Minnesota Matron

Stage Mother

2012-01-27T18:24:00.001-08:00

Stage Mother has taken quite the hiatus. She believes it is time to indulge in the Diva. For a brief history of Time (meaning Scarlett's entire childhood), settle in and start here.

Scarlett has been busy.

She returned to her favorite theatre, Youth Performance Company -- the best thing going for young actors in Minnesota (maybe the U.S.) -- when they reprised this stellar show, with Scarlett in it.

The show was about bullying. The actors who perform it? All about love.

Love, community service, social justice through art, incredible theatre, = Youth Performance Company. It's like Buddha-God-Oprah-Allah-Universe spread the Magic Carpet and Scarlett strolled right on it.

Over the holiday season, Scarlett returned as the little match girl in The Match Girl's Gift. The show -- and the diva -- earned a nice review. Plus, another amazing group of people.

But forget nice. Scarlett's favorite roles appear to involve illness, trauma (Scarlett played young Clara), and onstage death.

The Matron's brother was coincidentally in St. Paul during The Match Girl's run. Naturally, he and Grandma Mary took in the show. Despite-- or perhaps because of -- Scarlett's dramatic collapse toward death, Grandma fell asleep. Twice.

Matron's Brother afterward: "How can you stand to see her suffer onstage like that?"

Matron: "That's nothing. You should see her at home with a head cold."

This fall, the family discovered that one of their own could shake and shimmy. Loves to dance on national TV.

One guess how the Matron's only daughter spent this very evening? At rehearsal for this upcoming show, followed by seeing a friend's play --as an audience member.

Weekly Conversation in the Matronly Home

Scarlett: "Here's the list of plays I need to see this week."

Matron: "Is there some kind of natural selection we can fall back on? Like budgeting?"

Scarlett: "But my friends are in these!"

John: "Is there a single play in the Twin Cities that doesn't have one of your friends in it?"

Scarlett: "Actually, no."

Ah, the wild thrills and prestige of Stage Mothering. These perks take place behind the wheel of a minivan and are: listening to All Things Considered on NPR, coffee and cookie while driving, slowing down when being tail-gated and fielding frantic calls from children left behind at home.

Merrick: "Is dinnew befowe ow aftew weheawsal tonight?"

Don't hate her for her glamorous life. It's actually very exciting to map out the daily driving. What ramp is closed?!! Who will cut her off!? Where is the traffic lighter! The Matron could probably mobilize and move a small army with her well-honed transportation skills.

But Scarlett? Ah, she's moving the world -- and her own beautiful, independent spirit. The Matron is happy to provide the ride. For the time being.

Opportunity, Knocking her Over and Out and Uncertain

2012-01-25T20:49:00.000-08:00

Recently, Opportunity presented itself to the Matron in the form of a possible new job: Dean.

That's right folks. The Matron has been lost a little in a gridlock, a schemata, a spreadsheet of possibility.

Dean Matron. Dr. Dean Matron. Maybe someday PRESIDENT Dr. Dean Matron (she will never let go of a title).

These all have a lovely, nearly poetic ring. Makes her misty, just considering. And consider she has been, knowing not only that she has a real shot at this particular fiefdom.

But.

As she drifted through her future, Reality -- a fast runner -- quickly caught up with Opportunity.

Yes, she'd make more money. She would converse, hourly, with like-minded people who also hold many academic degrees and know how to construct complex sentences, as opposed to teaching students HOW to construct sentences. And not complex ones.

She would be In Charge! A person of authority. The job? A stepping stone to higher administration . . .you see, she may very well enjoy being President or Queen of a College.

But.

Instead of working 190 days a year, per current faculty contract, she'd be working year-round. All summer with two weeks of vacation like everybody else.

She'd be gone from 8-6, minimum.

There would be limited time for writing.

She would spend most of her intellectual energy working to benefit an institution.

Most of all -- she who goes to campus just two mornings a week - -would lose the hourly freedom that currently defines her life. She can log into her online class and teach until midnight, and spend the afternoon at the dog park if she chooses.

Okay, mostly she drives kids in the afternoons. But the dog park thing sounded a little more daring. But she volunteers in Merrick's classroom, tests new recipes in peace, strolls around the house ALONE for more than twenty minutes and can clean four closest in under an hour in the middle of the day. And read. Yes -- she often does work until midnight. But so far, she's been liking this groove of life.

So.

The Matron made up her mind: she was not applying.

Until . . . a colleague or two called and urged her on. Go forward! Deanship be thine! Then, the competition began. So and So was applying?! Surely, the Matron had her beat! What! Colleague Q considering? A crisis, indeed.

Matron to John: "I should do it. X and B think I'd be great at it. I should."

John: "You have super soft skin and a great body. Will you get naked right now if I ask you?"

Between 9 am and 3 pm? Dream on, darling.

John: "Point made. Just because someone asks you to do something and you'd be good at it, doesn't mean you have to do it."

Oh.

The Matron pondered that bit of wisdom. John asked again, just in case his theory could be disproved. Sorry again, honey.

Later, Merrick asked his mother what was on her mind.

Merrick: "Mom? Why awe you so sewious?"

Matron: "I'm thinking about applying for a new job. Dean. Dean of the college."

Merrick: "The king?"

Matron: "Sort of."

Merrick (overjoyed): "DO IT DO IT!"

Matron: "But I'd leave in the morning when you go to school and I wouldn't come home until dinner or maybe later."

Merrick: "Weally?"

Matron: "Yup. I'd make more money but the trade off is that I'll be gone."

Merrick: "Will they make you do it?"

Matron: "Nobody will make me. I could choose."

Merrick: "To be gone all day just to be boss of a whole bunch of people?"

When you put it that way, darling. . . . those men in her life? Pretty darn smart. But still. Opportunity has a way of seducing . . .

Sigh.

Monday, Meditation

2012-01-23T14:36:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning, the Matron startled awake at 4:18 am, half an hour before her alarm.

Because in a fit of insanity, she signed up for a half day sesshin at her local Zen Center -- silent meditation from 6 am to noon.

At 4:25 she decided not to even attempt those extra 20 minutes of sleep. She was AWAKE. At 4:50 am, slurping down coffee and a muffin, she realized that she must immediately return to her warm, cozy bed and abandon this ridiculous idea of SIX hours of meditation. That whole 'awake' thing last just about long enough for food and coffee.

Friday, this conversation had ensued.

He Who Cannot Be Named (16 year old son HWCBN for new readers): "Mom? You're going to meditate for six hours?"

Matron: "Yup!"

HWCBN: "How long have you meditated at one shot before?"

Matron: "Forty minutes."

Pause.

HWCBN: "Good luck with that."

This conversation replayed itself that bleak, black morning. Indeed, only pride propelled her forward. She had signed up, rallied the children, promised herself -- committed. The day was arranged around her absence. Merrick had hugged her good-night, all pluck and encouragement for her interior journey.

Merrick: "Mom? If you fall asleep and dwop over, twy not to get huwt."

Thanks, sweetheart.

And so from 6 am to noon, the Matron sat on a pillow. There was a small ceremony, a silent meditative breakfast, a highly anticipated bathroom break or two (bathroom! Like a party!). In sum, she sat just over four hours total.

That time--four hours, which would be 240 minutes?

Flew by.

Shockingly, for much of that time her mind held only a mantra -- a brief phrase and breath truly took hold. But for another slice of that time, her past -- images, scenes, conversations, bright lights of life frozen -- scrolled unbidden and uncontrolled across her defenseless psyche.

What a show!

It was . . . humbling.

Past humiliations arose. Moments of guilt. Vignettes of wrong-doing, mistakes made. A luminous moment or two, but mostly pain and sorrow finding a path they'd missed and making the most of it. The stories presenting themselves weren't the familiar crew, but a brand new bunch.

A little girl in plaid and braids, the adorable-as-all-get-out kind you see in picture books and movies -- already afraid.

Oddly, inexplicably, she didn't feel sad during this onslaught of imagery -- just a spectator. Inquisitive and open, as a forgotten past -- one largely constructed of minutiae, little things that don't seem to carry much weight -- moved toward her.

Oh -- and she's pretty sure she did doze off here and there. No worries, Merrick honey. She didn't drop over.

Today, she can't even remember exactly what happened or what secrets shook themselves out. Really. Four hours of this and she can barely remember what happened.

But she feels . . . better. Different. Something shifted during those quiet hours. She is not of the belief that life experience can be exorcised from the body or that catharsis is a cure. There is no remedy for what we take in because it is who we are. Consider just how much one person incorporates in a single day! From the moment we wake until sleep -- and maybe even then -- the brain never stops synthesizing detail after detail after drama and sight, sound and smell.

She imagines the brain packaging and storing the onslaught of input -- categorizing each second like a file to be plucked out again when needed. Imagine the expanse of this input! Wake, pull back covers, feel cool air, dog snout on leg, clock humming, cool wooden floor, crisp window -- this is just the first five seconds! Who among us can notice the crack and spit of every second?! Most of this we never even retrieve or when we do, it's like breath -- we don't even notice it.

But Saturday, she noticed her breath--and the shock of senses that came with it.

The funny thing is? All she feels is: better. And she didn't even know she felt bad.

She's Just a Girl Who Can't Say No (to Blogging)

2012-01-19T18:15:00.000-08:00

Surprise!

No. Your senses have not taken leave. Here they are: words. The Matron's.

She actually didn't intend to take an extended hiatus. One day evolved into another, and then another. Christmas revealed its true nature as a month-long festival of financial over-indulgence topped off by cleaning, cooking, entertaining and debate: what does one give to the postal carrier? Especially one with whom you have a special relationship.

John: "Do you really have to give the recycling guy a holiday book, bake cookies for the teacher, and leave tea and chocolate for the garbage man?"

Matron: "Why? Do you think a bottle of wine is better?"

John: "Only if it's for me, at this very minute."

Then there was the veil of suffering. The Matron was grounded in the reality of the body's demise. Her friend continues the battle. Her stepmother -- a saga about which the Matron didn't blog -- scraped by a staggering health crisis with her life intact but changed.

But . . in an odd way these things didn't bother the Matron. She experienced, but did not rail against them. Long ago, she had the singular momentary wisdom to learn something from her mother-in-law.

Mother-in-Law: "Why, I go to a funeral a week. That's your social life when your friends all start dying."

And-- like that-- the Matron understood that one day, she too would step to the precipice of age.

However, understanding that something is simply the 'natural order of things' doesn't make it easy.

Then there was The Play. The Matron wrote one. Did she mention she wrote a play? Wrapped it up in the last six weeks? For an actual theatre company, a play that might see the stage -- and there's another one in the works that is a certainty.

Writing a play also provided the Matron with a fun little fantasy. She loves living in her head that way. Fantasy:

Cashier at grocery store: "And what do you do for a living?"

Matron: "Me? Oh, I'm a playwright."

Chills!

Of course, the fantasy omitted the teaching job and also centered around the fact that the Matron was AT the grocery store in the first place to buy a LOTTERY ticket, which she of course WON (this is a fantasy after all) -- which immediately required detailed dissection of how she would distribute, spend and indulge in her $389 million payout. The Matron is pretty generous in fantasyland, so she needed a lot. 3 - 8 - 9 million. That's a forty minute fantasy, folks.

Anyway, that lottery thing didn't work out in real life.

At least, real life has been rich and nuanced, replete with rewards that have nothing to do with money but much with relationships and self-reflection (not knowledge - that would be a stretch - it's all still a great big query). So the Matron guesses that's where her piggy bank is -- in people. And that sucker is stuffed. The children, the dogs, the friends, students, family -- why, the Matron could write a novel.

Instead she shall return to the regular blog post to strut her narrative stuff.

She's back.

Dark

2011-12-09T21:07:00.000-08:00

The Matron should be attending to the nearly seven thousand pieces of student work for which she is responsible. Certainly, now would be the time for a deft discussion of the perils of the community college educator: meaning lots of students and therefore, lots of student work. Of course, most of this work is already recorded and, in honesty, thanks to online teaching technology, a portion of it automated. But she likes saying "nearly seven thousand."

Yet she feels oddly calm, even in the thick of those final papers.

Remember the name of this blog? Minnesota Matron.

The season of bright lights, eggnog and cheer (feigned and real) falls in the thick of winter night. It's the worst kind of winter. Snow has yet to fully descend; when she does, there are sweeping buckets of lace and ice that sparkles by day and shimmers, a ghost, at night. Snow softens the landscape but December is largely, simply: night.

This year, the Matron has donned the season. Three weeks ago, she returned to the Buddhist sangha she frequented a few years back for their noon meditation: four days a week. She has been sitting on a pillow, lost, for thirty minutes, seven days a week -- four of those among like-minded people. Consistent meditation rewires the brain; that's not snappy prose but scientific fact.

Her particular cellular tune-up means that she can no longer sweat the small stuff. Her work ethic is slow and steady instead of frenetic. She's sitting with the children and talking on the phone more often. Wondering, really, how you're doing when she's asked. The smallest encounter can send memories one, two, three decades past into her immediate present. Not in a bad way, just a picture she looks into and says: that is who I am. Not all of this is pretty.

The rewired brain is not melancholy - -not at all. It simply sees truth beyond the clock and the checkbook, beyond the accomplishments one can whip out at cocktail parties. Maybe this is a function of biology, of facing the impending next decade. Maybe it's something else.

And every day as she heads to the Zen center for meditation or drives to a school or rushes out to get kale at the co-op or take the doggies to the dog park, she drives past her neighbor's house.

Inside, her friend is facing death -- not as the Matron has been in a 'one day please not too soon' sort of fashion, but in illness driven, crisis reality: death is coming for me. It is on its way.

Driven by love, all the Matron can do is watch. And realize that this, waiting, is actually the full extent of human power over death.

The blue light of Christmas, brittle night and black sky -- sitting on that pillow, lost, every day -- a child actively preparing to embark upon a life separate from hers -- the insipid television and rush for money -- everything is sharper.

Finally, she is looking at people and understanding what it means to say "this is what really matters."

The Twenty Year Marriage and Four Year Blog

2011-11-28T20:46:00.002-08:00

The past couple of months, the Matron has felt her heart swell with nostalgia of those early, heady days of blogging.

She couldn't get enough! A post a day? Of course! Magnificent, well-thought out creatures worthy of paid publication and accolades? Darling, that's just for starters. Every day she looked forward to her hour with the computer, secretly composing stories in her spare time instead of focusing on mundane tasks like rearing children and earning a buck.

The blogs needs were met, and then some.

Sort of like sex in a new marriage and then not-so-new, marriage. Hot and heavy turns steady turns scheduled. Not always, but in long marriages there are eras, not months.

So dear little blog, she promises that things will get better. She will fondle and coo. Post more. Feed you robust words with lust and think of you again with longing, instead of one more entity requiring her care.

You too, John. She promises.

