My Friend Michelle

Posted on August 9, 2020 by Sister Wolf

My friend Michelle has the foulest mouth I’ve ever encountered, and that’s saying something. When she was crossed in business, she fumed that she wouldn’t bend over and take it up the ass. Once, we were in her huge SUV, entering a mall parking lot, when a Mercedes cut her off. She yelled out of her indow “Whore!” The Mercedes stopped in front of us and the Whore marched over to the window.

I was horrified and pictured a fistfight. Not only that but there was $1000 in cash in plain sight, Michelle’s weekly pin money for blowing on designer goods. The Whore was a normal looking middle aged woman who barked, “Would you like to repeat that in my face?”

I gestured wildly to the Whore, making the “crazy” sign with my pointer finger, hoping she might back down from a nutcase. Michelle held her ground without repeating the word, and the Whore went back to her car. It was one of many times I found myself both impressed and terrified by Michelle’s rage.

Michelle and her husband owned a thriving alarm business and had an office behind their house where I was their administrative assistant. I am seriously incompetent in an office setting but it took them a while to figure this out. They were both clean and sober after years of wild living, and both were heavily tattooed in an era when that was still considered sketchy. The husband had been a heroin addict and Michelle had been an alcoholic. He disparaged AA meetings but Michelle enjoyed them, dressing up in Gucci and Dolce every Friday night to flaunt her status and gossip with her girlfriends.

Underneath her bravado, of course, Michelle was a troubled and deeply insecure young woman. Years of parental abuse had taken their toll on her. She strived to be a good mother to her young son and her teenage step-daughter. She was tender with the former and brutal to the latter but the husband never stepped in. He was as quiet as she was loud but when he got angry, there was hell to pay. Or so she said.

Michelle and I grew close quickly. It wasn’t long before she insisted on keeping the bathroom door open so she could keep talking to me while she peed. Her combination of thuggery and neediness was irresistible. Even after she ran over my dog Lassie we remained friends.

Michelle and I could make each other laugh hysterically with just a glance. When I told her that I’d always hated being called “Joni” she proceeded to call me that every day. When I expressed my dislike of Bob Seeger, she began to blast his music in the office and to burst out in his songs when I was off-guard at my computer.

Michelle was preoccupied with labia, and she liked to describe her girlfriends’ imperfections in that area. One was called a swordfish and I can’t remember the other names she made up. She once caught me in the bathroom and made a big deal about my abundant pubic hair. Twenty years later she still teases me about it.

It’s impossible to convey her wild sense of humor, but it’s a large part of why I love her. She could projectile-spit on demand, and was rightly proud of this talent. She would stand yards from a target, positioning her body like an Olympic javelin thrower, and she would point at the target like Babe Ruth calling his shot. The spit flew through the air and always hit the target.

Michelle was competitive in more areas than labia. She was extremely proud of her handwriting and was pissed off when I showed her my own nice cursive. She decided that the guys in the office should judge between our handwriting samples and she refused to accept their decision that mine was the best. How could I not love her?

Seeing each other every day in the office, we developed a deep intimacy. She befriended my son, who was away at college, via email discussions. Soon, they were exchanging horrifying images in their mutual love of the dark side. I was pleased by their friendship at first. When I passed her computer one day and saw an image of a naked girl covered in shit, I had second thoughts.

The night Michelle ran over my dog, I was home alone with my younger son asleep in his bed. I heard a screech of brakes outside but ignored it until a knock on my door. Lassie had wandered into the street, thanks to the gardener who forgot to lock the backyard gate. Michelle couldn’t stop in time to avoid Lassie, who came inside through the dog door, injured and bleeding.

I ran to my dog, who bit me. I was beside myself with fear. Michelle wrapped Lassie in a towel and drive to the emergency vet hospital. I called a friend to come and sit with me.

The vet finally called and told me that they’d tried to save Lassie but she was gone. I could hear hysterical sobbing in the background. It was Michelle. I asked the vet if Michelle was alright. The vet commented that she’d never heard anyone worry about a friend after hearing about the loss of a pet. She didn’t know how much I love Michelle, a broken baby bird with a mouth like a whole fleet of sailors.

