT guys, “Don’t let me die!”

Now I have it again, and here’s why: There is a plague of constant catastrophe and sorrow upon the House of Wolf, and it just keeps coming. There are no locusts (so far) but there are cockroaches. I am learning which kitchen products work best to immobilize them.

I feel there is a biblical aspect to this plague, although I know next to nothing about the bible. I do remember a part about the firstborn sons,  and that’s how this plague began.  My firstborn son nearly died, didn’t die, but his recovery won’t be what we thought.

Then came-ith my Broken Hip, the horror of Kindred, the No Money, the Angry Husband, the Spiteful Teenager, The Leaking Roof, the Pile of Bills, the No Leaving the House, and now the Fucking Costochondritis. It’s like a knife in my heart, which is already broken in several places.

A friend mentioned the story of Job, and I nodded, pretending that I knew what he meant. I know that Job was some guy who god tortured just for fun, but then pretended he was testing Job’s faith.

If god is testing me, I hope he’s happy. I still have no faith, but I’m a simple enough creature to wonder why god wants to punish me. I know intellectually that bad things happen to good people. Bad things are mostly random. People are starving in Africa, but not because god hates them. Knowing this doesn’t bring me closer to god. Knowing he isn’t there doesn’t stop me from resenting him, either.

I sold the Chanel bag that was once my holy grail. Chanel won’t protect you from the lord’s wrath or his indifference. I would give up everything I have just to turn back the clock to August. I would even sign up for more creepy medical  conditions like costochondritis. This sounds like bargaining, right? And bargaining is a stage of grief, but I can’t remember which one.

Just the other night, I watched the first half of Gone With the Wind on TV. I was struck for the first time by how poignantly Scarlett exclaimed, “I want my mother!”  I finally know what she means. I want my mother too, even though she’s dead, and even though she was crazy my whole life.  I get why soldiers call out for Mother when they’re injured on the battle field.  It’s horrible to be out here on your own without a mother to make things better. It’s horrible to be a mother who can’t make things better.

I wasn’t going to end this on a tragicomic note, then I changed my mind, then I changed it back again. It’s a brutal Christmas over here.

So much to love here! “How come nobody asked whether Joe Biden has the experience?” Hahahahahahaha!

I was a little taken aback this morning by this number (above,) the Tribal Beat Dress, among Shopbop’s new arrivals. Is this Head Jutting Girl? I can’t even tell! Then, by a different “Designer” but on the same unfortunate theme, there is this:

The Zebra Romper. Imagine entering a room wearing the Zebra Romper with the Roomy Hooker Booties! What a wonderful statement….I would even go so far as to call it Effortlessly Chic!

What’s interesting to note is that Goony Bird has the ability to make a simple tank top look EVEN SCARIER!

Let’s say you buy a hideous green leather YSL jacket on eBay for $320.  And it’s listed as:  “VTG Yves Saint Laurent Art Deco Cropped Leather Jacket.”

Should you boast that you “found” it on eBay? To my mind, you “bought” it. It was right there for sale and you saw it and you bought it.  Maybe if it was listed on eBay as “Crap leather jacket from the 80s” and you RECOGNIZED it as an YSL piece, then you could say you found it on eBay.

Now.  If you spent some time in the Jewish Ladies Thrift Shop and while searching through a rack of ugly polyester shit, you find this for $40…

that is actually “finding.” The person I sold it to on eBay for $320 BOUGHT it! I think we were both happy about it, too.

So, what do you think? Do you get any points for buying expensive designer shit on eBay? Is there a difference between “finding” something and “buying” it?

Back in October, I had a first-hand experience of conditions at a Los Angeles nursing home. I was stunned by the blatant inhumanity: I don’t know what else to call it. How can this shit go on? How can people live with themselves after consigning a loved one to such misery and neglect?

Hearing about a 98 year old woman who killed a 100 year old roommate, my first reaction was to laugh. I guess it’s still funny on some level, but I’ve lost the thread of whatever black comedy I perceived there. Now that I’ve learned the circumstances, I am furious beyond words. It’s an obvious case of nursing home negligence, but the nursing home won’t be held responsible and for the administrators and stockholders, it will be business as usual.

Laura Lundquist strangled her roommate, Elizabeth Barrow, at the Brandon Woods nursing home in New Bedford, MA, after Barrow’s son made repeated complaints about Lundquist on his mother’s behalf. Lundquist believed that Barrows was “taking over her room,” and had already made threats to the older roommate as well as an attempt to block her from leaving her bed.

Guess what? When you complain about anything in a nursing home, NOTHING HAPPENS! People might nod as though they are listening, but nothing will happen. The staff is not there to provide care. They are there to earn a low wage and to bitch to each other about how annoying their duties are. The patients are discussed by their room and bed number. “24B needs service” announced on the intercom will not bring anyone to 24B’s room, not until some CNA is good and ready to walk her ass down the hall.

Lundquist has a lawyer who will argue that she has dementia. Of course she does! She’s 98 years old and rotting in a fucking nursing home! I don’t think Lundquist can be held responsible. But I’d like to see the administrators of Brandon Woods be restrained in their own nursing home for the next several years, subjected to bedsores and the ravings of mentally ill roommates.

The CEO of Brandon Woods, Scott Picone, says said the home was “deeply saddened by this tragic event, and our thoughts and prayers go out to both families.” He declined to comment further. But in another statement, the home said the roommates acted like sisters, walked and ate lunch together daily and said, “Goodnight, I love you,” to each other every night.

Here’s a story for you:  Max’s last roommate at Kindred Hospital was a man named Willie. He is an elderly black man who has cancer and may have also had a stroke. At the time he arrived, he was unable to talk. He had a tracheotomy and had some plastic thing in his mouth. He could gesture with his hands though and he had a legal pad on his table where he could write to communicate.  Just before Max was discharged, I saw that Willie had written “Why do they handle me like a terrorist??” Why indeed.

