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The Death of Mickey Rourke's Dog
Feb. 26th, 2009 09:14 amFeb 26
RTT had a full-scale breakdown this morning. Crying, refusing to get out of bed. "I'm not going to school!"
I turned on Mean Mommy voice, but truly my heart was breaking. How difficult this whole thing must be for him. He’s 14. I remember when my own mother had her nervous breakdown when I was 13, and how much I hated her for it – well, hers was volitional; she took to her bed; she would not get out. Mine is not volitional – I’m not acting out. In fact, I’m not breaking down. I’m just sad, very distracted.
Mickey Rourke’s dog died, he texted me yesterday.
No, he didn’t, I texted back.
Yes! My English teacher told me!
Why is your English teacher talking about Mickey Rourke’s dog? Why isn’t yr English teacher talking about Atticus Finch?
I thought you liked dogs.
I do like dogs. Maybe they should do a remake of To Kill A Mocking Bird retitled To Kill A Chihuahua with Mickey Rourke in the Atticus Finch role.
When he came home from school, he was whistling. He made a big deal of pulling the practice shadow box out of the trash while I was holed up in the Patrizia-torium, sniffling and numbing myself with Top Chef.
“Why’d Mom throw this away?” he asked B.
“It was her practice box,” B said.
“But it’s pretty. She shouldn’t throw it away.”
Retrieved the box from the trash. Stashed it in his room.
Started playing Grand Theft Auto which is something he plays when he’s prepping for his fantasy Entourage role.
His partner in crime Wells just came down with pneumonia. Didn’t work out so well for Wells using this house as home base. Mainly 'cause he didn’t stay here. He preferred to roam from friend’s couch to friend’s couch – I suppose because I wouldn’t let him smoke dope here, or keep his switchblade under Robin’s bed. He looked horrible the other day when he dropped by to walk with Robin to school.
“Wells, Wells, Wells,” I said. “It can’t be good for you, all this jumping around, not having any consistency –“
He gave that inane stoner giggle. How come all stoners laugh the same way? “Probably not,” he said.
When was the last time you washed your hair? I wanted to ask. When was the last time you ate a real meal?
But I’m not his mother.
That very day he collapsed. Now he is with his mother. Maybe that’s what he was yearning for all along, Mommy, I’m your boy – take care of me. I don’t know whether she managed to find her own place or whether Wells is crashing on a friend of a friend’s couch in Seaside while she sleeps on the floor…
Also called Max for his birthday yesterday. It’s always a mistake for me to talk to Max on the phone, I always hang up feeling awful, as in I should probably arrange to die before you run for President – I’m such an embarrassment.
Turns out he didn’t read Chapter 1. “Haven’t gotten around to it,” he told me breezily. My feeligs are hurt although of course I realize he has a longstanding aversion to reading anything I write.
RTT Update: two teenage girls just knocked on the door. Raccoon eyes, orange hair. “Is Robin here?” one asked. “Is Wells here?”
Okay!
Clearly he’d arranged to cut school to hang w/them but his horrible parents got in the way.
I texted him.
Tell them I’m sick but my mean parents made me go to school anyway, he texted back.
I’ll tell them you’re prostrate with grief over Mickey Rourke’s dog.
Whatever, Mom.
Ohhhh – the ultimate dis! But I feel better knowing his jerk behavior isn’t a response to my dysfunctional behavior. I need to remember: I'm not all that interesting to my children.
Oh, and Top Chef? Dead to me. Hosea is such a tool.
RTT had a full-scale breakdown this morning. Crying, refusing to get out of bed. "I'm not going to school!"
I turned on Mean Mommy voice, but truly my heart was breaking. How difficult this whole thing must be for him. He’s 14. I remember when my own mother had her nervous breakdown when I was 13, and how much I hated her for it – well, hers was volitional; she took to her bed; she would not get out. Mine is not volitional – I’m not acting out. In fact, I’m not breaking down. I’m just sad, very distracted.
Mickey Rourke’s dog died, he texted me yesterday.
No, he didn’t, I texted back.
Yes! My English teacher told me!
Why is your English teacher talking about Mickey Rourke’s dog? Why isn’t yr English teacher talking about Atticus Finch?
I thought you liked dogs.
I do like dogs. Maybe they should do a remake of To Kill A Mocking Bird retitled To Kill A Chihuahua with Mickey Rourke in the Atticus Finch role.
When he came home from school, he was whistling. He made a big deal of pulling the practice shadow box out of the trash while I was holed up in the Patrizia-torium, sniffling and numbing myself with Top Chef.
“Why’d Mom throw this away?” he asked B.
“It was her practice box,” B said.
“But it’s pretty. She shouldn’t throw it away.”
Retrieved the box from the trash. Stashed it in his room.
Started playing Grand Theft Auto which is something he plays when he’s prepping for his fantasy Entourage role.
His partner in crime Wells just came down with pneumonia. Didn’t work out so well for Wells using this house as home base. Mainly 'cause he didn’t stay here. He preferred to roam from friend’s couch to friend’s couch – I suppose because I wouldn’t let him smoke dope here, or keep his switchblade under Robin’s bed. He looked horrible the other day when he dropped by to walk with Robin to school.
“Wells, Wells, Wells,” I said. “It can’t be good for you, all this jumping around, not having any consistency –“
He gave that inane stoner giggle. How come all stoners laugh the same way? “Probably not,” he said.
When was the last time you washed your hair? I wanted to ask. When was the last time you ate a real meal?
But I’m not his mother.
That very day he collapsed. Now he is with his mother. Maybe that’s what he was yearning for all along, Mommy, I’m your boy – take care of me. I don’t know whether she managed to find her own place or whether Wells is crashing on a friend of a friend’s couch in Seaside while she sleeps on the floor…
Also called Max for his birthday yesterday. It’s always a mistake for me to talk to Max on the phone, I always hang up feeling awful, as in I should probably arrange to die before you run for President – I’m such an embarrassment.
Turns out he didn’t read Chapter 1. “Haven’t gotten around to it,” he told me breezily. My feeligs are hurt although of course I realize he has a longstanding aversion to reading anything I write.
RTT Update: two teenage girls just knocked on the door. Raccoon eyes, orange hair. “Is Robin here?” one asked. “Is Wells here?”
Okay!
Clearly he’d arranged to cut school to hang w/them but his horrible parents got in the way.
I texted him.
Tell them I’m sick but my mean parents made me go to school anyway, he texted back.
I’ll tell them you’re prostrate with grief over Mickey Rourke’s dog.
Whatever, Mom.
Ohhhh – the ultimate dis! But I feel better knowing his jerk behavior isn’t a response to my dysfunctional behavior. I need to remember: I'm not all that interesting to my children.
Oh, and Top Chef? Dead to me. Hosea is such a tool.
