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mallorys_cameraAt the breakfast table, the resident 17 year old recounts the following dream: "So Travers" -- rich kid whose parents recently subsidized Max on Caribbean cruise -- "came to live with us, and then the house is surrounded by these gang members with guns. So Mom starts freaking out. And I start looking through my stuff. I find this sniper gun and I go outside and start shooting people. And then Mom gets all pissed off."
"Never, ever tell that dream to a therapist, Max," Ben admonishes.
Weather has been bright and sunny for days now but I continue in my pissy mood. Don’t really know why. Exhaustion? Heard through the grapevine that A____’s son died. Brain tumor. Twenty-two years old. Beautiful kid. My heart just breaks for her. April: Lunar Cycle or Valley of Death? News at eleven.
I brood about death a lot in an abstract way. What happens when you die? Well, obviously, the heart stops beating. Cells, deprived of oxygen, explode as the microscopic system of channels and levees that keep bad electrolytes out stop functioning. Bacteria move in and wham! your organic chemistry is back to level one on the food chain. But what happens to consciousness? What happens to that backload of memories, quirks, strange hypnagogic computations that add up to a soul?
I did something really horrible yesterday. I tortured Robin. We were out walking the dogzillas. Milo is now as big as a Great Dane. He has the sweetest personality in the world, and he’s smart too, but all of us have too much going on to make training him a priority. The ASPCA called the other day: time to get him fixed. But he doesn’t even lift his leg to pee yet, he’s still a puppy, an eighty pound puppy true, but still. What happens if a dog is fixed before it reaches sexual maturity? Will he ever lift his leg to pee?
The other evening while Robin and I were walking the dogzillas at the beach, Milo chased Xena straight into me. I toppled over and twisted my ankle badly. Not the bad ankle fortunately. But painful enough and a reminder – as if I needed one – how out of control this whole life scenario is.
Now, I was limping painfully along with Milo on a leash.
"Kodiak and I want to do a garage sale this weekend," Robin said.
I sighed. "I don’t know about that, sweetie. It’s a lot of work. What would you sell?"
"My old computer games. Stuffed animals that I don’t play with anymore. And clothes. That I’ve outgrown."
"I don’t think so, Robin. Not this weekend. There’s too much going on. Maybe some other time."
He pouted. "I never get to do anything I want."
"Well, neither do I. We have so much in common!"
Milo chose that moment to lunge at a pussycat who was (thankfully) safely across the street. He took me unaware and I almost fell.
Robin laughed.
I snapped. I was furious. "You’re a brat," I told him. "A nasty spoiled brat."
When I’m hurt, I lash out. What Marybeth calls "the flash." The Scorpio moon thing. An unerring instinct that leads straight to the jugular.
I should control it. I could control it, I suppose, but I don’t. There’s a demonic thing in me that enjoys the response it creates. I have SPB: Serious Bitch Potential.
Robin’s lower lip started quivering and he burst into tears.
We got back to the house and it went on for another half hour or so, me just being horrible to him, the rational part of my mind under house arrest in some solitary confinement of the psyche.
Finally I made myself stop. Made. Myself.
Tried to remember what Dr. Robbins, the ineffectual shrink, used to say. His specialty was pathogenic mothers.
"Listen, Robin, I’m sorry," I said. "I didn’t mean what I said. Please forgive me."
Apology is what separates mere garden variety neurotics from psychopaths, in the world according to Dr. Robbins.
"I forgive you," said Robin. "Does this mean I can have my garage sale Saturday?"
Later he told Ben, "Mommy had a temper tantrum today."
I suppose he was right.
"Never, ever tell that dream to a therapist, Max," Ben admonishes.
Weather has been bright and sunny for days now but I continue in my pissy mood. Don’t really know why. Exhaustion? Heard through the grapevine that A____’s son died. Brain tumor. Twenty-two years old. Beautiful kid. My heart just breaks for her. April: Lunar Cycle or Valley of Death? News at eleven.
I brood about death a lot in an abstract way. What happens when you die? Well, obviously, the heart stops beating. Cells, deprived of oxygen, explode as the microscopic system of channels and levees that keep bad electrolytes out stop functioning. Bacteria move in and wham! your organic chemistry is back to level one on the food chain. But what happens to consciousness? What happens to that backload of memories, quirks, strange hypnagogic computations that add up to a soul?
I did something really horrible yesterday. I tortured Robin. We were out walking the dogzillas. Milo is now as big as a Great Dane. He has the sweetest personality in the world, and he’s smart too, but all of us have too much going on to make training him a priority. The ASPCA called the other day: time to get him fixed. But he doesn’t even lift his leg to pee yet, he’s still a puppy, an eighty pound puppy true, but still. What happens if a dog is fixed before it reaches sexual maturity? Will he ever lift his leg to pee?
The other evening while Robin and I were walking the dogzillas at the beach, Milo chased Xena straight into me. I toppled over and twisted my ankle badly. Not the bad ankle fortunately. But painful enough and a reminder – as if I needed one – how out of control this whole life scenario is.
Now, I was limping painfully along with Milo on a leash.
"Kodiak and I want to do a garage sale this weekend," Robin said.
I sighed. "I don’t know about that, sweetie. It’s a lot of work. What would you sell?"
"My old computer games. Stuffed animals that I don’t play with anymore. And clothes. That I’ve outgrown."
"I don’t think so, Robin. Not this weekend. There’s too much going on. Maybe some other time."
He pouted. "I never get to do anything I want."
"Well, neither do I. We have so much in common!"
Milo chose that moment to lunge at a pussycat who was (thankfully) safely across the street. He took me unaware and I almost fell.
Robin laughed.
I snapped. I was furious. "You’re a brat," I told him. "A nasty spoiled brat."
When I’m hurt, I lash out. What Marybeth calls "the flash." The Scorpio moon thing. An unerring instinct that leads straight to the jugular.
I should control it. I could control it, I suppose, but I don’t. There’s a demonic thing in me that enjoys the response it creates. I have SPB: Serious Bitch Potential.
Robin’s lower lip started quivering and he burst into tears.
We got back to the house and it went on for another half hour or so, me just being horrible to him, the rational part of my mind under house arrest in some solitary confinement of the psyche.
Finally I made myself stop. Made. Myself.
Tried to remember what Dr. Robbins, the ineffectual shrink, used to say. His specialty was pathogenic mothers.
"Listen, Robin, I’m sorry," I said. "I didn’t mean what I said. Please forgive me."
Apology is what separates mere garden variety neurotics from psychopaths, in the world according to Dr. Robbins.
"I forgive you," said Robin. "Does this mean I can have my garage sale Saturday?"
Later he told Ben, "Mommy had a temper tantrum today."
I suppose he was right.
