ON THE EVE OF THE FUNERAL

Writing prompt: On the Eve of the Funeral

She was at college when she got the call. It was before cell phones so early in the morning she was called to the office and told to call home. Her brother had died during the night. Though he had been in a coma for 536 days, it still came as a shock.

Come home!!! With barely any time to pack, she had to secure a ride, get to Western Union to obtain money for a plane ticket, and get to the airport.

Her dad picked her up at the airport. Never had he looked so ashen. Not after the accident, not during the agonizing year and a half her brother had lain, silent, staring, unresponsive. Just a baby--13 at the time of the accident, 15 at the time of death. Nothing much was said on the way home for what could anyone say?

Walking into her house, she became enveloped in the palpable sadness, the pall that pervaded every inch of the home. The home that had once held memories of happy Christmases, family dinners, playful times. All erased now by a stultifying melancholy that was like a slap in the face.

On the eve of the funeral, the family solemnly made its way to the horrifying ordeal known as the wake. The funeral home: Gloomy, macabre, lurid. He was to be cremated so there was no coffin. The dead little boy lay on a table, in a red vinyl bag zipped up to his mid chest. No one really came because it was so very sad, such a protracted ordeal. Plus the family wanted some measure of privacy.

She stared at her little brother for a long time. It looked like a caricature of him. A little boy. Blond hair, eyes sewn shut. Complexion waxy, but it had been waxy after 536 days laying still. This was all that what was left. A body on a slab, zipped in a vinyl shroud. No one was crying for so many tears had been shed that it was irrelevant by that time. She wanted to see some indication that he was at peace, but there was none that she could see. Just a cold body--a corpse--how she hated that word.

The ghoulish mortician urged the boy's parents to bid their farewells. How does a parent do this? Hastily, they did so. They had said goodbye long ago, really. The other brother said his goodbyes. The sister stood by, staring, ruminating.... No one had noticed, but she had brought her tattered, worn stuffed dog, hers since she was a baby, something she slept with even then, at the age of 20. When no one was looking, she tucked the stuffed dog into the bag beside her brother, hoping it would be cremated with him. Might give him some measure of peace. Might send some of her with him. It obviously made no sense, but she had to do something.

As they left to go, all walking woodenly toward the door, she turned back one last time. They were zipping up the bag, zipping it over his face. It was the first time pure emotion flooded through her. She wanted to run and slap the wax-hearted mortician--stop him. He'd suffocate, don't zip the bag. Of course, that was ridiculous. Her mother turned to look at her. She didn't want her mother to witness what she had seen so, now shaken to the core, she walked out the door of the funeral home.

Tears were welling up in her eyes but she held them in--she had become a master of that. Of course, this image presented itself in her dreams for years to come.

HOW EMPATHY FOR SILDA RUINED AN OTHERWISE GLORIOUS POLITICAL SCANDAL

When the Eliot Spitzer story broke, someone sent me a link; at first, I thought it was a joke. When I realized it was true, I was incredulous. Why do things like this happen? It’s incomprehensible.

I will admit right up front, like many are ashamed to do, that I LOVE nothing more than a good political scandal. I mean, it’s beyond shocking to see brilliant people who have dedicated their lives to attaining high political offices only to be toppled by—let’s face it—it’s always sex. And with Spitzer, not only prostitute sex, but he brazenly flouted a slew of other laws as well.

That said, to see those with such great hubris get up and lamely apologize—I’m sorry, it just doesn’t get any better. So I hear about last week’s 11:30 resignation press conference and actually timed my day around this event. I planned to be at the gym on the treadmill a bit before, during the conference, and afterward to hear the reaction.

OF course, he was late so I can thank Eliot for making me run 4 instead of my usual 3.5 miles but I was aquiver—energized—with anticipation. The car chase a la OJ, the helicopters, the entourage, the ride of shame; manna for a political scandal junkie.

So he steps up to the podium, poor Silda at his side. I’m riveted; I can’t believe what I’m hearing as he speaks. Again, I am floored: the hubris, the disingenuous apology, the unmitigated gall to talk about his future working for the good of humankind. Good God, fabulous stuff.

But there by his side, putting a major damper on my excitement, stands poor Silda. Now, I am a woman, and I was surprised when Hillary stood by Bill after his unforgivable and…well, just completely tacky… affairs. But there was no doubt she was accustomed to these types of escapades (Gennifer Flowers—actually made a friend buy Penthouse; Paula Jones—loved that one; even Kathleen Wilkie.) But somehow you know Hillary would kick his ass in the long run, so I didn’t feel empathy toward her.

But Silda! Standing there looking truly stricken. Unsure of what to do. She gave that sort of pathetic, enigmatic smile before her scoundrel husband began his speech. I found myself feeling sad. The thrill of the scandal is now gone. I can’t enjoy it. Here I am running on the treadmill, honest to God, feeling like I was going to cry.

People discuss Silda and many condemn her behavior. But who can judge (obviously just about everyone.) It’s such a tragedy (well, except that she’s gorgeous, has a Harvard Law Degree, and will likely whip him to pieces in the divorce); but for the meantime, she’s the mother of three girls with a cheating husband who not only betrayed her and her family but publicly humiliated them in the worst way.

So, while I was not happy that the whole Silda factor lessened my enjoyment of this otherwise deliciously disastrous affair (Lov Gov, Up Spitz’s Creek—perfect), I realized this is not only a tragedy to amuse those of us who somehow revel in the misery of others, but is, at its core, a family torn apart.

Eliot Spitzer had such great potential, I admired him greatly and had a friend who worked closely with him; she was devastated. So many people were let down by his asinine, risky, and completely outrageous behavior.

I actually think this has ruined my love of political scandals altogether. What will amuse me now? Conspiracy theories? Britney Spears? Brangelina? Geez!

CORRECTION: EMO MOM ROCKS PHYSICS PROJECT

Read below entry: Just got information back that I got a 100 percent on the physics catapult!!! Okay, he did create the tension and all that but it would never have worked without the proper sound, firm, solid foundation. It's sort of a metaphor for how I've aced parenting in general. (Thank goodness many will never meet my children to test that statement!)

MOM ACES A PHYSICS PROJECT

Oh, what a relaxing weekend. The boys were with their father, I went to a Broadway show, shopped, went to a movie, did whatever I pleased. I confess, I do miss them when they leave, however, after a few hours of uninterrupted peace, I begin to unwind, stop, breathe, think about that oft-neglected person: Me.

However, like a good Honeymoon, (I hear some are); all good things come to an end. As I was driving home from the mall on Sunday, I get the frantic call from my teenager: HELP! I need to built a catapult for physics tomorrow.

A WHAT?

A catapult. This is a constant dilemma around this house: huge projects started late into the night before. I mean, am I the only mother in Home Depot at 10 pm on occasion buying a handle for an Egyptian War Hatchet? Perhaps. Anyway, we’ve actually progressed because my son, no kidding, actually called the local hobby shop to ask about catapult making supplies. So he tells me I MUST pick them up by 5. Of course, I am on the highway and it’s approximately 4:45.

This is when all the internal parental conflicts occur: The “right” thing, of course, would be to tell him he waited too long and insist he go to physics without the catapult and have him face the consequences. Teach him an important lesson. Of course, he is a junior in high school and it is so ingrained in my maternal head that this year will make or break his entire future that I have approximately fifteen minutes to weigh teaching him a lesson against ruining his entire life…. So of course, I speed up and head off to the hobby shop.

The whole ordeal, busting in the door right at 5, having to figure out what he needs, etc., is stressful and infuriating but, $50 later, off I go with catapult making materials and a directions sheet.

Now, I have to say here that being the mother of boys, manual projects, from collages, posters, freaking dioramas, are just not things at which most boys excel. My boys are brilliant, of course, and do their homework and such by themselves, but I must confess that I myself have done a diorama or two just because I truly feel that if my children grow to be adults deficient in collage making, I can’t sweat that. I honestly think I can live with it.

So, an hour after I return home, the catapult materials are spread all over the desk, he’s cursing, swearing, can’t get anything to fit, has the wood glue everywhere, is making an increasingly huge mess and finally I kick him out and build the thing myself. Of course, I am not proud of this but I know the majority of kids just buy such things from students who had made them in year’s past. So, whatever….. Once built, he must adjust the tension and actually make the thing work, so all I REALLY did was build the foundation. Give me a break! We all know it was destined to happen this way.

The next day, so he bounds in from school saying “his” catapult worked just fine and he aced the project. I feel a certain sense of pride. Another project well executed.

Next up: A mousetrap car. Wonder how I will built that??

LITTLE GIRL ON THE STAIR

ONCE AMIDST THE RECKLESSNESS. This is today's writing prompt. I know, the prompts are kind of weird. Okay, let's think about this one......

