Godammit, I’m Mad!

Three months ago, I wrote about how hard it is to accept being powerless. Now, I am a malignant mass of seething hatred for my ex-husband. If only I could kill him. It would be an act of mariticide, although I don’t know if this applies to exes.

I hate that miserable fucker. I called and tried hard to be nice, to project friendliness. I asked when I could come over to see Max’s things, hoping I could borrow some of his books. We always loved the same books and asked each other for recommendations.

But no! Still no. That bastard is like a character from a Dickens novel, a mean old man who lives to say the word No. His exact words were: “If and when I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” When I began to argue my case, he announced triumphantly: “I won’t be bullied by you.” (Repeat this in your head with an English accent, to get the full effect.) Nothing would change his mind. I lost my temper and he intoned darkly:  ”Don’t call me again.”

Last night I cried hysterically until I couldn’t breath, not because of the books but because of the situation of marrying a man who won’t let you see your son’s belongings, who has to try to control things even after death.

A reader named Marygrace sent me a link to a poem by Julie Sheehan that expresses the scope of my hatred with stunning accuracy. It is a singular gem that everyone should read and pass on, until the whole world can find solace in its perfection.
~

Hate Poem

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.

You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

Nothing helps to soothe the pain like a picture of Sea’s big fat face.

The vulgar coat, the stupid Louis Vuitton bag, the painful shoes and the gratuitous Gaysian and midget are just icing on the cake.

I hate you, you stupid moon-faced bitch. But it’s good to feel some healthy rage instead of the kind that makes you want to kill every single person who might have said the exact word at the exact time to persuade Max that life was worth living. The bad rage is driving me mad.

I’d like to tell that stupid bitch and her stupid mom to shut their stupid fucking mouths and wallets but if it weren’t for them tonight I’d be stuck in an endless loop of questions that will never be answered.

When I get the strength and pull myself together, I plan to begin a thorough, groundbreaking analysis of what makes Alec Baldwin so despicable. Prepare to be grilled on this topic.

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?

I was excited about finding a new blog to hate, based on the recommendations of my astute readers. You all know what a hater I am. Although I don’t hate “on” people, as I’ve already made clear.

Anyway, I went to check out the girl who calls herself Gala Darling, only to find to my horror that I couldn’t hate her!

She seems like a ridiculous person, yes. She goes on and on about shit in a wordy but bland manner, and she certainly seems to love herself, a trait that normally enrages me.

But her nose is too big, and that may be where I draw the line.

How can you really work up a good head of hatred for someone when you feel bad about their nose? The only exception is Sarah Jessica Parker, who brandishes that nose around just to spite us.

The big nose is such blight on the Darling girl’s life that she is trying desperately to compensate with a kooky personality and Manic Panic hair color. Her whole persona screams, “I want love and attention without having to get a nose-job!” But as we know, this won’t work.  The nose is there, we see it! Even though Barbara Streisand has an amazing voice, we were bothered by her nose!

I feel I have failed my faithful readers in this unforeseen hatred malfunction. I tried to hate a seemingly worthy target and yet I’m blocked. I did look at her boyfriend though, and I think I can hate him with no trouble.

Let me have another chance! Suggestions?

This Shopbop girl has been bothering me for ages. Why does she always have to jut her head forward like this? Who tells her to do it? Or is it her trademark or something? Waaah, make it stop!

Now, this Shopbop girl really kills me. She’s just so awful! The horrible asymmetrical hairdo, the aggressive facial expression and the weird body-language. I totally hate her! Why is she there? I think of her as The Goony Bird Girl but I’m open to a new name for her if you’ve got one.

Now! Here’s a good contest. Even though I still haven’t announced the 2 winners of the Name the Baby Contest, I do have the prizes ready. (Say hello to Hazel here.)  For this new contest, the prize will be the Dead Sweater by Lucky Jeans. It’s a size small.

Okay:  Find the Shopbop girl I would like to be if I could be a Shopbop Girl. Hint: Think “slutty.”

Even in the midst of a crisis, I find I have not lost my ability to Hate! On a brief visit to my own home, I was privileged to catch a performance (on the David Letterman Show) by the stupidest, most awful band in the world. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros left me with my mouth open in astonishment, after I finished calling them names out loud.

