Archive for the ‘revenge’ Category

I Am Risen

Sunday, March 27th, 2016


A few days ago, I got up from the deathbed of my flu to see about the sawing noise from my backyard.

A guy was building something right next to my fence, a wooden thing that towered around three or four feet above the six-foot fence.

As someone who has had enough of neighbors and their fucking fences or add-ons that block the sun like a nuclear winter, I was immediately incensed.

I demanded, “What are you doing?” in a hostile tone and the guy pretended not to speak English. Another guy who I couldn’t see also pretended to not speak English until I yelled, “I’ll bet this isn’t legal!”

The invisible guy asked me what my problem was, and the fact that he spoke English made me furious. He said something like, “What’s it to you?” My feeling was, I don’t want to see a thing towering over my fence because I just don’t, motherfucker! How dare you!

I issued some nebulous threats and stomped back inside. I was ready to kill. I nearly peed. I looked up the local building codes and found a complaint form and some phone numbers.

A couple of days later, still wearing the same smelly pajamas, I decided to go over there to get the address. A couple of people milling around refused to speak to me.

Then an old guy appeared and said, I’m the owner of this building, what’s the problem?

I told him that I was concerned about the huge shed he was building and he insisted it was nothing for me to worry about. He asked me if I wanted to go back and look at it.

We went back and I could see that he was adding on to a storage shed for one of his tenants, and we discussed the property line. He said he’d been there for 35 years, as if to say, Back off, newcomer. I retorted, “Well, my husband was born in this neighborhood, and he’s 65!” I felt an atavistic aggression coursing through my veins and I also felt like a big angry baby.

I said, “What are those nails sticking out for?” in an accusatory tone, and he explained that he was hoping to grow some beans but it didn’t work out.

Maybe it was the failed beans.

Something shifted in my deranged territorial psyche and I realized that he was just a human being living his life.

He assured me that he planned to paint the shed to make it look nicer. He told me that he came here from Cuba, where he was an accountant. He told me that he likes to build things. He revealed that he had gone to school with Fidel Castro and had fought along side him in the revolution. But of course the revolution tuned bad, so he had sent his wife and kids to Miami before fleeing for his life.

I asked him what he thought of Ted Cruz (hated him but likes Rubio) and we talked about our mutual contempt for Donald Trump. He’s a Republican like many exiles but it was all good. He showed me his mango trees and we shared our disappointment in our attempts to grow lemons.

His name is Felix and he’s 87 or 89, I forgot which. I apologized for getting off to a bad start with him. I said I’d enjoyed talking to him. He said something like, “Yes. I like to talk, sometimes too much!”

I turned around to look up at him and said, “Me too! But that makes the world go around. We need to communicate and connect!”

His smile was so unexpected, his first smile, and lit up his face like a happy child’s.

I went home and announced, “Well, I have a new best friend.”

I don’t want to lose my edge, okay? I still want to start fights and hold grudges. But people are starting to worry about me. This is the third time in the last year that I’ve laid down my arms, so to speak, and found something better.

It’s still Easter Sunday here in California. Maybe I’m Jesus!

Chris Christie: What a Fucking Cunt!™

Thursday, February 6th, 2014

chris christie pig improved


You know, I actually have mixed feelings about Chris Christie. On the one hand, he is a total cunt and a shameless lying pig who needs to go to jail. On the other hand, the daily tidbits about his various lapses of decency and ethics provide a welcome relief from the tragedy of Philip Seymour Hoffman.

I can’t handle the sadness. I can’t dwell on the horror and the loss. I need Chris Christie more than ever, and he is stepping up. He has come to the rescue with his idiotic critique of his own appointee’s high-school record, therein behaving like the vindictive middle school bully that we all suspected was the real Chris Christie.

What a fucking piece of shit this guy is. Funneling Hurricane Sandy money to political allies and rebuffing calls for oversight of this money is even more egregious than the bridge fiasco. Mishandling this money while Sandy victims wait in vain for someone to answer their questions ought to qualify Mr. Christie for a nice long jail term.

The thought of this cunt getting away with his arrogant abuse of power is too much to bear. But I’m grateful for his continuing malfeasance. The mere sight of him incites my wrath and indignation.  It’s the best, most reliable antidote to sorrow. May it never lose its power to distract us.