The fighting--it had to stop. Really, she shouldn't be listening, but her parents fought constantly and she was a curious little girl, and she would sit on the stairs, unseen, and listen.

It was always the same. Her dad would rant and rave about how everything was wrong.

The house was messy, the kids were out of control, she was making his life miserable.

From time to time, her mother would make a feeble attempt to defend herself but after a few faltering attempts, he'd shut her down and start again.

There were candy wrappers in the car, he was sick of the folded laundry always atop the washing machine, his shirts were never ironed properly.

The little girl truly shouldn't be listening. It was reckless because if her Dad were to storm upstairs, he might see her. Then what? She knew and yet she sat, night after night, transfixed on the stair. As her dad continued his tirade, she felt an overwhelming sadness....she hated when he yelled at her mother like that and she wanted to march down and tell him to stop. Bile rose from her stomach up into her throat. She had to do something.

The mail was never stacked right, she spent too much time with the neighbors and not enough time at home, the kids weren't getting good grades in school because she didn't help enough with homework.

The little girl mustered up all her courage, stood up, and padded down the stairs--fuzzy socks, flannel nightgown adorned with little hearts. A firm resolve welled up in her. It was reckless, but she'd tell her Daddy to stop it. Stop being so mean and hurtful.

They both looked up at the little girl as she walked down the stairs, holding on to the railing, trying not to cry. So many things she wanted to say. Tell her Dad to stop being so mean. Tell her Mom to stand up for herself. She wanted to relay how all this fighting hurt her and kept her up nights.

"What the hell is she doing here," her father thundered. He stared at her, eyes blazing.

Oh, so many things she wanted to say but the words wouldn't come out. They never did. She was mute, frozen, unable to move.

"WELL?"

"What is it, Honey," her mother asked, moving toward her.

"She needs to be in bed for Christ's sake; tomorrow is a school day. This is precisely what I'm saying, this house and these kids are out of control," her Dad turned to her. "Now get your ass back upstairs into bed."

Her mother reached her and gently put her arm on the little girl's back and walked her up to her bedroom. Tucking her in, she kissed her and told her everything would be alright. But the little girl believed none of it. Her mother walked stiltedly out of the room.

After a brief period, the little girl rose and went back to her perch on the stairs.

The food is never healthy enough and everyone is getting fat, the kids lose everything and this morning he couldn't even find a comb for his hair, she spent too much time on the phone, she was spoiling that bratty little daughter.

The little girl knew she could never stop all this from happening. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sat, listening to her Dad berate her Mom, who sat and said nothing. The little girl also could say nothing.

HOPE EVERYONE IS HAVING A NICE WEEK

Emo Mom is in the frozen tundra of New Hampshire in the midst of a snowstorm. She and her friend are about to take six boys snowboarding! School vacation week!!!

Anyway, EM will be back in blog action next week so come revisit.

GIVE ME A BOX OF PROZAC FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Well, here we are with another holiday--just when you made it through the stress of Christmas and New Year's, along comes Valentine’s Day. Yet another day to feel insecure about either how you don’t get anything or how you didn’t do enough for someone or everyone. I mean, what a depressing holiday for emo single people. There are no diamond necklaces given in silhouette, no champagne toasts-- not even a box of chocolate from CVS, or a last minute meaningless card. Just more of a reminder that here we sit, in our solitude. AS IF!!!! You still have the fighting kids in the next room. (Should insert that even married, I never got any of the above.)

In fact, I’m sick of all holidays! First, let’s take Thanksgiving. I mean, WHO really likes Thanksgiving? First, not that I don’t like a nice turkey dinner, but to celebrate our bounty while there are poor and oppressed people around the world strikes me as self indulgent. Plus, we’re taught Thanksgiving was when the “native Americans” and white folks happily got together to feast. Then we ignited a mass genocide against them. There are indigenous people—the few left—who celebrate the fourth Thursday of November as a Day of Mourning with a ceremony at Plymouth Rock, MA, the spot where the European invasion began.

Then there’s Christmas. Nice enough with the birth of baby Jesus, Christmas carols, and all that. But it’s turned into an enormous farce and retailers have hijacked this holiday and made it miserable for all of us. It’s not enough that we just got through Thanksgiving and Halloween, (which now means $50 internet costumes and huge bags of candy) but we’re inundated by Christmas paraphernalia so early now that come early December, you want to get a Prozac prescription if you have to enter one more store and hear Silent Night.

Not to sound like the Grinch, but I'm sick of the whole Christmas season. Just ask anyone, like myself, who spent hours at the mall, wrestling people who cut in line, endless hours trolling ebay, waking up at 5 am to stand in line at Game stop, for the Nintendo Wii one year, Rock Band this year. It all began with the evil White Power Ranger and demonic Tickle Me Elmo. All of which I bit and clawed my way to getting so my little tykes wouldn’t be, God forbid, disappointed on this holiest of days. Manufacturers realized making limited quantities of items made them irresistible to children and would whip parents into a frenzy as they try to track down one unattainable item or another. In a way, I do admire that ingenuity, even as I stand bleary-eyed, dejected at 4 am in front of GameStop.

From November until the new year, there is no reprieve from the relentless onslaught of inanity. Or as my children made up in a Christmas carol.. On the First day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a 27-inch plasma tv; on the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me, an Elite Xbox 360; on the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me, the impossible to find Playstation 3; on the twelfth day of Christmas my true love got his credit card bill and killed himself…… Kids say it best…

I am waiting for a presidential candidate who has the guts to say that he or she will put forth a constitutional amendment that Christmas can only be celebrated every other year!! Give us a break!!

Easter hasn’t been completely corrupted yet but again, the concept of a simple candy basket does not go over well with many I know. Again, it’s a time for candy baskets but with gifts as well. At least gift cards and cash will do on Easter. Although I do contend that the Easter Bunny is the most disturbing of the holiday icons--at least I thought so as a young child.

But with that, Happy Valentine's Day from Emo Mom!!!!! XOXO

INTO THE RIVER

I never met my Great Uncle Joe because he drowned in a river as a young man--years before I was born. Died in the relatively calm waters of the Seneca River near Syracuse, New York. He had been a good swimmer, they said, so no one really knew what happened.

They called him Bon Ami (Good Friend) Joe which was odd considering he was Italian. But in those days being Italian was considered disreputable at best, so I guess Buon Amico Joe would have been distasteful. I wonder if they felt dubbing him Bon Ami Joe gave him some sort of class or stature they felt was lacking from his unfortunate Italian birth.

I say this with all due respect to my Italian heritage, but Italians often have issues with telling they truth. In other words, they lie--often. One story bandied about was that Bon Ami Joe did not accidentally drown in the river, but that he killed himself. Now, if you were to mention that to one of his siblings, they would fall into a fainting spell the likes of which you’ve never seen.

The Italians in my family could stir up drama like no one. I remember my Grandmother coming to visit and each we’d pick her up at the Greyhound bus station (she was afraid to fly) and bring her home, my house became drama central. Years after Bon Ami Joe’s unfortunate “accident,” another of her brothers died. I answered the phone and cringed as I relayed the message to my father, hoping he would break the news gently. Rather, after I whispered the message in my father's ear as he stood carving roast beef for dinner he said, without hesitation, “Ma, Frank died.”

My grandmother's body went totally rigid and she fell off the chair right onto the floor and started convulsing in tears. I was frozen to the spot, 13 years old. My father continued carving the roast beef as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I tried to help her up but she resisted my attempts and continued to moan, “I’m on my way to join you, Frank. I can feel my heart giving out. I’ll be there soon, Frank, FRAAAANNKKK!!!!” in her advanced state of histrionics. Her eyes were rolling back in her head and I yelled at my father to help her “She’ll get over it,” he said, stepping over his writhing mother and heading toward the refrigerator for some horseradish sauce. Sure enough she did.

Then there was my grandfather’s funeral. Of course, my grandmother talked incessantly about how horrible he was: An ingrate, a blustering, drunken, uneducated, feckless Irish fool. But no sooner was he dead, then he might as well have been fast-tracked to canonization. At the funeral my grandmother and her sisters, small women all, wore black dresses, Mary Janes, and my grandmother had to be restrained several times from throwing herself into the coffin. No one appeared overly taken aback at this behavior—just reached out from time to time to keep Grandma from hopping into the casket and continued with the business at hand. The grieving sisters kept up a wailing that I’m surprised didn’t awaken old Grandpa Al.

