Godammit, I’m Mad!

Today, I went to Beverly Hills with the BFF and she had to hiss “Cher!” at me before I noticed Cher standing right by us in the Neiman Marcus shoe department! I turned to gawk at Cher, who looked just like herself only much smaller. She is actually quite tiny, in height and weight. She said to her assistant/handmaiden something like, “It’s really cute, isn’t it?” and her voice was EXACTLY like her voice!

I was so excited that I couldn’t stop staring. My BFF wanted me to stop, but I didn’t care. I wanted to take in every element: The black cargo pants with a million zippers, the long blue-black hair, the sunglasses that she never took off. When Cher sat down and removed her jacket to reveal a tight black bodysuit, I squealed, “Oooh, look at the implants!”

My BFF managed to move me along and we went upstairs, only to find Cher in the same place 30 minutes later. Her assistant/handmaiden was helping her to try on jackets, which she held open for Cher like an attentive date.

We tried on sunglasses while I kept an eye on Cher. I modeled a pair of sunglasses by some stupid brand I’ve never heard of, that the salesgirls were pushing aggressively. “Aren’t these glorious!” I exclaimed a little too loudly, raising the eyebrows of a gay guy who clearly didn’t agree. Everyone tried to persuade me that another pair was more flattering but I was fixated on the glorious ones.

Meanwhile, Cher was strutting around in the new Olive green Balmain military jacket.

It looked preposterous on her but she seemed quite taken with it. I turned to the salesgirls and squealed, “Look! Cher is trying on the Balmain jacket!” They nodded and the gay guy confided, “She likes Balmain.” I complained to the BFF that Cher should leave that jacket to the girl whose boyfriend hits her. It took a while before she retrieved the word, “Rihanna.”

I bought the glorious sunglasses with ny NM charge card, meaning they were free! Don’t tell my husband.

Then, we walked down the street to Saks. A frightening, giant Nordic woman showed me some awful new lipstick by Guerlain, and the BFF bought a sexy bustier by Camilla and Marc. We relaxed in the Saks cafe, where I ate an apple tart that cost $9 and started to realize that the sunglasses were a tragic mistake.

But at least I saw Cher!

Okay, it’s time to get serious. After reading a new interview with Sea here, and then having a look at her “other” blog, I see there is something going on. Upon deliberating, I think I have cracked the code.

Sea of Shoes is actually code for SOS! It is a cri de coeur from Jane,  begging the world to deliver her from her demons.

I hear you, Jane! In the interview, she is asked to describe herself in 3 words. She answers: “Dirty old man.” Oh my! Elsewhere, in response to the question, “Tell me something most people wouldn’t know about you,” she says, “I’m a big sicko.”

OKAY, I GET IT. You’re a dark soul with fetishes aplenty, or you’re a lesbian. This is why your latest entry at your “other” blog is a naked woman displaying her anus.  It explains the emphasis on tits and ass. Instead of dropping hints, it might be better to just integrate your dark, lesbitious side into your everyday life and to feel okay with it.

Jane doesn’t want your comments but you can leave them here instead. I will go first:

Dear Sea, Don’t be ashamed of who you are. Just be ashamed of buying all those shoes. Love, SW

Most recently, Sea was thrilled to acquire a garish coat that matched the dowdy skirt she had earlier obtained from a shop in Dallas. Now she can wear them together and look like a kooky bag lady from the 70s.

More important, in my opinion, is the price of her new brogues, pictured above. Barneys is nice enough to send me catalogues even though I never go there, and now in the latest catalog, uh-oh,  Sea’s shoes, priced at $795. No wonder she was so excited when they arrived!

Sea and Mom show no signs of slowing down this frenzy of spending. It’s not Sea’s fault, though. She is the Bristol to Mom’s Sarah. She hasn’t had a chance to learn anything about anything. If only Mom would let her watch TV! I don’t believe for a minute that Sea’s other blog is her own project. The nudity, the KKK, the horrible fish. It seems like the work of a demented pedophile.

Oh well. Sea doesn’t want to hear your comments, but you can leave them here anyway. I’ll go first:

Dear Sea, Why those Comme des Garcons saddle shoes for $795?? Remember you just got those Givenchy flats for $450! It’s good that you’re not worried about money but it’s also good to just “live.” (That’s the stuff people do when they’re not shopping or posing or tweeting.) I don’t think I’m ever going to get through to you but I’ll keep trying.  Maybe you should read Gravity’s Rainbow again. Bye for now, love, SW.

Two weeks after I turned fourteen, I hit the road with my boyfriend. A day or two earlier, my mom had issued an ultimatum: Either I stop seeing him, or she would call the police. I had brought him home to meet her, and the sight of a scruffy bearded 26 year old man, assuring her that he was serious about me, must have been horrifying.

