Godammit, I’m Mad!

Today I went out to a mall and ordered a cup of normal coffee. As I walked away with my small black coffee, I heard a woman order a no-foam non-fat decaf extra-hot latte. I think there might have been one more requirement but I can’t remember it. This underscores the fact that I’m way too stupid to get work as a barrista.

Why the fuck do people have such perfectionist needs when it comes to coffee?! What the hell is wrong with these people?? Why do they feel so entitled to reel off a string of   detailed instructions for a cup of coffee, that another human being has to then prepare TO THE LETTER?!?

I would be mortified to appear this fussy about anything. Why aren’t these coffee prima donnas embarrassed?

My own theory is that they didn’t get enough of Mommy’s attentive pampering so now they’re going to take it out on some helpless coffee server who can’t spank them or send them to their room.

Let’s hear your theory.

Max was in preschool when he met Justine and her brother Lindsay. They became close friends and spent most of their time at our house or their apartment, where they lived with their dad, a single father.

Justine was an unusual little girl, with long blond bangs that hung over her eyes and a dreamy smile. She would often burst out laughing when I least expected it. She was less sensitive than her brother, but both of them screamed their heads off during long epic games of monopoly with Max, who likewise played with ferocious determination. Justine was a good mediator when Max and Lindsay had a spat.

When they moved back to Cleveland, their dad’s hometown, we lost touch for the most part.   A few years ago, Justine came to visit me with her beautiful little daughter, who I longed to steal. Justine now played professional softball but somehow she was the same sweet dreamy girl I remembered.

Recently, after a mutual friend put us in touch via facebook. Justine sent me a message -

It is so good to reconnect with you. I miss max. I liked just knowing that one day we could see each other again. I remember being in 2nd grade and you telling us that we should get married one day. You would serve us a grilled cheese and then we would eat a flintstones vitamin. Being friends with max was some of my best childhood years.

Naturally I cried and cried. I saw that Justine had a website, and that was how I discovered that she recently made history by being the first woman to pitch batting practice to a Major League team. Not only that but she is also the first woman to coach a men’s professional baseball team.

I’m so proud of her achievements! I am also reminded that children come into the world with characteristics that can make them resilient or fragile, shy or outgoing, placid or temperamental.   They will take their own path in the end, regardless of what you do or don’t do. It’s a mystery and a miracle.

I loved so many of Max’s friends and I’m grateful that he brought them into my life. Justine holds a special place in my heart. Those were some of my happiest years, too.

Justine and Max -

reading the little profiles of  people  om tumblr, I noticed that a few people decribed themselves as eccentric. Like, ‘eccentric 19 year old art student loves cats, drawing, photography cupcakes and  random  cartoons.’

My feeling is, you don’t describe yourself as eccentric. That’s a  conclusion  made   about you by someone else.   It  just  seems unseemly. Like calling yourself ‘classy,’ it’s   kind of a self-negating word.

Naturally my husband failed to see the problem. I explained that actual eccentrics would not  describe  themselves as such. They tend to take no notice of how odd they are, but rather to find others baffling. The most eccentric people I’ve ever known would never describe themselves that way.

Therefore, almost by definition, these self-described eccentrics are just  being  pretentious. My husband then  asked  me   what other words I would categorize as unseemly. I came up with “complex” and “complicated’ as well as ‘lanky”. I don’t know where  the  lanky  came  from, but it’s certainly not a word to use about  oneself unless you want to be sickening.

It was frustrating to try to make my point when to another wordist, I’m sure it’s all a given. It’s pretentious to use certain words about yourself, even if those words are  fairly  accurate.   Maybe you’re quirky, but don’t bill yourself as quirky. It’s   an evaluation for others to make.

I was excited about getting into this  conversation  with someone as sensitive and prohibitive about words and word-usage as I am. I though of calling Cousin Russell, who’s always up for a word discussion.   But what I really  wanted  was Max, because he would know exactly what I meant and he would be eager to throw in some other words that he found unacceptable in the same way.

I need someone to be Max . When it hit me, I started to cry, even though we were on our first  weekend  vacation  in a year and a half.   Maybe my other nephew can help. I need someone who cringes when they hear a room or building called a ‘space.’

anyone care to help out? Agree or disagree, as long as you have strong opinions about words.

Ha.

And behold the young Wolf, 18 years old.   We are dressed for a Passover dinner with our in-laws.   My pants represent the gold idols that the Jews were not allowed to worship.

Not really.

Feel free, if you dare, to criticize my styling of the pants.