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Karen Sr.

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Sister Wolf

The New York Times wrote about Karen, the derogatory term of the moment, and defined it for us Karens:

a pseudonym for a middle-aged busybody with a blond choppy bob who asks to speak to the manager. Now, the moniker has most recently morphed into a symbol of racism and white privilege.

A “Karen” now roams restaurants and stores, often without a mask during this coronavirus era, spewing venom and calling the authorities to tattle, usually on people of color and often putting them in dangerous situations.

Obviously, it’s so Karen to complain about this. And I’m not going to, even though I’m still annoyed by Becky. I’m just wondering if someone my age, an old baby boomer, can be a Karen. They seem so millennial. Maybe we can have Karen Sr, which I will answer to if necessary.

While Karen symbolizes white privilege, Becky seemed more specific. She was a white woman who kissed up to Black women, always wanting to voice her support without actually doing anything to be an ally.

If Becky is still operative, that gives us three categories of white women: Karens, Beckys, and allies. Periodt.

When I complained about Becky, I was clearly resentful. Here’s what I wrote:

I have tried to imagine an essay about The 5 types of Keisha or The 5 types of Guadalupe or The 5 Types of Mei-Ling and I just can’t. Not because I am too nice or color-blind but because I’m not used to categorizing people of different ethnicities. Sue me. (WHITE JEWISH PRIVILEGE.) I can’t and I don’t want to. How would that help, you know?

I managed to piss off people I had no wish to piss off. I came back with a more “nuanced” explication of my stance. It was just Becky of me, in no way helpful. Now that I’m Karen Sr., I’m not going to try to squirm out of it, Karenishly, but instead I embrace it.

However, Black women who hate me simply for being white can now be LaQuisha. While I’m out Karening around, LaQuisha is banging out a 5,000 word manifesto about intersectionality. And that’s fine! I probably won’t be reading it, because, duh, Karen.

Women named Karen are feeling victimmy and some are writing defensive shit that is soooo Karen of them. However, here’s the response that Karens who are allies (I know, it’s confusing) are posting on Facebook:

I can’t get bent out of shape. I have no control over it. There are people losing their lives every day. If it’s the only thing I have to be upset about in this world, then good for me.”

and

It [is] very upsetting, but I would sacrifice my name for the[movement].

How gracious, right? How would you react if your name were used to describe all that is loathsome in our society? Luckily, in 2018, Karen ranked as the 635th most popular girl’s name, alongside Elaine and Dallas.Good news but what kind of monster would name her daughter “Dallas??” This makes me want to cry.

Meanwhile, there are some who view Karen as a racist, classist slur.

LaQuisha, if you’re reading this, DON’T BE MAD! I’m just an old lady, don’t come @ me! It’s not easy being Karen Sr. It’s hard to learn the latest memes and insults. I’m doing my best to stay relevant, like Madonna, who strikes me as a total Becky of the worst kind.

More Karenology here.

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Love on the Spectrum

Posted on August 1, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Love on the Spectrum is an Australian TV series about single young people on the autistic spectrum, learning to date and looking for love. I don’t know what I expected but I’ve been overwhelmed by how sweet and compassionate it turned out to be.

The series follows several characters, through interviews and during their dates, but it feels less voyeuristic than other reality shows in its gentle and informative perspective. If you’ve had no experience with people on the spectrum, you will see how varied its impact is on their personalities. As the saying goes, if you’ve met one person on the spectrum, you’ve met one person on the spectrum.

Me, I’ve had experience, and I can spot as Aspie from 100 yards, but I’m still learning. I’m increasingly convinced of my own autistic traits, which present in females much differently than in males and are more likely to go undetected even into adulthood.

There are only 5 episodes and I’m putting off seeing the last one because I don’t want to say goodby to its cast. I’ve tried to put a finger on what makes them so endearing, and I believe it’s their sincerity. In an age of studied authenticity, true sincerity is like a beacon of light. When they talk about their hopes of finding a partner, their unvarnished yearning and their simple requirements are almost unbearably poignant.