The Matron is finishing up the semester for the record books. She is working full time. Did she say this before? When the grades are all entered, she will have evaluated about 6,520 pieces of student work in sixteen weeks.

And she's still typing.

So dear little cold abandoned and shivering blog, take heart. Don't despair. The slow silent era reminds her that, like a good marriage, she's in it for the long haul. You are not forgotten just an afterthought for a little while.

She won't continue the marriage metaphors but let's just say her husband may be shivering curbside with the blog. Hang in there honey.

Every era has its beginning and end. She's ready to write that "happily ever after" any day now!

Fun with Hormones

2011-11-18T17:47:00.001-08:00

The Matron is sitting at the kitchen table. Laptop open. TV on. Tea simmering. The rest of the house is busy: John and Merrick are building a fire, HWCBN is engaged in some online war, the dogs mine for treats and love.

The Matron is alone with her psyche until John and Merrick walk into the room.

Merrick: "Mom? What's the mattew?"

John: "What's wrong sweetie?"

Matron, taken aback: "Why, nothing. I'm just thinking."

Merrick: "It must be pwetty awfuuul." ( he still talks that way, Buddha bless him)

John: "Nothing can be that bad!"

Matron, doubly taken aback: "Actually, I'm trying to think of something funny to blog about. I'm sitting, here, thinking funny."

John's turn to be taken aback: "Good God."

Merrick: "Weally?"

Matron: "Really. I just can't think of anything funny to blog about. It's time for levity in the blogosphere."

John: "Well . . . maybe you should watch Modern Family or something instead of CSI?"

Matron: "That's funny."

Merrick: "How come you say something is funny when you look like you'we going to hit somebody?"

Matron: "It would appear that my life is completely devoid of humor. I find nothing whatsoever funny."

John, tentatively: "Actually, that's funny."

Merrick: "I'm funny! You have me."

Matron: "Did you clean your room?"

Merrick: "Mom. That's not funny."

Matron: "See? Life. Completely. Devoid. Of humor."

John: "Can I just say again . . . that really is funny."

Matron: "In a dark sort of way, granted."

Merrick: "I know, I know! It's funny you sitting here awguing about blogging about funny!"

Matron: "Not really."

John, assessing with 20 years of wisdom behind him: "PMS jokes? Sound funny?"

Matron (snappy): "Now why would that be funny?!"

John to Merrick: "Remember that emergency fire drill stuff we practiced? Time to do it now, very carefully out of the kitchen and away from Mama."

Merrick immediately drops to his belly on the floor and starts writhing toward the door.

John: "Husband in training."

That, the Matron found funny.

Calling It Like It Is

2011-11-14T17:23:00.000-08:00

The Matron is enlisting this woman to work on the Herman Cain campaign.

Seriously, read that link. Read it now. Nobody can say it better.

The Matron's lighter touch continues to evade her. Yes, Satan's Familiar refines his fetid habits (mostly involving routing out excretions of any sort for dessert) and the big guy, as all 80 lb coon hounds are prone to do, knocks over toddlers with his tail. Her busy actor is fully deploying the emotional range available to all newly minted teenagers. Let's just say nobody here really needs to step into the theater for drama (the Matron thought she'd drop that in there to keep you hooked for an upcoming Stage Mother). He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) lives the mysterious life of a young man poised on adulthood: his own. Merrick is, well, eight. With a perpetual sling shot and nerf gun by his side. All this by way of saying that levity does indeed exist in her world, always.

She's simply not there.

Instead, the Matron is one more angry person on the planet. Note that gender was not invoked. Because the vast majority of men, who do not rape, kill, torture, maim, kidnap, prostitute and capture women should also be very, very angry at those who do. We should have a whole lotta anger revvin' up the place.

Guys? Some of your ilk are giving the breed a bad name.

Here's the thing -- while there is justified moral outrage surrounding what she calls The Penn State Silence, there is umbrage and suspicion when sexually harassed women speak. The victims are being questioned, called to task: what do they have to gain? why now? who's paying the lawyer?

When asked "why" she was coming forward, Sharon Bialek replied that it was "the right thing to do."

Not doing the right thing at Penn State is a moral crime (yes!) but doing the right thing regarding Cain is cagey. Just read this ABC report on Sharon Bialek for the tenor surrounding these women. From headline to first paragraphs, this reads like a rap sheet. The photo selected? Why, she's pretty darn happy about her new found place in the media sun.

Now, the Matron knows exactly what you're thinking: raping children cannot be equated with sexual harassment. True. She even put it in colorful italics for emphasis. There is a fundamental difference between the psychological and sexual torture to which those young boys were subjected and the pain, however sharp, of sexual harassment.

Yet these two events -- big stories that enthrall a nation -- do share a fundamental quality: male violence. The Matron is just now establishing an official continuum for male violence called the MVC or Male Violence Continuum. Sexual harassment is on one end, the rape of children on another. But that continuum is a stream of the same impulse: male violence.

Yes, women harass, steal, torture and kill. Let's get that out of the way. But here, the Matron is addressing the majority. Americans like majorities. We have the Moral Majority on the right and now the new Occupy claim to the 99% of us on the left. Big groups rock. They get our attention, hold sway, demand notice. So . . . she's looking to the thick part of the violence pack and she sees testicles.

Yours truly did a little google search and then a more refined search in the education and government fields for "male violence." Here's what she got: domestic violence, gun violence, youth violence, gang violence, Central American militia violence, war violence against women, violence against women, men who murder their families, and intimate partner violence.

Ding, ding, ding! Anyone hear 'men' in there? But not one web page explicitly used the word 'men.'

This came up, too.

Ask why men commit most violent crimes -- no, wait, just POINT OUT that men commit most violent crimes and you are a feminist bitch determined to derail half the human race. Wow. That's a whole lot of power in these feminist hands.

And the Matron, 'bitter feminist' that she is, does indeed hope to reduce men who rape, kill, torture, kidnap, maim and prostitute to middling puddles of poo on the carpet.

Guys? Once again (sigh, this always happens -- such a burden on her) you have the Matron to thank. Because the majority of victims of male violence are other men. See? Those rotten eggs are sullying the entire basket. Men and women alike have much to gain by noticing that masculinity and violence are intricately connected. Because men get mugged, raped, kidnapped, tortured and prostituted too.

Hey! There's that darn white elephant in the room!

Pointing out that men commit the majority of violent crimes -- from trying to shove a woman's head into his crotch to raping a girlfriend or boyfriend -- isn't a feminist plot to dethrone the phallus as ultimate signifier or in anyway dehumanize men.

It's just the truth.

Back Tomorrow

2011-11-09T16:24:00.000-08:00

Really.

Not a dry spell. She's been busy making Herman Cain buttons . . .

Wherein the Matron Lends a Helping Hand

2011-11-01T14:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Presidential Candidate Herman Cain,

It's way cool that you'd like to be President. The Matron also thinks living in the White House would be a trip. Groovy and all that: movies, bowling, and take-out food eaten in, every day.

The other day when you said you really weren't familiar with the term neoconservative, she was like, who among us can really be expected to know all of the big words?

The Matron is nothing if not the embodiment of generosity. In that spirit, she is offering her short-term -- well, one-time only -- services as Senior Campaign Adviser.

Lucky for you, the Matron just so happens to be an expert on women -- because she is one. Of course, there is that degree in Feminist Studies but let's just forget about that silly old PhD anyway. Who needs so many pesky intellectuals messing things up?

Here's her twofold, one-time, ass-saving advice.

The next time that you conduct any significant legal business, write a little note in your datebook or calendar.

"Sexual harassment grievance settled for ______________. Reminder to self of alleged women harassed ______________. "

The Matron promises that you will find this inordinately helpful in case future events require recollection of such instances. It's so easy! Any kind of date book or calendar will do and it just takes a second.

Second, the Matron completely sympathizes with your love of consistency and the simple statement. It's resounding to oppose something with no exceptions. Authoritative, strong. Presidential, even.

But, Herman, honey?

"I am opposed to abortion without exception, even in cases of incest, rape or risk of life for the mother"

This just doesn't have quite the necessary ring. To be frank, rape, incest and death make that whole abortion thing unpleasant. Messy complications, all that.

Voters like their slogans suffering free.

And a slogan for life that also connotes suffering (all those women raped, betrayed, dying) is just wrong -- in a Way Too Much Information sort of way.

Thankfully -- and this is what you may pay her the big bucks for -- the Matron has an inspired slogan to replace 'no abortion, no exceptions for rape, incest, death.' Even better, this snippet will also wipe out THE ENTIRE problem of those nagging exceptions.

She understands, Herman, how hard it is to power through, On Message, when confronted with the reality of a 13 year old impregnated by her uncle or stepfather. Sometimes a belly pat and "welcome to the family, junior" isn't the best idea.

Her idea? Drum roll . . . . how about: No Rape. No Incest. No Exceptions.

Trailblazer that you are, you can be more than the run-of-the-mill-rich-guy with an eye on the White House. Here's the super fun part: you are the anti-rape and incest candidate. You will campaign on the numbers -- just like the budget. Same concept. Numbers don't lie. Visit Montana? Talk about numbers: the average prison term for a convicted rapist in that state. New York? How many children under the age of 18 are victims of sexual violence?

This is an equal opportunity slogan and concept. Boys and men are victims too.

Not to toot her own horn, but the Matron is inordinately fond of this idea! She's never seen a national campaign revved up about violence against women.

So The next time you have the bully pulpit, forget Congress, forget Wall Street, forget those angry bankers. Save that rage for the sex offenders and you have a sure-fire strategy for success.

You, Mr. Cain, are the Reform Candidate. Starting with yourself.

No Wonder

2011-10-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Merrick posed this question to his mother.

Merrick: "Mama? How come you'we a little stwange?"

Matron, looking up from the book she is reading while attempting a recipe for French soup that involves $20 worth of some kind of clawed sea creature -- and the book is a novel, not a cookbook.

Matron:""What do you mean, strange?"

Merrick: "You know . . . like you don't like football or bake cookies vewy easy . . " Pause while Matron takes umbrage at inconvenient truth . . . "and you don't like sweatshiwts. Lots of moms weaw sweatshiwts. And you kiss dog snouts."

Matron: "Exactly what is wrong with a snout kiss and a packaged Oreo?"

Merrick: "Mom?"

Matron: ?

Merrick: "Why is the stove on fiwe?"

But this exchange gave the Matron pause (and a reason to abandon the cooking project). Yes indeed, she has -- here and there and upon occasion -- been categorized as a little, well, 'unique.' Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe, she knows exactly who to blame.

Highlights to the road of aberrant behavior would include her decision, as a Wee Miss, to read Gone with The Wind and The Exorcist, back to back, when she was around 10. For better or worse, these books shaped a world view that still persists.

Lest anyone think she is kidding: remember, the Matron named her only daughter Scarlett. And her best party trick? Reciting the first paragraph of the book from memory or putting any sentence -- sentence -- of the thousand page book into the context of its appropriate paragraph. Without looking, of course.

Upon consideration, however, reading was only one art form that permanently shaped the Matron into who she is today. There was also music.

When yours truly first began dating her beloved John, whenever a male voice trickled through the prehistoric listening devices called radios and stereos, she immediately called out: "Is this the Beatles?"

Female voice? Young Miss: "Is this Barbra Streisand?"

John: "Who's the greatest living guitar player?"

Matron: "Rocky?"

You get the picture . . . and here she blames music, the three main pieces of music to which she was exposed for six solid weeks when she was 16 and TRAPPED in a station wagon with her FAMILY (shudder on behalf of teenagers everywhere) driving to and from California during summer vacation.

The three artists that bent her musical ear?

Barry Manilow--commericals, specifically, Neil Sedaka, and John Denver.

When the Matron went to college, she thought "The Who" was something commonly confused with "to whom" in writing. The day John Lennon died, she had grown savvy enough to know to feign unspeakable grief until she figured out who in the heck John Lennon was.

Because when somebody very famous dies, people don't go around mourning-by-resume: "OMIGOD the former Beatle, music icon, activist and husband of Yoko Ono just died!"

No, it was just inconveniently "John, John, John." Not a lot of information in that, so it's a good thing her feigned grief was unspeakable. It's much easier not to embarrass yourself with your mouth shut.

This is the long route to the mystery: how did she get to be so 'stwange'? She blames music. Let's just say Barry Manilow in particular, as driving by a McDonald's with the Matron can be somewhat surreal.

Bucket of chicken, anyone?

Something for Everyone

2011-10-20T21:25:00.000-07:00

Every year, educators and students throughout the state of Minnesota pause for a two day breath, of sorts, called Education Minnesota -- a Thursday and Friday in which educators educate themselves and students, well, frolic during two days of freedom.

Monday, the Matron realized that this year was actually the Education Minnesota Festival -- not two, but three days without school for her three children.

Tuesday, the Matron realized that the Education Minnesota Festival meant that she herself was also liberated from teaching her Thursday class, if not from grading all of those papers and exams. Drat.

Wednesday morning, as the children woke, the Matron realized that while HWCBN and the Diva were fully loaded with activities and homework, Merrick had NOTHING TO DO.

Merrick: "MOM I'M BORED! WHO CAN PLAY?"

Matron on phone: "N? Can J play?"

Matron on phone: "H? Can R play?"

Matron on phone: "Grandma? Do you want company?"

Email: "hi hope all is well . . we'd love to see (insert name of close friend and then distant relative) today. . we can host AND I can drive . . no rush to let me know but here's my cell number.

Nothing. All of the buddies were already farmed out to various camps by parents who actually think more than two hours ahead.

Matron: "Merrick honey, there are no friends. Stryker and Scarlett are both going to be gone almost all day today and tomorrow. Dad and I both have to work. You're just going to have to hang in there and find some stuff to do, okay?" Translation: you get to watch TV for three days

Good sport that he is, Merrick did the only logical thing. He put on his favorite camouflage footie pajamas, grabbed a dog or two, and hunkered in for some quality screen time. For the next day and a half, he basically sat in the back of the van while the other children were transported, watched TV, played with a stick and waited for his parents to feed him.

Finally, today, the Matron took pity on her baby.

Matron: "Merrick! Let's do something fun, just for a little while!"

She suggested the dog park, children's museum, science museum, the magic shop, Candyland, bike ride, tennis.

Merrick: "No, thank you."

She was sure that television ripped out his soul!

Until . . .

Merrick: "Mom? Can I go to the uniform store?"

Now, Merrick - he of all things police and militia - just so happened to know that A) there was such a thing as a uniform store that sold holsters, night sticks, mace, police hats, sun glasses, boots, etc. and B) where that store was.

And so the highlight of Merrick's Minnesota Education Festival? Forty-five minutes sighing with deep-seated joy over police boots, uniforms, pins, holsters and rain jackets.