There’s a sickening douche as the front-man, with a creepy horrible girl adding vocals and dancing around like a crazed village idiot. There’s an asshole wearing a bow-tie with a pink shirt, and some other annoying band-members I can’t remember too clearly.

I double dare you to listen to the entire song. It followed me into my bedroom, where I could hear them bleating the stupid refrain over and over and over and over.

YES! I  hate, therefore I am.

Once again, I’m the last one to find out about something that the whole world already knows.  When it comes to hating Kelly Bensimon though, better late than never!

What a fucking horrible woman!  When you’re watching Kelly Bensimon, she is the worst person who ever lived.  She is beyond anything that words can express.  She is the fucking Holy Grail for haters!  Why wasn’t I notified?!?!?

My husband was kind enough to discover the Real Housewives show for me, and I’ve only seen three episodes. But this Kelly Bensimon person is such a monster that I feel like my whole life has been leading up to finding her! Everything she says and does is like medieval torture. Watching her is worse than being waterboarded! Why didn’t the Bush administration JUST USE KELLY BENSIMON?!

Here is how she ended an interview with Bazaar magazine, when asked who she would be if she could be anyone else for a day:

“I would be me. Every single day. With criticism, without criticism. Just to be me. Because what’s so bad about that?”

May I be allowed to tell Kelly what’s so bad?  Okay, good.

Kelly, here’s what’s bad: You’re stupid as a plank of wood, you’re full of shit, you’re rude and condescending, you named your kid “Sea,” you think you’re a prom queen even though you’re pushing forty, you’re a ridiculous snob, and you play stupid head trips with everyone. AND you’re selling some ugly owl necklace that you ripped off from somewhere.

If you haven’t seen this woman, you’re in for a very special treat. I have never wanted to punch someone in the face so fervently.

I’ve just discovered a fashion blogger that everyone else already knows about, thanks to a newsletter from Refinery 29.

I hated her at Hello. I feel this is a huge faux pas on my part, and yet, there it is. My Hatred Endures, and it never runs out.

The interview with her is harmless, objectively speaking. She is asked questions about her style, and gives answers. She is asked to name 5 pieces that define her daily style. Piece number 2 cinched the deal for me.

“This ridiculously threadbare tie-dyed vintage Grateful Dead shirt. There’s a huge hole in the middle of it that’s literally held together by two stitches, it’s hilarious.”

God. It’s like a knife in my heart. The “ridiculously” hurt, and “it’s hilarious” was agony. I had trouble reading the rest of it. I was too tense to really take it in, but I did flinch at “iconic.”

What is wrong with me? Why can’t I give this girl some slack? She’s probably only 20 years old and who is she hurting (besides me?) It just struck me as the epitome of something that has bugged me from the first time I came upon a fashion blog. It’s kind of a narcissism crossed with a complete lack of inhibition about seeming shallow.

I have posted plenty of photos of myself, so I am hardly blameless. But the idea of dressing up and describing every piece of clothing as though it merited documentation is just horrible on some level. Who the fuck cares where your shoes came from, know what I’m saying? And yet, when I went to the girl’s blog, just to give her a chance to change my mind, a thingy on the page said there were 90 viewers online.

Fashion Girl, you are more than welcome to hate me back. I’m old and mean, for starters. You can just take it from there. It’s not fair for me to pick on you, but maybe it will make you a tiny bit more famous and beloved for all I know. While you’re busy laughing hysterically at your torn t-shirt, I’m sitting here disgustedly in my ill-fitting black Nudie jeans that I got from Tobi.com, with a roll of flab that I got from Having Two Kids.

Fashion has been an obsession for me since I was around 12, and even now I can talk about it forever with my friends who are similarly addicted to it. Yet I’m wondering if there’s a saturation point beyond which the whole subject is just pathetic and awful. OR, maybe I just need to stick to magazines and shopping sites. OR maybe it’s the grim economic news that’s making fashion seem so petty and irrelevant.

Or maybe I just can’t stand this particular girl. Comments or insults, anyone?

You know that crap you see on MSN that’s there to distract you with mundane and/or bizarre trivia….like “Lose Weight While Eating” or “Ten Ways to See if He’s a Mass Murderer?” Obviously, I’m much too savvy to click on that shit.

But today I noticed “I Stalked My Boyfriend’s Ex” and thought, Big deal, who hasn’t?

