Godammit, I’m Mad!

When Max and his friend Jonas were around 20 and living in New York, they made a bet on who could go longer with shaving only one side of his face.

As you see, they committed fully to their bet. In the end, they decided to call it a draw, since neither of them would ever give in.

I’d like to say that Max got his stubbornness from me, but his dad is still the most stubborn person I’ve ever known. Once, he sat for hours in his car, on a scorching summer afternoon, trying to prevent another driver from pulling into a parking place that he thought was rightfully his. Max and I went into a cafe to wait it out. I explained that Daddy was playing a game. I assured him, sadly, that Daddy would win.

In my own life, being stubborn has been a quality I considered an asset, or at least a strength. No one can fuck with me and get away with it. I will never back down. I will never compromise my “honor.”

Lately, more than one friend has urged me to let something go….and I find it’s an alien concept.

When do you decide to “let something go?” Are there some things you refuse to “let go,” even if it would make life easier?

Nancy Cunard was an heiress who rejected her family’s values and spent much of her life fighting racism and fascism.

“She became a muse to some of the 20th century’s most distinguished writers and artists, including Wyndham Lewis, Aldous Huxley, Tristan Tzara, Ezra Pound, Henry Crowder, and Louis Aragon, who were among her lovers, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Constantin Brancusi, Langston Hughes, Man Ray, and William Carlos Williams.”

She edited and published “Negro” (1934), an almost 900-page anthology of black history and culture and a call to “condemn racial discrimination and appreciate the . . . accomplishments of a long-suffering people.” In August 1936, she moved to Spain to cover the civil war there. Exasperated by the international community’s failure to intervene, she used her reporting to denounce Franco’s brutality and demand help for his victims.

In the end, Nancy Cunard declined into severe mental illness, exacerbated by heavy drinking. But she was the real thing, by all accounts.

She is the anti-Daphne Guinness, although Daphne may somehow conceive herself to be a renegade on a level with Cunard.  And look how Cunard rocks the biker jacket and turban, effortlessly cool without having to stumble around on 10 inch heels!

I’m sure you’re all well aware of Nancy Cunard. Nobody ever tells me anything! Better late than never.

I’m obsessed with jewelry made from things that shouldn’t be jewelry, like this amazing piece I found at that pawn shop where they keep the Gimp in the back room.  The people there were SO cute and nice and really authentic like folk art! Isn’t it Gorgeous? Look at the detail!

Plus they’re not meanies like those psychos at Tetanus Jewelry, who sent me so many nasty and abusive comments last week and won’t allow even ONE negative comment on their own blog. Not even the words “Hahaha!” God, people are disappointing sometimes, aren’t they?!

In other exciting jewelry news, I took out my nose stud and put in a little ring or hoop or whatever it’s called. It looks a little stupid but change is supposed to be good, even though I’ve never believed this and still don’t.

If you haven’t heard this recording of Dr. Laura yelling “Nigger nigger nigger!” to a caller who asked for advice on dealing with racism, turn up your speakers.

This bitch is clearly out of her fucking mind and needs to be fired. There is no excuse for her, unless she can prove she was off her medication.  Her “apology” the next day is fatuous posturing.

Please join me in bestowing upon dumb bitch Dr. Laura Schlessinger her richly deserved Cunt of the Week™ award!

Today is my mom’s birthday and I’m burning a candle for her.

Ever since she died nine years ago, I’ve had a much better relationship with her. I read somewhere that the relationship you have with your mom is in your head, not in any temporal or objective reality. So now that she’s gone, I finally feel loved by her. I feel tenderness toward her, instead of fear or anger. I forgive her.

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, she was told she had six months to live. My sister and I got hospice care for her, because she wanted to die in her own bed.

A couple of times, she asked me to help kill her. Each time, I explained that I just couldn’t consider it. I did what I could to provide comfort. My sister and I often spent the night with her, and we tried to conceal our anxiety and grief. She declined over the six months, becoming delusional at times and suspecting us of hiring fake rabbis or switching her drinking glass. Near the end, I chewed up food for her and fed it to her like a baby bird.

Finally, the last morning arrived and her beautiful Jamaican nurse called us to hurry over to say goodbye. Her death throes were terrifying and unbearable to watch, but we had to bear it. My sister and I each held one of her hands as she died. The nurse recited the Lord’s Prayer. My sister sobbed hysterically throughout.

Afterwards, we sat in my mom’s bedroom, paralyzed with shock.  Other family members arrived. I turned around in my chair and opened a drawer, not really thinking about what I was doing. In the drawer was her will, and nothing else.

