Godammit, I’m Mad!

His first love came to visit me and she brought a bottle of wine. I haven’t seen her in 17 years but she was the same beautiful, open-hearted girl I remembered. She brought photos they took in high school, and some letters she thought I might like to read.

She recalled his romantic soul, how he loved Marilyn Monroe in The Misfits, and how he taught her to play guitar. She remembered how emotional their fights were. He wanted her to know about his dark side and hoped she could accept that part of him.

We laughed about his habit of picking a flower to put behind his ear. He never worried about what people might think. He was so gentle, and so funny.

The dark side was his constant companion during adulthood and nothing seemed to help.  He knew he could be himself with me. He knew I wouldn’t judge him or think less of him for being chronically depressed. I was always so sure that somehow he would find his way out of it. I promised him things would get better when he came home from the hospital.

We shared so much! We were each others biggest fan, most reliable sounding board, and safest refuge. I’m not even me anymore, that me is gone.

I walk by his room at night and pretend he’s there, sleeping. In my own bed, I hold his stuffed toys from long ago and cradle them like babies.

I’m trying to replace my fury toward the crazy girl with the abiding love that connects all of us who adored him. I’m trying to find meaning in words like these, by Goethe: There is strong shadow where there is much light. I’m trying to take comfort in remembering the light that was and is Max.

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.

Complete this sentence:

“I would wear this fur thing if ______________”

(Shopbop $396)

“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

Sea has taken a brief respite from shoe curating but the posing and self-adoration continue unabated, like the tides.

Sea acquired an ugly cockroach necklace in an effort to establish her quirkiness, and she heaped on the black eye liner for a Clueless Goth™ effect. She and Mom snagged a lame python jacket after a harrowing close call with not snagging it! Whew! Thank god it all worked out.

Most noteworthy is the garbled language skills that Sea has been curating! Here is her observation about her taste in interior design:

“I guess the baroque-psychedelia of Foster’s Home has my eye trained on the more whimsical touches of the mansions from the Gilded era. I got this book at Dolly Python yesterday and  love to see l that so many of these suffocatingly extravagant rooms have touches of candy colors like mint green, bubblegum pink, and robin’s egg blue.”

Hahahaha! “Suffocatingly extravagant?!?” Suffering succotash! That sounds like a description of her own living room!

Okay, you know the drill. I’ll go first:

Dear Sea, You’ll never believe this but I have the same black sweater from Lucky Jeans so we’re almost twins! Do you ever wonder what you would think about if you weren’t wealthy? Did you know that most women have a deep-seated dread of being like their mom? I like how you defy this fear by trying to look like a thirty-something divorcee circa 1980. If you need more cockroaches, let me recommend my kitchen! Love, SW

I’m like watching the Kardashian girls on TV and it’s like so full of drama! Kourtney is like so mad at that douche who knocked her up and like Kim wants her to like face reality? And like Kourt’s baby is more important to her than like anything?

I haven’t seen this show in ages but I must admit it has a soothing effect on my brain. The two of them look more piggish than I remember and Kim’s lips seem ready to burst.

I like love reality TV and here’s why:  It’s like so sickening, but in the end, it’s like not your problem.