Last night, I was trying not to think of the things that were bothering me (largely Trump, along with some other stuff) when the word “stigmata” popped into my head. I don’t know why. I’ve always liked the sound of the word and the actual phenomenon too.

Just say it aloud: STIGMATA! It’s a winner every time.

So I googled stigmata and forgot all about my troubles (and yours.)

St. Gemma Galgani, above, was a real pain in the ass, apparently. I guess it’s part of being a saint. She also levitated.

Stigmata can occur in regular people, ahem, and here’s what an expert says:

History has shown that the stigmata can occur in a wide variety of persons, circumstances and conditions. While the vast majority of recipients have been women (90%), and most of them religious nuns, it has occurred numerous times throughout the centuries in a number of lay men and women, single and married. From the 1980’s to today for example it has (allegedly) occurred in the young married Catholic woman named Myrna Nazzour of Damascus, Syria and also in a retired married Catholic man from Michigan named Irving “Francis” Houle who died in 2009.

Uh-oh. I don’t like that “stigmatics” are usually women. It sounds suspiciously like fibromyalgia, only messier. But here’s something interesting, from the same expert:

… in regards to the blood that comes forth from the stigmatised wounds, this writer has found that in almost every case that I have researched, there is reported an accompanying sweet, flowery odor that emanates from the blood itself.

Whoa. That is worrisome, if you know what I mean.

Therese Neumann, below, was a total mess. She suffered and suffered and suffered.

I’m beginning to think these “stigmatists” are a teeny bit masochistic. Sister Consolata Betrone wrote “It is my fate to die in little pieces”. Sadly, she died of tuberculosis instead.

Rhoda Wise, below, had the usual hand stigmata but was also blessed with the “crown of thorns” bleeding from the forehead.

I know you’ve probably had enough but just let me sneak in a picture of Teresa Musco:

There is so much to learn, and marvel at, about stigmata. At one point in my research, I couldn’t help but laugh, as Oscar Wilde said about the death of Little Nell.  Laughing is good! We need all the laughs we can get. And in case you’re worried that I’m losing my mind, I wrote about stigmata back in 2007. So there.

I would almost call it a guilty pleasure, but since I’m not Catholic, it’s a guilt-free pleasure. If I go to hell, I’ll let you know.

Saint Clare intervenes to save a child from a wolf. Giovanni di Paolo, 1455

But I do love a botanica. I just found another one in Long Beach, hidden on a side street but filled with a million delights. Shelves that nearly reached the ceiling were stocked with perfumes, oils, cleaning sprays, amulets, religious figurines, herbs, and candles.

I grabbed a bottle of Arazza Todo oil for a friend, and a pretty teenager with blood red hair asked if I needed help. YES, I told her, and asked in a cheery voice: “What do you have if your kid hates you?”

She led me to a candle labeled Santa Clara, and said mothers used it to pray for the well-being of their children.  She added that the shop’s owner sometimes turns on three candles at once, arranged around a bowl of water. I love the idea of turning on a candle! I might have to go back there to buy a “Court” candle that you turn on if you’re in legal trouble. My kid who hates me has threatened a restraining order against me because I can’t stop sending him email.

[Note to you kids who hate mommy on Reddit: fuck off. This isn’t about you.]

Now that I’m home, I’ve turned on my candle and burned a stick of palo santo to cleanse my house of bad vibes. I can’t actually pray, because duh, atheist, but I can speak to the candle in a tone of respect, like I speak to clothes hangers or things I trip over.

It occurs to me that my reactions to my kid breaking up with me are similar to symptoms of PTSD: Irritability, hostility, fear, rumination, insomnia and nightmares. It is traumatic, after all. One minute it’s Where’s the clean towels? and the next minute, Please leave me and my family alone.

In my most morbid moments, I wonder if I’ll get to hold my child again before I die, maybe because of all the biopsies. In calmer moments, I figure that none of this matters. Life is but a dream. You’re here, stuff happens, and then you’re gone, poof. Why agonize about anything?

Young Mother Theresa, left

I never liked Mother Theresa, despite her reputation as the embodiment of selfless compassion.

She looked kind of sinister, and even smiling she exuded no warmth.

I felt vindicated to learn that she had many critics.

Aroup Chatterjee, a doctor who grew up in Kolkata, published a book in 2003 based on scores of testimonies from people who had worked with her Missionary of Charity and charged that the medical care given to sick and dying people was negligible. Syringes were reused without sterilization, pain relief was non-existent or inadequate, and conditions were unhygienic.