It takes all kinds. . . and this one is hers. Who is currently sleeping with his brand new compromise $8. nightstick, which the Matron deemed far more acceptable than the much lobbied for mace.

Good night Merrick. Just one more Festival day left.

Today's Actual Students

2011-10-18T18:42:00.000-07:00

Today, the Matron put her best pedagogical foot forward and administered a fair, yet comprehensive, exam in class XXX. Because students did so poorly on the last exam, she also graciously offered this version as an open book!

An open book exam! In a fun and interesting class! Sounds like a party!! Compare this to calculus and well, let's all groove on that humanities thing!

Early this morning, however, calamity struck. She's sure her students were each, surprisingly, coincidentally born under the exact same astrological constellation. How unusual!

Email 1: "I am on my way to the dentist for an emergency root canal. When can I take the test?"

Email 2: "My car stalled on the highway and I'm typing from cell phone. What should I do?"

Well . . . she guesses that depends entirely on the veracity of the report.

Phone call: "My dog ran away, Mary. I need to keep looking for him. Can I take the test tomorrow?"

Email 3: "Funeral. Same time as test."

Email 4: "All of my four children are sick and I have to stay home to take care of them."

Phone call: "I lost my book!"

By the time yours truly got to the actual exam itself, she was beaten. Demoralized. Worn to a pulp and also annoyed with the extra work she just went to, setting up a second time for these absent students to take the exam. Yes, she gave them one final shot.

Just in case there really was a root canal, funeral, stalled car, sick children, lost dog and misplaced book. She's weak that way . . what if. Damn those stars.

So she was in a no-nonsense mood when the exam arrived for the students actually prepared to take it. With a book. To the Matron, this is sort of like saying: here are the answers. But she did it anyway. . .just in case that last test really was too hard.

Those students dug in. Got to work. Focused with barely a pause for a question or two. A peaceful, somewhat foreign, aura of genuine studiousness permeated the room. She began to relax.

Click, click click. Ten minutes are the test time was up, she gave the stragglers a two minute warning.

Click, click, click. The stragglers wrapped up and sort of meandered about, a few waiting to talk to the Matron. Except one, who kept on writing even as her instructor (the supposed authority figure) stood next to her and said: "really, it's time to stop."

Student Q: "I just need, like, another hour."

Matron: "Well, it's a timed exam with a grace period. That's all part of the process." Plus, the Matron had plans for that hour that did not include sitting in this classroom.

Student Q sighed deeply and shut her book: "Okay, but I did horrible."

But, there appeared to be a solution for Student Q. She handed the Matron her test and said: "You should just let me take this again tomorrow, okay?"

Now . . . the Matron isn't sure if it was the build-up -- the well-timed emergencies, the hours spent creating an exam (open book tests are tricky), the grading ahead -- or if it was just the 'you should' part that hit that wee little gas light that had ignited within her that morning.

Actually, she's pretty sure it was mostly shock that colored her reaction.

Matron: "ARE YOU KIDDING? NO. No. NO. This is a TEST which means how you actually perform on it MATTERS."

Student Q: "Well, it was just an idea. How else can I get a better grade on this test?"

Matron: "You can't! It's a test! Like Driver's Ed where if you crash you fail. The 'how can I do better' part is over!"

Student Q: "Well, the whole test situation just doesn't seem right."

Here, she was in complete agreement.

The Good Mother

2011-10-16T20:45:00.000-07:00

Saturday, the Matron was overcome with the urge to decorate for the upcoming holiday (Halloween - not Christmas). Now, this is not Standard Matronly Operating Procedure. Indeed, her sainted husband is the one who arranges furniture and selects drapes; even her idea of decorating for Christmas is opening the door when John brings in the tree.

But Saturday, the Matron took a look at the neighbor's yard: stark witches, ghosts, orange lights, tombstones, and spiders! She just knew there were apples to bob right on their front porch, too -- knew it without even landing an eye. One look at her own barren porch spoke volumes: her children were being deprived of their God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah given RIGHT to garish Halloween fare all over the front yard.

So she put on her best June Cleaver apron.

Matron: "Kids! Let's go into the basement and see what we can find for free Halloween fun!"

Merrick: "Awe you okay, mama?"

Scarlett: "Shouldn't we go to Target instead?"

Merrick: (honestly said this) "Okay, but do you WANT to do this or will you get cwabby?"

Frightened already (who needs Halloween when you've got the Matron!) into the basement they dove and much to the children's amazement, discovered much that could be eventually somehow with a little imagination construed as 'fun.' Forgotten treasures were unearthed -- some orange signage, lights, a witch's hat. Channeling mothers throughout time, the Matron (who actually does not even own a sewing needle because safety pins are more decorative) even created a few dozens ghosts to hang from a tree -- white plastic garbage bags scrunched into figures to hang by some string.

She was pretty darn pleased with herself. Once again, she had saved her children.

After they trotted off, she returned to the basement. Rumbling through boxes, she came across the only dolls that her oldest ever received, a beautiful Raggedy Ann and Andy given to him by his grandmother when he was just a few months old.

Tossed back a life time, the dolls made the dear Matron smile and return to those early days of babies and toddlers. Indeed, holding that Raggedy pair, her entire life as a mother flashed before her eyes.

Now, she's not sure what happened next. She really didn't think anything at all, but suddenly was overcome with a certainty -- an instinct, a drive, a compulsion -- that these dolls would make the PERFECT Halloween prop. She turned her artistic hand to the task and found it oddly, well, cathartic.

And so hanging from the front porch . . . Raggedy Ann

And her sidekick, Andy

For some strange, subterranean reason, the Matron felt that these macabre Halloween delights were . . . perfect.

She couldn't wait to show them to the children.

As Scarlett ran out the door to a neighbor's the Matron inquired: how do you like my creations?

Large shriek: "THAT IS COMPLETELY CREEPY!"

Matron: "Really? I think they look super terrific!"

Scarlett, poised on the edge of womanhood, took a good, long look at her mother and said: "No, it's creepy because YOU, a mom, did it."

Just wait, darlin' . . . she's got some plans about what to stuff with that turkey.

Stage Mother

2011-10-12T17:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes God-Oprah-Allah-Buddha-Universe just hands the Matron a blog post. So, Stage Mother will simply post a link to her daughter's big commercial. Big because it paid for the high school laptop coming next year.

Scarlett is the one in braids. Oh, how she loves to dance.

Still driving, cleaning, cooking, teaching and grading! One grain of rice at a time . . .

Buried Alive!

2011-10-10T20:14:00.000-07:00

The Matron is pretty much ready to set up camp on Mount Never-Been-Climbed-Before-And-Nobody-On-It. This way, she could have complete solitude and all the time in the world -- or on the mountain.

Wait. She's afraid of heights. And there might be nothing to blog about.

But that's the kind of peace and pace that sends her current brain cells tingling. Yes, yours truly is buried alive under another kind of mountain: family and work. She has more assignments to grade than there are days in a year and not a day goes by without approximately three hours (at least) of child driving.

So . . . hang in there. Don't forget, don't give up! This too shall pass -- hopefully as soon as week's end.

In the meantime, for entertainment watch the Just Dance 3 Best Buy commercial. See those screaming girls and the one in braids? That's Scarlett in her first 'national' appearance.

Guess who hasn't even seen it!! Time to get cable.

Wherein The Matron Cast the First Stone

2011-10-04T20:55:00.000-07:00

As of late, the Matron has been attentive to the fact that her teenage soon, He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) finds no shortage of fault in her fine self, and has no qualm about reporting said fault.

HWCBN: "Mom, do you have to hand me the milk?"

HWCBN: "Why are you carrying the laptop downstairs that way?"

HWCBN: "You should be holding both hands on the steering wheel."

The Matron does not wear Constant Critique well. She's moaned about her plight to her husband and stewed inside. She has steeled herself against emotion only to finally -- after being informed by a certain someone that chewing gum while driving MAY constitute distracted driving -- succumb to pain and fury, even begging the critic himself to just: "leave her alone!"

Of course, there are good days. She's just focusing on the bad right now. Blogs are lucky that way, these depositories.

But a funny thing happened to the Matron on her way to the pity fest. She began to notice how much she herself -- the victim, the hapless bystander, the self-sacrificial all-giving mother -- criticized herself and other people. Sometimes these were big and obvious "Those conservatives don't know WHAT they're talking about" and sometimes sort of small "John, are you sure that you left enough gas in the tank for me to get to XXX -- after all it's on E. How far can I go on that again?"

Said in a nice, passive aggressive, deeply critical way.

She noticed her own raised eyebrow at the untoward dress of a certain student, the way she sighed with exasperation when a student sent her an email addressed to "Hey!," how she queried the sanity of those slow to move when the traffic light turned green.

The Matron noticed: she herself is a bundle of Constant Critique.

For the past couple of days, she's tried something new -- if you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all. Wait! That's really old, isn't it?

Perhaps the Matron is a slow learner. But she is newly aware of the speed with which one can rush to a judgement, and how even the seemingly innocuous add up to a spate of meanness. Constant Critique.

Which, of course, extends to her critique of HWCBN's critique of HER.

See that endless cycle? Here's hoping for a little dip in the chain: less judgement, the kinder word.

What She Has Learned Thus Far

2011-09-30T20:33:00.000-07:00

Regular readers know that the Matron is also otherwise known (mostly fondly) as Queen of Hyperbole. Understanding that this role, upon occasion, renders her narrative a wee bit unsteady (she can't quite bring herself to say unreliable), here, she promises Truth.

She is in the midst of the grading equivalent of the Haitian earthquake. And, as a wise reader noted, papers suck the life right of you. Details, details, but 9 days from today, she will have read, internalized, commented on and graded 55 basic freshman comp research papers, 23 Gender Studies papers, 35 Contemporary Fiction papers, 70 research assignments, and 210 (approximately) online discussion posts.

Not that she's counting.

Part of the Matronly dilemma -- in addition to having an existential crisis that nobody but Boc seems to understand and that is why HE gets his picture on the blog -- is that her grading blitz coincides with an usually busy week of driving children. Meaning that when she should be busy whipping through essays, she's winding through traffic.

As usual, Scarlett offers herself up as the primary person in need of transportation. Thursday, the annual head shot session. Unfortunately, while an adult actor's photo may last for five years (if s/he is of durable skin and good teeth), children change yearly, thus requiring an update photo on that basis. This is a half day event. Today, she auditioned for a Disney sitcom. This, is a 20 minute event, taped in the agency and sent to Disneyland.

Should a parent let a child audition for a television show with the words Zombie and Cheerleader in the title? Let's just say this is not a rhetorical question.

But she did.

Then, there's all the driving for Mean. And the high tech Matron has actual moving human beings on her blog!! A video! The diva is the one with the glasses. The last week before opening night is tech week: long hours, high emotion, last minute changes. And PUH-LENTY of driving.

So . . . although the Matron wishes she could share a gem or two from her current crop of papers, as that would give this post a point, nothing pops out. Instead, she will leave you with her all time Favorite Student Sentence(s), submitted in a paper two years ago:

"The size of a human being depends on what size grain they eat. People in Norway eat long pasta and are big. Asians are small because they eat rice."

After pulling herself out from under her desk, the Matron simply asked the student: "You need to cite these facts with academic, peer-reviewed sources?"

What she wanted to say was: "What about couscous?"

Lost but not Forgotten

2011-09-28T20:39:00.001-07:00

Oh, faithful friends!

The Matron fell down a bit of a rabbit hole marked by her own doing. Erring on the side of rigor, her classes are heavy on the work-end for students. Because she is teaching MORE than full time this semester, taking on an extra class, and teaches writing intensive courses, yours truly finds herself with over ONE THOUSAND pieces of student work to evaluate this semester; she is currently in a cycle of about 300 of those.

Normally, this bleary task -- combined with the mind-numbing driving schedule the current play, head shots, auditions, Driver's Ed classes, debate, running club and tennis demand -- would not deter the intrepid Matron. She blogs through blizzards and lice. Papers, be damned!

But life's frenzy is coinciding with the Matronly existential crisis. She cannot decide what to do with her hair in the morning (and mascara? way too complex a decision) let alone a blog. So she took a little breather, more or less realizing one day at a time that she didn't find the time or topic to blog.

Still... . she can't quite give it up! So tonight is the toe dip back in the pond. Instead of dreaming up the perfect pithy post with a snappy closing and clear narrative? Well, she just said what's on her mind.

More of that tomorrow. But something. This blog, she is a-changin'

Enter Contest. Maybe Win $200 Gift Certificate to Best Buy. Really.

2011-09-21T19:09:00.000-07:00

Stage Mother has been absent for some time. She promises a full return within the week, with an update on Young Diva's summer exploits, upcoming shows and the big national commercial (in which she proves herself Effective in the delicate arena of squeals and giggles -- what talent).

Scarlett's upcoming show is Mean at Youth Performance Company. Now, the Matron has blogged about this show and that company before. You see, yours truly has a big old soft spot for Youth Performance Company -- YPC -- because not only is this a place for art, it's a creative autonomous, and safe space for teens.

Imagine. You're a parent. Your newly minted teenager is on the cusp of major life changes -- decisions that might have life-long consequences. New responsibilities. Challenging situations. Adult-in-training-time. And this newly minted teenager falls in with a certain kind of group.

The wrong side of the tracks? The fast crowd?

Cut to black and white film clip, 1950s. The Matron looks stylish in a June Cleaver sort of way (only without the cone-like breasts because hers are of the marshmallow-acorn variety). John has a crisp white shirt and sweater. Maybe a pipe.

Matron to John: "Honey, I'm worried about Scarlett."

John, clutching Matronly arm: "Me too! All that . . . " he breaks off, unable to continue.

Matron (frightened whisper): "Singing, dancing, and joy. I know! I know! What are we going to DO?"

The threat? A gang of theater-driven, community-minded, high-spirited and loving young people who spend their free time SINGING and DANCING, WRITING ORIGINAL PLAYS and PLANNING GOOD DEEDS.

The problems she has with this child! Co-mingling in song. Sigh.

Scarlett has just announced that Mean, which opens YPC's 23rd season on Saturday October 8 (go see it!) is Scarlett's 18th show in five years. Somebody has been counting.

Matron: "You owe your father and I $17,390 in travel expenses."

True.

But the real point of this post is in the title. YPC is asking young people (12-18) to send in 30-60 second videos documenting their own experiences with bullying -- being a bystander, bearing witness, bullying or being bullied, they want 'em all. The best few will be incorporated into the play. Everybody gets his/her name in the hat to win that $200 Best Buy Gift Certificate.

Here's the link. And the info. God-Buddha-Oprah-Universe-Allah bless the internet. And that darn crowd Scarlett has fallen into . . .

Share Your "Mean" Story

Are you between the ages of 12-18? Have you been bullied? Been a bully? Been a bystander?

YPC would like you to create a 30-60 second video that shares your personal experience with bullying. The best videos will be screened at performances of Mean, October 5-23, 2011.