Bon Ami Joe, I’m told, had the soul of a poet, was pious, loving, a joy to his mother, a good friend to all, hence the nickname. Although for all I know he could have been an axe murderer or a child molester. Bon Ami Joe’s parents detested each other (although managed to have nine children) and fought constantly. My great grandfather had been in love with another woman back in Sicily and while he came to America, she married another and he was sent a replacement bride. (See post The Surprise Bride.) Although the veracity of this story remains in contention to this day.

The family was isolated because they were the only Italians in an Irish area. To my grandmother’s dying day, she spoke of how she had won a “blindly judged” essay contest. The winner’s name went on a “loving cup” that was displayed in a case in the school lobby. When it turned out her essay won, they chose another because they did not want an Italian name displayed in the school lobby. In her later 90s, after her entire life, this was the story she recounted most often.

I did not know my great uncles, but I vividly recall my great aunts. One was a lesbian who lived with her lover for 50 years and everyone insisted they were just friends (I always thought her lover was a man.) The other looked like the wicked witch of the west, ate food straight out of a can, and had creepy velvet pictures of Rudolph Valentino hung all about her apartment. I had always felt a somber sense of sorrow for poor Bon Ami Joe with his sensitive soul and his good friend name, brought up in this isolated home with his gloomy, phobic, dark, family shrouded in mystery and superstition. I saw his picture once—soulful dark eyes, olive complexion; truly a melancholic, beautiful face.

Only Bon Ami Joe and the Seneca River will ever know what happened but I have my suspicions.

THE SECRET KISS

Writing Prompt: When I Awoke the Next Morning

The millisecond she succumbed to consciousness in the morning, the guilt and shame flooded into her psyche with tsunami force. She pulled the covers over her head and decided to stay in bed all day.

How could this have happened? Had she no will to defy temptation? However, the situation had presented itself and was too intoxicating to resist. And how wonderful it had been. A tactile and sensory extravaganza. Smooth to the touch, soft on her lips, sweetness beyond compare. The heady feeling of hedonism.

She had denied herself for so long; it made it even more sweet and daring. All she had to do was reach out and grab it—and oh, she did. Once begun, her body awash in bliss—a pleasure she wished could go on for eternity. The sweetness, the smoothness, filling her both body and soul.

Control. Control. That was it. Her conscience was like a boot camp Army Sergeant. WRONG! Don’t think of such things. Good girls don’t do things like that. Good girls don’t have improper thoughts, eat bad foods, get fat, get Bs, disobey the will of a higher power. Good girls resist all temptation, step in line, perfect, always perfect.

But she slipped up again. Not perfect. Given in to the excesses of her appetite and the sin of the secular world. Beside her lay remaining evidence of her sin. She wanted to lick it up to recall the sweetness but instead she jumped out of bed and began ripping off the sheets with a crazed fervor. Had to get rid of it so no one would know.

Shredded bed sheets about the room, she gazed at herself in the small, purloined mirror. Ran it up and down the length of her body. Stopped at her stomach. Was that a roll? She pinched it—sure enough—it was a roll of fat. Nothing was going right.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“C’mon Honey, time to go.”

She didn’t want to leave. Couldn’t face anyone. Digging through her drawers she found something that would make her look invisible. Shuffling down the hall in large sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood covering her face, she slowly entered the large room.

“Good morning Kerry,” they all said in weary unison.

“Good morning,” she mumbled.

“Anything you’d like to discuss,” asked their leader, a woman who would pretend not to judge her but would.

“No,” she replied. She was thinking about later in the day. When she would recommit her sin. When desire would trump control. When, alone, she would indulge her secret pleasure, something all her own.

Her counselor led her into the weight room. She wasn’t supposed to look but she did. 88 pounds—her weight was up. BAD! Yet, hand in her pocket, she touched a Hershey Kiss like it was her lover and dreamed of their secret rendezvous to come.

THE SURPRISE BRIDE

Writing Prompt: Write about a black and white photograph.

The solemn young man pulled the shredded scarf tighter around his neck to ward off the biting cold of New York Harbor. Philip Reitano missed the glorious warmth he left behind in Messina, Sicily, but the promise of a better life had lured him to America.

Upstate New York was bitter-- working on the railroads brutal and backbreaking--interminable days spent carrying cross ties and laying track. The Italians, especially those from Sicily, detested, considered cowardly thieves from a lawless country. Philip had to work twice as vigilantly as the others, especially the Irish, the hard-drinking, fun loving yet vulgar men who tormented him mercilessly.

In Messina, he had left his betrothed--kissed her goodbye while casting off to a new land where he could prosper then send for her to begin their blessed life together. Under the shadow of Mr. Etna, on many a swarmy night, they had embraced, long, lingering kisses, pledges of eternal love. Beautiful and mysterious, a young girl, long curls, a body that promised endless pleasure. His radiant Angelica. The cross that hung between her breasts and kept him from touching her like he wanted. Glory and agony on those long, steamy nights. Dreaming of her had kept him from total despair on his long journey across the savage ocean, in the godforsaken vessel where he had spent weeks in squalor, hunger, sickness, breathing the stench of human anguish. 

After two years of plaintive missives, he finally sent for her. The devastating news that came to him blew apart his already bleak world. None of the nights spent thrashing in the unforgiving ocean, nor the blows delivered by the pernicious Irish prepared him for this. Soul sucking, gut wrenching sorrow. He had blinked back the tears--God's sake, could imagine what he would ensue should he be seen crying. Yet the tears forced their way out despite all attempts to restrain them.

Angelica had married another. Oh dio che Lei ha desolato io. (Oh God, you have forsaken me.) The suffering, saving, terror, had been for naught. His body which had shuddered in anticipation, now throbbed in sorrow. Nothing to live for. His glorious, ripe Angelica in the arms of another. He wanted to kill the man, rip off his flesh, gouge out his eyes. More than that, he envied him.

The letter informed him another bride was being sent, was already on the ship on her way over. It was a cousin he had never met: Annette Grace. Not Angelia, Annette. He didn't want Annette--hated her before even meeting her.

Yet here he stood at New York Harbor waiting to fetch her after she was processed through Ellis Island. He watched, recalling the trauma, at the wretched, woeful crowd of immigrants marching dispiritedly out the gates. He had no picture of his new intended but was told she would recognize him; all day he stood; watching, worrying, blinking back tears. No one smiled; even the children marched slowly, stiltedly, expressionless.

As he pulled his scarf tighter, a small, grim-faced woman, lank hair, face lined with suffering, approached him tentatively. She was clutching a threadbare bag, wearing a hat that was likely stylish at one time but was crushed and frayed. Sad little woman.

"Philip, è che Lei?" (Is that you?)

"Si, ìaccomodato incontrarLa." (Yes, pleased to meet you.)

Of course, he was not pleased to meet her. This woman, ugly, ordinary, not his Angelica. Taking her bag, they walked quietly toward the street, unspeaking.

Later that day, at St. Patrick's Cathedral, he married Annette--pledged himself to her in front of a God who had betrayed him. They posed for the photographer, both unhappy, miserable; she had freshened up but carried the stench of steerage. The photographer had barked at them to smile, but neither could muster up the energy; they had no money so the photographer didn't bother to waste his time. Just took the photograph.

Years later, their great granddaughter straightened the photograph on her wall. A prized possession. Looking closely into their eyes, she wondered what they were thinking on their wedding day. Wondered why they weren't smiling.

WORLD OF WARCRAFT (W0ECRAFT)

Just when it seems things around the house are calming down, the children find some new way to torture me. They’re very inventive that way. The latest source of controversy around this household is some Satanic computer game called World of Warcraft.

My younger son has been home sick for days and we just returned from the fourth doctor visit. He immediately logs onto WOW. Suddenly, my older son storms in the door and demands the computer.

I don’t understand this World of Warcraft—don’t want to—but it’s done nothing but cause constant battles. Even when friends come over, some sort of fighting ensues when WOW turns on.

Here’s an example of a typical argument:

Teen—slams through front door : “MOM, he’s on World of Warcraft. I just got home from school and it should be my turn.”

Boy coughs and plays.

Mom: “Ok, just let him play for a half hour then you can have a turn.”

Teen: “Oh my God, you are SO unfair, I’ve been at school all day while he has had a week vacation.”

Mom: “He’s been home sick.”

Teen: “Same thing. Anyway, he’s FAKING… now get him off.”

Boy coughing.

Teen: "See, you mention him being sick and he just erupts into coughing. Do you think that's a COINCIDENCE? You're so dumb."

Mom: “ Relax. He’ll get off in a half hour..”

Teen: “I want this fully stipulated and documented because in half an hour he’ll be whining and fake coughing and you’ll be all like just let him play for God’s sake, he’s sick. You don’t know how manipulative he is……”

No response. Boy coughing.

Teen: “You don’t understand, he’s doing an instance and that takes like two hours.”

