Godammit, I’m Mad!

In the morning, my youngest Wolf will be going off to college. I am braced for Empty Nest Syndrome.

Being me, I googled Empty Nest Syndrome. All the images are depressing. The moms all look like the women in ads for antidepressants. Then there are a bunch of standard bird nests, sadder looking than the moms. There is even a website called emptynestmoms or something. There are also support groups. Ha.

I read a new agey thing with a nice mystical angle but in the end, it pronounced:

“There is no more empty nest syndrome, unless you have issues.”

Oh no! What?!? Fuck. But wait:

“It is, and has always been about, discovery and recovery … and best of all realizing you can have fun and create your own reality.”

God.

I just want to start all over again, to when each child was a baby. Everything seemed so easy. I could be a better mother and bake cookies. I would never yell.

I’m so proud of my boy and I know he’ll go on to change the world. But I wish I could stay in bed for around six months rather than contemplate my Empty Nest. You can bet I won’t be creating my own reality, unless that involves the reality of imaginary children who will let me cuddle them and never leave.

Yesterday, I made the stupid decision to google “Sister Wolf.”

It’s weird to see yourself as others see you. I’m used to interacting with strangers on my own territory but finding yourself being discussed elsewhere is the equivalent of hearing what people say behind your back. And naturally, they want to talk shit about you.

I was so pleased to find several people who loved my blog! But the pleasure gave way to annoyance when I came across a website devoted to criticizing bloggers. There was even a forum for the critics to chat among themselves, but I didn’t read it. It was enough to find some people dismissing me as crazy, with one commenter even noting disgustedly that I should be getting grief therapy instead of blogging.

It has never even occurred to me that people might disapprove of my grief.  And I never think of myself as crazy, or even weird. I think the critics were upset that I outed a troll, and that’s something I’ve thought about a lot. Upon reflection, I’d do it again, because that’s the only way to effect a consequence for cowards who want to hide behind anonymity.

Well, you can’t please everyone, right?  It’s better to not google yourself. It’s the one instance where ignorance actually is bliss.

But then, I was buying my kid a wallet at Ross Dress for Less, when a sales assistant asked me if I was aware of their Every Tuesday Discount for seniors. Sure enough, my reflexes are so slow that I didn’t slap her in the face for suggesting that I am a senior. She went on to explain that it’s for people “55 and older.”

I glared at her and said something like, Okay, I’ll take the discount but you’re not supposed to think I’m 55 or older. She smiled back, sweetly and blankly. What a fucking cunt!™

God, it’s so awful how you can’t control people. I’ll never get used to it. But I can write to Ross Dress for Less and complain about this assault on my self-esteem. It might be fun to try to get them to apologize. I could even call it grief therapy!

Good idea or not?

Remember The Nose War?

Well, now it’s a fork.

There’s a fork on the bookcase by the front door, and it’s been there for at least a week. Maybe two weeks. My teenager asked me about it, without implying that he might be willing to take it back to the kitchen. I told him that I didn’t know what it was doing on the bookcase, but I wasn’t going to move it, either. He understood.

Now it has taken the place of The Nose. My husband has obviously seen the fork, since nothing escapes his eagle eye (especially things that are kitchen-related.)

We’ll see what happens.

Do any of you play these childish games with your partner? If not, you’re really missing out on the true essence of marriage.

Spouse A says to spouse B: You never want to talk to me!

Spouse A is :
1. Male
2. Female

In my entire life, I’ve only heard this complaint ONE SINGLE time where it was the other way around.

Five years ago I wrote about this state of affairs here and nothing has made me reconsider its veracity. Women want to talk and men want us to shut up.

Ladies, how do you deal with this? Have you adjusted to your mate’s low tolerance for your stories, questions and opinions? Have you found other avenues for your need to discuss the things that don’t interest your male partner, i,e, everything? Or do you insist on talking even while he sighs and adopts the grim look of a soldier off to the front line.

Do any of you have any strategies for making this conflict more interesting or entertaining.

I am anxious to hear your thoughts (since god know I can’t discuss it at home unless I just want to talk to myself!)

In response to my last post about rock bands, I received the following comment by someone using the name Gene Simmons:

i hate that old dried up cunt, the one who´s son died

~

Here are my thoughts. It’s wrong to attack someone like this, online or otherwise. Why the hell would a total stranger try to hurt me in this way?? Just because they could get away with it?  It is beyond my understanding.