My inexpressive husband murmured emotionally during one segment, “So heartbreaking.” A guy named Mark was talking about his “disability” and how much he had to offer in spite of it. We love Mark! He is upbeat and positive throughout, although who knows what he’s like off camera. His parents discuss how far he’s come from being a non-verbal and aggressive child. How far we’ve all come from being awful children, but for most of us it hasn’t been such a persistent struggle.

The girls, Chloe and Olivia and Maddie, seem more self-aware and more inclined to joke about their habits. They seem less locked into gender performativity than the guys, who seem keenly aware of what men should act like.

This amorphous gender presentation reminds me of the years I would only wear men’s clothes…until my father threw them away. Even now I feel like a transvestite when I wear a dress and heels. I know I’m female but I feel deeply uncomfortable when someone calls me a “woman”. I’m okay feeling like a gay man in a female body, even though my husband isn’t crazy about this description.

Is it part of my autism? Or just a random trait? As a kid I felt baffled by other kids, who seemed to all know something I didn’t. I love to mimic people and I’m good at it. Females on the spectrum use this skill to blend in, often into adulthood. They are also prone to obsessions with people, who they stalk with unusual vigor. CHECK! Instead of acting out with tantrums like boys on the spectrum, girls are more likely to be afflicted with depression and eating disorders. CHECK! An alarming percentage of girls on the spectrum have been “sexually exploited.” CHECK! Because they don’t know how to say No, and don’t know how to recognize dangerous situations.

My husband and I also love Michael, a 25 year old who lives with his parents and only wants to be a husband. He is so earnest and guileless, it just kills us. What a lovely soul. I think he would make a great husband. Then there is Kelvin, who reacts with horror when a date tells him she isn’t interested in him. “You mean you don’t want to love me?” he screams, as you clutch your heart in agony.

I don’t want to sentimentalize the cast, or to imply that everyone on the spectrum is a saint. I’ve met several who are complete assholes, just like neurotypical people.

But more often, I’ve observed a sincerity that moves me deeply. Defined as “honesty of mind or intention; freedom from simulation, hypocrisy, disguise, or false pretense,” sincerity is a pretty rare commodity. After intelligence, it’s probably what I look for most in a friend. Along with the ability to accept my mimicking, obsessions, and the gay man in a female body thing.

Go watch this show on Netflix and tell me what you think.

Posted in Art, love | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

At Least We Still Have Words. Sort of.

Posted on July 24, 2020 by Sister Wolf

I just learned a new word that describes my condition: avolition.

People with avolition often want to complete certain tasks but lack the ability to initiate behaviours necessary to complete them. Avolition is most commonly seen as a symptom of some other disorder, but might be considered a primary clinical disturbance of itself (or as a coexisting second disorder) related to disorders of diminished motivation.

It’s not the same as laziness, which is assumed to be a choice. It’s not the same as apathy, which is:

a lack of feeling, emotion, interest, or concern about something. It is a state of indifference, or the suppression of emotions such as concern, excitement, motivation, or passion. An apathetic individual has an absence of interest in or concern about emotional, social, spiritual, philosophical, or physical life and the world.

I have a surfeit of concern, interest and emotion, currently; I just can’t do anything. Is this Covid related? Is it the result of being stuck at home for a billion days in a row? Of having only one other person in my environment? Of not having to hustle for money? Hours on the couch, watching TV? The lack of concrete things to look forward to, given the uncertainty of the “new normal?”

The term “new normal” still arouses my ire, so that’s good, right? Also the word “Zoom.” Also the shortening of  the already annoying “folks” to “folk.” Folk have grown tired of systemic racism, sure, but so have PEOPLE!

Back to avolition, here are some of the things I can’t do: deal with bills, get dressed, water the lawn, cook, put my shoes away, make the bed, make phone-calls, clean the house, drive, or write. It’s not so much Why Bother as much as it is I just Can’t.

I did force myself to sit at the computer to write this! It might be an aberration or the Something of my condition. What is the word I should use here instead of Something? I genuinely can’t think of it. I could use “abatement” but that’s not a word in my normal lexicon.

Something something something something! Something something.