Mom: “I don’t care or understand. In a half hour he’ll get off.”

Teen: “HE’S DOING A FREAKING INSTANCE.” (And this is supposed to mean something to me?)

Mom: “Just go do something and come back in half hour.”

Teen: “There’s NO justice around here. NO democracy. You’re nothing but a facist dictator.”

Mom: “Yeah, so?”

Boy: “Will you make him shut up. I can't concentrate with all that noise.”

Teen: “See, oh my God, he is such an a-hole and you just let him. I hate you.”

Teen rushes in to storm the computer: “OH MY GOD, he smirked at me!!!!!! Mommmmmmm. He's smirking again.”

Mom puts on Ipod and cranks the volume.

AT THE END OF THE DAY

The writing prompt is The End of the Day.

All day she waited with breathless anticipation for him to come home. She'd washed her hair and blown it dry rather than pull it back in a ponytail. She’d had her eyebrows waxed and spent a considerable amount of time choosing the perfect outfit for the most important moment of her life.

The mail was put in neat piles the way he liked--bills on top. She had carefully picked up the papers, clothes and clutter that generally filled the house so that nothing would annoy him tonight.

She'd waited so long to tell him--they had so few moments together. The hospital brochure lay on the counter—a radiant baby on the cover—outlining the tour of the maternity ward and the Lamaze classes. Just like in the movies, she pictured him by her side, helping her breathe, massaging her shoulders, taking time to be there. She arranged and rearranged the brochure and paperwork so it would be right. Perfect.

Gazing at herself endlessly in the mirror she wondered if it was her imagination or if she really radiated an estrogenic glow. She felt luminous--beautiful.

Of course, he was late—missed the earlier train but she refused to let it foil her plans. In fact, it allowed her more time to set the perfect stage. She ran her hand over her abdomen. It was early to be sure, but was there a slight swelling? She knew the fetus was a miniscule cluster of cells but…. she stroked her baby nonetheless.

He missed the next train but she refused to be deterred. She tried watching tv, reading a magazine, but had no concentration. Her hair was starting to look limp; her luminosity fading. The carefully prepared dinner was already ruined. But he would be so happy. This would do it—would make him love her more—bond them more tightly.

Walking in the door, he carelessly pilfered through the mail and didn’t mention the neat pile. Looking past her, he didn’t notice the hair, the eyebrows, the perfect outfit, the estrogenic glow.

“I’m starving…..”

Walking into the kitchen, he picked up the hospital brochure. None of this was going as planned.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Her stomach knotted up for some reason. Nothing felt right anymore; it was all unraveling.

“Well?” he asked, waving the brochure.

She had envisioned sitting in his lap, telling him the good news, watching his eyes light up—soften maybe. Look at her and overwhelm her with his joy!

“WELL?”

Haltingly, for some reason sounding guilty, she told him they were having a baby. A baby. But she said it all wrong--almost like she was apologizing.

He stood for a while, his face inscrutable, then he perfunctorily placed the brochure back on the counter.

“When’s it due?” No smiling. No rubbing her belly. No hug. No joy.

“March."

He walked and opened the refrigerator. “That’s my busiest time of the year—registration statements and all that…. We really should have talked more about planning this.”

Popping his wrapped dinner plate into the microwave, he went to watch tv. The brochure fluttered to the floor as he walked by--a big wrinkle covered the baby's face.

Standing in the kitchen, feeling lonelier than she could remember, she stared into space, into the deep void of her life. The estrogenic glow faded from her face--if it had ever even been there. But at the end of the day, what could she do?

DARK SHADOWS

 Writing prompt is Shadows:

In the dark and shadows, her stomach still feels queasy. Looking about the darkened room, she tries to will herself to sleep but her mind continues to drift back to what had happened.

Stupid, vulnerable girl. Believing words she wanted to hear. Not listening to what was really said. Or more important, to what wasn't said.

Oh things progressed faster than they should! She had simply wanted to feel alive. But instead, she felt emptier than ever. No reassurances, but why should there be? It was difficult becoming wise to the ways of the world. Beneath the exuberant confidence; hopeless naivete.

Light from the street cast shadows--flooding in through the slats of the Venetian blinds. Horizontal lines on the wall --like 3D notebook paper. Lines that could be filled with the story of what had happened. But there was no story, just blank lines.

Rolling over, she faces the dark, blank wall but she's scared of the dark and the shadows now. Clicking on the light, she pulls the blanket up over her eyes and goes to sleep.

EMO MOM ATTEMPTS (AND FAILS) HAIKU

Okay, I’m going against the complaints outlined in a prior post by attempting a form of non-rhyming poetry (sorry Alexander Pope!) My younger son was attempting to write Haiku which, by the way, is extremely annoying. Therefore, since I've attempted several other types of poetry, I figured I'd give Haiku a try.

Random Thoughts in Haiku Form:

Dishes in the Sink
Dirty Towels on the Floor
Make them go Away

Loud Whining Voices
One a Boy’s Voice; One a Man’s
GET OFF COMPUTER

Mom Steps in the Room
STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP
They Choose not to Stop

Mom is feeling Hurt
Her Spirit Trampled by One
Misread Good In Bad

Boys Study their Mom
Her eyes Look Different, Weary
Not shiny: Not Bright

The Flower Bows Down
Low Heavy; Tiny Dew Drop
Hangs, then Falls like Tear

The Deer Glances up
Wide Eyes Blink in Trust; Too Late
Trigger Pulled, She Falls

Through Tear Veiled Eyes
Laughter? Fear? Radiates from
Brown-eyed Boys She Loves

They Fight, Argue, Scream
Their Presence Provides Strength to
Weather Storm of Life

TO MY DEAR PROFESSOR ROBERT MANSON MYERS

The writing prompt is write a love letter

Dear Dr. Myers:

You were one of my most influential mentors ever. Brilliant and encouraging, you led me through the rigorous yet satisfying works of Samuel Johnson and Alexander Pope--no simple feat. And one of my favorite classes was the Bible as Literature. Under your masterful and entertaining tutelage, even the Bible was immensely interesting. I just loved hearing you talk and never missed a class. Every day, when you strayed from the topic and just bantered on, I hung on to your every word. I took more notes on your life musings than on anything on which I would be tested.

But it was your confidence in me that left such a lasting impression. When I'd answer a question in class and you would say, "Miss ____, you give me great hope for the human race," I wanted to jump from my desk and hug you. No one had said words like that to me. Quite the opposite at times.

I loved the way you were a professed Anglophile and you'd come strutting into class on the gloomiest, rainiest days, snap shut your umbrella, and enthuse, "What a beautiful day. Just like in my beautiful England." With your spot-on Brit accent--difficult for someone from the South. 

I got nothing but A+'s from you. And I worked for them because your respect meant the world to me. Although you were probably 40 years older than I was, and you never knew this, I fell in love with you--with your brilliance, your wisdom, your glorious mind. You illuminated my world and I drank in your praise and kind words like manna.

Of course, most of my classmates thought you were the most difficult teacher in the English Department which is why it gave me such great joy to produce work that pleased you. It was both a challenge for me and a triumph.

Remember the Christmas when I gave you the Christmas album? You wrote me the perfect thank you note, on linen Crane stationery. I recall how you spent a class discussing how no one wrote proper thank you or condolence notes ("Just say what you FEEL and it will always be the right thing") and I still consider what you said when I sit to write one. I still have your note in my box upstairs with my treasured items. Just like I have all the A+ papers.

I was an insecure and needy girl and you changed my world in ways you'll never know. I think of you often and hope you're doing well. I hope you would be proud of the person I've become.

With Love and Admiration Always,

Your Most Devoted Student

IN THE MEANTIME....

The Writing Prompt is In The Meantime:

It was expected that she would have an extraordinary life. An exceptional little girl, she was a dreamer, a reader, questioned everything: Talked incessantly and always had something to say. She wanted to grow up and have children--triplets she thought. In third grade she wrote a novel in which the happy mother had many children because the little girl loved names and loved naming the children.

In the meantime, everything started shifting. The foundation upon which she had been raised, was rising and falling, heaving. The family imploded, and the world became uncertain.

The older girl stopped caring. She didn't want to write novels anymore; in fact, she didn't want to go to school either. So she essentially stopped going. This wreaked havoc on her education path--no Ivy League School. Prodding and imploring of teachers and guidance counselors fell on deaf ears: There seemed to be no valid reason for much of anything. She didn't care about children or names or novels.

In the meantime, a terrible accident occurred and someone near to her died. Faith, hope, a bit of her soul died with him.