Christopher Hitchens wrote in his book about Mother Theresa that the focus of her work, was

“not the honest relief of suffering but the promulgation of a cult based on death and suffering and subjection”.

Journalist Donal Macintyre spent a week working undercover in a Missionaries of Charity home for disabled children in Kolkata in 2005. He concluded that

“for the most part, the care the children received was inept, unprofessional and, in some cases, rough and dangerous.”

Three years ago, a study by academics at the University of Montreal concluded that the Vatican had ignored Mother Teresa’s

“rather dubious way of caring for the sick, her questionable political contacts, her suspicious management of the enormous sums of money she received, and her overly dogmatic views regarding … abortion, contraception and divorce.”

Hindu nationalists have claimed that Mother Teresa was a ‘soul harvester’ who proselytized among the poor, and that she and her followers surreptitiously baptized the dying without their knowledge or permission.

Meanwhile, Mother Teresa spent much of her time flying around the world in a private plane to meet political leaders. She procured a fortune in donations but no one knows where the money went.  She refused to make improvements in her ‘hospitals’ – like water heaters – that could have relieved the suffering of those who turned to her for help.

Mother Teresa said that suffering was a gift from God.

I was once admitted to a hospital where a nurse in charge appeared to agree, and it was pretty fucking scary.

She may be a Saint now, but it would make more sense for the sick and needy to pray for a clean emergency room than to ask that bitch for any favors.

Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading  The Story of the Lesbian Stick.

~

* Heartfelt atheist blessings to all you people who come here and especially you special ones who have given me so much. xo

Last night I realized that one of my favorite earrings is missing. It so happens that I only wear one of the earrings at a time, because Keith Richards is still my fashion muse. It’s a long safety pin earring and it would look stupid to wear one in each ear.

Nevertheless, I want that missing earring! Where did it go? Why is it missing? Who would take it, besides Keith Richards?

I’ve looked everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It’s not with my other jewelry and it’s not in that little tray in the bathroom where I sometimes put my earrings.   When I looked in the tray for the third or fourth time, I recalled the story in The Boy Who couldn’t stop Washing about a woman who slashed her couches in a manic search for a lost hairbrush or something. I don’t want to be her. But I feel the seeds.

Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost things, but as we all know, he never helps. You can pray your ass off but he won’t return your lost thing. I can’t even count the socks he has failed to return.

Remember when I lost my gold watch? Still missing. I have a hunch that it was stolen by a crazy Chinese nurse, but that’s a whole story on its own. This is about the earring.

I remember buying the earrings at Macy’s, where my purchase was rung up by a tired elderly black woman who was missing a critical tooth and couldn’t calculate the 20% sale discount. I bought the earrings at full price rather than give her more stress.

If I practice The Secret, will my earring manifest itself? Does Saint Anthony know about The Secret?

When I chose the image above from a rudimentary google search, I was startled by its projected violence. Can everyone see that he’s about to throw that baby into a river or cut it in half on that table? It’s so obvious! Maybe god told him to sacrifice the baby a la Abraham and Isaac, or maybe Saint Anthony is just nuts.

Maybe he’s nuts because he can’t find the lost things and he finally snapped, like the hairbrush lady with OCD.

Questions or advice, anyone?

It’s an official tradition*; every year at this time, I have to post The Story of the Lesbian Stick.   If it doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, then you know nothing of lesbians or the Spirit of Christmas.

Love and Blessings, SW

*p.s. This is for Ann xoxo

I think the problem is that fashion has become too fashionable. For years, fashion wasn’t fashionable. Today fashion is so fashionable that it’s almost embarrassing to say you’re part of fashion. All the parodies of it. All the dreadful magazines. That has destroyed it as well, because everybody thinks fashion is attainable.

Did you follow that? I’m not sure if I did, but if she’s saying that fashion is now available to the masses and as such it has reached a saturation point where everyone is decked out in the same “It Items.” then I totally agree.

For fall, it’s shaggy fur coats and vests, pseudo biker crap, lots of leather, sky-high heels, pre-shredded jeans and t-shirts, multiple chains, more leather leggings. We’ll all look like high-priced prostitutes and leftovers from Dallas with big padded shoulders and gaudy bling.

I’m already sick of it! It’s so tired and trite. Why even bother?

I propose three strong new looks for autumn/winter: The Saint, The Nun, and the Lady Mobster.

Christian Lacroix knows what he’s doing. This dress should inspire us to make our own saint regalia with old tablecloths and fabric flowers.   For headgear, maybe some old flamenco hair combs with lace veils.