Videos can be emailed to info@youthperformanceco.org (subject line - Mean Video) or uploaded to our facebook page.

Everyone who uploads a video will receive a free ticket to Mean. Also, your name will be placed in a drawing to win a $200 Best Buy gift card. (Drawing will take place on October 23rd prior to the 2pm show)

Videos & entry forms must be submitted by October 21, 2011 to be included in the drawing. Entries received after October 1st may not be screened at Mean due to time.

Warning: Cliche Ahead

2011-09-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

Do not read this post if you dislike cliches, especially if you find yourself becoming one.

Do not read this post if you are in a light-hearted, fare-thee-well mood.

Do not read this post if today's blog reading time allotment is 30 seconds per post.

There. Forewarned.

As many regular readers may have noticed, the Matronly output has taken a dramatic down spurt over the past few months. On the one hand, those quirky family stories only go so far and now that the older children have gone all Private on their mother, she is left only with Merrick for the main family fodder. Frankly, he is not that interesting. Cute, yes. Enough to fill a blog? No.

But there's a larger problem. She has trouble dredging up interest in her very own fine life. Indeed, a thin veil of discontent has shrouded yours truly for the pats few months and she finally put her finger on it.

This vague, gnawing discontent immediately spawned a few wonderful changes in day-to-day life. Feeling something dark licking at her heels, the Matron curbed a few bad habits and instilled some new ones. She stopped drinking, as the nightly wine was more a necessity than a treat. Her eating habits took a dramatic turn for the better; no more Snickers bars for lunch. She began exercising daily again after a year in which the workout had become the exception rather than the rule. The meditation pillow came out! She blew off the dust and sat her increasingly fit butt right on it, more than once. When she thought about loving-kindness, she actually practiced it, and her household grew more peaceful. So transformed, her skin cleared up and the skinny jeans from high school slipped over her hips once again.

Lots to be happy about: better health, better body, happier family, shiny skin.

Right?

Wrong.

In just two months, the Matron will pen in the number '49' on any pesky form asking her age. Here's cliche number one: she's well aware that she's fallen into the classic well of worry about marking middle age. Her strategy was to take herself in hand. Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah that she doesn't have bunch of cash or she may have purchased a red Corvette.

She can still pull off braids and ponytails and doesn't have any gray hair. Tenure? Nailed! The children are happy and by any measure, successful. There's not much money, but she can still afford to splurge at the thrift store and keep the dogs living the lifestyle to which they are accustomed.

But this, friends, is not enough.

A few weeks ago, HWCBN was bemoaning the plight of American life. Indeed, he could have been a co-writer for American Beauty, when he bitterly observed that his own shining future might very well simply hold a job, bills, mortgage and diapers -and not much else, unless he made something happen.

HWCBN: "That's it? That's what we get out of life? Get up and go to work everyday, pay bills, maybe go to church to pray for something better after you die and then do it all again next week?"

Of course, during her son's existential moment, the Matron said all the right words. No, she exclaimed, there is much more to life! You can make the world a better place for your presence in it, create art, invent new technologies, start political movements -- follow the dream, my darling. Don't settle.

You know where this is going.

Cliche Number Two: the Matron has not been following her own advice. And despite the bounce in her newly toned-up step and astounding job security, she is not happy.

She finally put her finger on it -- not happy. Life is often too mundane to blog about. Not that Scarlett isn't exciting: indeed, you may soon see her face plastered all over national TV (more on that later and it's just a commercial) and HWCBN is quite literally a blur as he launches into adulthood.

Merrick can read.

Exciting.

But that's not her life. That's theirs. She understands the difference and cliche, cliche, cliche, wants to head into the late half of her life knowing that she hasn't squandered this great gift. She wishes children were sufficient fuel for the fire in that belly, but they're not -- at least not in hers.

Cliche, cliche, but . . . it's time for a change. A return, perhaps. For the Matron was happiest when engaged, full-throttle, with a cause larger than herself. From running political campaigns to environmental organizations to writing novels, she's been at her best while producing something more enduring than a paycheck or offspring.

She's not sure what that change will mean. There's a book project winking at her from a shelf, something she never has 'time' for. She's always been meaning to apply for that Fulbright. She's been invited to write a play for a local theater company and well, just never gets around to it. Why can't she start her own non-profit and find a way to more directly do good in the world? Certainly, this change isn't an overnight decision, but a process.

The one thing she knows is that she'll take her family with her. Don't worry John. She's not slinking off with someone younger. At least she has sense enough to know that cliche is not very becoming.

Long, long ago, her younger self read a review of a slim book of poetry in the New York Times. The reviewer marveled at the raw rare beauty of the poems, mourned the fact that the writer only produced this one tiny volume before dying, too young, in her late thirties. What a loss, he proclaimed! If only this writer had given us more before her time ran out! The world would be better, he concluded, for the grace of her work in the world.

His advice to the rest of us?

"Know when it's time to skip the party, and write the poems."

Indeed.

The Matron and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2011-09-14T20:05:00.000-07:00

Let's just say this picture is indicative of the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day.

True. The Matron thought she was uploading a picture of the book (you know the book) and this is what she got: someone's kitten. That's the sort of day she had so she's leaving the photo as a sort of tribute.

True. Everything happened, as reported below.

The Matron woke up at 5:15 am after retiring at nearly midnight. This does not bode well. She trips on the 80 lb coon hound, drops her glasses and is reminded that the dog's name is Big Old Canine. She regrets giving children permission to name pets. She regrets having children who must wake up at 5:45 am on school days.

No toilet paper in the bathroom. The lip balm is empty. Because the tea kettle cover is broken and she forgets, she burns her hand. When it's time to shower, there's no shampoo. She wrote a check for HWCBN to take to school only to learn that John had already taken care of this.

She tried to call one of the children's school to leave a message for the science teacher. After the fourth attempt and a series of strange alerts and perhaps a recording from India, she gives up.

She slogs through student papers, an always rewarding activity peppered with unsigned emails like this: 'give me point on quiz.' One of the keys on her computer keypad pops off. No super glue available. The meeting she scheduled an entire afternoon around is cancelled, meaning she must go to campus for the more or less unimportant series of little meetings she scheduled AROUND and BECAUSE OF the big important meeting.

When she puts on her tights, the toe rips. Oh well.

The Matron quickly checks her horoscope. Things are not lining up, stars! All she gets is a warning to be on time so she hustles out the door, superstition shrouded on her shoulders.

No gas in van. She forgot. For the first time in four years, she cannot find a parking space on campus. Note to self: be grateful for those four years of easy parking.

First meeting goes fine although her exhaustion means she is unusually bubbly and full of inappropriate personal anecdotes. Oh well. Decides to interpret quizzical looks from her colleagues as awe.

Next, she must kill half an hour until the next meeting but is denied internet access -- on her own campus. The library doesn't have the movie she needs for tomorrow's class.

The next meeting takes on more of a therapeutic tenor as the person in charge of all campus secretaries gently alerts the Matron to the fact that she is constitutionally incapable of asking her own secretary to do anything, even make copies, and that this is actually an intervention.

Kill an hour for the final meeting with an online student. . . who is 15 minutes late for a 15 minute meeting for which the Matron waited an hour. The student has but one question which requires a one sentence response. Then the student wants to talk about her family.

The ten minute drive home takes 50 minutes because of construction. While parked on the freeway she exits the van to get a book from the back and loses the fake pearl on her favorite ring. It is somewhat soothing to watch this pearl roll down the freeway.

Throughout, she is very, very hungry but also has to pee every ten minutes because of all the coffee she's drinking to keep herself awake.

The four hour jaunt to and from campus is four hours without grading nearly 100 papers and now it is time to drive Scarlett to Minneapolis in rush hour traffic. The internet connection where she waits for the diva does not work.

These are small things, she knows. And -- friends, she wishes you could see her hand over her heart as she swears this is true -- as she types this she can hear the mole that now lives somewhere in this house rustling under the kitchen sink. How she made this mole's acquaintance and why it remains alive to commune with the mice is tomorrow's post.

Who needs fiction?

But everyone needs inspiration, especially on a Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day. And oh yes, downloading that video didn't work.

She is rounding up the mole, the dog, and the acne cream and going to bed.

Putting the Destination Back in Drive

2011-09-12T18:06:00.000-07:00

Oh, the Matron woke up with a dark cloud around her. Not just dark -- a really menacing swirl of steel gray, accentuated by swirls of angry red.

You see, she woke with road rage, without even entering the road. Indeed, she was still in her very fine soft king-size bed, replete with down comforter and pillow, yet she managed to HURL herself instantly onto the very freeway she resented.

For this is one of many weeks of the road. Three kids and only one can take a bus to school. The other two must be driven, with conveniently incompatible end-times, meaning kicking around forty minutes a day with Merrick (let's just say the Matron has plans to only do errands during that time). Since all the school start times stagger and the one bus that does arrive does so at the CRACK of dawn, the Matron will be up from 5:15 am until the last one is dropped off at school at 8:30 am. Then, HWCBN is still the master of debate, requiring transportation three days a week instead of the bus home and Scarlett has daily rehearsals from 4:30 to 6:30 and this week, is taping a commercial, which not only means driving but interminable amounts of waiting around with people who are justifiably wary of the parents on the set, and therefore exercise self-protection against eye contact.

Oh, and then there's the drive to work, the orthodontist, the errands, the playdates for Merrick and you get the drill. Her life is probably like yours: the minivan is actually a complete home, with food, blankets, jackets, wipes and water.

But something strange happened to the Matron while she scowled at the ceiling of her bedroom. She suddenly remembered a lovely essay she'd been reading last night, a bit of wisdom inspired by William James and others of the theological elk. The kernel of wisdom from the essay bit into the center of the cloud (drat, she hates it when that happens) and in a heartbeat, there was a cool gray mist, clearing, instead of the iron gray.

Fellow travelers on those roads with children -- soccer practice, violin, gymnastics, college, dentist, grocery store -- she knows you want that nugget of wisdom!

The essay posited (see how she uses words like 'posited in blog posts? her dissertation adviser would either be proud of horrified) that spiritual conversions require but a single element: that the destination of one's life and the pathways there -- windy, non-linear roads -- are fueled and defined by what's sacred. To you. So if art is sacred, spirit or God or creativity, that your destination in life is fueled and defined by art, and what you do in your day-to-day life feeds into that, reflects and is steeped in respect for, pursuit of, joy in, art. Even if this means whistling Dixie while you do the dishes . . . well, you sometimes have to look for the sacred. If you're living the life toward your destination, organically, the sacred is already there.

The Matron isn't entirely sure how she would define sacred for herself: the destination and its pathways. But she has a vague, visceral understanding that there is something divine in all of us and that divinity manifests itself in unknowable, unimaginable ways -- and this is something sacred. So is art. Justice and its unwavering pursuit, too.

But while art felt elusive on I-94 (and 494W, 35w South, 494 E, Highway 5, Shepherd Road and 280, all of which felt the weight of her wheels today), divinity sat in the back seat with Lays potato chips and a root beer. And sometimes even smiled back at her and asked what was for dinner and did it look like rain?

Ah, that cloud. Pink now and steady, a heartbeat.

Gift

2011-09-09T18:26:00.000-07:00

When the Matron was a Wee Miss, she begged her mother for stories -- stories about her own mother, and the mysterious ancient childhood she had.

Wee Miss: "Mama? Tell me. What did you wear on your first day of school?"

"Did you ever have a picnic?"

"Would you eat soup with a big spoon or a little one?"

"Did you have a dog? A cat? A bird?"

"Who was your best friend?"

But Wee Miss's mama could never remember. As We Miss grew, she stopped asking. She knew there would be no stories, not the kind she wanted. Because she didn't care about family reunions or what the neighbors did but WHO this woman was as a girl. Who was her mama?

That question, for the Matron, remains unanswered.

Perhaps this is why she is fast and loose with her offer of stories.

Matron: "Merrick, would you like to hear about the time I got lost walking home from first grade?"

Merrick: "Not weally."

Matron: "Scarlett, let me tell you about the WORST slumber party I ever went to when I was a kid!"

Scarlett: "Uh . . . that's okay, Mom. I'm reading."

Sigh.

Matron: "Boy, I remember how scared I was when I learned how to drive!"

HWCBN: "Seriously? You're telling me this?"

Triple sigh, literally.

Now, the Matron is married to a wise man. An observant man. One day after attempting to download key childhood memories onto Merrick, she pouted about the futility of the effort to her husband.

Matron: "Why aren't they interested in my stories?"

John: "They don't need stories. They already know you."

If that's a spin on the situation, she'll take it.

Take Away Teaching Moments 101

2011-09-07T09:56:00.001-07:00

A mosaic, of sorts, of instructive moments this far into the semester.

First, background. The Matron is teaching not one, but four, of her five classes online. Someday she'll post about the merits of online life (she loves it) but today, some of the little thorns on that computer screen. Students and instructors alike tremble before the Matronly syllabus: 17 pages long, replete with assignments, links, guidelines, schedules, etc. It is a semester in a snapshot. She's organized (ahem, nice word for obsessive) that way.

So she can forgive the occasional oversight, the missed bit of information. And does forgive.

But still . . . three weeks in? Time to at least understand some fundamentals, condensed here:

1. Don't email with a general question about the class. Ask these on the classroom discussion board.

2. Don't send an unsigned email message. It's impossible to know who you are from the email address (this one is important for obvious reasons)

3. Don't ask your instructor to manually regrade the automated quiz to give you points for misspelled words or other small mistakes you make: if the answer is wrong, it's wrong. Spelling and following instructions are part of the assessment.

With that . . . a few humorous gems, recounted with love (after all, the Matron has made her own errors, including once DELETING an entire online constellation of graded student papers).

So putting herself on equally flawed footing, let's start with her personal favorite, unsigned and simple: "Send me syllabus."

Sure! What class are you in (which syllabus?) and who are you? Helpful details can be so annoying. Let's not even aim for niceties like salutations or thank you. Plus, there's the fact that the syllabus is not 'sent' but lives in the online classroom already.

Here's another, unsigned: "I spilled Columbia like Culumbia on the quiz and need that point back." Sure! And you are? What quiz? Which class? She actually gets several of these a week.

From a student removed from the class for non-participation: "I have had the flu for two and a half weeks but am fine now. Sorry. You can put me back in the class now." Okay, thanks. She'll get right on it.

Three dead relatives the day before the first assignment was due.

"I need a paper topic. Thanks!"

Then, in her on-the-ground class -- that lovely group who didn't know anything about the 1960s --, the Matron mentioned that she was just a few days (okay, 462 days) short of her fiftieth birthday. Not that she's counting.

She let that little bomb drop carefully, aiming for an onslaught of "wow you look amazing and you CANNOT be nearly fifty or "but you wear skinny jeans and heels" shrieks. Yes, shrieks. That's what she imagined.