I picked up the will and read the first line aloud. “I, _________, being of sound mind, hereby exclude my two daughters from this will. I do so deliberately, and should they contest it, they will receive not more than one dollar each.”

Mom, you were a funny one. Happy birthday.

The commuinques above are from the esteemed owner of Dolly Python, a shop in Dallas, using a nom de guerre.

~

This one below is from the classy socialite and fashion maven Judy Aldridge (regarding Anna Wintour):

What do they have in common? I see a disturbing preoccupation with menstruation.

I remember being around 10 years old and having to see a film in school about menstruation. I  recall feeling intense embarrassment and general discomfort.

But then I got a little older and had my first period. My sister showed me what to do. It was kind of upsetting. She forgot to tell me that you had to keep changing your pads. But soon enough, I learned that menstruation is just a part of life. I never used cute little euphemisms like “My friend is in town” or however that one goes. I never  called it “the curse.” I would say, “I have my period, do you have an extra tampax?” or something like that.

Once, after a night out and being a little tipsy, I couldn’t find my tampax! I tried and tried but the more anxious I became, the more impossible it was to do it. Finally, I went to get my date (now my husband) who was waiting in the bedroom.

Now, for you gals in Texas, it’s time to leave. You’re never going to be able to handle this. Scram! Shoo!

Okay, so then, my gracious date told me to lay down and relax. He would find it for me. I will never forget how gentle he was.  Gentle, confident, and manly. Manly enough to remove the tampax and go throw it away like a gentleman. I felt my heart go CLUNK. This was a man in a million. I fell in love right there, right then. Nineteen years later, he is still the only man whose hands I want on me. Except for Johnny Depp, of course.

I always loved having my period. It’s messy but sensual. It reminds you that you are a woman. It reminds you of the cycles of nature, the moon and the tides.

Where does the fear and loathing come from, ladies of Texas??

If you would like to share your memories or point of view and you can do so without being a slobbering lunatic, jump in.

“Stupidity is the devil. Look in the eye of a chicken and you’ll know. It’s the most horrifying, cannibalistic, and nightmarish creature in this world.”  ~Werner Herzog

Many years ago, I was sitting in my car, waiting to make a right turn. A disheveled man on a bicycle came toward me, and I could see in the distance that he was yelling. As he rode past my car, I saw that he was literally foaming at the mouth. “I hate niggers!” he screamed, spitting some foam.

I have never forgotten this incident. The image is embedded in my brain. It’s hard to describe how it made me feel. It shook me to the core. It was an encounter with fierce, virulent stupidity. It was like staring into the eye of a murderous chicken.

Yesterday, I was confronted again by that chicken, and it was horrifying. I thought we all agreed on basic laws of human decency. How could I forget that frothing bigot?

I don’t believe in censorship but I am against “hate speech.” I love a rousing debate or an exchange of ideas, but I’m not a martyr. I don’t mind insults, even nasty ones, but I’m not here to soak up the free-floating rage of the mentally unhinged. Who would ever think that mocking a spoiled rich kid would invoke an avalanche of crazed taunts about my worthlessness as a human being?

This reign of terror was launched on facebook by a self-avowed friend of the Aldridge women. This friend can’t stop firing off comments along the lines of  “You have sand in your cunt LOL LOL, come shop at my store any time!” Today, she’s still at it. Karen Aldridge has been firing off her own brand of histrionic garbage.

I admit that these women scare me. I haven’t been exposed to this level of vindictiveness or indecency.  It reminds me of prison stories where the inmates are reduced to throwing their own feces to express themselves. It’s not okay. I would like the good citizens of Texas to get back to whatever they were doing, and to let the Aldridge women fight their own war of words with me.

I did say that Jane’s face is fat. However, it does not rate as an attack worthy of the ones I received last night, to the tune of: “I sucked your son’s cock in hell!” and “I’m glad your kid died.”

Stupidity is a funny thing. At one level, it can be amusing. Max loved to watch Sean Hannity on Fox News during the last presidential election. He chuckled each time Hannity pretended to be making a point. Personally, I love the New York Housewives for good basic stupidity.

But the stupidity of these pro-Aldridge people is another matter. It is the devil. And I’m not letting the devil have his say here. I will publish any and all comments that respect my right not to be taunted about my private parts or the loss of my precious child.

That shouldn’t be too hard, right, chickens? For those people complaining that it used to be more fun here, I can only say, No shit, Sherlock.  But we’ll still have fun again. I will, anyway.

Ahem. Let the meeting come to order!

First of all, in response to all the nice people who are concerned about my age, my shriveled anus, and so on, I would like to make it clear that I will be fifty seven this month and I fucking rule. See me arm wrestling above, at a family gathering a couple of weeks ago.