The young woman fell apart for a while but then slowly patched the pieces back together; she would always be less a person than the little girl had been with her dreams and visions. She followed the proscribed route, graduated from college, got married and had children--she loved choosing their names even though she never had a girl. For a while, she played the dutiful wife, but without much enthusiasm. They bought furniture from Ethan Allen, a beautiful house, nice cars. None of it meant much to her but it seemed like the right thing.

In the meantime, the husband found other people more to his liking. The wife was too moody; too involved with the children; not attentive; ungrateful for the life he provided.

The not-so-young woman found her courage and some self respect hidden deep in her spirit--fueled by the rebellious older girl and the little girl with fantasies. She pulled the plug on the marriage and it only flickered because the charge had been long dead.

In the meantime, she found herself faced with a new life; a whole new path; limitless opportunities. But what will she do with it all?

PERILS FACING THE NEWLY DIVORCED

Wow! Things in the world have greatly changed while I was locked away for 17 years in the ivory tower called suburban marriage. I will elaborate on a few things that I've encountered in this new frontier called modern life. Please be advised: This is not for the faint of heart (ie people locked away in their ivory towers.)

First, text messaging. Ok, just let me say, you often say things in a text message you would never have the audacity to say in person. And once you hit "send" there's no taking it back. Unlike a spoken comment, a text comment can be reread and analyzed. Had there been text messaging when I was in high school and college, I would have flunked out--well even worse than I did without text messaging.

But divorced people, or any people, who have been out of circulation for a while, all I'm going to say is BE CAREFUL with the texting. You can say things that can give people the wrong impression and well..... let's just leave it at that.

Then there's email. Not so prone to causing mishap as texting because you can see and mull over what you've written before sending. I know I'm archaic because I use capitalization and punctuation and will never be able to stray from proper grammar and sentence structure. But even locked in perfect structure, that darn email can cause those gut wrenching moments where you think, God, why DID I JUST SEND THAT? I'm telling you now, be careful what you say...... take it from someone who has given too much information away on email. But it's not as bad as texting!

Dating. What's up with dating? I mean, all this match.com and eharmony stuff. With all due respect, it just seems so horrible. Which is not to disparage anyone using these popular online services, but it's just difficult for me to understand. Plus, I have a good friend (she better be reading this) and we can go on and it's like, "Oh my God, there's (fill in the blank.)" Who wants people knowing you use a dating service.

And the things people write. I mean, I walk my dog at the beach on occasion and where are all these beach walking lovers? Does EVERYONE love walking on the freaking beach (does the dirty sand bother no one--maybe my distaste for beach walking will be my dating downfall). And everyone loves reading historical novels--come on--who does that? Every woman feels comfortable in anything from a gown to blue jeans. And the adjectives: beautiful, stunning, fit, slender, attractive, intelligent, voluptuous, daring. For heaven's sake. I blame it all on the online thesaurus. Everything is so incredibly cliche. The following would be my post should I ever resort to a dating service:

I will decline to post a litany of my exceptional attributes because it seems fairly obvious that if I were such a fabulous catch, I wouldn't be posting on match. com. PS. I don't like walking on the beach!!

Maybe it's just a bit of resentment since Mr. Ex met his love on match.com. I mean.....well, guess it worked for him. Sorry if I offend any match.com readers--don't want a repeat of the hideous backlash from my collaborative divorce posting--and who knows, maybe I will be on match.com someday. And I know who would be the first one to laugh at me!!!! Besides me.

Finally, real dating. I'm sure the rules are much different than when I was in my 20s. But I do not think blogging about a real date would be conducive to having any sort of positive relationship.

That brings us, of course, to a whole new level of communication: this nebulous, crazy blogosphere. We'll explore that later......

DON'T WASTE MY TIME--IF YOUR POEM DON'T RHYME

I have made several silly poem writing attempts--even tried my hand at rapping. In times of trouble, writing poetry can be comforting--at least to me and less dangerous than other stress-relieving activities. I highly recommend taking a stab at poetry in your moments of distress--it can be most cathartic.

Going through my divorce, I wrote well, let's just say, what became something of an infamous poem recounting my negative feelings toward my EX. It was lengthy and, I confess, somewhat unkind. It actually sucked, empirically speaking. But one thing I can say is it rhymed. I'm certainly no poet, but it's more difficult to write a metered, rhyming poem about hating your ex husband than some free form prattling prose about the glory of the sunset or whatever.

I bow humbly before great poets who write/wrote lengthy poems that remain in a meter like iambic pentameter. I mean, you try it. Take Alexander Pope (I LOVE him). He wrote a 794-line poem, The Rape of the Lock, in couplet form, perfect meter, all about a baron clipping a lock of a beautiful girl's hair. Okay, it does go on, but you have to admire him. You don't have to understand what it means, you can get lost in the rhythm. And how did he do all that rhyming before rhymingdictionary.com?

When poetry has meter, form, rhyming, it is musical, lyrical, easier to appreciate, no matter how dull the subject matter. Other poetry is basically abbreviated prose. Sorry, non-rhyming poets--I don't get your stuff.

It's like art: Who can't appreciate the incredible beauty of Botticelli, Vermeer, Degas, Michaelangelo, and the like. I can look at it and see that it took an incredible talent to create something so deeply stunning and moving. Now, with some exceptions, I gaze around a modern art museum and, maybe I'm too concrete, but a canvas filled with swirls or squares or whatever--isn't art to me. Evokes nothing. Because it looks like something one of my boys can do. What makes it art? Look at Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring--it's breathtaking--something I could never do. (Yes, I tried.) Art.

With poetry, I say:

Give me a poem with rhythm and rhyme
otherwise don't waste my precious time

Don't want to read about sheep grazing in a field
How the love in his eyes is like a sonnet revealed

The Arizona desert in the waning of the day
How your true true love tossed your heart away

Don't sit and muse on the beauty of flowers
Or the sun rising o'er the beach during early morning hours

Who cares about the tortured man pining for his youth
You'll grow up, age, and die, so face the freaking truth

So comment on my blog and tell me that I'm wrong
If no one does, next up guys is an emo folk song

MOM'S FIRST POST DIVORCE DATE

I love my boys dearly but they're driving me nuts
They consider me a nuisance, a tool, and a putz

From early in the morning until deep in the night
They scream, they yell, they argue: Lord, how they fight

Battling over the computer, Xbox, and Wii
Who bought them all that stuff—you got it; it was me

He ate all my chips; drank the last diet Coke
He’s stupid; a moron; a loser; and a joke

Mom likes him better; clearly he’s her fave
Coddles him, buys him more, lets him misbehave

And the weekend sleepovers-oh God save us all
It started with one or two; now it’s an awful weekly brawl

Ordering movies on Cable; charging pizzas on my card
Begging to rent video games; did I know it’d be so hard?

The other night I got ready to go out --they took notice of me
Curling your hair? Wearing a skirt? Are those earrings I see?

Your eyelashes are dark? What’s that stuff on your face?
MOM'S GOING OUT CLUBBING, they shout, what a disgrace

Mom’s not going clubbing, I insist, as they stare dubiously
Imperiously I'm informed they expect it from Dad but not me

I can’t tell my kids about my first post divorce date; It's crazy even to me
Now I’m faced down by two children; bonded in hostility

I see how much they love me; see the fear in their eyes
I realize how I love them; they're really sweet young guys

Those moments I see that we are one and the same
For much as they push me; we're together in this game

I hug them and tell them they’re the best things in my life
Despite the arguing, expectations, the stress and the strife

The phone rings; it’s another sleepover request
Mom’s skirt and earring forgotten; they launch into a new quest

I hate him; he's stupid; it’s always your friends not mine
Mom goes out on her date knowing her boys will be just fine

(DE) EVOLUTION AND THE FOLLY OF FRONTAL LOBES

Reflecting upon the strife and travail of man (what happened to Emo Mom the rapper chick) I've come to a conclusion about the horrible misstep in evolution that has brought upon us a life of sadness, foreboding, and endless worry. It's about evolution and the continued strengthing of the frontal lobes.

Absent frontal lobes, we'd all be like my dog, Daisy, laying on the floor beside me, sound asleep. She's not worried about getting a job, finding a house, if she looks fat. No agonizing about missing kick boxing class, spending too much money on shoes, whether some guy dog is going to call her, or whether the floor upon which she lays is littered with kids' clothing.

The continued development of our frontal lobes bring us into a realm of thought that makes us distress over daily mishaps; makes us judgmental, prejudiced, crazy, downright insane, murderers, child molesters, pill popping Wall Street guys, frustrated writers, guilt ridden, in debt.

Now I don't want to be too depressing because man's ingenuity has brought us many beneficial things like healthcare, computers, modern manufacturing and the like.