Instead, silence.

Sigh . . .

As the Semester Turns

2011-09-05T12:48:00.000-07:00

Who does the Matron thank for this?

Her usual deity: God-Oprah-Buddha-Allah-Universe? The astrological stars? Perhaps some karma in a former life?

For the past couple of years, disaster besets the Matron at the beginning and end of every semester. Most memorably, she clearly remembers perching at HWCBN's bedside post-appendectomy, frantically entering grades online while waiting for her firstborn to emerge from anesthesia.

HWCBN: "Mom? You're here? I never knew you would do something like this. Thank you!"

The Matron resisted the urge to bop him over the head and say: "I'd die for you, dummy! This just requires sitting!" Instead she handed him ice chips.

But more predictable, the precursor to more than one new semester or the capstone to the end, when grades and papers are due? Ah, memories. This scene broke two days before the semester dawned, just a couple of years ago.

Scarlett: "Mom? My head itches."

No worries. After all, this is a child with a history. Her throat hurts, her head aches, her legs become cement. The stomach? This entity carries the weight of the world. Head itching seemed? Dandruff, no doubt.

Merrick: "Mom? Something is cwaling in my eaw."

This gets Instant Attention from the mama.

And so, began the Lice Chronicles-- replete with laundry, head scrubbing, combing, drama, pain, hours of internet research and the best comb and product -- and said Chronicles popped like book-ends around a busy Matronly academic schedule.

Reader? Girlfriend (and neighbor)?

You know where this is going.

Two days before school starts, right after being tucked into the parental "Big Bed" as a treat, Merrick bolts up and scratches his head.

Merrick: "I have lice!"

He was right. Yes, the critters have descended once again up the cursed household. After all, who wouldn't want to spend four hours combing hair and eight hours doing laundry for three holiday weekend days? While immersed in the frenetic psychological school preparation.

And even though Merrick is the only person hosting a colony, yours truly has treated her head not once, but twice (thanks Cetaphil) and plans to wear a plastic shower cap around the house for a month.

School starts tomorrow!

Prehistoric Matron

2011-09-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

The Matron LOVES her Gender and Women Studies class! In fact, the Matron LOVES the entire GWS department -- because she is the only person in it! Yes, yours truly gets to play Department Czar. Good times. What's not to love about Total Control (okay, okay, within institutional guidelines), her favorite state of being.

Most of all, she loves her students. This class is, coincidentally or not, entirely female. They are mostly young -- certainly, all younger than she is. With just 20, she can do more than memorize names but actually know people. Amazing, all around.

Just two weeks in, the students are lapping it all up: feminist theory, Marxism, post-structuralism, all drawn in introductory, broad Matronly strokes designed for the eager but uninitiated. Wonderful. All is good. There is much discussion of 'micropolitics' and how those everyday exchanges regarding gender, sexual preference, class and race are related to and help create larger social and economic processes and ideologies. Perfect attendance and nobody bolts for the door the second the class leaves.

Today, the discussion turned toward identity politics.

Matron (note the careful use of 'in part' which is a handy phrase in case you forget something or get it partly right): "Identity politics, in part, grew out of the political movements of the 1960s and early 70s. Political, economic and social change was changed fueled by activists' identification with a certain group of people: African-American and to a less visible and less applauded extent all other groups of non-white people, female, workers, etc. This is a generalization, but whereas we see a lot of political fervor today about the economy, in the sixties there was political fervor over identity and the rights of people defined by certain identities."

Silence.

Student raises hand: "Do you mean the NINETEEN sixties or an earlier century?"

Here, picture the Matron with raised eyebrows, lecture paused.

Matron: "Of course, the 1960s. Everyone here is familiar with the political upheavals and social transformation of the sixties and early seventies, right?"

Silence.

Matron, who is a big believer in cutting to the chase in the classroom: "Who here has never ever heard of an era called 'the sixties' and the political changes that happened then?"

Every hand shoots up.

Guess who is constructing a history lesson about waaaaaaaaaaaay back when in the last century and feeling like the dinosaur who belongs there.

Last of the Bunch

2011-08-30T21:38:00.001-07:00

As of 1:02 a.m. on Saturday, August 27, the Matron has two teenagers in the house.

He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) is well into that tumultuous decade -- he will, in fact, soon begin the art of Driver's Education. Be still, Matronly heart! She won't indulge in driving jokes as she's pretty sure you've heard them all and, like her, been taken aback on the freeway when noticing that the driver beside her appears to be, uh, ten.

HWCBN also has gainful employment. He is building computer networks, web sites, and actual computers after resourcefully posting an ad in a neighborhood online site. That boy has been busy! He also spent a month in Chicago and officially towers above his mother. College? Already a topic of conversation and a light on the horizon. Three years go fast in mother years (sorta like dog years only twice as speedy).

Scarlett is the new teenager. She's been remarkable since she was 8 and landed her first show. This is the child with an agent, big ticket theater credentials and head shots. And her own blog. Having been graced with that great female gift, Uterine Tracking Device (UTD), she can locate any lost sock, shoe, toy, ball or book in the house -- just like her mother. Her father, the Official Laundry Man of the household, can no longer distinguish between his daughter's clothes and his wife's.

John holding up pair of black stretch pants: "You? Scar? How can you tell?"

Matron: "My pants aren't quite so ornamental. Notice the glittery stars up and down the leg?"

John: "Uh, no."

Honey, that's because you are a MAN.

But with all this grown up fuss -- the newly minted teenager daughter just back from New York and the eldest of the pack headed out daily for his job -- somebody got lost in the Big Kid Shuffle.

Merrick: "I'm bowed."

He is eight. His brother is wiring invisible elements into something that will someday be called a hard drive and his sister is at rehearsal for the next play. Even if they were home, they are slowly fading into something elusive: more thoughtful, quieter people who resemble adults more than children. His world is still being 'security' for his dogs (Merrick looks good wearing a badge and a Nerf gun while walking Satan's Familiar) and climbing halfway up the tree.

So abandoned -- and in ways he cannot yet appreciate but are just emerging -- Merrick has taken to hanging around his mother more. Today, he pined in her office as she tried to type out comments on student work.

Merrick: "SIGH."

He languished. Moaned. Stared pitifully out the window.

Merrick: "Mom? Do you have time to take me to the cownew stowe and buy a suckew?"

Matron: "Hmmmm. . . . I'm working."

This time the sigh was genuine and it pierced her concentration. And heart. What's 15 minutes in mama years?

Not only did she take him to the corner store, she did the UNHEARD of and drove the three blocks, letting Merrick sit for the first time in: the front seat. Yes! She threw the air bag warnings to the wind for three two mile an hour blocks and let her baby get a taste -- a tiny taste -- of big kid life. He loved it.

They chatted about the different view, the texture of the seat, the way the window worked. They commented on the lollipop options or lack-there-of and settled on lemon drops. Landscape changes in the neighbor's yard were duly noted.

Best three blocks this mama has had in a long, long time. She wishes those fifteen minutes really felt like years. Just flying.

The Final Stop

2011-08-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

Let's turn the last corner on the Matronly ride through her defects and shortcomings. Mind you, this is not self-flagellation. The human condition = shortcomings, flaws. And certainly, three little blog posts aren't enough to romp through all of the Matron's.

But she's ready to move onto brighter things. Fickle that way. Sigh . . .another shortcoming.

The last hurrah here is gluttony.

Gluttony. Not a word heard much these days.

Friend to Matron: "How are you?"

Matron: "Suffering! I just feel like such a glutton."

And she would be meaning shoes, not donuts.

Shoes or books, jeans, mugs, earrings, rings, purses, scarves, vitamins, socks, tights, dog collars, combs or anything else that shines at a certain moment: BUY ME.

Because gluttony is not limited to food and drink. No, gluttony includes excessive consumption of 'wealth items.' (thanks wikipedia -- but don't tell her students that she used a less than stellar source).

Now, she wonders what exactly constitutes a 'wealth item'? And what is excessive consumption? You all know what gluttony means: too much. When that too much is ingested, the body -- without moral compass or discernment -- knows. Ugh. Too full, too fat, too floppy, too wired, too tipsy or just, well, stuffed.

But stuff is another matter entirely. How many jackets are enough? (remember this is Minnesota). Of course, a nice orange fleece that's sort of dressy will look lovely for work -- and it's SO unique. She has nothing like it. Then what about running out the door? That lovely piece is eggshell blue but also looks toasty warm; what an unusual combination! Basic black? Must have. Gray hoodie? Who in America doesn't own one?

Just yesterday, the Matron stood at her favorite thrift store (ValuThrift) and contemplated a brand new designer sweater set, white with faux pearls and very pretty, on sale for the whopping price of $4.97 -- something that probably soars close to $70 in the store. A deal! A steal! Who wouldn't take it! Now, the Matron normally DOES buy with this mind: "How much am I saving? What a steal!"

Less frequently does she ask herself if she really needs it.

But this time, she did. Her mind limped over the clothes rack. How many sweaters exactly like this one but just a different color? A quick scan popped up a pink, three blue, two black, one gray, one green, one rose with flowers, a cream with red embroidery, and a silver.

So the real question was: does she need one more color of the nearly exact same sweater (we're talking your basic 1950s button up the front, carry along for if you're cold).

It nearly KILLED her to pass up another opportunity to flaunt a good deal in front of anyone who would listen, but pass, she did. But the agony of it all -- the desire! the decision! the drama! -- made her realize just how connected she is to STUFF.

Cheap stuff, thrift stuff, organic stuff, fair trade stuff, locally grown and animal-cruelty free stuff? Sure. But all the progressive politics in the world can --and now, often do -- result in more stuff, stuff, stuff.

Gluttony. Ah, gluttony, she says with a smile, happy for the choice of pajamas and a blue or red popcorn bowl. She's not sure if that's something one gives up or is an essential part of middle-class America.

And the Fun Continues

2011-08-24T20:43:00.001-07:00

Don't you wish you had some wine at this party?

For those new to the week, the Matron is up to her eyeballs in introspection. Be very, very glad that you do not live with her.

Yesterday, the Matron acknowledged that she has no intentions of relinquishing Magical Thinking, even though 'vainglory,' as such pleasant ruminations were known in the fourth century, is possibly a deadly sin.

Wait. Can a sin be deadly? Think about that for a minute. You sin, you die? Hmmm . . .seems like you don't sin and you die, too. So she proposes the Seven Deadly Virtues. That's not cynicism, folks. That's living in reality.

Because she would rather spend her time embodying deadly virtues than deadly sins, the Matron took a good hard look at her most tenacious, unrelenting unpleasant tendency: envy.

Friend: "I lost weight! I'd kill my toddler for her cookie, but I'm back to a size 6."

Matron: "You look great!" * inside -- Hey! I wanna lose weight too, loser (even though yours

truly does not actually NEED to lose weight, she still feels envy). Pathetic.

*~*~

Neighbor: "How do you like our new car?"

Matron: "It's great!" * inside -- how she HATES the van with the peace signs and 150 thousand miles with its clumpy rods and clanks. Why can't SHE have a new car?

*~*~*~

Parent: "Little Angel Boo just won a scholarship and placed second in state in dance, football and speech!"

Matron: "Oh that's so great!" * inside -- oh GOD her children are going to be utter failures . . .why can't one of them place somewhere, in something?

~*~*~

Now, please. Don't misread this as a pity fest, starring yours truly. She has a beautiful, lucky life, even and perhaps especially with its problems. She knows that. Neither is this hyperbole or an unduly harsh self-examination. The Matron, with her lovely life, is often jealous. Period. This is a fact and on that level, neither necessarily good nor bad.

But this habit, as of late, is making her unhappy.

It is unpleasant and unsatisfying to want. Wanting what other people have -- especially not even knowing you want it until someone else has it -- is not only unsatisfying but isolating. Even though part of you celebrates (yay Angel Boo!) another, hidden and lonely part, festers. It doesn't matter if the festering mess is a small bit, easily brushed up after some self-recrimination - it still exists.

Got more money, more publications, more children, more blog readers, more professional prestige, more good karma, more land, more dogs, more shoes (gasp!), more sleep, more confidence, more muscle than the Matron? She is envious.

For the Matron, envy is tied to ambition and desire -- the dreams she has of being 'just so.' This 'just so,' at least the dream, includes a lot of things which currently do not define her. Still, she aspires and as she ages those aspirations are changing from things quite material in nature to states of being and acceptance.

One of those aspirations is to shed some of the longing, release the tendency toward wanting what isn't hers, to stop comparing herself (favorably or unfavorably) to others.

Because really? The thing she tells her children is true: there is no comparison. Look in the mirror at what you were given. And that's really all there is, and even this face in the mirror exists just for the briefest snap in time.

Don't Read This Book

2011-08-23T21:32:00.001-07:00

That is, unless you want to be thrust into the introspective state the Matron is currently occupying.

She is reading The Spirituality of Imperfection, by Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketcham (and if it wasn't 11:40 pm, she'd add a pretty picture of the cover -- hopefully words will suffice).

This is one of the most though-provoking books she has read in a long, long time. It is both uplifting and sobering. Just like life.

Yours truly is currently traipsing through a section on fourth century monk Evagrius Ponticus. She dares anyone to add Evagrius to their list of potential baby names. Anyway, long before it became stylish, Evagrius thought to spoil all fun by creating the list that preceded -- and perhaps inspired -- the seven deadly sins. He detailed these sins not as 'sins' of action, but as wrong ways of seeing and being in the world, loosely collected under the master title of "logismos." Logismos "involves choosing to see the bad -- bad in the sense of unreal, not fitting reality. Old Evagrius was a little more complex than outlining Bad Things Not to Do but instead painted an entire erroneous reality, one based on self-centered longing and flagellation.

His "traps of thinking"?

Gluttony

Fornication (as in obsession with body parts not love, love between a couple)

Avarice

Envy

Anger

Acedia (listlessness)

Vainglory ("daydreaming about one's magnificence and imagined glory")

Pride

This list gave the Matron pause. Because she herself is writ large within it.

Vainglory? Why, one of the Matron's favorite activities is daydreaming and boy, oh boy, is she magnificent and glorious in those fantasies. Indeed, she cultivates these, exercises by them, indulges in little doses of unreality by imagining herself Famous, Rich, and Cultivated. It does not escape her that Fame is one of Merrick's most valued aspirations.

Merrick: "Mom? If I buy a winning lottery ticket will I be famous?"

Matron: "Not the dollar kind."

Merrick: "Oh. How can I get famous? Will it happen quick?"

Ah, what a good little American she's raising. Yet not only does she share Merrick's peephole into the world of plentiful attention, she actively daydreams about it. Only her fame isn't the Entertainment Tonight kind.

Instead, one of the Matron's fondest daydreams? She's at Whole Foods, at the checkout line. For some archaic reason, she writes a check or the cashier actually looks at the name on her card.