When I met my husband, his Ex was living with a man she would later marry, but the divorce wasn’t final yet. Everything I heard about her was horrifying. On one of our first dates, he even showed me her ‘head-shots,’ because she was an Actress. I was shaken by the big actressy smile and the long blond bob.

When he went out of town, the Ex always took care of his cat.  I suggested that it was time to let me take care of the cat, and after a lot of soul-searching (i.e., bitter arguing) he decided that the Ex and I would share the job.

I was furious but terrified of bumping into her. Instead, because it was nearly Easter, I left her a chocolate Easter bunny. I was trying to demonstrate how nice I was. She responded by leaving me a potted plant, with a little note that I still have somewhere. She dotted the i in her name with a little star.

I consulted a friend who gave me good advice: You can’t beat someone at their own game. This is advice I’ve passed on several times, that’s how good it is. She warned me that the Ex was known for her friendliness; if I kept trying to outdo her, I’d end up giving her the deed to my house and STILL she’d think of something to up the ante.

I gave up the niceness and went straight to pure seething hatred. She would not stay in line, even though she was about to marry someone else. On the eve of her marriage, she left a whimsical poem for my husband, just to keep her hand in, so to speak.

Time passed and I got pregnant. The Ex got pregnant too! She was like a horrible toothy spectre that wouldn’t stop haunting me with her legendary Friendliness and Kookiness. I had come to learn that she loved giving parties, wearing hats, and dressing up like a clown in her own TV show on the public access channel.

Finally, the Ex and I had our babies. My husband was invited to a wedding where the Ex would be in attendance. I geared up for it by dying my hair even blacker and wearing a tiny pleated Catholic schoolgirl skirt.  Our first encounter was dreadful, even though I knew it was funny. She took my husband’s coat like she was still the wife and put it on a chair. I could barely look at her. She smiled in a way that showed her back molars. Her voice was loud and animated, like someone who has a show on the public access channel.

Our babies started crying and the Ex and I had to both get our boobs out to breastfeed. We began to talk shop. I tried to feel normal, as though we were two normal women with new babies. She remarked that her boobs lactated differently. I told her that, yeah, that happens. She leaned toward me and said dramatically “I call [my boobs] Comfy and Squirty.” I was speechless. All I could think to say was “Uh, I call mine Right and Left.”

God, I was obsessed with that Ex. For years, I would call her phone number on holidays just to hear her themed outgoing messages. On Saint Patrick’s day, she used an Irish accent.

All these years later, I can still get steamed when I think about her. She was the anti-me, and that was a big part of her mystique for me. Over time, I’ve come to feel more secure about being an angry inhibited brunette. I think I’m the best in my league, I guess. A loud vivacious blond can still irritate me, but that’s about it.

If you’ve never been pathologically jealous, you’ll have no idea of how awful it feels. But also too, you will never know the insurmountable pleasure of having a friend make a prank-call on your rival, and getting her to believe she’s just been offered a leading role in the sequel to the Wizard of Oz, called Beyond the Rainbow.

What, the RNC spent $150,000 on Mrs. P’s wardrobe?!?!?!

How can you spend that much money and still look like trailor trash?! Most of it was spent at Saks and Neiman Marcus, but all I can see are a bunch of tight black skirts, fitted jackets and cheap looking boots.  She definitely has her own style, which might be described as Small Town PTA Lady, or Middle Aged Beauty Queen.  Why can’t she look at some photos of Jackie Kennedy? Her awful fashion sense makes you forgive Hillary Clinton for her pantsuits. At least she didn’t rely on her sluttiness to distract people from what came out of her mouth.

Today, Mrs. P insisted for at least the forth time that the Vice President “is in charge of the United States Senate Senate.” Also too, if I am so privileged to keep typing, she swindled Alaska by spending $21,000 to fly her daughters around on government business, taking them to events where they weren’t invited and clearly had no function to perform.

Mrs. Palin, no no no no no! We don’t want any more of you!

No top lip, no fashion sense, no brains, no ethics, no shame, no nothing. Give Trig to Jan, let Bristol finish high school, get Track in rehab, send Willow to a family in Nigeria where she can experience maternal love, and sell Piper to the Gypsies while she’s still cute.

Ma haine dure.

*UPDATE: Watch Palin in the new extended Swimsuit Competition video! UGH!