Godammit, I’m Mad!

All my devoted trolls are demanding that I go away and mourn. But the problem is, there’s no way to implement this. Mourning isn’t a thing you do in a black dress. Maybe they want me to spend all day at a cemetery. But it doesn’t matter where I am, it’s all the same barren place, a place I’d rather not be.

I am going through the motions, because that’s all I know how to do. I could take to my bed and never get up again. I’m not ruling that out. It just seems unfair to my family. I don’t know how to have a nervous breakdown or I’d gladly have one.

I don’t want to “recover” because mothers who bounce back after the death of a child seem despicable. How could anyone “move forward” after this? What would be the point?

I don’t know what to do besides cry or distract myself.  I’m still waiting for him to come back. When he does, I’ll try not to scold him for putting us through this. Meanwhile, I have to pick out a grave marker and then try to pay for it.

I started blogging as a way to express myself. Now, it’s a way to escape myself.

If one more moron whines about my “negativity” or complains that I “hate on” people, I’m going to lose my fucking temper. You can’t hate “on” people. But I might have to learn how.

Max is gone and free now.  Light a candle and wish him a safe journey.

Here’s my mom. She died on April 27, 2001.  She loved opera, chili, shoes, vodka, books  and traveling. On her deathbed, watching Jeopardy on TV, she shouted out “Loyola!” and she was correct.

She was nuts, and I miss her.

If you feel like it, go read this in her honor.

I don’t think I can take much more of this. It’s killing me. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.  (Samuel Beckett)

Sea is excited about going to Tokyo in a couple of weeks to spend a few million dollars and take some cute photos.  She posed in some painful pointy Givenchy pumps, and twittered about vaginas and her dad’s cell phone.

Mom confided that she “had to have” these Lucite Prada shoes from Neiman’s. ($975) Not only that, but Sea “managed to snag a pair of the satin platforms … and they are really incredible.”

Who would like to deconstruct the phrase “managed to snag” in this context?

UPDATE: Now there are new Celine sandals for both Sea and Mom, and some hideous new garbage jewelry that was “sent” from Paris.

Sea won’t post your comments but you can leave them here. I’ll go first.

Dear Sea, Have you tried adding up the damage, shoe-wise, for the last month? Why are you throwing away your youth on this project? You’re staring to look nuts in those photos. Your outfits say “35 year old divorcee, circa 1980.” This is not a compliment. Stop the insanity and maybe poor dad can retire. Love, xo SW.

Has everyone read about the woman from Tennessee who sent her adopted son back to Russia after deeming him too psychotic to handle?

People are up in arms about this, primarily against the mother, who put the 7 year old on a plane, alone, with a note pinned on him. Authorities haven’t decided what to charge her with. Russian officials are threatening to halt adoptions of Russian orphans.

The woman, who is single, refuses to comment, but her own mother says that the boy was violent and had threatened to burn down the house. She also says they were lied to by the Russian agency that arranged the adoption. Many of the orphans in Russia (and elsewhere) who’ve spent their lives in institutions are described by experts as “feral” (i.e. completely unsocialized.) Many have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

If you adopted a child and discovered that he was emotionally disturbed or mentally ill, would you want to send him back, like a defective product? What about if he was violent enough to make you fear for your life? What about if he turned out to be schizophrenic or autistic? What if you kept the child to fulfill your moral obligation but forever regretted the adoption?

I once knew a woman who adopted an infant that turned out to be severely autistic. When I met them, he was about four. He was an unattractive, whiney child who tried to stick his finger in my eye when he noticed I wore contact lenses. When we took him out to a park, he attacked another child. Once, while I was driving, he grabbed my hair from the back seat and yanked it with all his might. He was the most repellent kid I have ever come across, but she adored him. I felt, secretly, that if it were me, I’d send him back.

I know another mom who adores her biological child but sent him to a residential treatment center after he hurt her during one of his rages. It wasn’t an easy decision. But she didn’t want to risk further violence.

I feel bad for the woman in Tennessee. I’m assuming that she wanted a child more than anything, but didn’t have the fortitude to care for a deeply damaged kid. I feel bad for the boy, who most likely has been abused and will be further traumatized.

Should the mother be prosecuted? Should there be better screening of adoptive parents? Should society have some mechanism for mothers who aren’t equipped to mother,  that would absolve them of blame and spare a child from neglect or abuse?

~

If you never signed up for the Crazy Mothers Club, go here.

Catching up with Sea of Shoes after her whirlwind visit to New York, we now find her back in Texas, specifically, at an exclusive sale of Mom’s “vintage” wares at some shop in Dallas.

Sea and Mom spread the joy of hideous animal-themed costume jewelry, most if it sourced from eBay at a fraction of the price charged to their hapless groupies. Years from now, Texas woman will be wondering what came over them when they gaze upon their gigantic monkey and elephant pendants.

Jane stood around in her Anne D. shoes, perhaps daydreaming about Asian boys or Martin Margiela. Meanwhile, Mom has posted about her love of studded shoes, featuring at least $4,000 of  her carefully edited collection.