I started keeping a list of words I was unable to retrieve for either hours or days.
orchid
aurora
Robert Duval

But then I stopped keeping the list, because avolition. I will try to start again. If I get enough to make a haiku, it will be a worthwhile project.

Do projects have to be worthwhile? I hope not. What are you guys up to? Are you putting your shoes away? Any new words? Advice or [something]?

images (c) Wellcome Library

Posted in Disorders, irritants, Words | Tagged , | 13 Comments

Lawrence of Arabia

Posted on June 22, 2020 by Sister Wolf

After watching a million hours of MSNBC News the other day, I decided to look for something else to watch. Lawrence of Arabia had just begun on Turner Classic Movies and since I’ve never seen it all the way through I decided to give it a shot.

Peter O’Toole was such a babe, duh, but I mean truly gorgeous. His black eyeliner was subtle but gorgeously queeny. I’m not a fan of blond men but in this case, I get it!

Since it’s a slow movie, I had the time to reflect on Peter O’Toole’s finely chiseled nose and wondered if he’d had a nosejob. Lots of actors did this back in the day, far more than actresses for some reason. So I googled it.

Google has removed all mystery from everything, a double-edged sword if ever there were one, right? I am constantly looking up everyone’s age to make sure I look better than them or at least less wrinkly. I particularly love before and after pictures of celebrities, who keep morphing before our eyes.

So anyway, yes, Peter O’Toole got his nosejob before he became a star but after he’d had some notable success. It came out much better than Harrison Ford’s or Jeremy Sisto’s. It works with his patrician facial structure and I’m okay with it not being natural.

I also read a review of a biography that catalogued his bad behavior on set and in his long marriage to Sian Somebody. His drinking is legendary and part of his persona, but I was disturbed by the account of his divorce. After his wife could no longer endure his affairs, she moved out of their house. He never let her return and refused to let her have her famed collection of antique jewelry. He banned her from visiting her children and a messy court battle went in his favor.

Here the story rung a sinister bell for me: A friend described him as “a man who prided himself on his resolutely unforgiving nature.” I’ll repeat it for emphasis:

a man who prided himself on his resolutely unforgiving nature.

Do you know anyone who might be described like this? I do.

In fact, I used to cherish a self-image that could be described as “You don’t know who you’re fucking with!” I enjoyed feeling like the embodiment of never giving an inch. I scoffed at people who gave up grudges and felt it was proof of how shallow they were; a person of substance should take their grudges to the grave.  If you’re a longtime reader, you know this as deeply as my family and former friends.

Both of my children admired this posture. But Max was nothing like me in this respect. He forgave people right and left…including me. He never even hesitated when someone wanted to patch things up.

I’m trying hard to be different. I’m trying hard to be the shepherd, you might say. I’ve learned to say “I’m sorry, I was a jerk” and “Please forgive me!” In fact, I say it all the time these days.

Life is so hard, so full of calamity and tragedy and unexpected turns. It takes effort to be compassionate, like Morrissey says, but eventually it comes naturally. Empathy is sometimes all we can offer each other, but what are human relations without it?

So I’m trying and I’ll keep trying. There’s nothing noble about being stubborn and hardhearted.

Lawrence of Arabia also reminded me of the disastrous date I had with Michael Shamberg, who bought the movie for us to watch on his gigantic home movie screen and then got huffy when I said I enjoyed the homoerotic energy between the co-stars. So I was going to write about the part where we had terrible sex because he was so ignorant of female anatomy…but I decided not to.

That’s how nice I am now.

Posted in Disorders, revenge, Words | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Triage

Posted on June 9, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Having left off with a heartbroken post about Mother’s Day, I am back with more miserable reflections of the state of things, or more specifically the state of me, Sister Wolf.

Remember when I fell and broke my pelvis? Well, I have done it again! Hard to believe, I know, and yet there it is. This time I fell in my own home in a stupid fluke accident and landed on my bad leg with the hardware in it. The hardware was sturdy but my pelvis was not. The part that broke is the pubis ramus, a fucking bummer.

So I had to get an ambulance, and the EMT guys were sorry about taking me to the hospital, acting like they were delivering me to certain death from Coronavirus. I sobbed about dying but since I couldn’t stand up, I had no choice.