So I wrote back to this person, and said:

What a horrible thing to write to me!   May I ask what moves you to write such a hateful comment to someone you have never met?  I hope you never experience the loss of a child.   Meanwhile, I’d like to know why you would invoke the loss of mine in response to an innocuous blog post about rock bands?   Sister Wolf

The next day, she replied:

you know what you are right
I´m deeply sorry
your loss is way too big for me to understand, and i was outta line
this is what made me write that:
“that girl whose boyfriend punched her in the face”
when a person suffers through abuse, besides the beatings and insults and humiliation
what hurts the most is the scorn of those around her,
things like
“that would never happen to me”
“that happens only to stupid bitches”
and it pissed me off that while you demand compassion about your situation,
you show none towards someone who was fucking publicly punched in the face and then mocked endlessly for it
sometimes the only person who doesn´t shit on you for being in that situation
(that looks so simple but it´s not)
is your abuser
so you go back because in that moment he is being sweet, when deep down you know that it won´t last
and it was a mistake I´m sorry
I know things don´t get better by insulting someone else in pain
and there i was trying to put you down to make myself feel better
when we are all fighting something
that random comment just struck a cord, felt personal you know?
óbviously I´m not without fault myself
I hope this makes you feel less insulted

yours truly
Gene Simmons

~

Having read and reread this explanation, I don’t feel Gene Simmons knows the difference between a pop star and a blogger who lost a child.  I don’t “demand compassion” as Gene Simmons states. I have no demands. I merely expect human decency from those who wish to leave comments.

Gene Simmons is actually a 31 year old aspiring artist named Gabriela who lives in Mexico. There she is, above. She needs to take responsibility for the things she writes.  She’s not 12 years old, after all.

I don’t want to hear ONE MORE WORD about my vag, which in fact does not suffer from dryness. And I don’t want to be taunted with the death of my child.

Please explain to Gabriela why her apology is worthless, since I don’t feel adequate to the task. Explain to her that the cause of abused women isn’t furthered by grotesque insults lobbed at other women, under cover of a pseudonym.

And if you want more of Gabriela in your life, you can visit her here.

This photo in the Daily Mail is accompanied by the tragic story of twins who have suffered from anorexia for twenty years.  It’s a disturbing story that touches on sibling rivalry, parental enabling, and the failure of all mechanisms to heal the victims of our culture’s obsession with beauty.

If you read the story, you’ll notice images on the right-hand side of the page, mostly celebrities chosen by the Daily Mail to ridicule for their weight gain, plastic surgery or cankles.  The message is clear: There is no escape from the search for physical perfection. No escape and no winning either.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a photography exhibit called Beauty and Culture that examines the many ways that images work to influence our concept of beauty. The exhibit featured a short documentary that was truly devastating. Five year old beauty queens, cancer survivors, ancient women still trying to look young, and a history of evolving thinness in fashion models…it leaves you sickened by the shit we go through to measure up to a stupid restrictive ideal of beauty.

The documentary points out that only 2 percent of women are built like fashion models. Why do these models have so much power over us?!

You know the “It Gets Better” campaign for gays? We also need a campaign for women that says:YOU LOOK FINE! Maybe if we were reminded 100 times a day that we are okay as we are, we could forget about the size of our butts.

When we left the exhibit, my friend and I looked for somewhere to have coffee. We found a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, where they display calorie counts with their pastries. Naturally, I freaked out and ordered a reduced-calorie muffin, because no matter what I know intellectually, deep down in my psyche I’m an unlovable fat pig.

I would like to thank Vogue, Glamour, the fashion industry and most of all my dad, who loved to drive around shouting “Look at the fat ass on that one!” I can relate to those poor emaciated twins, even though I’m a normal size. Accepting yourself can be a lifelong project.

Does anyone remember when I was obsessed with leather shorts?

That was another me who is long gone. But check out Yoko Ono wearing leather shorts at the Canne Film Festival! What an early-adopter she was.

It’s a relief to stop caring about the latest trends. The more fashion-conscious one is, the more anxiety one must contend with, and that is what generates billions of dollars for the fashion industry. The anxiety can only be relieved by shopping, and even then it’s a momentary relief. Every fashion layout or editorial is a trigger, causing new anxiety.

I have no idea of the new trends! Is it wide trousers or narrow or bright colors or patterns or tailored or retro or ladylike or boho or menswear-influenced? Are we still wearing studs? Are shoes still more important than handbags? Do the blogger girls still go on about Celine?

I think that at a certain point, we all know what we like to wear. People who insist that they love to “experiment” with fashion are just excusing themselves for needing to shop. But that’s okay with me.

I’ve traded my fashion-driven anxiety for a more fundamental anxiety about my body.  It’s much cheaper.  And all the time I once spent looking at fashion is now squandered on tumblr, a paralyzing addiction that has turned me into a vegetable.  At least it doesn’t involve my credit card.

I think it’s safe to say that the fashion and beauty industries are based on insecurity. They must constantly appeal to and promote our insecurity in order to satisfy their shareholders.  But my depression has suppressed my insecurity.  I think this is a benefit.

I’m hoping that Michelle Bachman and Mrs. Palin will provide some joy for me in the coming months, joy that for the moment is mostly supplied by the Real Housewives and the Casey Anthony murder trial. It’s a perverse joy that springs from the sheer staggering awfulness of horrible people exhibiting their horribleness.

Max used to love watching Sean Hannity on Fox news, and it drove me nuts. Now I remember the happy smirk on his face and I understand: When the usual things in life fail to bring pleasure, the theater of human stupidity is a valuable diversion.