The next day, I paused outside the room and said to a nurse who had just exited: “Willie is such a sweet guy.” She replied: “Yes, he is. Doesn’t talk much, though.”

In the Q & A section of the Brandon Woods website,  one is assured that: “Music, physical fitness, outings, and laughter are the key ingredients to enabling residents to enjoy their environment.”

Ha! Jesus. Off with their fucking heads.

Here’s the situation:

Tonight, my ex-husband came over to visit and offered to wash a fluffy foot-thing. (Don’t ask, but the tag says it’s washable.) I offered to wash it but he insisted on doing it. He probably thought he’d do a better job. (Men.)

Then, he put it in the clothes dryer, which is in the garage, because that’s where we do the laundry. He came back inside for a while and then went out to check the dryer. He came in again to report that the dryer stopped working. It worked when he turned it on, but now it’s broken. Dead. Won’t go on again.

I said something like, Shit, you broke the dryer?! He said something like, No, I didn’t break it, it broke.

I said, Well, my husband will be heartbroken when he comes home from work at 2: A.M. and finds that the dryer is broken. (My husband has been graciously doing the laundry while I have the fucking walker and can’t carry anything.)

This is like an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, but without Larry David.

I told the ex to pay for a repairman. The ex was aghast, and furious. Because “he didn’t break it.” But it wasn’t broken before he used it. In my addled mind, HE SHOULD PAY FOR THE REPAIR. Not only that, we have no money. (I’m aware that this has no moral bearing on the issue, but still.)

Should the ex pay? Or not?

It’s taken me a long time to gather my courage to address the Tavi Problem.  As her celebrity increases, I keep wondering why nobody brings up the subject of autism.

Aspergers Syndrome is a condition on the autistic spectrum, often characterized by a high IQ and an intense preoccupation with a specialized field of interest. In children, Aspergers can be especially endearing. A young person animated by a passion for learning, even if it’s about vacuum cleaners, is a pleasure to be around. As the mom of a kid who attends a special needs school, I’ve come to recognize signs of Aspergers from a mile off, and I’ve come to appreciate the quirky brainy kids that my son hangs out with.

Tavi strikes me as a kid with Aspergers whose obsession dovetails perfectly with the zeitgeist, i.e. the burgeoning influence of bloggers and the fashion industry’s desperation to appear ‘fresh’ and appeal to new markets.  Her extraordinary knowledge of fashion is mind boggling and she clearly has a prodigious memory for details. Gregory Evans has a similar understanding of vacuum cleaners, a gift that has earned him some notoriety but unfortunately not the same outpouring of love that Tavi has received.

Here is what Rodarte sister Kate Mulleavy says of Tavi: “When spending time with Tavi, I am always astonished by her observations. Tavi is a writer in every sense. Her way of interacting with the world comes from a sensitivity and madness that belongs to poets and bank robbers.”

My goodness! Poets and bank robbers?! I worry that Tavi is the Flavor of the Month, and that when the fashion world grows tired of her it will be a difficult transition. I hope her parents know what they’re doing.

My purpose in this discussion is not to diminish Tavi’s achievement but to suggest that using the term Aspergers Syndrome or even autism would help to dispel the notion that those on the spectrum are retarded or stupid. It would encourage other gifted kids to pursue their interests, full steam ahead.

I’m prepared to be scolded for daring to label everyone’s little darling, who is only thirteen. But it’s a label I use with affection and admiration. I’d like to see more kids and adults identify themselves as being on the spectrum. I’d like to see the end of the stigma that persists. As for the Rodarte sisters, I’m pretty sure they have Aspergers too.

At first glance, the Obscene Boot by Jeffrey Campbell looks like an almost acceptable knock-off of those stupid thigh high garter boots by Prada. But then….

the horror of the side view! Jesus! This kind of thing could cause a cardiac arrest.

Somewhere, there’s a fashion blog with a photo of these boots and a caption saying “Love! Must have.”

I know it’s a big surprise, since I’m not a waitress or porn star, but nonetheless I did have an affair with Tiger Woods, just like everyone else. Having a beautiful Swedish wife is no guarantee of happiness, it can finally be revealed. Tiger promised to “wear me out,” just like he told that other tramp, but he was a little put off when I admitted that I hate golf and I never liked his stupid name.

Here are some of the questions I’ve been mulling over:

What’s the difference between a guy who loves to cheat on his wife and a Sex Addict?
Does anyone really believe in Sex Addiction? Are all compulsive behaviors “addictions” or just some of them?
Do people who trust trashy gold diggers want to be caught or are they just stupid?
Does anyone believe that the woman on the far right in the top row was really a Tiger Woods mistress?

The woman has sold her story to the Daily Mail, a ridiculous British tabloid for those who don’t know. It quotes this woman as saying something like “Tiger especially loved my red panties.” Crap like this reminds me of my own career as a highly skilled tabloid journalist. I would NEVER have expected to be paid for such a generic quote! My shit was soooo much better, even if it was something about Jessica Simpson’s penchant for french fries, a fact that I made up and later saw on every online newspaper and gossip site for days.

I shouldn’t complain about Tiger Woods, since he is a gift from god to me and all who are struggling to cope with daily existence. I bless the day he crashed his car. My hard drive died yesterday morning, and I had only the promise of Tiger Woods shit on TV to pull me through this bleak period of unconnectivity.

Thank you Tiger, and all you dumb trashy whores!

These shoes make me want to cry.  They look like a pre-school project. Which is usually a good thing. But not when they cost $1,605.

How long before those cheap little rhinestones start to fall off? If shoes can feel embarrassed, this one is dying inside.