The hospital was great! There were no COVID patients there, and the nurses were lovely young women who chatted with me about everything and brought me extra coffee when I begged for it. At night, the ward was full of screaming and moaning, but not from me. One doctor talked to me for more than an hour about his life and aspirations. When I went home after 2 days, I missed all the companionship.

Twelve years ago when I broke my pelvis, some awful Russian cunt made it a project to mock my pain on her stupid blog, which I then parodied on a blog I devoted to mocking her back. Those were the days, eh?

So now I need to use a walker to get around my house, and I’m in nearly constant pain. I guess I could take this opportunity to become addicted to opiates, but nah, why bother? I have a nice physical therapist who keeps calling me ma’am. My poor husband has to help with everything, and I secretly wonder if he can distinguish me from his 103 year old mother. His mother has a better attitude, obviously.

Yesterday, my oxygen saturation was 94 %, not good. It connects me to the cultural inflection points of George Floyd ( I can’t breathe) and the pandemic (low oxygen is a symptom of COVID 19.)

I watched the funeral service in Houston today, and envied the solidarity of black families. My friend Romeo told me that this is because we’ve never allowed black people to have anything else. If this is true, I still envy those families. The love and the loyalty is so absent in my own family, a pill that grows more bitter the older I get. All the feuds and petty squabbles. Even when times are tough, my family is incapable of pulling together.

On top of everything, I found a hairdresser who is making house-calls, so she came over last week and spent four hours ruining my beautiful hair. She left me with some shit in my hair to rinse off in 15 minutes. If she’d stayed for it to dry, she would have heard my shriek of horror when I looked in the mirror to find a platinum fright wig where my beautiful highlights used to be.

Ha ha! Life is full of jokes, if only you have the sense of humor to enjoy them! I do enjoy them, up to a point, you know?

If you have time, pray to the gods of your understanding that my pelvis mends and I don’t die of Coronavirus before I get to have a last laugh at someone else’s expense, hopefully Trump’s.

Thanks in advance! xoxo

Posted in Disorders, grief, News | Tagged , , , | 12 Comments

Crazy Mothers Club VIII

Posted on May 9, 2020 by Sister Wolf

The approach of Mothers Day fills me with a constellation of emotions that are tough to untangle. Maybe they can’t be untangled. Being a mother and having a mother seem like conflicting states rather than complementary ones.

My mom left this photo on my doorstep when I was 37. I know that because on a note she included in the manila envelope full of baby pictures, she wrote: “You piece of shit, thanks for 37 years of misery.”

Look at my innocent little self in that party dress! I wonder what the occasion was. She usually dressed me like a boy. At 21 months, according to her, she already hated me.

My mom was mentally ill but no one ever explained that to me and my sister. We knew she had mood swings and an explosive temper. We knew she was given to theatrical screaming. We knew she had an assortment of pills in her handbag that she sometimes threatened to kill herself with. But I didn’t grasp that she was crazy until the manila envelope appeared.

She was not a good mother. She was divorced early on and unequipped for the job of raising kids. Her own mother was cruel and rejecting; her passive father didn’t protect her. Her sister spent time in a mental hospital and abused her three children. It’s a mess.

But how can I hate my mother? How can I even blame her? What did she know? Now in 2020, what does anyone know about being a mother?

I know mothers who won’t vaccinate their kids or let them watch TV. I know mothers who won’t let their kids eat gluten or dairy. I know mothers who take their kids to shaman healers. I know mothers who abandoned their kids, and mothers who cling to adult children with disturbing tenacity. Everyone is just flailing around, trying to do their best.

I’m learning to strive for compassion when it comes to my mother, and for myself as well. I made so many mistakes raising my children but much more often I did okay. I made sure they knew how much I adored them. I was their advocate. They never had to be anything but themselves. They didn’t have to perform in school or anywhere else to be valued. They knew I admired them. I loved their friends and their girlfriends. I tried to always be honest with them.

I was a good enough mother. It’s a relief to know that.

My life as a mother is still the best part of who I am. My heart is broken but it’s full of love.