Cashier (instantly humbled and awed): "Are you Mxx Matron, the writer?"

Matron (feigning same humility): "Yes."

Cashier: the following is too long for dialogue as a cascade of accolades and admirations follow, wherein the Matron's work is noted as superb and of course, the cashier's favorite.

Sigh. All it takes is one person to make her day.

But the Matron has long been a fan of Magical Thinking, her name for this pleasure. While she's once again taking herself in hand -- or at least observing her actions --in regard to the rest of Evagrius' list, she can't help but wonder: what harm?

For the time being, she plans to stick with the Magical Thinking and maybe call it Creative Visualization (thank you, Shakti Gawain) so then it will be all right.

But envy? Another, less frivolous story. Coming tomorrow in the week of introspection.

Monday, Meditation

2011-08-22T15:09:00.000-07:00

Lovely Ladies (and man -- hello neighbor!).

Thank you for your kind words last week (Jan -- see message to you in comments).

After some respite and deep tissue digging, the Matron has found strength anew. That deep tissue digging meant poking through those psychological nooks and crannies. And the Matron was humbled by what she found there.

Seriously.

In all honesty, the Matron has been in a contemplative phase. Introspective. Quieter than normal. Happy to not be the center of attention (trust her, that phase would be new indeed). Part of her blogging ennui was reticence. It's easy to whip out funny -- and mostly true, thank you life -- stories about children, dogs, and daily dramas, but more difficult to hit the mark when the mark feels, well, more personal.

Welcome to the week of introspection. She plans to exorcise a few demons.

Sick of Herself (sorta)

2011-08-16T20:33:00.001-07:00

The Matron is experiencing a wee bit of blog ennui. Excuse her while she looks in some cognitive nooks and crannies to see if there's anything interesting behind those cobwebs.

She may even resort to the dreaded horsemen of conversation: taxes, death, religion and politics. Largely because she has much to say about the last two topics (thanks Michele Bachmann, for being from Minnesota) and her own fine self is seeming pretty, well, bland these days.

Plus, having been through the 'don't blog about me' morass with HWCBN, the Matron has come to fully realize that Scarlett -- who is decidedly NOT bland and was sort of born to be the subject of scrutiny and center of attention -- is of an age where the things about which the mother is concerned (or even simple observations) suddenly do not make appropriate blogging material. A little phone call fodder? Fine. But the real stuff? Hands off, Mom.

Hmmmm . . . what's a die-hard blogger (celebrating four years in September) to do? She thinks she's entirely too normal. Perhaps some bad behavior or existential drama is in order; the former will definitely elicit comments.

Bear with her. She may return to Actual Student Emails for awhile, pretend Merrick is much more interesting than he is, or feign some illicit activity about which to blog.

Crossroads or the four year itch. . . sigh.

Yesterday, over two hundred people visited this little-blog-that-could. What would YOU like to read about? Remember, this is a family blog, prime time and all that. Sorry, John.

For This She's Paying X Thousand Dollars?

2011-08-15T07:09:00.000-07:00

Please excuse the Matron's absence. She's been on the phone.

Now, when HWCBN absconded to Northwestern Debate Institute -- for a month -- she experienced this dearth of communication, despite the fact that debate participants had unlimited access to their cell phones.

Here is the Matron, texting her beloved offspring: "hi honeyu how is ur day goong?"

Two days of silence later, she receives this: "When are you going to learn how to use the key pad on your cell phone? I'm fine. Bye."

She tries again, more carefully: "Eating okay? Do you guys go out a lot? Things here are good. Merrick got a hamster and no dog has eaten it yet. We named it Omar."

Four days later: "Send a picture of Omar. Thanks!"

Now, the Matron will admit that she grew to enjoy this pattern. Sure, she missed her guy. If you stumbled across her doing dishes, running errands, working on a syllabus or any other mundane task, the thought of HWCBN would pour through her, eliciting a warm, nostalgic sentiment. She missed him. But this was not a searing, all consuming pain but more like a wistful --even pleasant -- ache laced with the certainty and contentment that he would soon return.

She rather enjoyed having just two children to drive and administer.

Then Scarlett went to camp.

This is a three week theater fest with NO CELL PHONES for the first week. Campers receive their beloved lines to the outside world on the first Sunday at 8 pm Eastern time.

Here in the Midwest, the phone rang at precisely 7:02.

Scarlett: "Mom!! Where's my package of food? The food is horrible! I'm in a really good play and I play a whole bunch of roles and I'm the youngest one here and one of my cabin mates might be on Annie on Broadway because the directors are coming here tomorrow and she's Annie here and she's really good and some of these kids are amazing singers and what is Merrick doing RIGHT NOW? How's Boc? Did you take the dogs to the dog park today? What are you doing? We had roast beef for dinner but remember I'm a vegetarian and we have a volleyball tournament coming up. What's a WASP? We're going to dress like WASPs because there's a contest and that relates to who we are in my play and . . . "

Her daughter! The Matron could not get enough! This was what camp communication was supposed to be like, the breathless call, the excitement, the flood of news! After a week of silence she relished the conversation. Was thrilled she could be of actual assistance from a distance: "A WASP is an acronym for White Anglo-Saxon Protestants and you can think of it as privileged uptight white people who are conservative in their social values and probably political values too."

Scarlett: "Like cousin Janet?"

Matron: "Exactly."

Scarlett: "I have to go! But we have break times at 10:30 am, 4:00, and 9:00 and I'll be sure to call then. Write me everyday. I'll call!"

And she is. Every day, at every opportunity.

Now, do not misunderstand the Matron. She delights in her daughter. She thinks Scarlett one of the most amazing, talented and gracious creatures currently occupying the planet.

But. Doesn't sending your child to a three week (expensive) residential camp somehow imply an ABSENCE of said child -- who is supposed to be having an amazing experience in independence, autonomy, friendship and community? Instead of this:

Scarlett: "Oh, it's raining today." Silence.

Matron: "Raining? Really? Oh, that's too bad." Silence.

Over the past two weeks, the Matron has spent more time in dialogue with this child than when she was just ten feet away. It is just 9:30 on Monday morning as she types this, and there has already been one communique. At home? She's said two words to Merrick who is watching TV and HWCBN is still in bed. Silence.

She's even tried not answering the telephone if she's genuinely busy (as in that full time job which requires actual brain space and time).

Answering Machine Clicks On: "Family? This is Scarlett! Where are you? I'm going to lunch in a few minutes but now I'll be TOTALLY traumatized by the fact that I can't reach anyone in my family. It will be hard to eat with all that anxiety. Bye."

And guess who made SURE her daughter packed that cell phone charger? Sigh . . .

Magical Thinking

2011-08-08T21:15:00.001-07:00

From time to time, people ask Matron key life questions:

"How do you maintain the same weight for thirty years?"

"What do you do to escape?"

"How do you handle anger?"

"Why do you fear death?"

Conveniently -- and perhaps quite unusually -- the Matron has a single answer for all four of these vital queries.

Her brain.

Weight? The Matron is an avid exercise devotee. This is no secret. She rises at an early hour, hits the elliptical or the streets. Then she stretches, lifts weights. The outside actions are obvious, but it is that internal driver, the motivation to get up when it's still dark and to pound the pavement or pads until spent -- that's the key. No, it's not just a drive toward health or figure, but the sheer unadulterated pleasure of spending time alone with HER BRAIN.

You see, while the Matron exercises, she indulges in Magical Thinking. During her exercise sessions, she wins the lottery. This started out as a paltry one million; now she's up to 350 million -- a truly staggering, limitless amount of cash that would allow her to achieve fame by being the BIGGEST lottery winner and have the capacity to solve most of the world's problems.

In her mind, she dishes out that money, million by million. There's a running list of what relatives would get, how much each kid inherits, what the new houses will cost, the foundation she will start and how she personally will feed most of the starving children. You ask how she can run four to five miles daily?

Friends, who wants to walk away from 350 million dollars? Because that lush fantasy -- so real, so perfected, so coddled and carefully fostered -- ends the minute her run does.

Escape? Why, here's where the brain brings her fame and leisure. She posits herself in exotic places she has never seen (exotic to her of course and not the people who actually live there): China, India, Hawaii, Spain. In each, she sets herself up in some stunning residence that generally involves solitude and a library. In these voyages, she is a World Famous Writer. Manuscripts drip off of her fingers during her three hours of writing time each morning. The rest of the day she reads.

Sometimes, often, in the midst of such fantasy, she is pulled back to the Real World. It is genuinely painful.

Anger? Easy. She makes things (and people) explode. Car cuts off the Matronly mini-van (with its ironic peace sign)? She imagines the offending vehicle spontaneously combusting. Fenders, headlights, doors, seats: BOOM. The entire thing in flames with lots of special effects and soaring parts. People, institutions, buildings, letters, legal systems are all at risk. Boom.

Sorry, innocent bystanders.

And then the death thing. . . the Matron's brain brings her much joy, mental health (well, sort of) solitude, pleasure and entertainment. It pains her to realize that she will leave such riches all behind.

Indeed, that thought requires an immediate trip to Barcelona. Lovely how she can visit there while snuggled in bed.

In Honor of Her 1147th Post

2011-08-05T21:54:00.001-07:00

Every hundred posts or so, the Matron rolls out an early blog entry -- written before her third person persona was fully realized. This time, she actually missed the landmark that is Post 1100 and is actually already on 1147! But every 100 or so, the diva of prose falls back on an old favorite.

This is an actual God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe conversation that took place between the deeply self-involved Matron and one of her best friends. She knows most of you have seen this, but every 100 posts or so she needs to put her feet up and gasp.

Over a Thousand Posts!

Really, this blog might be her third novel!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I had lunch with a friend yesterday.

As in a member of the Top Five Friends, the first you call on the days corporeal punishment sounds, well, reasonable or when you buy that $188 purse at ValuThrift for $7.49.

Me: "Tomorrow will be my 200th post."

Friend: "What?"

Me: "Blog post. I started with four weenie ones in September and I'm up to 200."

Friend: "I always forget about that blog."

Me (!): "You're kidding. I thought you read every day."

Friend: "Actually, I talk to you every day. Why would I read the blog?"

Me: "Because I'm writing it? It's good?"

Friend: "Actually, I like you better in real life."

Me (umbrage, taken!): "How could you! No you don't."

Friend: "Yes, I really do."

Me: "You can't possibly."

Friend: "You're wrong. I like you better, here."

Me: "But I'm funny on the blog."

Friend: "You're funny in real life, too."

Me: "I am not!."

Friend (sigh): "Yes, you are."

Me: "But I'm funny in a more thoughtful, well-done way on the blog."

Friend: "Actually, you're quick as a whip in real life. "

Me: "Now you're hurting my feelings."

Friend: "Sorry, but I prefer the real deal to the blog."

Me: "But I offer interesting political commentary on the blog. Gender stuff, too."

Friend: "Mary, you are Commentary, incarnate. In real life. You're just like that."

Me: "Oh my God. I can't believe you're saying this about my blog."

Friend: "I'm saying this about you."

Me: "But my blog is climbing in numbers! In just four months of steady postings I havehundreds of readers!

Friend: "Do they pay you?"

Me: "Of course not!"

Friend: "Are these relationships? If their kids showed up at your doorstep, do you know what to feed them? Tampax or Kotex? Which bathroom in their house is for public use and whichstrictlyoff limits?"

Me: "I know them through comments. There are kids' names involved, like Nature Girl and Boy G. Mr. T and Mr. G. Wild Child. See?"

Friend: "Hmmmm."

Me: "They put my name on their blogrolls: Minnesota Matron."

Friend: "That's not your name."

Me: "Yes, it is. And it looks good sitting up there for everyone to see, all shiny and taut: Minnesota Matron."

Friend: "You like being the center of attention."

Me: "I do not!"

Friend: "Who are we talking about?"

Me: "But I wish you preferred the blog."

Friend: "Center. Of. Attention."

Me: "Oh my God. I'm so sorry! Let's talk about you."

Friend: "Sweetie, you're always the center of attention. That's okay."

Me: "Thank God. I was getting worried, you hating my blog and all."

Friend: "Mary, the internet was created specifically for your blog. Online creativity can now take a rest. Can we order now?"

Me: "You like the blog--better? Prefer it to me in real life?"

Friend: "At this moment, yes. Very much so."

Me: "Thank you. Lemon grass soup?"

Yes, friends: the Matron is utterly self-absorbed. But in a way that's VERY interesting to others.

If You Go to the Dog Park

2011-08-03T18:21:00.000-07:00

Now, the Matron quite likes the dog park.

She's lucky enough to live within minutes of just such a place: 30 bucolic acres, replete with ponds for paddling, fields for frolicking, and woods for otherwise pursuing.

This is an off-leash dog park. There are tidy little entry points with gates, where doggies can safely get unleashed and then -- boom! -- set free to race, chase, fetch and otherwise raise general Doggie Mayhem. Sort of what these critters were born to do.

Unless . . .

You are the person at the dog park who insists on leashing your dog. Really? The Matron wonders why these people subject their supposed beloveds to the torture of seeing their counterparts run free while they strain at the leash, a fur ball of envy and instinct.

You are the person who decides to do a U-Turn from that trail you were on and follow the Matron during her entire walk. No, she is not adverse to chatting with fellow dog-lovers. Oh no. The 'chat' is a vital part of the process.

Stranger: "Oh, what kind of dog is yours? He's adorable?"

Matron: "Not as adorable as yours! Look at how he gnaws that stick. What talent!"

That would be genuine, non-sarcastic chat at the dog park. Sort of like a play group without genetic stakes.

But . . . the stalker is different. He or she abandons independence and sticks to your side.

Stalker: "And then my neighbor's cousin lost her house to foreclosure. It wouldn't be so bad if their kids still had teeth. All those little ones rotted out because of sugar. Did I tell you about my husband's bunions?"

Sigh. The dogs can run free. The Matron? Trapped. It's hard to make a get-away: "Uh, I need to take that trail to nowhere right now?"

Yes, the dog park is a lovely place unless you are also the control freak. Now, the Matron does carry that funny bone herself, but it does not extend to dogs. One cannot make a dog 'behave.'

Stranger: "Charlie! Be a good boy! Share that ball."

Stranger 2: "Lola! Don't scare the little dog!"

Stranger 3: "I'm really sorry about my dog. He just likes to jump on things."

Hmmm . . . hog the ball, bounce at other dogs, jump up on bigger dogs? Sounds like a normal day at the dog park to the Matron.

But her all time favorite?

The person who brings ONE bright orange tennis ball to the dog park with his lone dog. Throws said tennis ball in the midst of a field of 15 dogs, all of whom immediately CHASE the ball.

There is an unspoken rule among dogs: each and every ball is MINE.

Alien with Ball: "Hey! That's Freddy's ball!! Get back!"