Triggers and Tarzana

Thursday, December 19th, 2013

vintage sheet music


Once you are traumatized, you are vulnerable to triggers. And triggers are everywhere.

Jane Birkin’s daughter, Kate Barry, jumped from her fourth story window last week. I couldn’t stop thinking about her despair, and how fame and talent don’t protect families from depression or suicide.

Then, on Homeland, they executed the poor hero, making us watch as the life drained out of his face.

When I’m triggered enough, my mind reverts to familiar paths that lead nowhere. Often, it settles on Tarzana Treatment Center, a lucrative rehab business whose $45 million budget is largely funded via contracts with Los Angeles County.

I took my son to TTC when he relapsed during a period of hard-earned sobriety. They made a big fuss about payment and made a copy of my credit card. They refused to let the family inside the building. After a few days, I started receiving calls from a guy named Del, in the financial department. He said they needed more money, even though they were a Blue Cross provider and had accepted our son’s insurance.

Del’s harassing phone-calls brought me to tears but he persisted. He threatened to kick Max out instead of keeping him for the agreed 30 days. I came up with $1,000 and then another $1,100. Del kept calling and demanding money. He said the rehab cost $500 a day. Meanwhile, Max called me, sounding panicky; he shared his room with a bunch of convicts who played cards all night, depriving him of sleep. He was cold but I wan’t allowed to bring him a blanket.

After around 12 days, a woman called me and said she was a therapist at TTC. She told me that my son was being discharged for lack of sufficient funds, but that she had convinced them to let him stay until morning.

In the morning, Max’s dad picked him up from TTC. He was still in withdrawal from klonopin. At dawn the next morning, he jumped off a cliff.

So I think about Del. I sometimes call his extension at TTC but I always get his recorded message. A couple of days ago, I called and he answered.

I told him who I was, and told him what happened after he kicked out my son. He stammered that he was sorry for my loss but quickly regrouped. He denied calling me to demand money and I laughed maniacally. WHAT?!, I said, Are you serious? You called me a million times! You made me cry!

No, he said firmly, this never happened and couldn’t have happened. They never discharge anyone for lack of money. Never. He has worked there for 18 years and it has never happened. Furthermore, it wasn’t his call. It was someone else’s.

I asked whose call it was and after some arguing, he gave me a fake name with a fake extension number.

Now, if  you are still reading this, you can understand my distress. I’m going to call it distress because rage doesn’t cover it. Why didn’t that cunt just apologize and say it was a terrible unforeseen consequence, one that he regretted?

I don’t want to hear “Just let it go.” I want to hear useful ideas about how to proceed.

I Told You He Was a Cunt!

Monday, February 18th, 2013

It’s about time that cunt resigned. I can’t believe he’ll get immunity.

Hating The Ex

Tuesday, March 6th, 2012

I recently had the pleasure of spending an evening with an old friend who is now divorced from the husband who used to boss her around and make her have sex with him three times a week without regard to her own lack of desire. He’s out of her life now, for the most part, but she still hates him.

In fact, she plans to hate him forever, just as I hate my ex-husband.  I have forgiven nearly all my grudges, even ones I swore to take to the grave, but I will never stop hating my ex-husband. Looking back at my old journals, I discovered that I hated him even before I married him!

I once read that a large percentage of divorced women admit to having married a man they didn’t love. This was supposed to be shocking news. It probably explains why they ended up divorced. It’s a bad idea to marry someone you actually hate, so make sure you never do it.

I married my ex at 20, after four years of living with him. I didn’t know what to do with my life and I think I hoped he would take care of me. I don’t like taking care of myself, although I am more than happy to take care of  others.

Anyway, I hated him. I hated the way he walked and I hated the way he smelled. I hated his repressed personality and I hated his petty criticism of everything I did or thought. I hated the way he’d point to a girl with close-cropped hair and say “You know, you’d look good like that.”   Why would a man marry a woman with waist-length hair only to ogle girls with crew-cuts? What a fucking cunt™.

Finally, after 17 years together, we got divorced. By then, I hated the way he breathed and the way he drank his orange juice.  I was shattered by the process of divorce, but gradually came to relish my freedom from his oppressive presence.