Those of you with crazy mothers, try to forgive them. Those of you who are crazy mothers, it’s never too late to apologize or to get some help. Don’t write shit on baby pictures if you can help it. If you can’t, it’s probably not your fault.

May we all find someone to mother and be mothered by, today and always.

Posted in Disorders, grief, love, Words | Tagged , , , | 10 Comments

Coronaland

Posted on May 2, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Sure, this is a challenging time but even though we are alone we are together like never before. I only wish I had children at home so we could spend time doing homework, puzzles and crafts!

Since it’s just me and my life partner, I begin the day with ten minutes of meditation followed by an entry in my gratitude journal, where I also set my intentions to be present and productive.

I have been making a morning smoothie to drink while I apply a fragrant citrus mask to my feet and elbows, at the same time oiling my dry scalp with African castor oil and wrapping my head in a reclaimed plastic bag. I sprinkle some flax seed and bran onto a crust of bread (no wasting!) and chew slowly for at least five minutes.

Obviously, with so much free time, I am starting those projects I meant to do in junior high but was too stoned or depressed to tackle. I’m learning Swahili, finally! and old Norse, and I’m arranging zoom conferences with impoverished refugee women in Tanzania. We carve things out of potatoes and root vegetables to sell on Etsy, or sometimes we just do native dance moves and draw up plans for menstruation huts.

I have started to press flowers and crochet doilies in case a wormhole in time sends us all back to the nineteenth century! I’m scrap-booking, making collages, covering the driveway with mosaics, tie-dying rags, growing tomatoes and radishes, and making my own pasta from scratch. I’m baking bread like a maniac, because it just smells so good, and also making balloon animals for charity.

I’m hand-washing and ironing all our curtains and re-grouting around the toilets and bathtub. I am nearly done writing a critique of Finnegan’s Wake, which I’ve just translated into Spanish for when my gardener can come back to work. Also, I’ve started reading Spinoza and Kant again, along with the Quran and the Book of Revelations. I still can’t get through the Hobbit, so maybe I’ll save that for the next pandemic.

I have stopped looking at twitter, since the negativity there is so toxic. Instead, I read stories about our heroic workers on the front line, sobbing and sewing masks while counting my blessings at being born in Los Angeles instead of Capetown or a poultry factory.

I’m working out with light weights, running in place for 60 minutes, practicing salsa dancing and twerking, and trying to strengthen my core with sets of 500 crunches and leg-raises. I know that staying fit and toned will help me with the uncertain times ahead.

Staying home has been a learning experience, hasn’t it? We’ve learned to slow down, to stop and listen to our inner selves, and to download food delivery apps. I think we will all be much more resilient and multi-talented when this is over, and if it goes on forever, we’ll all become Superbeings who can get along just fine with nothing but our bellybuttons and Netflix to entertain us til the end of time.

Right?

 

Posted in Horrible Stuff, News, Words | Tagged , | 8 Comments

Assholes

Posted on April 12, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Okay, it’s too much. If I implied that it wasn’t, forgive me, I was wrong.

Last week I read advice on how to take the best selfie of your asshole. It was in a newsletter for men that happens to offer a fun modern take on pop culture. The advice was not meant for me, clearly, but nevertheless she persisted.

The advice made me sad, in a deep 3 am dark night of the soul type of way. Inexpressibly sad. We have come to this, the need to capture our very asshole in the best light, for the admiration of others.

We are our own assholes. All roads lead to assholes.

We crave toilet paper. We joke about it but still look for it on Amazon. Our family members reveal the purchase of bidets from a company called “Tushy.”

The word Tushy brings a whole new cascade of agony and regret. A close friend nearly kills himself when I email him about Tushy. At least I’m not alone in the universe where a single wrong word plunges one into the abyss.

I have had many dreams about overflowing toilets, with shit everywhere. Is this a metaphor for life itself, a pile of unmanageable shit? When I told my sister about the dreams, she assured me that she’s had them too. Is that good or bad?

Now, assholes are everywhere, sharing their personal tales about how they’re spending their time in lock-down. Each asshole feels it’s important to speak their Truth about their Journey.