But along with these advances, foisted upon us by the ingenuity of man and his/her advanced frontal lobes, come liabilities. Healthcare gives us hope, cures. But also leaves us with insurmountable issues. People living beyond their years, miserable, demented, depeleted of money.. I watched my brother go through an agonizing year and a half in a coma. Waiting, waiting, tick tock, tick tock, until finally his life was claimed by pneumonia.

In contrast, my dog became severely ill, and solemnly yet humanely she was put asleep. After they peeled my crying body off the wall, I was able to stand and pet her, watch her sink into a deep sleep, finally death. She didn't know she was dying. She looked at me trustingly. There was no priest absolving her sins--she had none. It was deeply spiritual, really.

Computers. Without computers, we wouldn't have Emo Mom which would, of course, be a horrible shame. But we wouldn't have kids addicted to World of Warcraft, internet predators, instant messaging, pop up ads, the Microsoft monopoly. Animals without frontal lobes don't need computers. They don't need Quicken or Itunes. They just need food, water, some daily interaction. That's it. They're happy. No pressure. They're not feeling guilty about having a freaking Macbook that's been sitting in the box since Christmas, unopened! (I am GOING to set it up....really I am.)

Let's take Charles Darwin, the Father of Evolution. Darwin investigated the transmutation of the species and spent five solid years studying fossils, rocks, coral, earthworms (ick!!!), animal husbandry (great term), and various organisms trying to determine out how animals, rock and such ended up where were and why they possessed certain, specific traits. He sailed around on his ship, The Beagle for five years. I have to say, one day on a boat and that was it for me (reference the Maiden Voyage of the USS Midlife Crisis.)

What they don't say was that Darwin suffered terribly from seasickness. Why? BECAUSE LAND MAMMALS ARE SUPPOSED TO STAY ON LAND! He suffered fevers, pleursy (love that word), and was frequently bedridden.

Initially, Darwin couldn't discuss his findings because he feared being burned a heretic. What's up with a species that tortures its own simply over differing ideas? Those who HAVE ideas of course. A coyote fights to protect its territory and its young but it's not going to attack another coyote because it prefers fawns to foxes. Aside from fighting for territory, mates, or food, animals don't fight. Unless they're owned by sadistic nutcases like Michael Vick. (Ok, Michael Vick is actually a bad example of advanced frontal lobes.)

But you get my point. Darwin spent twenty years studying stuff that brought us his world-changing treatise, The Origin of the Species. To the detriment of his own health and personal life. I mean, was it worth it for Charles? Really? He may have been a genius, but I'd rather be the innocent, clueless dog at my feet.

Darwin concluded: “endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.”

Let's hope our frontal lobes, ripe with possibility however flawed, continue to evolve to the point that we find a way to organize our jumbled thoughts and feelings--perhaps weed out that which is driving the entire human race crazy to the point where we're destroying our very planet. We humans were given so much; will it ever be properly used?

Or maybe we'll simply de-evolve so that we're back to the beautiful, happy dog at my feet, happy to see me even when my hair is dirty, unaware of war, death, George Bush, Darfur, dwindling Rwandan Gorilla populations, religious strife, an unhappy childhood. Rock on Daisy!!!!!

AFTER MIDNIGHT

"You can't stay out after midnight?"

"Why?"

"Because NOTHING good happens after midnight. Nothing."

Fought over that one in high school but in retrospect, mom was right. Wish I had listened.

But now? After midnight I can breathe a sigh of relief because the kids are--usually--in bed by midnight. Once the kids are asleep, it's as if the house itself heaves a sigh of relief.

I can check emails uninterrupted, write on my blog, watch what I want, eat cold pizza, read without constant interruption. Whatever I choose. But generally, I sit confused, thinking of all the things I should do; all the things I meant to do during the day.

Into the early morning hours, after realizing I'm not really doing anything productive, I lay in bed. Yet, rather than go to sleep, my mind goes into rewind mode and I reflect back on the day--days that fly faster and faster leaving little time for introspection.

After midnight, in the calm of my bedroom, the questions and worries surface.

Why did I have to lose my composure when my younger son didn't do his homework? Why didn't I help instead? Why do I always pontificate and yell at my older son when I should spend more time listening. I want to have more patience with them but the fast pace, the relentless juggling act, and all the distractions make it so difficult.

I meant to go to the grocery store so I could make a nice dinner but I ended up ordering pizza instead. I didn't do all the laundry I wanted to do; the laundry I did was never put away. The house was cleaned, but the kids trashed it and I was too busy to notice until they were in bed and it was after midnight.

I promised my father I would call him back earlier in the day but did not do so. I should have called my mother since I haven't spoken to her in a week. I got a stinging rebuke from my brother because I didn't acknowledge an article that was written about him in Guitar Magazine. I really should have called to congratulate him. But I didn't. I vow to do so the following day, but know I likely will not.

I think about the failure of my marriage. I don't regret the dissolution of a marriage that was likely destined for failure before we walked down the aisle. Was I such a fool? Why was I so blind to see what just about everyone else saw. Then I allowed myself to remain in a unfulfilling mess of a relationship for 17 years. (Let me add that the redemption of my marriage is my two boys.)

Thoughts turn to the many people who have touched my life--I've lost contact with most of them. They may not think about me during the mayhem of the day, but do they think of me after midnight? Wonder if they think to pick up the phone and call--or if they're just too tired like I am.

I take a Tylenol PM or two and read until I fall asleep, book in hand, glasses on. The alarm rings at 6:45 and as I groggily rise, I sigh, knowing what's in store for the day.

ALL THE WOUNDED

The wound was barely visible but it changed all their lives. A rain slicked road, a tree, a rental car with faulty brakes, a car driven by a father--filled with laughing children on their way to their lakeside vacation home.

But there was no vacation. The father’s young son lay for 536 days, blinking with sightless eyes, random movements, shattering silence. The mother at his side—always. The sister and brother amble in and out, uncomfortable with this silent stranger who looks like their brother but is not. It’s too painful for the father.

The wound is deep within his brain. Irreversible. The doctors say there’s no hope but his mother doesn't hear. For 536 days she sits with him, plays Abbey Road, his favorite album, massages him with Vitamin E oil, sings to him, writes in a journal, sees something in a perceived smile that no one else sees.

The day he turns 14, they bring balloons and festive streamers. Weave them around the machinery that monitor his existence, if you can call it existing. Presents are opened. Discarded gift wrap lays on the bed. The sister holds close to him the push-button toy that makes music noises and bright lights. He looks beyond it and blinks. Above his bed is a picture of the boy at his 12th birthday, blowing out candles, radiant smile, eyes bright with the joy of that moment. Unrecognizable.

Back at home, everything looks the same but the palpable aura of melancholy swallows anyone who steps within its midst. They bring casseroles and shed tears but then they stop coming. Who can blame them for not wanting to be infected by the inescapable sorrow. Life goes on, they say....but not for this family.

A year and a half later, on a rare night that no one is by his side, the boy develops pneumonia. An emergency call is placed. A mother and father have to make a snap decision whether to put their youngest son on life support. There's no time to waste. Sadly, heroically, they make the most difficult--or perhaps the easiest--decision of their lives. They decline medical intervention and alone, the child quietly dies. As quietly as he'd lived for the 536 days--when the exuberant boy fell silent.

Did he know something we don't understand? On some level, did he wait until he was alone; somehow sensing everyone's pulsing waves of fear and hope and love. Try to make the inescapable truth easier for everyone.

He always was a generous boy. His sister wishes she'd appreciated it more.

THE WEDDING RAP

Write about a Celebration is today's writing prompt. After complaining about prompt topics, I challenged myself to devise a new way to address the prompt. How about a rap, I thought?

*Disclaimer: In order to remain true to the art of rap, I felt compelled to add minimal adult content.

DR. DRE, YOU OUT THERE??

