Carol Coronado, 30, stabbed her three young children to death and then got into bed with them. The children ranged in age from 2 1/2 to 2 months old. That is red flag number one.

Earlier that morning, Carol had called her mother to say she was ‘going crazy.’ Red flag number two.

Carol’s mother was at work so she called Carol’s sister-in-law, Sandra, and asked her to give Carol a call. Sandra, whose brother Rudy Coronado is Carol’s husband, now reports that Carol denied anything was wrong, but did admit to being exhausted. Sandra could hear babies crying in the background, but that was not unusual. She quotes Carol as saying, “Just tell your brother to calm down.”  Red flags #3, #4, and #5.

Rudy’s mother arrived in the afternoon, while Rudy was outside working on his car. She emerged from the house screaming that the children were dead. She had called 911. Police came and led Carol out of the house, naked under a blanket and covered with blood. She was covered with stab wounds, most of them superficial.

Now, this next part is key:

Carol Coronado, who was taking classes on the Internet, stayed at home with the children while her husband went out early each day to sell car parts at the Alpine Village swap meets.

She kept a cluttered home, which triggered some discord with her husband.

“I believe that was their main issue,” the sister-in-law said. “My brother wanted the house clean for his girls. He wanted to come home to a home-cooked meal.” ~ (my italics) Daily Breeze, Larry Altman

Here is the house, described as a former workshop or converted garage. I’ll take the liberty of calling it a shithole.

I’m thinking, Andrea Yates. I’m thinking too many babies, postpartum depression, trapped in a shithole, demanding husband, desperation,  no way out.

What are you thinking?

Anyone watching Showtime tonight was assaulted by death in a one-two punch.

On The Borgias, the Pope was devastated by the death of his knavish, syphilitic son. He carried the son into the woods, envisioning  him as a beautiful little boy. As Jeremy Irons began to dig a grave, I scolded my television and turned to my computer.

But then, on Nurse Jackie, the mean new hospital administrator was stunned when his drug-addicted son arrived in the ER on a gurney. I watched in horror as Bobby Cannivale tried in vain to revive his dead son. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

While I sobbed hysterically, Nurse Jackie cut away to a happy scene in the maternity room. In real life, we can’t cut to another scene. The attempt to reassure us with a birth, as if to say “Turn turn turn, there is a time for birth and a time for death!” was cheap and sanctimonious.

I think about death constantly but I don’t want it shoved in my face, Showtime. The death of children is literally unbearable. I realized that the specter of the shattered parents is what drives home the tragedy. The children have flown away, but the parents are left with eternal suffering.

Some of my friends and family wish I would cut to a new scene. One of them has even blocked me on facebook. What’s good on Showtime is less good in real life. If people could watch me on TV, they would switch to another channel.

My husband knew that the Housewives of New Jersey would make me feel better. We marveled at Theresa’s hairline, which threatens to devour what’s left of her forehead.

What would I do without my husband! We went to the Los Angeles County Museum on Sunday, and while we wandered through a dark spiral corridor in the Japanese Pavilion, he remarked, “This is kind of like Disneyland for adults.” Yes,” I answered, “if the Pirates of the Carribean was an adventure in dread, with no pirates.”   He sticks with me through everything, all the adventures in dread that my life has become.

As far as I’m concerned, the whole event was about Angelina’s leg.

When I saw the picture above, soon after the show ended, I was flabbergasted. It never occurred to me that it was a photoshopped joke. What an awful pose, I thought. I showed it to my husband, who said “So what, she’s just playing around.”

Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Angelina playing around on the red carpet, but why else would she want to pose like a frog?

By tonight, I had seen fifty thousand visual jokes about Angie’s leg, including a raw chicken and a Darth Vader. Everyone was having fun with Angie’s leg! The world was united in taking pleasure in her stupidity The internet was buzzing with jokes about jokes about Angie’s leg.

I remarked to my husband, “Wow, just think: with one stupid gesture, Angelina Jolie has totally fucked herself up.” He replied, “I disagree.”

Now, if you’re anything like me, and you certainly are, you cannot just let that go. A disagreement based on nothing has to be questioned, especially when it’s so blatantly wrong.

I tried again. “But the whole world is making fun of her! She used to have this mystique, people admired her, and now she’s a laughing stock.” He repeated in an irritated voice, “I said I disagree.”

So, I’m thinking, what is your evidence for disagreeing? Did you take a poll? Have you read several news reports, defending her honor and/or dignity? Do you think I’m lying?

I sputtered something about, Try googling the words “Angelina’s leg.” I told him that if he’d actually seen her on the stage, making that ridiculous gesture, he’d understand. He backed down but still withheld agreement.

Why are husbands like this? Is every day Opposite Day? Does it make them feel dominant to disagree? Is agreement some kind of castration thing? Years ago, my husband would defend some idea with the phrase “Most people blah blah blah.” After a few hundred times, I started to yell, “Oh yeah, which people? NAME THEM!” He has since dropped that gambit.

But I still rise to the bait of “I disagree.” It is infuriating, particularly in the context of no prior information to arrive at a position of disagreement. How should I handle this? Should I just say “Of course you disagree!?” I need a strategy.

Back to Angelina’s fucking leg: Do you feel sorry her? Or does she deserve it? Or, if you’re somebody’s husband, would you just like to disagree?

Three months ago, I wrote about how hard it is to accept being powerless. Now, I am a malignant mass of seething hatred for my ex-husband. If only I could kill him. It would be an act of mariticide, although I don’t know if this applies to exes.

I hate that miserable fucker. I called and tried hard to be nice, to project friendliness. I asked when I could come over to see Max’s things, hoping I could borrow some of his books. We always loved the same books and asked each other for recommendations.

But no! Still no. That bastard is like a character from a Dickens novel, a mean old man who lives to say the word No. His exact words were: “If and when I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” When I began to argue my case, he announced triumphantly: “I won’t be bullied by you.” (Repeat this in your head with an English accent, to get the full effect.) Nothing would change his mind. I lost my temper and he intoned  darkly:   “Don’t call me again.”

Last night I cried hysterically until I couldn’t breath, not because of the books but because of the situation of marrying a man who won’t let you see your son’s belongings, who has to try to control things even after death.

A reader named Marygrace sent me a link to a poem by Julie Sheehan that expresses the scope of my hatred with stunning accuracy. It is a singular gem that everyone should read and pass on, until the whole world can find solace in its perfection.
~

Hate Poem

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.

You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

This is Tina, from Bag Snob.

This is Mr. Freddie’s Mom, taking a little break.

Here is the Life In Travel lady.

All three bloggers have young children they adore. All three love to travel and pose. And pose. And pose. And all three are blessed with bald older husbands! It’s like a club!

Indulgent husbands, photogenic children, a lust for shopping, high end cameras, and the universal female dream of becoming a pin-up girl. Isn’t it wonderful?

If you know of any other Wealthy Asian Mom Bloggers, let me know.   I feel an obsession coming on.