Michelle’s gorgeous veil by Moschino surely put that Pope in his place by outdoing him in drama. Haha, Pope Ratty, now what? Her look reminds me of how beautiful women can add a new dimension of sexuality to Nun garb. If the black lace is too solemn for you, here’s a different take on Nunwear by Lust Designs.   Penny, the designer, is a doll.

Finally, there’s the Lady Mobster. Janet Jackson epitomized this look at her brother’s memorial. I have never seen her look more beautiful or commanding. She was perfection, dressed and styled by Versace.

Elegant, ladylike, tough, sexy, a look that says Don’t Fuck With Me.

There you have it, Sister Wolf’s three looks for the modern woman who’s ready to move beyond Boho fringe, rompers and Faux Rocker Chick dishevelment.

Once, Sister Wolf had a great job. She sat on her ass and wrote stuff and got paid a very nice salary.

Then, oh no, the fucking economy! Her job was cruelly taken away. Poor Sister Wolf!

Having no income can be a real bummer. While Sister Wolf scrambles to find gainful employment, she will be accepting patronage, as per that big black box on the right hand column.

Try to forgive Sister Wolf.   She means well, mostly. Non-patrons can just say a little prayer to Saint Cajetan, the patron saint of the unemployed.

~this is a reprint from 2006, and a true story.~

Tonight, when I told my older son that I’d found a good Baby Jesus to steal, he reminded me of the Lesbian Stick.

A long time ago, in a galaxy right next door, my neighbors moved away to live near their grandchildren, and sold their house to a Lesbian Couple. The husband Lesbian was Nancy Something, a gray-haired hatchet-faced woman who wore severe eyeglasses and identified herself as a “Pain Therapist”. Her wife was a younger, softer Latina named Concha. Nancy’s opening gambit as a new neighbor was to announce her plan to build an 8 foot wooden fence between our houses, for “privacy.”

We objected to the fence project, and asked the Lesbians to reconsider. Phonecalls were exchanged. Tempers were riled, and property lines were debated. Concha called and told us that her husband would no longer speak to us: she needed time to Heal. We named her Doctor Pain

Doctor Pain hired a pair of weathered Lesbian Workmen to erect the fence. One had a crewcut and the other spoke in an awful Scandinavian accent. I befriended the Workmen, since they liked Laurie Anderson, but engaged in bitter combat with Dr. Pain. The fence went up, blocking the light and lending the effect of a prison compound.

Time passed and I tried not to look at Dr. Pain when I saw her outside. Her voice was piercing and nasal, her teeth looked like they wanted to bite you. We smelled incense coming from her backyard, and wondered if she was burning human sacrifices. I turned my anger toward the big gnarled stick on her front porch…..a “staff” of some kind, around seven feet long, perhaps a trophy from a hike somewhere.

I ranted about the stick to everyone. I hatched bizarre plots involving the stick, and asked friends for advice. Someone suggested that I burn the stick, and send little charred pieces of it to Dr. Pain. Someone else told me to kidnap it, and demand a ransom if they ever wanted to see it alive again. Finally, I ran next door and moved the stick from the left side of the porch to the right side. I was dizzy with adrenaline. In the morning, the stick was back on the left.

At Christmas, my son wondered what to get for me. I asked  him to get me the stick. When he brought it up to our door, he held it aloft, and I tried to sing the theme from “Rocky.” It was a joyous, shining moment; he is the best son a mother could ask for!

More time passed and it was Christmas again. I was desperate for a piece of typing paper and since Dr. Pain’s car was gone, I went next door to ask Concha for a piece of paper. She led me into the house, which was filled with vintage images of saints. Shit!!!!! I told her that I also collect old Catholic Icons, and we bonded under the gaze of St. Theresa. “Come over to my house some time, and see my stuff,” I gushed. On Christmas Eve, Concha appeared at my door with her parents, who were visiting for the holiday. I invited her in warmly, forgetting until that instant that her stick was on display in my bedroom. My life flashed before my eyes. Somehow, I mumbled that the bedroom was messy, and managed to hide the Lesbian Stick under my bed just before she walked in to see my Saints.

Dr. Pain split up with Concha, who stayed on alone for a while before they sold the house. Before she left, Concha and I hugged. I’m sure she found a better looking Lesbian to share her life with. And the stick is leaning in a corner of my bedroom, along with the smaller sticks that Dr. Pain put out on her porch, in a futile effort to replace the original one.

Merry Christmas!