Walkin’ down the aisle shoulda knowed it was all wrong
Hanging on to Daddy blocking out the Wedding Song
Night before the the wedding, the guys get drunk and wild
Going to the strip bar while she dreams of her first child

Chorus:
Yo ho, don’t do it, don’t go
He’s probably a loser; she’s probably a ho
Too many years left to go marry him and blow
Any chance for happiness cuz you’ll end up mired in woe

People smilin’ at me in my virgin white dress
Who’d a known it’d all end up a giant crazy mess
Dabbing at their eyes when we pledged our endless troth
Unaware years later we'd tell each other to go fuck off

Chorus:
Yo ho, don’t do it, don’t go
He’s probably a loser; she’s probably a ho
Too many years left to go marry him and blow
Any chance for happiness cuz you’ll end up mired in woe

He'll spend long days working, nights trolling match.com
While mama’s with the babies trying to a supermom
Holidays with turkey, stuffing, presents, stress and strife
Going out to parties as the perfect hub and wife

Chorus:
Yo ho, don’t do it, don’t go
He’s probably a loser; she’s probably a ho
Too many years left to go marry him and blow
Any chance for happiness cuz you’ll end up mired in woe

Then Oh Good Lord, just wait for the divorce
Which will inevitably happen as a matter of due course
The lawyer s they'll take ya cash and all ya self esteem
Chew you up, spit you out, till you cry and die and scream

Chorus:
Yo ho, don’t do it, don’t go
He’s probably a loser; she’s probably a ho
Too many years left to go marry him and blow
Any chance for happiness cuz you’ll end up mired in woe

She’ll take all your money; he will take your soul
He be in the poorhouse keeping her for years on the dole
Before you take a walk down that long, endless aisle
STOP and think for God's sake is it really worth your while

Chorus:
Yo ho, don’t do it, don’t go
He’s probably a loser; she’s probably a ho
Too many years left to go marry him and blow
Any chance for happiness cuz you’ll end up mired in woe

Get out whilst you can:

GO DAWG GO

ROCK BAND, LAYLA, AND ME

Electronic Arts Rock Band...that's all my kids wanted for Christmas. Of course, I do the requisite mall lurking, phone calling, stopping daily at the dreaded EB Games and GameStop--even consider buying it ridiculously overpriced on Ebay.

It's a hideous repeat of last year's Christmas desperately seeking the elusive Nintendo Wii (which now sits untouched.) Wonder what those video game sadists have in store for next year?

Finally, I score. The kids get Rock Band and guess who's addicted? ME!!!!

I can barely keep my eyes open because I spent the entire weekend with my kids and their friends playing Rock Band until the early morning hours.

I'm not interested in the guitar or the drums, I'm LAYLA, the Rock and Roll singer.

I love Layla. Last time I came in the middle of a game, the boys assign me the "default" singer!!!! GET LAYLA, I insist. The kids look uneasily at my poor, mortified son wondering what the heck has happened to his mother.

But they capitulate (after I threaten to ground my son and send the others home if they don't let me play as Layla) and I get to join the band, Salt Horse Weekend (the name wasn't my idea).

Suddenly, I'm fighting with sixth grade boys about the songs we play. I can totally nail Nirvana, The Rolling Stones, Rush, David Bowie (got a 99 on Suffragette City), Boston, Ramones.... They want to play other bands I don't know. Weazer. I mean WEAZER? Can't get that one--Layla gets tossed offstage and the band loses like 10,000 fans; my band-mates are most unhappy. Make no mistake, 11-year-old boys don't mess around when it comes to video games.

The boys finally go to bed and who's still up on Rock Band? Yes! Layla and me. The band makes money for performing. So whilst they slumber, I take Layla to the Rock and Roll Shopping District!!!!! Buy her a cute pink tartan skirt, new shirt, shoes, jewelry, a pink microphone. I even get her hair styled. Layla is a ROCK STAR!

The next morning--actually closer to noon--the boys awaken and log on.

MOM, I hear. WHO SPENT ALL OUR ROCK BAND MONEY?

Geez!!!! It's like being married all over again. Suddenly I'm flashing back on the crushing, nail biting angst that would well up when my ex would open the credit card bill. I'm fumbling for an explanation: Sheepishly, I stutter out my confession. Layla and I blew all the band's money.

Even in the virtual world, I'm a compulsive shopper!! So I'm told I can no longer be in the band until I earn back the money. I mean, who's in charge here? But the yearning, the need, to be Layla won't be abated so I am sent off on a solo tour to recapture the lost revenues.

I'm telling you, these kids might be freewheeling spenders with my money but they're sure miserly with their virtual cash.

Tomorrow I'll wake up, go to the gym, do laundry, clean the house, walk the dog, yell at the kids, the usual mundane routine. But somehow I feel better having tapped into my inner Layla.

THE WRITING PROMPT FROM.....BANGLADESH?

Write about a day moon. This is our writing prompt today--our Writers' Net Group attempts to write to a daily prompt (What's this--the CMTs?) I mean, does this make sense to anyone? A day moon? I defy anyone to write anything remotely interesting about this topic.

First, I don't do sci fi so no crazy story about aliens reshuffling our intergalactic structure. No apocalyptic fantasy about a nuclear cloud interfering with the lightwaves and changing day to night, night to day.

I'm suspicious of the origin of these writing prompts. One of our fellow bloggers is doling them out. Maybe he's trying to make us go mad so he can maniacally overtake the site.

Perhaps they now outsource writing prompt calendars? Is someone in Bangladesh sitting in an impoverished office hating everyone in the US so he or she isn't even going to attempt to devise anything remotely clever. And what the freak does this person care since he or she is probably making $1 per week.

Maybe they're written freelance in India by exhausted, demoralized people whose jobs duties include things like spending three hours helping an irate person set up his new Dell printer? Or stuck in a Wal Mart customer service control center listening to someone harangue on about how her toaster burns bread even on the lowest setting.

Ok, I'll be a good sport and write to my prompt.

A man walked out his door and saw a day moon. He went back inside, lay on his couch, and vowed never to take acid again.

The End

COLLABORATIVE DIVORCE GROUP TAKES EMO MOM TO LUNCH

It was only a week ago that I started my Emo Mom site. Didn't know blog was short for weblog. Never heard of the blogosphere. Never thought anyone but a few friends and my mom would ever log on. And I bet my mom hasn't even done so.

Now today, I find myself at a lunch with some collaborative divorce professionals who had contacted me because of a previous post detailing my negative experience with collaborative divorce.

How would I know that somehow my humble little blog post would end up careening through the blogosphere, landing along the way on some servers for those who apparently put in Google Alerts for such things.

I was contacted by a nice attorney (I know, it's sort of a non sequitor) but he seemed legit, had a website, appeared lawyerly in his web photo. He wanted to assemble a group of professionals who work in the field of collaborative divorce and meet me for lunch. I agreed, then quickly panicked.

I emailed my fellow bloggers from The Writers' Net. What if they were really serial killers? Body part snatchers? I had my blogger BFF Karen call me at a certain time. I mail her a list of code messages. If I said I was going to Borders, it meant call 911; if I mention Rite Aid, the group appeared safe; if I said, "How high is his fever," it meant I was bored stiff and could run out to retrieve my "sick child." Obsessively, I thought of several more.

I sent the list to Karen. She's scrambling, trying to figure out what it all means? What's Emo Mom up to now? She sagely advises me to wear running shoes--preferably with holes so the some of the cement could run out if I end up tossed into the Long Island Sound. Frets that I'll end up in a foundation somewhere. Or taken off and brainwashed to rob banks (some of these are my worries.)

But curiosity trumps fear so off I go. Heading to restaurant, I can't remember my codes. Is Rite Aid good or bad? Did I say Rosebud in there somewhere?

I arrive and they all appear normal. I was in my glory having a captive audience. I perform, they laughed, they probed, they questioned, they paid for my lunch. (Did I mention I also brought along copies of a disclaimer for them to sign just in case I say anything lawsuit provoking--after going through a divorce, it's difficult to trust anyone with an ESQ following his or her name.) Trust me on this (sorry Google Alert Lawyer readers)!!

The most fascinating aspect is I'm told hordes of lawyers, mental health guys, and such read my hastily-assembled post. The psychs discredit my opinions because my blog name is Emo Mom. She must cut herself. She must have deep seeded anger issues. CHILL OUT paranoid psychiatric people (they're a very suspicious lot) it's a JOKE. Emo simply is a word my son has used and to me it is just a shortened version of emotional. Yes, psychiatric people, I am emotional--just went through a collaborative divorce, no? You should be nicer to us emo folks--otherwise what would you do?

For the record, those of you who Google Alerted this topic, while the nice folks at lunch did present some scenarios where collaborative divorce might work, I do have some advice for you.

Use a time limit (I know it may lessen the limitless cash influx) but if you can't get your clients to reach agreement within a three-month period, it probably ain't happening. I mean, I have no law or psych degree but it seems like common sense.

Coaches--when one party tells you repeatedly they don't trust the other party, please steer them away.

Financial professionals...well...just stick to the issues at hand. (The bill from the financial person wasn't too far from those from the attorneys.) I got reports after reports, including one that showed where I'd be at age 80 if I saved X dollars per year. I didn't even know where I was going to be the next day--much less care at that point where I'd be at 80 (probably in a horrible nursing home wishing I had saved more money.)

After all the anguish and much, much money, I ended up having to hire a litigator at the eleventh hour because I was mere weeks from a trial date, had been denied a continuance, and my lawyer didn't go to court. Of course, I was totally unglued at this point and my new attorney ended up telling me I was the most annoying client he'd had. Ok, I will agree I wasn't in the best of shape, but good Lord!