Not that this happened today at the dog park.

Pinch Her. But Not Yet

2011-08-01T20:52:00.000-07:00

This morning, the Matron woke up late.

She had a peaceful breakfast, worked out on the downstairs 16th century torture machine (an elliptical her family calls Bob), and then took the dogs on a leisurely (for her) romp through the dog park.

This was all before 8 am. And it made her happy.

There were errands to run, nothing out of the ordinary: Target, post-office, gas. She grabbed a coffee along the way and listened to talk radio, which is sort of her version of music.

You can totally rock out to political pundits and book reviewers.

Then, best of all. Peaceful lunch while reading a brand new book.

After that, she donned her psychological warfare hat and took on the house. Friends, what she accomplished is nearly orgasmic. Imagine Merrick's room, clean. The entire downstairs, polished. The workshop --- let us pause here. This is not a 'workshop' although there remains a semblance of industriousness in the shelves and workbench left, and built, by the previous homeowner. No, this is the Matron's Black Hole. It is a sometimes wide open space, a depository for everything else in the Universe that has no home.

Pants too small? Put them in the workshop. Old boxes that might be good someday? Report cards, old photographs, sweatshirt somebody left here, pot that blackened, tissue paper, half-written-in notebooks, broken toys, forgotten Pokemon cards, remote control jeep missing a wheel, shoes that might be recylced to another kid, winter boots, jackets, mittens, hats?

Workshop.

After an hour of mine excavation, one can now walk four feet into the room. This too, made the Matron happy. She then swept and mopped every floor in the house. It is a big house. Her knees hurt.

She took the dogs on an unheard of SECOND outing, this time just a few blocks around the house. In a particularly bold move, she drove to a nearby convenience store --aptly named, she thought--and purchased a bag of lime chips which she ate while reading a book and watching Hawaii-Five-Oh.

The things she learned today! That show is back (remember the old one?) and the new cops are pretty hunky. Plus, she still has retained the skill of reading, eating, watching TV while occasionally wiping counters and talking on the phone.

Did she mention she also got caught up with her grading?

And if regular readers think that she has suddenly inhabited another woman's calmer, peaceful and productive life, the Matron will share that she has the previously unimaginable pleasure of being ALONE in her house for an indeterminate amount of time (not lasting longer than 48 hours and perhaps even already over for potential intruders -- excuse her while she tells John to put away his baseball bat and the dogs to stop baring their teeth).

Alone. Alone. Alone. From climbing into clean sheets to waking up in sheets with nobody else hogging them. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Not one time today did she hear this word reverberating through the hallways: "MOM!"

God-Universe-Buddha-Oprah-Allah?

Thank you.

Driving in the Dark

2011-07-29T20:49:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, the Matron found herself doing a lot of late night driving. She was teaching a night class way out in the 'burbs. The class ended at 9:45 pm, just in time for her to make the forty minute drive to downtown Minneapolis to retrieve then 8 or 9 year old Scarlett from her stint at The Guthrie. Little did the Matron know that this was just the first of many late night runs she would be making to pick up her stage-minded daughter.

But the gift in the driving?

The Matron discovered The Story, American Public Media's late night devotion to the drama of real, non-celebrity lives. Each night during that drive to The Guthrie, the Matron was transformed. Hurtling through the darkness, in the midst of headlights and blinking city skies, a stranger shared his or her story -- heartache, surprise, tragedy, success, joy and pain. It was a strangely intimate experience, hearing these people pour out their hearts, yet also completely solitary. Just her, the van, the voice, the black outside her windows.

Yesterday, the Matron listened again as she drove home, late (no theater this time because Stagedoor Manor is just three days away and that's another blog post).

Her night class had been long and demanding, and had included the most cherubic, chunkiest, adorable five month old baby in the history of babies -- and she (the baby) wasn't even the Matron's!

You see, one of her students is a new mom, struggling with this little dumpling who needs to nurse every twenty-five seconds. The new mom's night class --the one the Matron teaches -- is three and a half hours long, three nights a week. The new father? Tearing out his hair and texting his wife throughout his own three and a half hours of torment, three nights a week.

Student: "This is so hard! She never sleeps! I'm trying to work and go to school, take care of my in-laws and I can't even go to the bathroom. My poor husband can't do anything to calm her. I don't know if I can finish this class -- I'm really sorry."

Let's just add that this student is an unusual person, someone who has endured hardships most of us cannot imagine (and is not quick to share these, but sometimes the teachers get a view) and has left her entire family half a world away so she could live in safety. This brave woman, felled by a five month old. This, the Matron could not stand.

Matron: "You can bring the baby to class if you need to."

Student (shocked): "Really?"

Matron: "Really."

She didn't. Until the next to the last day of class when her husband's psyche needed some rest and the baby needed her Mama. So last night, the Matron got to hold, cuddle and play with the beautiful K -- while her Mama worked on her papers. It was fun to realize one can lecture while holding a baby.

The entire class went "AAAH" and "OOooo" more than once.

Then, on the way home, tuning into The Story, she was treated to this: The Longest Shortest Time.

Her landing in the past was swift and bittersweet, remembering her firstborn and his demands --and how she struggled to meet them, railing against all she lost: freedom to move, an intellectual life, quiet evenings with her husband, a good book in a cafe. As a new mother, the Matron felt she had been given a life sentence of constant demand, need and feed.

Now of course, she realizes she had been given a life.

She finished the drive home, thinking of that baby and her own firstborn, far away in Chicago (summer camp -- debate institute) and a good foot taller than his mother. He's planning for college with an eagerness that doesn't escape anyone in the house.

And the sky drifted clouds and darkness as the voices of those new mothers traveled with her, women in a different place on the same journey, a journey that seems forever and an instant.

The fire fly lives we lead. Bright, rapid -- short.

Oh, That Matronly Eye

2011-07-27T21:02:00.001-07:00

Today, the Matron was sitting in a community meeting, innocently minding her own business . . . well, not really. She was at a neighborhood meeting, after all, which means she was attending to the entire NEIGHBORHOOD'S business and somehow got a gold star for her control freak ways.

But that's another blog post.

At said meeting, a particular disturbing sight caught her delicate eye. Across the room sat a man -- sort of pudgy, late forties she guessed, dressed in a casual button down short-sleeve shirt and khaki shorts. Nothing too alarming, right? But this casual button down short-sleeve shirt was unbuttoned halfway down its owner's chest. The shirt fell open, to the breast bone. The owner of the offending attire was wearing a crisp white t-shirt underneath the unbuttoned, button-down short-sleeve shirt which was almost worse than a bare hairy chest. Worse because the gaping neckline (well, nipple line) screamed "trying to be HOT even though I'm nearly 50" and the white t-shirt underneath said "I am SO not hot and I'm nearly 50."

The mid-calf white athletic socks and green Crocs completed that sentence.

This garb unduly bothered the Matron. Instead of neighborhood concerns--whose trash was piling up, what to do for National Night Out, why a stop sign wasn't approved, etc. -- she fretted about her exposure to such a frightful outfit. Damage, being done! What if the image is permanently imprinted in her brain?!

Poor Matron!

Because then she remembered that earlier that day, she ran into a friend -- a woman in her fifties -- who spent actual money (the kind that goes into a bank and can pay the mortgage) to have tiny teeny little braids woven into the side of her otherwise long straight hair--just like her teenage daughter. That's right: matching mother/daughter braids, with feathers in them.

This sent the poor fraught Matronly psyche hurtling back through time when her friends wore smocks -- one cannot rightfully call these creations dresses -- that matched their small daughters'. Grown women in apple green dresses with full skirts and pink etching on sleeves and scooped necks: just like their four -year olds!

Worse, somehow it was acceptable to be seen like this in public.

What about the man and woman she saw recently, walking side by side down an otherwise unobtrusive city street. The man wore a t-shirt with a big thumb pointing toward his female companion: "She's the Boss."

Hers? "Dealing in Dollars and Sex."

This nearly did the Matron in. Until she remembered the toddler with the mohawk. It was pink and stood about a foot off the little boy's head. The Matron's own far more perfect children didn't even have sufficient follicles to launch such head-gear at two, let alone the gumption to pull off pink.

At least the toddler wasn't wearing Crocs. If memory served, he had a runny nose, though, probably a result of the terrible tension caused by wearing one's hair straight up in spikes before you're old enough to say the word spike.

The images were bright, painful and unrelenting. Yours truly could simply not focus on whether or not the elm tree on the corner of 3rd street and Bates had succumbed to or conquered Dutch Elm Disease because she was awash in a psychological nightmare of polyester, large lace collars on grown women and butt cracks fighting jeans for air space. Things took a turn for the worse: the entire decade of the eighties descended. Growing Pains! Full House!

Gasping, she searched the room for relief. Not a Vogue in sight. The only magazine visible was a weathered copy of Redbook.

Of course, she survived to tell the tale. Otherwise she wouldn't be safely sitting here -- in the spare, well-balanced and carefully coordinated comfort of her office -- typing this late night blog post.

Wearing skinny jeans, a tank top without words or a four-year old matching side-kick and a smug little smile -- that disappeared when her husband walked in and said "why is your shirt on inside out?"

Of course, that was what she wore to the meeting.

She of Delicate Nature and Fierce Feminism

2011-07-25T16:51:00.000-07:00

Now, it appears that SlutWalks are all the rage.

The Matron knows that some of her readers may not be up to speed with this latest feminist trend (mass demonstrations involving scanty dress). Go ahead and google "SlutWalk." She knows that there are dishes waiting, a work memo to write, and children who need baths or sedatives. Set your troubles aside, friends, and familiarize yourselves with the SlutWalk.

Now, these demonstrations are a reclamation of sorts. Women are attempting to 'take back' or 'reclaim' the word 'slut,' just as some feminists have done for the 'c' word and African Americans for the N-word. There is no end to debate about people without a history of traditional power reclaiming language once used to oppress and demean them.

The Matron cannot address the use of the 'n' word. She is of the school that, as a white person, this is a word she will never utter. As for the 'c' word, yours truly was raised in a household where the body was to be hidden as much as possible and any bodily functions? Denied. If there was a part that couldn't been seen through a Communion Viel, well, God didn't make that body part. Satan did. So there goes her ability to reclaim the 'c' word. Thanks, Mom.

But this new venture -- not only reclaiming language -- but embodying language and acting it out, holds new philosophical questions that the 'n' and 'c' words don't. You can't change the color of your skin or your female anatomy, but you can change your clothing. But that's precisely the point for the feminists involved in the SlutWalks. This is a choice. As one protester put it, she should be able to skip the underwear while wearing a skirt or sport a thong in public and not get raped.

Naturally, the Matron would agree with her on all points, wishing she herself were young and svelte enough to pull off a public thong, even.

Now, the Matron has enough semiotics bubbling about in her to understand that a word (any word, but let's say the 'n' word or the 'c' word or the other word in question) signifies a meaning. The precise meaning is in the hands of the person receiving the word. A feminist hears 'slut' and she emancipation rings through her ears; a sexist hears the word and a vision of moral collapse comes to mind.

Keeping the comparison going (makes you want to take that sedative yourself instead of giving it to the five year old, hmmm?), she wonders what would happen if thousands of people turned out to embody -- to create street theater about -- the 'n' and 'c' words. Just how would that scene play out? What would dressing, acting and parading about as embodying those words mean? Is it possible?

It's one thing to reclaim language but quite another to purposefully create one's self in an image that already exists in our culture -- a negative, even dangerous image. Yes, the negativity and danger are the very things that our feminists sisters are challenging -- laughing at, even.

"You can't get me!"

Ah, but they can.

Rape, isn't about clothing. Rape is about power, humiliation, violence and control. Male, female, straight or gay, we are each potential victims of sexual abuse. Nuns get raped. So do small boys.

So . . . perhaps she's still swamped in her preadolescent psyche where the body wasn't to be stripped and teased and presented. But, still. Embodying the very stereotype where the culture historically places its eyes on rape only keeps those eyes directed on the slut, the whore, the vamp. The Matron thinks that feminism shouldn't hone in with laser sharp focus precisely where our eyes have gone before, but in the dark areas of our psyches, homes and streets where the real problem -- and victims -- live.

Written in a record 15 minutes but she thinks the reasoning reflects years of wisdom. Maybe.

The Same Old Story

2011-07-20T18:19:00.000-07:00

When the Matron was but a Wee Miss, say seven or eight, she remembers her mother sighing over Wee Miss's uneaten dinner (which would be from McDonald's or a box, but that's another story).

Mother: "When I was little, my parents always told me that children were starving in China and I should eat my dinner. What good did my food do for starving children in China? But you should eat your dinner. Someone is starving somewhere."

So Wee Miss understood that somehow, another child's starvation was related to her own untouched french fries.

Throughout her childhood, she remembers seeing pictures of hollow-eyed children in magazines and on television, toddlers with huge-heads, vacant faces, and stick limbs. They were always sitting in dirt.

Wee Miss contemplated these images and contrasted them to her own existence. You see, Wee Miss wanted Frances McGuire's life. Frances McGuire lived in a palatial estate (in Wee Miss's estimation). Frances McGuire had her own room and it was ENTIRELY IN PINK. And she had, dream of all dreams, a canopy bed. Her mother baked brownies in a spotless kitchen where all the plates had pretty, matching colors and designs. The bathroom towels were visibly fluffy and Frances McGuire herself wore crisp pretty dresses to school -- it seemed like a new one appeared every week -- and her hair was braided or curled or otherwise styled into something that spoke to Wee Miss about a mama behind a brush, a big house and happiness.

Wee Miss's own home and maternal experience paled in comparison. Her own clothes came from garage sales and there was never any money, let alone time, for good smells wafting out of the oven. The kitchen was shiny or spotless or even a kitchen, but a nook off of the single room serving as both eating and living space.

These circumstances -- her own misfortune and yearning in comparison to Frances and her own vast good fortune compared to the starving children in countries far away -- confused Wee Miss. Was she the luckiest little girl alive or the girl who lived a life far away from privilege?

Funny how some things never change.

As of late, the Matron has been yearning for what she doesn't have: financial security, extra money in the bank, a boundless income. She'd love to say with assurance to her children -- yes! Be smart enough and you can go to Harvard or Yale or any college of your dreams and abilities! She's love to say, yes! Let's tour Scotland and Italy and China and Thailand before it's too late.

Yes.

But today, while driving to the moderate-income job she's lucky to have, the Matron hit the tail end of a National Public Radio piece on Rupert Murdoch, his riches, fame and current fall. This is a story she's been hearing all week -- his thousands of employees, millions of dollars, infinity of influence and prestige. She supposes she can google and find out how many houses he owns.

