Friday, December 5, 2014

Claiming These Men As Her Own

Tuesday, the Matron heard the news today that yet again a white police officer who killed an unarmed black man was not indicted, this time in New York. This is news some people take note of a LOT. IF you are a black person in America, someone is after your men. Targeting, arresting, beating, and imprisoning black men (women too, but the Matron is thinking men at the moment) is something that white folk -- maybe especially here in the Midwest -- don't really have to think about. Sorta not right smack in front of us. Her, anyway. Then yours truly thought about what she’s taught her children -- that whoever they love, she will love. The Matron has taught her children to love freely and huge, to love without hesitation or boundaries or rules. Their love might be same-sex, black, white, rich, poor, transgender, brown, asian . . . whatever. Today, hearing the news (once again) about injustice against a black man -- crimes -- she drove past a young black boy, bundled up against the cold and trudging his way home and realized that if her children have truly incorporated that message of love, then this black boy might someday be her grandson. If her children have the whole wide world of humanity from which to choose a life partner, their children might not be necessarily white. Because she is thinking men at the moment, black men in particular, she looked at that little boy beating it home after the school bus and thought: my baby. Grandson. From this day forward, that is how the Matron will see all black men, too. Those little boys grow up and then those men might be mine and she would HAVE to see the injustice, would forever know when her own blood spilled. Why wait? She will claim them as her own, now.

Monday, November 24, 2014

Book Give Away!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

At the End of Magic by Mary Petrie

At the End of Magic

by Mary Petrie

Giveaway ends December 20, 2014.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win
Lovely bloggy friends -- please spread the word to your friends and readers on Goodreads! Promotion R Us, says the Matron (however puny those efforts may be).

Friday, November 21, 2014

More! Says The Matron

The Matron was the beneficiary of a small but beautiful blessing when she stumbled across this review on Goodreads yesterday! 

"I went into the book with few expectations, and emerged with the feeling that whatever else Mary writes, I'll read it. It took a couple of chapters for me to fall in love, but I did without a doubt. My pace picked up, my sleep was forfeited, and I raced to the finish. The magic was beautifully woven in, and Delphi's attitude towards it absolutely believable. Holly's character is beautifully drawn, and Leilani's delightfully complex. Loved it."

Everyone likes a good review, but the Matron felt undue pleasure over this one.  Joy!  Goosebumps!  Incredulation!   She let these sensations simmer a bit and then examined them. 
It turns that she does not quite believe she is the real deal after all.   
You know the imposter issue, where you sorta feel like you're faking it?

The Matron felt that way (at first) about being a mother.  That sense of pretending or being half-hearted mama persisted until her third child was born.   Indeed, that is part of the reason the Matron felt the need to have one more child-- to prove (to herself and everyone else) that she was doing the deed, really rocking this mama thing.  Look at me!  I have three!  
Somehow, a boat load of children finally made her a mother.  
The fact that she required external validation was not lost on the Matron.  The fact that she laboriously orchestrated (really? a pregnancy?) said external validation was also duly noted.  She is still attending to that product, too. He is 11. 
So yesterday's glowing review -- by a complete stranger, nonetheless -- was that outsider, looking in, to say:  "yes indeed.  The real deal."
And this real deal writer also feels the sweet satisfaction of someone enjoying her work!   How lovely to think of these characters she created, keeping a reader up at night.   
Way to go, Leilani!
Way to go, Matron!   Well done, if she does say so herself this time.  
But of course . . . wouldn't one more book tighten the whole thing up?  Just like Merrick did for the mama problem?
So the psyche spins . . . 

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Yes. Writing about Weather Again

Dear God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe,
The Matron thinks there has been a misunderstanding. You know, this January weather before Thanksgiving? Ice-packed roads, single-digit temperatures, biting wind, feet of blowing snow. Ring a celestial bell? It occurs to me that You - in all Your wisdom, of course, but being also VERY busy running the world -- may have mistaken the Matron for a trooper. And thus sent January in November? 
God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe:  it is official.  The Matron is not a trooper.  She is not rising to the challenge of ice and chill.  She is not gamely moving forward.She is not embracing winter's edge, with my wool cap pulled tight and attitude, chipper. Nope.  The Matron would be the woman wrapped in numerous layers of clothing with a space heater by her side, shaking her fist at the sky (not at You, of course. The sky) and saying: "Too soon! Too soon!"
She hopes this clears up any misunderstanding and sheds light on her actual position here in the world -- not a trooper. Cold. A wee bit bitter, actually.
Thank You for rectifying this situation. She looks foward to the thrill of throwing open the shades tomorrow morning and seeing November's 40 degree return.