Would you like to leave a comment for Jane, who doesn’t care what you think? I will go first:

Dear Sea, I saw a video of an interview you gave in New York, and I realized that you are just an average looking girl who doesn’t seem to grasp the implications of anything at all. I see that Mom is the brains behind everything, and I hope one day you can move on to a ‘transitional object‘, like a blankie, before finally breaking free of Mom for good. Meanwhile, I think you guys have enough shoes. Love, SW.

Several readers told me to go check out Mom of Shoes‘ new boots, so naturally I was curious enough to take a look. I left a nice comment but guess what? She deleted it! And not only that, she deleted another comment by someone else, who merely said she wasn’t crazy about the boots. Very, very sad.

Why have comments if you only print the supportive ones?!? What’s the point?

I wish I could remember my exact words! They were something like, “Don’t you worry that thigh high stiletto boots worn with fur will bring to mind hookers?” Then I added that every day, I myself have to fight off the temptation to dress like a prostitute or schoolgirl.

It’s not like I know a better way to wear thigh high boots. When I posted this photo back in October of 2008, a reader told me I looked like a drag queen.

I know Mom will be reading this, so let me just say:  Dear Mom, I was trying to be playful! You can dress like a hooker if you want! It’s better than looking like a drag queen, right? I hope you’re not mad about that awful bell-sleeved coat, because you’ll still make a bundle of money on it.  Love, SW

I came across this picture of a Nature Girl With Lesbian Stick while browsing at twistedlamb, a blog with a very strong sensibility I’ll call Pagan Hipster. It involves S & M, sexual ambiguity, Goth glamor and a whiff of bestiality. It’s the work of a stylist who manages to find strikingly sinister images that often attract and repel, without just relying on leather and spikes.

When can we call for a moratorium on leather and spikes? It’s like every sex-shop since the beginning of time has spewed its merchandise all over the fashion industry, leaving moto-this and moto-that everywhere. Enough, for godsake! The backlash is bound to be a return to modesty and preppy cleanliness. I think I’m ready for it.

Looking around the fashion blogs, I see how many are basically a collection of images, sometimes punctuated by a collage of “Stuff I Love!” or “Things That Inspire Me!” Kate Moss,  Bridgette Bardot, Anita Pallenberg, and Jane Birkin are the usual style muses, then there’s some obscure Death Metal Band or European poet.

I’m more inspired by people like Tragic Fashion Boy, who makes a bold new statement with red (thanks to andrea for the tip!)

For some reason, even though he evokes my maternal instinct, I just can’t imagine being his mother. But in the photo below, I feel he is talking to his mom. Am  I right?

Who is he talking to, and what is he saying?

Look what my brilliant friend Hammie developed to help non-verbal kids communicate, starring her daughter Grace. If only we could all have mothers like Hammie (and daughters like Grace!)

Costochondritis is an inflammation of the cartilage that connects the ribs to the breastbone. It’s extremely painful and feels like a heart attack that won’t go away. The first time I had it, I called 911 and in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, I kept whispering to the EMT guys, “Don’t let me die!”

Now I have it again, and here’s why: There is a plague of constant catastrophe and sorrow upon the House of Wolf, and it just keeps coming. There are no locusts (so far) but there are cockroaches. I am learning which kitchen products work best to immobilize them.

I feel there is a biblical aspect to this plague, although I know next to nothing about the bible. I do remember a part about the firstborn sons,  and that’s how this plague began.  My firstborn son nearly died, didn’t die, but his recovery won’t be what we thought.

Then came-ith my Broken Hip, the horror of Kindred, the No Money, the Angry Husband, the Spiteful Teenager, The Leaking Roof, the Pile of Bills, the No Leaving the House, and now the Fucking Costochondritis. It’s like a knife in my heart, which is already broken in several places.

A friend mentioned the story of Job, and I nodded, pretending that I knew what he meant. I know that Job was some guy who god tortured just for fun, but then pretended he was testing Job’s faith.

If god is testing me, I hope he’s happy. I still have no faith, but I’m a simple enough creature to wonder why god wants to punish me. I know intellectually that bad things happen to good people. Bad things are mostly random. People are starving in Africa, but not because god hates them. Knowing this doesn’t bring me closer to god. Knowing he isn’t there doesn’t stop me from resenting him, either.

I sold the Chanel bag that was once my holy grail. Chanel won’t protect you from the lord’s wrath or his indifference. I would give up everything I have just to turn back the clock to August. I would even sign up for more creepy medical  conditions like costochondritis. This sounds like bargaining, right? And bargaining is a stage of grief, but I can’t remember which one.

Just the other night, I watched the first half of Gone With the Wind on TV. I was struck for the first time by how poignantly Scarlett exclaimed, “I want my mother!”  I finally know what she means. I want my mother too, even though she’s dead, and even though she was crazy my whole life.  I get why soldiers call out for Mother when they’re injured on the battle field.  It’s horrible to be out here on your own without a mother to make things better. It’s horrible to be a mother who can’t make things better.

I wasn’t going to end this on a tragicomic note, then I changed my mind, then I changed it back again. It’s a brutal Christmas over here.