The only thing we agreed upon was our love for our son. But we always disagreed about what he needed and what was good for him.

After a long  struggle in rehab, our son stayed clean for a while but had a relapse and was on a binge. We took him to a treatment center where he was supposed to stay for thirty days. After ten days, they thew him out: We couldn’t meet their demands for $250 per day, even though they were being paid by our insurance company. Meanwhile, Max had called me after the first few days, anxiously reporting that he shared a room with convicts who stayed up all night playing cards. He was cold, but he wasn’t allowed to have an extra blanket. He said it was the scariest place he had ever been.

His father picked him up on the morning they kicked him out. During the long drive to my house, his father screamed at him for being a failure. His tirade was cruel and relentless. He accused Max of ruining everyone’s life, and told him he was “one step from living on the street.”

I didn’t want Max to have his car.  He was going to stay in a sober house where he wouldn’t need it. But the ex wouldn’t listen to me and brought the car over.

Max seemed traumatized by the ride home and I tried to comfort him. He was worn out and anxious, still detoxing, even though I didn’t know it. All day, I tired to console him with the fact that it wasn’t a catastrophe, it was only a relapse and everything would be fine. I kissed him goodbye when he left for the sober house. Early the next morning, he drive to a cliff and jumped.

During the first few days at the hospital, I would corner my ex in the hallway and tell him it was all his fault. I showered him with invective, hysterical with rage and worry and grief. Even now, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if my ex had just taken Max out for breakfast instead of berating him so mercilessly.

I wish I could kill my ex.  My sister has asked me, Isn’t it enough to know how miserable he is? As if that could mitigate my hatred, which is eternal, steadier than the beat of my heart, and faster than the speeding bullet that belongs in his head.

Meet a Troll

Sunday, June 26th, 2011

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.

The Art of the Prank**

Wednesday, March 30th, 2011

Few things are more delightful than a well-executed prank.   A good prank is a noble creative endeavor – that’s what I tell myself about the ones I’ve engaged in.

The Nat Tate prank was devised by British novelist William Boyd with the help of David Bowie and a few other collaborators, including Gore Vidal. Boyd wanted to create a fictional artist whose underrated work he would introduce to the art world, via a book on the subject.

Bowie held a launch party for the book on April 1, 1998, and read extracts from the book to the collected celebrities  and art enthusiasts. One of the collaborators went around asking people if they were familiar with Tate’s work.   Poor Tate had burned 99% of his work before his tragic early death in 1960.

In the end, someone revealed the hoax. But William Boyd says that Nat Tate lives on: every so often, one of his paintings comes up for  auction.

The more I learn about this prank the more I fucking love it! It reminds me of my Phyllis Willis-Barbour prank with my friend Mark, and it makes me wish we had taken it further. We planned to have our fake poet appear at readings,  wearing   a mask to hide her face (deformed in a terrible fire.)

**UPDATE: Just found the link to PWB’s bio, one of the greatest things ever written. Ever.

But our best prank, the one that brought us the most joy, was the Ed and Paige Project.

Ed was a guy we had good reason to detest. Among his loathsome  activities was an unending search for hot chicks in the personal ads at, even though he was married to a woman who supported him. Since we knew his taste in women, we created one as bait. We set up her profile, and waited. It took a week, and we had almost given up when Ed contacted Paige, calling her a “long tall drink of water” and complementing her physique.

Here is Paige, who I found at

But wait: Paige isn’t just hot and skanky looking, she is a  commodities  broker and a graduate of the Wharton School of Business! Her favorite book is  Ulysses.

The resulting email love affair between Ed and Paige was a soap opera that all our friends enjoyed, but not with the delirious religious  ecstasy that Mark and I experienced. The email they exchanged was beyond belief. It was like Christmas morning all the time.

I am too tired and lazy to elaborate on the Ed and Paige Project, but I know that Nat Tate would have risen from the dead just to be a part of it.

Lazy Celebrity Post

Sunday, December 5th, 2010

I love it when Madge looks like this. I get a rush of endorphins that’s better than shopping or chocolate! Keep up the good work, girl!

I also love seeing before and after pix of celebrities. But not when they aim to erase their ethnicity.

I prefer Halle Berry in her high school photo. When she was black, and a girl.