Monday, November 10, 2014

Say It Ain't Snow, So (Much Too)

When will the Matron ever learn?
Because Panic and Crisis prevail every first snow.  It is all:  "where are my boots! I need better gloves! Don't you remember that my coat ripped to shreds last year?! I want a BLUE hat not a red one! These boots aren't *right* on me!"
Dear children: no piece of clothing or footware designed to save you from arctic death is *right.* Everything about a boatload of snow way before Thanksgiving is entirely *wrong.* Merrick, your mother is sorry that she forgot that you wore your coat -- literally -- to shreds last year. Of course you did. She will get you a new one. Tonight, it would appear.  
Then there are the texts from the teenager taking the city bus "STILL not here!" and Merrick's return from his bus stop: "I forgot to put shoes in my backpack!" So off she goes, driving Merrick back to the bus while praying that Scarlett's actually comes so that yours turly doesn't have to also drive downtown during their winter rush hour dramas.
Thank Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe-God.  The bus came.
Space heaters are now spread throughout the Matron's four story, 2800 square foot, 100 year old house with over 50 windows. Described thus so you understannd when she says "I work from home" this is code for:  " I am wearing wool socks, slippers, jeans, tank top, long-sleeved t-shirt, sweater, sweatshirt and sometimes hat in a wind-blown structure that eats our theoretical retirement savings as monthly heating bill."
If you discover the Matron's head in theoven, it's not because she went all Sylvia Plath. Swear. Just cooking up creative heat here in St. Paul while she waits for the next emergency snow-related text to arrive -- or even better, May

Sunday, November 2, 2014

That Magic Touch

The Matron's youngest - sliding along through the middle of 11 -- recently learned to wink.  He's been practicing.   And folks?  He and that wink are irresistable.
Last Monday morning . . . . .
Matron: "Merrrick are you ready for the big book presentation in English today?"
Merrick: "What book?"
Friends, this is where the Matron sits down on the floor and rocks herself a little, like someone institutionalized or soon to be.   The Matron has devoted herself to that presentation, that book, Merrick's homework.   He is so unorganized that he sometimes thinks he attends an entirely different school!!
Matron: "The book you've been reading for a month - Granny -- the one you wrote all those notecards for and are preparing the presentation on."
Merrick: "I have no idea what that's all about."
Matron: "So you have these 10 note cards outlining the main points of the book. You've read the book. There's the worksheet on 'how to do a presentation.' Does any of this ring a bell?"
Merrick: "WELL. Just because I have all that STUFF done doesn't mean I know what I'm supposed to say during the presentation. Does it?"
No, apparantly, it does not.
Merrick: "Don't worry, Mom. I have it under control."
Matron: "And?"
Merrick (BIG WINK): "I got this one. Check out this face. Is it working on you?"

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Wherein the Matron Gets Her Seinfeld On . . .

You were warned.  If you pettiness gives you cause to recoil, do so now or walk away.

For the Matron is whining about last week's wrestling match yoga class with Mr. Heave, Grunt, Rattle, & Roll.    She can take the grunts. The groans. The heaving with whistle and chur, and this in a space where there's supposed to be silence. Look! Here is the Matron, all stoic, when Mr. Heave, Grunt, Rattle & Roll falls out of a posture and tumbles his 6 foot self onto her mat, nearly knocking her MUCH tinier self right over. Here is the Matron, all saint-like, when Mr. HGRR -- who if you haven't yet noticed is COMPLETELY unaware of his surroundings and anything remotely akin to personal space --- shakes his jowels like a dog so that his spit and sweat can spatter the delicate skin of yours truly.


But then . . . in the most shocking and unacceptable turn of events . . . Mr. HGRR sops up his sweat with a steaming, soaking towel which he promptly tosses onto The MATRON'S MAT!

For folks who've never been to a yoga class -- that mat is sacred space. Your space. The universe. Nobody in the Matron's 20 years (that's right!) of committed yoga practice has used her mat as a laundry baset, let alone put a toe on it. Until last week.

Of course, yours truly pointedly picked up said disgusting item --- with her FOOT (because she was laying down) and HURLED it sideways. Which turned out to be highly conveniently for HGRR because now the towel was resituated right next to him, making it just that easy to swipe more sweat and, yes, send it right back -- splat-- to the middle of the Matron's mat again.
Here's where the situation took a turn for the juvenile, wherein she HURLS the towel back -- with any body part other than a hand --and tosses the death glare, but of course: Mr. HGRR doesn't notice. He's just all like - "oh, reach down and there's that towel again" -- as if it's perfectly natural. Just. The scheme of things.
. .
At one point, Matronly rage simmers into marvel. Wow. How is it possible to be so absolutely clueless to anyone or anything around you?

Next week, she's bringing a whistle.