I always enjoy the discovery of a scholarly approach to a silly or lowbrow subject. Remember when Camille Paglia used to write about Madonna?

I had no idea that Black Metal Theory is now a philosophy and field of study complete with international symposia and experts  who say things like this:

We have been told by the living that the idea of a vital world is that of comfort and warmth. [Writer] Dominic Fox assures us that this is not the case. With an unparalleled militant efficiency, Cold World [a book about Black Metal] blackens the lines between poetics and politics, music and negative resistance. It is a haunting sermon from the world of the dead exhorting the living to revolt in the name of a life whose vitality has been disenchanted by coldness and whose sacredness has been profaned by nigredo. Reza Negarestan - Author of Nihil Unbound: Enlightenment and Extinction

God. What the hell is “nigredo,” right? I looked it up and you can, too. But there’s no way that Black Metal Theory can be taken seriously, especially when it’s discussed in dense academic mumbo jumbo of the first oder.  Here is Scott Wilson, a professor of Media and Cultural Studies at Kingston University in London:

Black Metal is clearly a form of environmental writing, but one that could not easily be accommodated into current ecological discourse. Participants seriously considered the idea of melancology both as black ecology, exploring black metal as a geophilosophy of real and psychic spaces (the frozen desert is not so much ‘out there’ but inside you), and as an ethos, looking at black metal as the re-occultation of black blood and bile in rituals of mourning and celebration for the death of God and the extinction of his creation, particularly humanity, under the black sun of melancholy. As such, the symposium connected with a new strain in contemporary philosophy that regards extinction as a speculative opportunity for thought. Black metal resounds from the abyss and it is precisely only in relation to its sonic forces that the question of intervention in the environment arises in the articulation of melancology with ethics. That is, in deciding ‘which way out’ we should take, in deciding with what surpluses to dwell, with what waste, what detritus or decay in a process of unbinding with sonic forces that traverse an earth choking in wealth and death.

Ha! Blah blah blah. What a bunch of fucking wankers. All I know is that Varg Vikernes,  leader of the band Burzum, was released from jail after serving 16 years for killing a guy from Mayhem, a rival band, and burning down some churches.

Now he has a website, http://www.burzum.org, and two new albums. For some reason he hates Black people,  despite all the dark black negredo of his chosen musical genre. He probably needs to study the Theory.

Reading the New York Times online, I just got sidetracked by a link that said: “Worried about your memory? 5 Signs  it’s Serious.”

As it happens, I have no short-term memory and little of the other kind either. People are constantly mad at me for forgetting things I’m supposed to remember.  They point out that I’ve told the same story twice, and that I’ve already seen a movie I have no recollection of. The signs are all there.

But memory problems are also common in people with PTSD, fibromyalgia, and a couple of other conditions that apply to me but I forgot what they are. I’m not joking here, either.

So, I’m reading this list of warning signs and going Yep, yep, I have Alzheimer’s, I’m screwed, when I get to number 5, Having Trouble With Choices, and I come upon this quote:

“If you used to be a definitive person and now you can’t work your way through choices, that’s a red flag,” psychiatrist Ken Robbins says. “Choosing involves enough cognitive powers — remembering what you like, thinking about how the options differ, and thinking about what you want now — that it’s a problem that shows up early on.”

DEFINITIVE?!?!? What the fuck?! That bastard means “decisive” and he used the wrong word! They’re not interchangeable, Dr. Ken Robbins, Moron Esq.! English, motherfucker! Do you speak it? Where is the fucking editor??

I’m trying to calm down. But it’s hard. And now I can see my future: I will be hopelessly bereft of all memory, including my own name, rank and serial number, but I’ll be flipping out about word usage with my last dying breath.

First of all, that Hermes lady is fucking nuts about her photos. She doesn’t want her photos used to mock her. They are there for praise only! They are there for gloating, not for you internet people to copy and ridicule. I found this picture on flickr, Hermes Lady, so relax.

I wasn’t able to force myself to go through 30something pages of her boasting about her Hermes purchases and the attendant ass-kissing. But I think I got the gist of it.

Here is the situation. Hermes is a symbol of wealth and success. Nothing more or less. A woman who spends a fortune at Hermes and then documents it online is a person desperately in need of love and self-esteem. There isn’t enough Hermes in the whole world to assure her of her intrinsic worth.  It’s a mug’s game.

Consumption at this level is very sad. All shopping is a defense against the knowledge of our mortality. It’s a stupid distraction that exists to enrich corporations and to numb the appetites of the soul.

Look in your closet and think about which outfits would make you happy if a family member died in a car crash. Look at your shoes and then look at this picture.

The Hermes Lady is a picture of insecurity, distorted by money and self-delusion. She is a waste of our time. Turn your eyes away from that lady and her ridiculous merchandise.

You already have everything you need to be happy.

Don’t worry about shoes or handbags. Listen to music, look at some art or have sex instead. You’ll thank me later.