Here’s a quick list of what I don’t want, in case you need corroboration of your own rage:

Recipes
Exercise routines
Pictures of your cat (or asshole)
funny stories about your domestic conflicts
Cute photos of your beautiful children
Crafts and craft suggestions
Reflections on what you miss most
Platitudes
Silver linings
Amateur or professional performances with guitar or piano

I am starting fights with people, in real life and online. I can’t seem to stop being an asshole, the asshole I’ve always been but now somehow exaggerated in the absence of the usual distractions and inhibitors.

On Instagram, I commented on a nude performance artist, “she loves to be naked and yet so waxed.” This brought down the wrath of everyone across the globe. What kind of feminist was I??? I was a “diet totalitarian!” Why couldn’t I just be positive??

HOW SHOULD I KNOW, FFS! I AM JUST ANOTHER ASSHOLE!

Walking the dog and wearing a pair of Uniqlo boxers over my face, joggers and skateboarders race past me, unmasked. I mutter, “Wear a fucking mask motherfucker”, feeling my own spittle hit the boxers and fly back in my face.

The boxers once covered my ass, I now realize.

And the ex-wife just published her monthly journal thing, comparing herself to the Little Engine That Could.

I cant. I can’t even. I know I can’t, I know I can’t, I just can’t.

Posted in grief, Horrible Stuff, News, Rants | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

Choose Your Own Adventure, Coronavirus Edition

Posted on April 1, 2020 by Sister Wolf

There are now an increasing number of stances you can take about being forced to stay home. The stances may be infinite for all I know, but let’s review the ones getting the most play.

There’s the Gratitude stance, which I personally find horrifying. This one is popular on Instagram, often with a stupid Buddhist-style image of a sunset and a silhouette of someone doing a yoga pose. It’s a sanctimonious sermon on how this pandemic can teach us to use the planet more gently, how we now have the opportunity to rethink our selfish ways, blah blah blah. It’s an awful slap in the face to anyone who is actually suffering. I refuse to be grateful for a pandemic. Fuck that idea and the horse it rode in on.

Then there’s the Scolding stance, another dreadful position that tries to make you feel bad for spending hours watching Netflix or staring at your phone. This one blames you for losing touch with your Inner Life and your creativity. What’s wrong with you! it gripes, You brainwashed consumer! Have you lost the ability to sit in a room and just be present? Please. As if.

Then there’s the Silver Lining stance. This is the one where you finally have the time to learn a new language, to read War and Peace, to finish that screenplay, to rearrange your living room, try out new recipes and to host zany get-togethers with your girlfriends on Zoom. It’s fun being home with free time! Let’s get busy!

There is also the Existential stance, and that’s the one I’ve chose for now, although it’s more accurate to say it’s chosen me. This is the one where you face down your dread, the continual dread of being alive but close to death. It’s the one where you realize your existence can be reduced to almost nothing, just eating and sleeping with some time-wasting stuff in between. You wonder why you bought all those clothes, all those stupid eye pencils and shoes and trinkets. Life is only about having someone to talk to, to hold you, and a decent bed to crawl into. Life is about waiting for something to happen but hoping it won’t be something awful or unbearable.

However, the last couple of weeks have brought some unexpectedly wonderful moments. I watched Jeopardy for the first time in probably twenty years, and one of the categories was “Otters.” I forgot the question, but it led to the revelation that otters hold hands while they sleep. This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard, and sure enough when I googled it, I found loads of pictures. I’m so glad to have discovered this, I can’t overstate the joy it has given me.

Also, in the same episode of Jeopardy, I was able to shout out a few questions before anyone hit the buzzer, a momentous burst of feeling intelligent that I haven’t experienced in ages. It reminded me of my mother, dying of cancer and watching Jeopardy in bed, crying out the word “Loyola!” in a weak but authoritative voice, and being correct.

As time passes, my stance may change. I wonder if I’m the only one who is mentally writing a will? In California, a handwritten will with your signature is legal and binding. I’ve already promised my tiger claw jewelry to my friend Marya and my footwear will go to Simone. Anyone want anything else? Now’s the time to speak up!

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