Face it! I just rule. It’s not my fault that I didn’t over-pluck my eyebrows, I didn’t like staying out in the sun, I didn’t fuck up my hair and I was just lucky that way. This rampant ageism among the nice people who have recently come aboard is very sad. They are terrified of aging but that’s not my fault either. In any case, that particular weapon is useless here. Thanks anyway!

Second: An excitable woman in Texas has taken it upon herself to rally her Good Ol Gals on facebook to come here and cause mischief. The woman is a pal of Sea and Mom.  Here is her best comment thus far:

Now we know more than we wanted to know about Sea’s appraisal of me. She is welcome to perseverate on female genitalia, as she does on her “other” blog. Just not mine.

As it turns out, poor Mom is also preoccupied with me as evidenced by a histrionic screed that she left as a comment, using a proxy server.  Her comment was particular shocking, coming from a mother, but obviously our ideas of morality are very different. At least she got Sea to delete this “thought:”

Grief, shoes, it’s all the same to some people. Scary but true.

~

Now, here is my thinking. I have been committed to a blog that is free of censorship. But this orchestrated attempt to waste my time is annoying my real readers. So, how about one of these strategies:

1. When some lunatic leaves a comment that slanders me ( in the true sense of slander) we shall respond to them with the word “WHORE!”  For example,  “Dumbbell” writes “LOL sister wolf, your an old old old anus with no sole” the response from faithful readers shall be “WHORE!”

or

2. I will just allow the first two lines of every slanderous comment and delete the rest. That way, “Judy under a fake name” can write: “sister wolf you make me sick, bile vitriol, venom, old old old empty lonely bad mother crazy as a loon and even reading my freaking ebay curations and you make me so sick and you hate on and your just so old and  why don’t you get a life you horrible old thing and bab bad mother who doesnt know how to grieve like we do in Texas you old old older-than-me narcissist narcissist bla bla bla bla” but it will be shortened to “sister wolf you make me sick, bile vitriol, venom, old old old empty”

Well, these are my ideas for now.

After all my labor at Refinery 29, I won a contest at Fashion Intel! Yay! I haven’t had a watch since I lost mine in January, so this is the perfect prize.

Some bitch castigated me for entering the Refinery 29 contests, like it was proof positive of my lonely boring wretched life as a guilt-ridden old crone with no purpose in life.

Fuck you, bitch! My purpose was winning a watch and now I’ve done it.

Why I didn’t win the latest Refinery 29 contest where you had to describe your “steamiest seduction story” is a total mystery, though.  My story was by far the least nauseating. Oh well.

In any case, it has been exhausting to read the hate mail that’s been pouring in this week. If you’re a raving moron who can’t spell “you’re” but you like the word “vitriol,” I know I’ll be hearing from you.  But try to remember: You can’t hurt me and you can’t shut me up.

Love, xo SW

Of all the style bloggers who’ve been brought to my attention recently, this one disturbes me the most.

I don’t want to link to her or hurt her feelings. I just want her to eat!

How can one become so delusional that one’s starving body looks like a pin-up girl? This blogger likes to post several pictures of the same outfit, often posing saucily in front of various landmarks. She appears to be youngish, but her face is wrinkled from starvation and perhaps bulimia.

Just the other day, my sister and I were recalling our bouts of teenage anorexia. She can remember the exact moment that she decided to lose weight. We both remember how it was triggered by our dad, whose offhand comment about her weight was devastating to a sensitive 13 year old.

I can’t remember what triggered my anorexa, but it started when I was living in a place for juvenile delinquents. I got down to 96 pounds but still worried about calories. When I ate eggs, I threw away the yolk.

When you have anorexia, the image you see in the mirror can never be thin enough. Even your bones look too fat. All you care about is being thin and staying thin. You lose all capacity for being rational about your body.

A couple of years ago, I met a girl with anorexia who was also a drug addict. She reminded me a little of my younger self, and she was like a wounded bird that I longed to protect. She confessed to me that she cried after eating an apple. I tried to explain that her thinking was distorted.  She  died from huffing, thin as a twig.

A new study suggests that the propensity for anorexia begins in utero, due to hormone fluctuations. There is also a genetic component.  Therefore, it’s not just a reaction to cultural pressure and stereotypes. Maybe it’s an issue of seeking control when you  feel powerless: If you can control what you put in your mouth, you are in charge. That is the fallacy.

I hope someone can help the poor blogger. I hope someone can reach out to her, although who knows how many people may have tried and failed.

The good thing is that once you start to eat, your brain can work again. You begin to end the struggle with your body, and the spell can be broken, just by gaining a few vital pounds.

If you’ve battled with this shit, or you have an opinion, let’s hear it!