All the aforementioned professionals way eclipsed any acrimonious feelings I had toward my husband. (Transference, right psychiatric folks?) So it helped in one way: diluting some of the negative feelings toward my husband, a lawyer as well.

I put Collaborative Divorce in the title so it would show up again for you Google Alerters.

MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE SS MIDLIFE CRISIS--MAY DAY MAY DAY

The boat didn't look particularly seaworthy to me but what do I know? I must say I prefer staying firmly planted on terra firma, but I gamely fly for time saving reasons (at least pre-9/11) and will occasionally allow myself to enter into the water, rarely as a swimmer unless the water is either chlorinated or crystal clear--don't enjoy the possibility of having large-jawed or snapper clawed creatures floating about me.

But the ex husband went out and bought a boat. In similar fashion, without any input from me, he bought a convertible, a motorcycle, and a house in Vermont. But let's stick with the boat.

The kids were screaming to go for a ride so reluctantly, I consent. I ask ridiculous questions like is the gas tank full, are the lifejackets up to code, do we have any sort of map, communication devices?

Geez, we're only going in the Long Island Sound, I'm told, so stop nagging already. Fortunately, we bring along a veteran boater who seemed calm enough, even started the trip with no lifejacket. The kids and I were snapped into the jackets before we even left the house.

As we cruised slowly in the no-wake zone, I thought, "this isn't so bad." Once outside, my ex husband, the epitome of extremes, floored (dashboarded) it, the boat went just about vertical, and off we went. I'm screaming, tightening the lifejackets, ushering the kids to the center of the boat. Imploring them to duck. They are upright, reveling in the stinging sea spray, lost in the speed and the revving noise.

Next thing, there's smoke pluming from the downstairs cabin. "The boat's on fire," I scream. I'm screaming so much no one pays attention and who can hear a freaking thing anyway. Only when the veteran boater screams for a lifejacket and grabs the ex, does he cease maniacally gunning the engine and pull back.

So here we are, in the middle of the Long Island Sound--and don't underestimate its daunting size--with a boat on fire.

My mind is racing. Should I throw the kids overboard and dive in with them? If so, will we get drawn into some crazy current, eaten by sharks, hit by blown-up boat shrapnel? What's the alternative? Staying on the boat to be blown to smithereens like in some gangster movie. Do they ever survive? I think not!!

The ex fumbles with the radio--no one really knows how to work it because we've never been out before and NO ONE HAS TESTED THE THING.

"Uh, Help, I think our boat's on fire" he hesitantly says into some speaker device. I'm frantically in the background shrieking "MAY DAY, MAY DAY"--isn't that the boat 911 equivalent? A voice comes over asking for our location. WHAT? Do you think we would have brought proper mapping devices to track our latitude and longitude or whatever measure you use in water location tracking.

We're somewhere in the Long Island Sound--between Long Island and Connecticut is shouted into the radio. Well, that'll help pinpoint us.

The resigned voice of one who has too often heard such responses from loser newbie boaters. "There's a boat headed your way. Jump on asap."

Our rescue boat is headed toward us! I'm in a panic. Now we'll all die, us and the poor rescuers. Any second, we'll blow up. They drive alongside. The kids are thrown over, I go next, the vet boater, should we leave the ex? Well, my opinion is not asked so over he goes, the rescue boater guy screaming like a maniac, HURRY UP!!!!!!!!!

So we speed away and I look back at the now tiny-looking boat, bobbing sadly on the water, billowing smoke. From afar, I see the approaching water rescue teams--a small boat with a huge projecting stream, fancy red watercrafts.

Now I'm switching from heart racing fear to gut wrenching fury.

We're dropped off on the dock and I storm off with the children in tow. The ex stays to deal with the boat. Is it evil to hope he never returns? I get on the phone immediately and begin recounting our near death experience, frightening the kids more than is necessary.

The boat is returned and turns out it just overheated! Lordy! But now the kids have banded with me in protest of further boat rides. The ex sometimes just goes out at night and spends the night at the marina on the boat--at least that's what he says.

Several months later, in the circle McDonalds parking lot, a sketchy man pulls up in a cab with an envelope containing $3,000. The ex was to meet him there to sell the boat--which cost far, far more than $3,000. Of course he was working late so I have to go. I meet the guy who hands me an envelope. I hand him two keys. He asks if I want to count the money. Uh, no thanks.

Ex gets home and asks how transaction went. Where's the money he asks. As if I'm really going to turn it over to him. So all's well that ends well. We didn't die, no more boats, and I got a nice little shopping spree.

LIFE....INTERRUPTED

I went to a movie tonight. It's not something I generally do on a weeknight but a friend called at the last minute and I thought, I can throw caution to the wind--go out to see a late movie on a whim. I'm trying to be more spontaneous--enjoy life more. Of course I'll go.

So my ex husband is taking the kids out to dinner--see Emo Mom blog below because ex coming over generally creates some sort of chaos. But we get through it and off they go.

Although usually a most punctual person;-), I arrive only several minutes late to discover it's one of those movies where if you miss the first few minutes, the remainder of the movie is shrouded in confusion.

I have to add here that I love my friends who so thoughtfully saved me a seat: They might, if prodded, say I have a habit of being ever-so-slightly late. I also note that they sat near the front--and no one ever wants to do that--because they assumed I would forget my glasses. WRONG. I actually lost them!! Girlfriends Rock!

But I digress. So the movie is making no sense but I'm happy to sit in a quiet theater, with a diet Coke, buttered popcorn, and screen filled with George Clooney who manages to be entertaining though I haven't a clue what's happening. Case in Point, Oceans 12, and 13.

Not surprisingly, in the middle of the movie my phone rings. I know this will be the first of several.

Call number one: The boys. They are in Target and their father refuses to buy them drinks. So I have to try to say, in a muffled whisper, just tell your dad to get you some juice. Tell him I didn't get to the store today. Though Mr. Ex is not on the phone, I can feel the vibes emanating from his brain--"all the alimony I send and now I have buy goddamned groceries." Let's just say no drinks were here when I arrived home.

Call number two: Comes halfway through the movie. My younger son has left his backpack in the car I drove and he can't do his homework until I return. Now the whole night is ruined because nothing is worse than coming home late and having everyone up and waiting for you.

Call number three: Comes scant seconds later. It's my older son screaming that he can't find his iPod charger. I accidentally push the speaker button so the screaming voice shrills out for the entire theater to hear, "THAT FREAKING JAMES LOSES EVERYTHING OF MINE AND YOU DO NOTHING ABOUT IT." Again, I try speaking into my coat--"look in the computer drawer." He can't hear me and hangs up.

I return home. The cleaning lady had been at my house but it's all undone. Boys are up. Dog is outside. I've missed the start of Project Runway. I have 50 emails, 10 phone calls.

As any mom knows, just try to go out and have fun--because Lord know you'll pay dearly!

I RESOLVE TO...NOT TO.... YIKES CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING!!

New Year's Resolutions. Yawn!

What a mundane subject to discuss the day after the new year begins. I mean, it's all been said, resolutions fervently made, strictly adhered to for a few days, then soon forgotten. Filed away for next year.

Is there any more dull, futile, self-indulgent exercise than making New Year's Resolutions. And how depressing to usher in a promising new year by starting off renouncing all the enjoyable things.

I have no life....what can I resolve not to do? I don't drink, smoke, overeat (at least not too much.) I go to the gym, donate time/money to charity, am a decent enough mother, call my parents often...

I don't stay out late partying. I have no love life. No dark secretive activities. I couldn't even think of something to do last night "for the last time." Except I ate several cookies and thought I should resolve to eat fewer snacks. BORING!!!!

My life is devoid of any great passion, anything worth steeling myself to give up. This year I resolve--well will consider--getting back into life enough that I might even make some mistakes, get myself hurt, have something to regret.

Maybe I'll go so far as to actually date (is that what it's even called these days--do you Hook up? Meet up?) someone. It's just all so tacky and awful but I should throw myself out there and see what happens. Likely nothing but at least I could give it a try. Right?

I've spent the past few years sleepwalking through life. Things happen around me and I react. Life goes on and I am on sleep mode.

On the eve of 2009 I should like to be able to say that I lived enough, dare I say committed a few acts for which I can sit around a New Year's Eve fire and be able to coyly say "Oh, I'll never do 'fill in the blank' again." It would be kind of nice to have something to add except...... "Uh, maybe I won't drink so much diet Coke," and have everyone chuckle uncomfortably, thinking, Poor No-Life Amy.

So, let the madness begin. Maybe tonight I'll stay up past 11. It's a start, right?