I was filled with excitement when he suggested that we run away together. He was a Pied Piper figure on the Sunset Strip, with plenty of followers eager to help in our getaway. In no time, we had fake IDs and a guy to drive us to San Fransisco. Our birth certificates belonged to an 18 year old girl named Debbie and some guy named Warren. For the next few weeks, we had to call each other Warren and Debbie, names I still hate to this day.

I stopped at a phone booth to call my sister. I told her I was leaving, and I’d be back in four years. She was furious and threatened to tell our mother. When I said she could have my over-the-knee boots, she backed down, clearly surprised by her good fortune.

For some reason, I wasn’t wearing my contact lenses. It was annoying but I guess I resigned myself to being blind. It was already after midnight and our first stop was Tijuana, to get married. He must have wanted to make an honest woman of me. I remember waking up some guy in a shack who didn’t speak much English. My bridal attire was one of my every day outfits: an awful brown satin dress that looked like a civil war costume, and bare feet.

From Mexico we went to San Francisco, our driver’s original destination. He let us off near a Goodwill thrift store, where I bought a black velvet opera coat for fifty cents. The plan was to dress like a “straight” person, but I had to rebel. It was a reflex or an instinct; it was all I ever did. My husband went to a barber who cut his long hair and shaved off his beard. I was stunned by how unattractive he looked without the hair and beard, but it was too late. I was stuck with him.

Catching up with Sea of Shoes after her whirlwind visit to New York, we now find her back in Texas, specifically, at an exclusive sale of Mom’s “vintage” wares at some shop in Dallas.

Sea and Mom spread the joy of hideous animal-themed costume jewelry, most if it sourced from eBay at a fraction of the price charged to their hapless groupies. Years from now, Texas woman will be wondering what came over them when they gaze upon their gigantic monkey and elephant pendants.

Jane stood around in her Anne D. shoes, perhaps daydreaming about Asian boys or Martin Margiela. Meanwhile, Mom has posted about her love of studded shoes, featuring at least $4,000 of  her carefully edited collection.

Would you like to leave a comment for Jane, who doesn’t care what you think? I will go first:

Dear Sea, I saw a video of an interview you gave in New York, and I realized that you are just an average looking girl who doesn’t seem to grasp the implications of anything at all. I see that Mom is the brains behind everything, and I hope one day you can move on to a ‘transitional object‘, like a blankie, before finally breaking free of Mom for good. Meanwhile, I think you guys have enough shoes. Love, SW.

Inspired by the mom-woman and her what-I-wore pictures, I’ve decided to share my carefully curated collection of Black Jackets.  I only had time for five of them. Believe me, this is just  the tip of the Black Jacket Iceberg. The jacket above is a leather jacket by Rachel Roy, around 4 years old. Check out the peplum thing in the back.

Here’s a wool motorcycle jacket and notice how I didn’t use “moto” in my description.

Here’s another wool motorcycle jacket that’s kind of quilted and shorter.

This one is a cashmere jacket by Richard Tyler…my very first eBay purchase. It has a beautiful embroidered lining in peach satin.

Here is the Plein Sud jacket that I got at the UCLA Cancer Thrift Shop a few years ago. I once used it to sit on at a Patti Smith concert at the pier, that’s how awesome I am.

Would you like to see some more Black Jackets? There are two more leather ones, two cotton ones, and I’m afraid to  remember if there are others.

What the hell is wrong with me? (Oh shit, I just remembered the Ann D. jacket I got from Yoox.com!) How many times do you have to buy the same thing before you feel satisfied, you know what I’m saying?

Or maybe it’s my life’s work to curate Black Jackets? I hope not.

Now tell the class what item you are doomed to keep buying. And if you choose to gush over any of my jackets, please call me “Judy”, just for fun!

Dear Jesus,

I try to be a good person but why is it so hard? Today, I went to a nice Superbowl party and spent most of it in the kitchen at the host’s computer, listening to Mrs. Palin talkin’ about runnin’ for President.

People walked past me, wondering why I was looking at Mrs. P. I explained that she is the wind beneath my wings. I knew I should have been socializing, but when I did, I made someone cry by telling her about my personal difficulties. The hostess made another fabulous nine-layer Jello and gave me some to take home.

At home, there were chores to do and messes to clean up. Instead, I went back to the computer and read more about Mrs. Palin. Why did she allow her hand to be photographed with stupid reminders written on it? Is she really that stupid retarded? Is it some sort of conspiracy? Is she trying to connect with her “base” by showing that she’s too gosh-darn dumb to remember her three talking points?

And then, Jesus, I went to look at Mom of Shoes, who is boasting about her “find” on eBay: a pair of Chanel Ponyhair boots for $1,199 plus shipping.