I was so touched and delighted when “Sam” suggested that my readers could take over some of my worries for me while I tend to my PTSD. The three big-ticket worries I mentioned were Libya, Mrs. Palin, and fashion.

So I’d like to hand over these worries on a volunteer basis. Just pick the one you feel most suited or inclined to worry about!   Here they are, in no order:

Libya

Mrs. Palin

The Tea Party

Obama’s ineptitude

Fashion trends

Nuclear catastrophe

Celebrity break-ups

Blogger business deals

Tavi developments

Afghanistan

Corporate crime

The economy

Sea of Shoes

Healthcare

I plan to continue worrying about hair and hair products, cosmetic surgery, language issues, cunts and COTW, and minor pop culture irritants. That’s all I can handle until further notice.

Okay, Thank you in advance for your kindness and generosity. Once you have chosen a Worry to be responsible for, just do your best. If you can’t fulfill your obligation and have to step down, it will go to the Alternate Candidate for that category.

xoxoxo

Understanding the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t help to alleviate them, but it’s good to know that others have felt as angry, numb, desperate and insane as oneself.

I wish I’d learned about this earlier, thereby to have avoided lashing out at everyone in my path, but oh well, what’s done is done.

I’m reading a book that explains about triggers – things that reignite the original trauma, making you relive it, over and over again. But I can’t avoid the triggers and I don’t even know which traumatic event to begin with.

Meanwhile, I went to my first meeting of a Bereaved Parents group. Cancer, suicide, it’s all the same agony. We are  each  clinging to our dead child’s mattress. We are all members of an elite group: the walking wounded pariahs whose stories are too awful for civilians.

A nice lady held my hand and gave me her phone number. There are no steps and no Higher power, just the bond of shared grief. I wish the group met more often.   I have problems up ahead, like ordering a gravestone and Mother’s Day. Lucky for me, I have a supportive husband who never says to hurry up and Get Over It.

Today I stared at tumblr images for five hours. I’ve stopped caring about Libya, fashion, and Mrs. Palin.  Sometimes  I sleep in my clothes so I don’t have to get dressed the next day. I even forgot to blog about how I smashed my finger with the trash can and had to have the ENTIRE NAIL REMOVED.

I am still sort of me, though. We watched a new episode of New York Housewives and I cursed at them aloud with the same happy contempt. Is there a German word for that?

*photograph via here.

I have PTSD and the world is going to hell, but for the moment I’m choosing to focus on other matters. For example, here is a challenging dilemma:

Who is more annoying. Gwyneth or Chloe?

On the one hand, Gwyneth has that awful website and now she has a recording contract as a country-western singer.

On the other hand, Chloe has her stupid fashion line for Opening Ceremony and that hipster lifestyle.

Gwyneth has the rock-star husband and the unforgivable names of her children. But Chloe has no talent and she looks like she needs a good hot bath. Each of them is a grating irritant in the oyster of my psyche,  neither  producing a pearl.   I would say it’s closer to a blister. I hate them both.

Don’t get caught up on the word “hate,” if that bother you.   Just tell me who you find more annoying, and why.

Ready, set, go.

I was going to a wedding on Sunday, so my friend Andy insisted on  straightening  my hair for the occasion. It’s the first time I’ve ever had my hair flat-ironed.

It’s so silky and it looks so much longer! But I can’t afford to do this on a regular basis and I wonder why we all want the kind of hair we don’t have. It’s probably the same  reason  we all want a body shape that doesn’t come naturally either.

I’ve been going around feeling superior to everyone without long straight hair. Tomorrow after I wash it, I’ll turn back into a  pumpkin.

If anyone lives in L.A. and you want good hair, Let me know and I’ll hook you up with Andy, whose  Salon  is in Santa Monica.

As for the  wedding, It was the most glorious and romantic occasion you could ask for! The bride and groom are both in their forties and had nearly given up on finding someone to love. But when they   met, it was clear to all that they were soulmates at the deepest level. The bride was breathtaking in her satin gown and swirling veil and I did her red lipstick. Their love is like an orchid blooming in a wasteland. It proves that good things still happen.

I’m grateful for the miracle of love and flat-irons.

If you’ve had enough of Andre Pejic and the other girly boys, you might be ready a gender-bending girl.

Eleonora Bose, known as Bimba to her fans, is a model and singer from Madrid whose looks I find both confusing and compelling. She’s kind of a female David Bowie who can be feminine or masculine, depending on her clothes and body language. According to google, she has a child and a husband. She also has a nice tattoo that I’m thinking of copying.   (Don’t tell my husband though. I may have pushed him far enough.)

You can see more pictures here.

What’s your vote? Hot or not?