What about J Lo? Doesn’t she look like Karla’s Closet in the before photo??!? In the after photo, she looks like she’s half-way to becoming Kate Moss.

Never mind. I’m going back to snicker at Madonna until the high wears off.

Benefit Speaks!

Wednesday, December 1st, 2010

Patricia XXXX<>
Mon, Nov 22, 2010 at 12:37 PM
It’s war at the makeup counter


I read your blog post about your recent visit at a Benefit counter and I would love to help. Can you please let us know where this happened so we could follow-up? We really appreciate your feedback and want to improve your shopping experience with Benefit Cosmetics.


Patricia XXXX
Customer Care Manager
U.S. Benefit Cosmetics


Sent: Monday, November 22, 2010 7:05 PM
To: Patricia XXXX
Subject: Re: It’s war at the makeup counter

Dear Patricia,

I’m glad you want to help. My view is that a reprimand to this one sales assistant is not going to change things, nor will it undo my distress over the experience.

I would love to talk to you over the phone, and perhaps we can brainstorm.

My cellphone # is xxxxxxxxx

xxxxxx (Sister Wolf)

Patricia XXXX <>
Tue, Nov 30, 2010 at 9:35 AM
RE: It’s war at the makeup counter

Good morning [Sister Wolf]

My apologies for not getting back to you sooner, I was out of town for a few days with limited access to my email. Your comments and feedback were sent to the regional manager and she will take care of discussing this with the beauty advisor. If you would like for me to forward anymore comments or suggestions, please feel free to send it to me so I can pass it along.

Thank you and Happy Holidays!

Patricia XXXX
Customer Care Manager
U.S. Benefit Cosmetics


Huh? What did I miss? Suggestions for a follow-up?

It’s War at the Make-up Counter

Thursday, November 18th, 2010

Today my friend X took me to the mall and we decided to visit the new Bloomingdales. We entered in the cosmetics department, unaware of the horror that awaited us.

Some bitch at the Benefit counter approached me and started telling me about their new eyebrow waxing service. I tried to ignore her and looked at the make up while she gave X a brochure or something.   As I started to walk away, the bitch says brightly: “Can I just show you something?” I turned to her and said “Sure.”

Without any warning, she whips out a tube of something and starts rubbing it all over my face. I was too stunned to react. I couldn’t even believe it was happening. She babbled about the product while rubbing it in, and I kept my eyes tightly shut , dreading a blob of it on my contact lens.

When she finished, I blurted out, “How do you know this won’t make my skin break out?” meaning, How do you even know if I just had a facial peel, if I’m wearing a pound of foundation, if I’m on my way to a dinner party and can’t wash my face, if I have severe allergies, or if I’m carrying a kitchen knife to stab you with?

She smirked and replied: “It’s oil free and hypoallergenic. It’s silicone based.” I felt my face and indeed it felt slippery like the silicone glossing serum I don’t like to put on my hair.

I staggered off and told X how furious I was. I wondered if it was worth asking for the manager an causing a scene. We walked a few feet to the Dior counter, where a nice young black-clad gay guy asked how we were doing. I remarked that I was traumatized by the Benefit bitch.

He nodded and confided, “That’s their philosophy over at Benefit. Believe me, I’ve worked for them.” With that, he persuaded X to let him do her lipstick by saying, “PLEASE, I’m so bored and it will make me happy!”

The Dior guy did an expert job of lining and filling in X’s lips, explaining each product and why there was nothing like it. He did her eyes too, using 5 different products. While he worked, he told us about his unhappy childhood in a small-minded Christian community. He asked about my favorite poet, revealing that his favorite is Sylvia Plath.

“OH!” I said, recalling that the second most popular source of literary tattoos is Sylvia Plath, “So do you have any of her stuff tattooed?” He proudly yanked up his long sleeve to reveal a whole long poem about death on his upper arm, the words alternating in red and black ink. He kept right on moaning about his childhood, oblivious of how easily I had just pigeonholed him.

Finally, he was done with X, who looked great. He lined up around 8 products and asked her which ones she wanted to buy. When she said she wanted to think about it for a while, you could see his entire demeanor change. He coldly advised us to have a good day. When we left the store, we were careful to avoid the cosmetics department.

What next at the make up counter? A gang rape?