Why, Jesus?! Why do I sully myself with the folly of others, when I shoud be looking for a job or washing the dishes? Why can’t I get my priorities straight?

I’m already full of Effexor, so I can’t increase my dose. I think I’m looking for escape. I know I’m looking for escape. I can’t hold my liquor, so that’s out.

Can I use my stress and depression as an excuse to scroll through Mom’s eBay purchases…55 in the last month alone, mostly comprised of tragically ugly animal-themed costume jewelry?

Show me the way, Jesus. Give me a sign. Just don’t fuck with my Internet connectivity.

Mrs. Palin is calling for Obama to fire his chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, for calling a group of liberals “fucking retarded” during a private meeting.

How dare that big Jew use this hateful slur in a private meeting?!?

In a sanctimonious rant on her Facebook page, entitled “Are You Capable of Decency, Rahm Emanuel?”, Mrs. P compares his use of the word retarded to the use of “the N word.” She goes on to say: “Rahm’s slur on all God’s children with cognitive and developmental disabilities – and the people who love them – is unacceptable, and it’s heartbreaking.”

Jesus, this woman is a piece of work. She is beneath shameless. Is there a word for that (besides “cunt?”) She even asks in her idiotic Facebook screed, “Have you no sense of decency, sir?”  I know that she employs a ghostwriter for her Facebook communiques, but what do you think the chance is that Mrs. Palin knows who made that phrase famous, and in what context?  If she did know, would she be stupid enough to compare Rahm Emanuel to Joseph McCarthy?

I don’t like the way Mrs. P has positioned herself as the public defender of the disabled. Just because she happened to get herself a Down Syndrome baby, she doesn’t get to represent Down Syndrome. Her exploitation of her child’s disability is deeply immoral. This photo of her, posing with a “constituent,” is what’s heartbreaking.

Sometimes, in private, we use words that others might find offensive. I know I like to scream “you fat pig” at people on TV, for example.  The first time I heard Bob Woodward on television, I asked my husband, “Is that guy retarded?” It was a real question: Woodward speaks very slowly. Every time he’s on TV now, my kid or my husband calls out, “There’s that retarded guy.”

Big fucking deal. I am a special needs mom, and I know where my heart is. I don’t need some self-appointed Queen of the Disabled Community to scold me or Rahm Emanuel.

Does that retarded bitch have no decency?

I just saw this movie on TV, late at night, and was haunted by its depiction of a suffocatingly close friendship that revolves around need and control.

Have you ever had – or observed – a friendship like that? There’s usually one person who seems more dominant and demanding, and one who allows this to happen. They seem to share an identity, one that doesn’t permit either to grow or change.  But you can’t really cite either one as villain or victim, since it’s a dance that takes two people to perform.

When an exasperated lover tells the Michelle Williams character that her best friend “controls” her, she is shocked. It’s not always easy to recognize the dynamics of a relationship when you’re in it. From my perspective, the controlling friend, played by Anna Friels, was more like an emotional vampire who thrived on sucking the joy from the other girl’s life. She is also a classic portrait of Borderline Personality Disorder, a condition so fucked up and harrowing that many shrinks balk at trying to treat it.

My mother was a Borderline and bipolar, too. Because of her, I can’t watch movies that feature a Maniac character; I still get freaked out by the trailer for The Shining. Because of her, I can’t stand people who try to control me, even though I have married two of them.

The first one is still a “control freak” who won’t even talk to you unless he gets to control the conversation. When I met him, I must have found that reassuring. I was only 16. Later, it was unbearable.

The second one, the Love of My Life, is so controlling that he won’t let me buy the groceries, because I “can’t do it right.” The other day, he said to me: “Let me open the sugar next time.” This gave me a frisson* of perverse glee; I’m 56 and my husband thinks I’m too incompetent to open a box of sugar!

Today, I experienced another secret thrill when I opened the new box of sugar while he was at work.

I think the moral here is that people can only control you if you let them. The control is yours to keep or give away. And sometimes, you can pretend to give it away as long as you remember deep down that you are the boss.

~

* frisson is the word for this week. Try to use it in conversation or in writing. See if you can keep a straight face!

Tonight, I heard my son remark about Facebook: “I find my self wondering, why are you my friend here when I fucking hate you?”

So true. I went to look at my Facebook friends and I hate at least 5 of them. There are others who are complete strangers but I can assume that I’d probably hate 80% of them if I knew who they were.

It suddenly occurred to me that I might find my husband’s ex on Facebook, but no such luck. I only found her teenage son, who is throwing a gang sign in his profile photo and has 657 friends. YAY!

How many of your Facebook friends do you hate? And which nemesis has disappointed you by not being there?