Then, she heard the story that isn't this week's news, but the eternal story, the story that simply recycles itself generation after generation after generation: children are dying of starvation and disease. This isn't the story Americans are fed at their own dinner tables, whether those tables are full of fast food or organic greens. Exciting news is the unanticipated suffering of the Rupert Murdochs of the world. Endless news is the enduring, age-old suffering of people who have no choice.

And so . . . the Matron continues to wonder. How does this all relate to her own wealth, ambitions, shortcomings and excesses. How is it possible to have so much and always want more?

Intention

2011-07-19T21:22:00.000-07:00

Today, the Matron attended an evening meeting which she was under NO particular obligation to attend and which mainly served to fuel a certain smugness that comes from being a good citizen.

Said smugness and self-satisfaction quickly dissipated when she returned to her van to find a ticket for $111!!! That's a whole lotta change, folks! Aghast (when was the last time you were aghast?), she scanned the ticket for cause: expired tabs on the license plates.

What?

Now the Matron and dear husband are diligent about these matter. Still, she scooted down to those plates only to see that someone had scraped off her 2012 tabs! Victim! So much for good citizenship.

Instead of wallowing, the Matron vowed to NOT let this unpleasant incident --and the required follow-up with traffic court or whatever government entity could prove that she'd paid her dues -- bring her down. No! She would continue on as the good citizen.

Even better! She would be spiritual, buoyant, ethereal, even.

In that spirit, she ran some errands before work. Because Minnesota is currently in the midst of a heat wave, those errands were basically a lesson in sweat (with a heat index of about 118 not that she's keep track). Soaked in sweat, yours truly was not unhappy to see the sky darken. A thunderstorm in the making!

Still ethereal and all things peace, the sudden downpour --as in flash flood levels of rain -- out of the blue didn't bother her. No matter that she was in her work clothes, standing outside of a library with her van and UMBRELLA (conveniently in the trunk) two blocks away. No! No matter. She would simply get wet and dry off before the job began.

So she darted and slipped through the torrent. Thoroughly soaked, and somewhat less sanguine, she couldn't find the right button to unlock the car.

Click, click, click.

Matron: " < Insert profanity of your choice >"

The car finally open, she wrestled with the trunk. Rain continued. Now her underwear was soaked and her shoes probably ruined. The damn trunk finally opened. She grabbed the umbrella (why, she wonders in retrospect when she could have just jumped in the car) but the umbrella handle looped into the trunk and got stuck!

Profanity of your choice, uttered the Matron.

After some pouring, she yanked the umbrella out -- now the wind was whipping at about 50 miles an hour, adding an interesting aesthetic twist to the torrential rain -- only to find that the trunk was now broken and would not shut.

Rain poured in that, too. Which also meant she couldn't drive.

Giving up, she decided to dash into a nearby coffee shop to dry off and have some tea instead of sitting in the car while waiting for the rain to stop.

Dash.

And . . . her purse handle broke, sending the purse and its contents all across the street. In the rain and wind, while her open, broken trunk looked at her longingly and the clock said ten minutes before she was due at work and now her internal organs were wet, never mind the underwear.

Ethereal, indeed.

The Nest, Emptying

2011-07-18T08:46:00.000-07:00

Way back when, the organizers of the Matron's 20th High School Reunion decided to bestow what yours truly felt was a rather dubious honor: the youngest grandparents in the room!

Now, when the Matron attended said reunion, she was 37 years old with a four year old, a two year old and a dim idea of a third, someday. She remembers accompanying her polite clap with a grimace when the 'youngest' grandparents (at 38 with five year old twin grandchildren) accepted their award.

She wasn't sure for whom (note the appropriate use of preposition) she was grimacing, herself or the grandparents.

The grimace today?

Certainly, for her very own self!

Many, many of her friends from high school are solidly into or entering the grandparent phase. She grew up in a smallish town, where many of her former peers remained to raise their own families. Working at a college, many of her colleagues had their children young and then launched careers. Now, the Matron wishes she could say she launched her career and THEN had the babies, but she sort of dilly-dallied with the former and then found herself stuck in the midst of the latter and then launched that career.

A late bloomer, all around.

Today, the Matron realized that she will be 58 years old when her baby leaves the nest. That's old enough for great-grandchildren and the Smithsonian, folks.

Merrick: "How soon will you die after I grow up, Mama?"

Matron: "Many, many years."

Merrick: "Let's count!"

He wants the house.

Merrick's mcenary interests aside, today, the Matron is reflective about her stance as an 'older' parent of an 8 year old. Yes, yes, she can hear those keyboards clicking from other friends, readers and women who had babies well into their forties (actually, commonplace before the availability of birth control). But as one child, He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN), is away for an entire month at a prestigious (she had to throw that in) debate institute as the recipient of a national scholarship (if you can't brag on your blog what is the meaning of life?) and the middle child, dear Diva, is headed off to Stagedoor Manor for three weeks in August, the Matron and her husband are now more frequently alone with Merrick.

Merrick will be 13 when Scarlett leaves the house. He's stuck with his parents for five years.

So the Matron has a new understanding of that empty nest. The house doesn't suddenly shed itself of children. They dip their toes into the world, week by week, year by year, until they're ready to go. Sending them off into the world is a long process of love and good-bye, a process that started at birth, she supposes.

She's lucky to have this knowledge. Everything about Merrick is just a little sweeter, a little slower. Dipping his toes into independence currently means a week of day camp and helping Dad build a campfire. God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah-Universe only knows that both Merrick's parents will need more and more help with things like building campfires, hauling garbage and doing yard work as knees and backs succumb to decades of use. Such is the reality for the older parent.

Today, the nearly 13 year old daughter is preparing for her upcoming role as teenager by sleeping for 14 hours and the oldest is far away in another state.

But Merrick is nestled on the couch with two dogs by his side, a fever (poor guy!), tootsie pops, red tea, a Garfield book, and an abiding interest in guns. Sure, the other two are testing those waters, but the little guy? Firmly by her side--and he doesn't care how old she is.

As long as he gets the house someday.

The Slow Blog Summer

2011-07-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

Indeed.

Wayward Ways

2011-07-13T21:24:00.000-07:00

The Matron tends toward the guilty end of . . . . well, whatever stick she's holding. Yellow light? She slows down (way down), just in case it should dare turn red when she's in the intersection, meaning she would suddenly be engaged in, shudder, illegal activity! She'll return an extra penny accidentally given for change and pick the stray paper cup out of 'cans' in public recycling bins.

Does she do this out of altruism? Civic sensibility? No, fear that someone is WATCHING and might mistake her for the culprit that tossed the wrong cup into the can bin or dallied too long at a yellow light. Somehow, there is "my fault" tattooed onto her forehead.

This birthmark beat like Harry Potter's scar today. Yours truly was walking to her van, in the dusk, after the long, long night class. In her hands were: computer bag, purse (lovely item that matched her blue and brown outfit completely), tupperware container with dinner remains, jacket, and umbrella. Let's count the number of hands she has. Now, the number of items. You get the drift.

While doing a lovely little jig to keep this all in balance, the Matron tottered and a piece of paper -- meaningless, something to toss later in the appropriate bin -- flew out of the impeccable purse and onto the parking lot, where it proceeded to whisk away, bouncing up and down out of reach, with the wind. She considered a dive, a dash, a mad attempt to retrieve the paper, and then thought "what the hell." Her hands were full, feet aching. The paper was halfway across the lot.

Everybody is allowed to litter once, right?

BUT! What is somebody is watching?

Immediately, the Matron did a not-so-furtive scan of the parking lot, nearly relieved until she saw him. The witness. He emerged from his red pick-up truck and began looking around the near empty parking lot in a decidedly determined, interested way.

Matron to self: "OH MY GOD. He saw me drop that and not pick it up!! He'll grab the paper and present me with the evidence. What's the fine for littering?"

Panic set in. Guilt.

And then . . the determination left the man's face only to be replaced with recognition, and not of the Matron or her piece of paper, but a woman waiting for him in a parked car not too far away.

As he looked over this shoulder and that, bent his head and scuttled to the car . . . as the woman looked out this window and that, shrunk behind the wheel . ... and as he climbed in only to immediately fall out of sight in an instant deep arm (and probably a lot else) lock with the woman in the car, the Matron realized that she may well be witnessing something mandating guilt, but it was not her crisis to carry.

Damn.

She saw that piece of paper and picked it up. John has nothing to worry about.

Just When You Thought It was Safe to Visit Minnesota

2011-07-11T21:40:00.001-07:00

The Matron lives in Bachmann Land. Now, the Matron could link ABC instead (go to youtube and you'll find the official news) but these guys seem like more fun.

Anyhow the person in question would be Minnesota Congresswoman, Michele Bachmann. She makes Sarah Palin seems like a stalwart progressive. If a progressive can be stalwart?

Is it surprising that both women are startling pretty and somehow intelligent policy makers, yet some Americans probably tried to emigrate to France over Hillary Clinton's thighs and pantsuits.

Women and politics in America.

Folks here in Minnesota have been entertained, horrified and, well, baffled, by Bachmann for several years. But she's pretty. The thought of her as one of the -- if not the -- emerging Republican presidential frontrunner(s)?

Hmmm . . . just a minute. The Matron must run and fill out that paperwork for her city block to secede from the nation.

Taking Herself in Hand

2011-07-08T19:45:00.000-07:00

Every so often, the Matron goes on a bender. A health bender, that is. These sprints toward self-improvement -- of body and spirit, generally -- tended to be just that: sprints.

At your mark, get set: go!

The Matron would start off strong (no yeast, no sugar, no alcohol, pilates, macrobiotics, ayurveda living, cleansing breathing regime, creative visualization, weight-lifting), proceed with laser-like focus and determination and then peter out after a short distance.

Ah. If only she could be more of a cross-country or marathon self-help aficionado. She'd still be selecting food amenable to the Type A blood streaming through her veins.

Or harder yet, eating fermented vegetables with a side of sea weed (thanks macrobiotics for the good health but less than palatable plate).

The latest?

The Body Ecology Diet!

Now, the Matron is a student of history. She understands that the current focus on kefir, ghee, alkaline and acidic, expanding and contracting, colon care, liver cleansing and emotional healing will most likely fall to the wayside like the whole weight lifting concept. But for the moment, she in the thick of the sprint.

This isn't really a diet but a life plan, which is what appeals to the self-help junkie she houses. One attends not only to every body part and organ, but the emotional needs of body and soul. There are recommendation for relaxation, exercise, spiritual growth. There's even a war theme and yours truly likes action-adventure shows: fight that yeast!

She loves it! She's a virtual full-length feature film between getting in touch with feelings, the battle toward health (hard-fought, indeed, with lots of subplots like spleen health and gleaming skin) and new approach to life.

This time around, she is thinking in terms of a mid-range run. Maybe six weeks?

And those apples that don't fall far from the tree?

Scarlett: "I'm a vegetarian."

Until someone produces a drumstick.

He Who Cannot Be Named when confronted with a carrot: "I don't eat orange things. Except cheetos, doritos, and various other chemicals constituted into junk food or candy."

Merrick: "I'm going to exewsize!" In front of the TV.

At least hope and ambition spring eternal and even produce change of some sorts, if temporary.

Others gone full-throttle into some sort of health program that fizzled or failed? She knows she's not alone.

Midnight

2011-07-06T21:29:00.000-07:00

No, not the hour although that is rapidly approaching.

Midnight is Merrick's name for the tiny, completely domesticated, friendly and hungry (and possibly pregnant) black cat who appeared at the Matronly door on Monday.

Initially, the cat's presence was innocuous. Innocent and uneventful.

Merrick: "Mom! There's a cat on our porch!! She's hungry -- can I give her some food?"

In a moment of complete insanity, the Matron handed Merrick a can of tuna, a bowl of milk and some leftover salmon. That cat immediately took up camp. She spread out on the porch, cuddled in laps, purred, and meowed her way indoors.

Because John is deathly allergic to cats, the indoor avenue didn't work.

The intrepid Merrick build a house for Midnight -- cat's new name -- in the backyard. He hooked up a hose for water and pondered electricity. Blankets and food abounded. Midnight purred on, oblivious to the human effort but contently basking in all the comforts of home -- her new home.

Then she disappeared.

Merrick: "MIDNIGHT IS GONE!! WHEWE IS SHE?"

That child roamed the neighborhood with a flashlight (even thought it was noon), looking for his new friend. He begged for "lost cat" flyers, fretted about her potential demise or worse yet, hunger pangs. Hours of energy were invested. The Matron was struck by his dedication and concern for a lost wee one. He went to bed with all the windows open, hoping for a meow, some sign that she'd returned to his care.

The Matron considered setting a trap (with sharp things involved) but didn't mention that.

Finally, Midnight returned. She cuddled into her backyard perch without a beat, meowing expectantly for her milk and expensive canned food. Merrick immediately obliged.

Now, the Matron has been already danced the Stray Cat tango, complete with birthing and baby kittens. She's not prone to repeat disaster.

But when Merrick slogged in after an hour of caring for Midnight, smelling slightly of salmon, milk, and cat? He turned to his Mama with damp eyes and said: "I LOVE that cat."

Sigh.

Guess who found a new home?

Unless you want her . . .

The American Dream

2011-07-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

Ah, July 4.

A time to review history, perhaps? Browse through the constitution, memorize a poem about George Washington or study the first tea party?

No.

It appears July 4 currently constitutes four days of nonstop fireworks, alcohol -- and shopping. Fourth of July sales abound. Indeed, the venerable Matron opened the newspaper this morning to discover that EVERY STORE IN AMERICA was having a sale. And they were all open, all day.

So now you can pound a beer, gobble a brat, light some juice and then spend money! Just don't try that history thing and you'll be fine.

Predictably, the Matron was pooh-poohing this, considering herself above the fray in all its aspects. Now, the fray lives in her very own neighborhood, which is situated on a beautiful bluff high above the Mississippi river. The panoramic view of urban fireworks brings thousands -- thousands -- of revelers to pee on people's front lawns, throw garbage around, light illegal fireworks, drink beer and, finally, watch the city's fireworks.

The Matron smugly stays home.

Yet . . . .

He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN): "Mom? I'd like to sell bottled water and juice on the bluff tonight. Bet I make a killing."

And he did. HWCBN took a wagon full of bottled water, juice boxes, change, signage and his little brother to the drunken masses and sold them water. While they sold all their ware, they also got several requests for beer. Which they did not have.

The Matron is still pondering what breed of adults would ask a 15 year old and 8 year old if they were selling alcohol.

Now, shortly before departure, HWCBN got an idea for a second, side money making venture along the bluff. Merrick, adorable as all get out with mish-mashed front teeth (you know that adorable phase where the big ones are half in?) and precious second grade posture, could play the violin! With his case out -- for money.

The kicker? He played "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" with lit sparklers attached to the bow (video on youtube soon).

At the end of the night, their hourly wage beat the Matron's. And her children fit right into the fray: crass commercialism and inappropriate play with fire. She's just doing her patriotic duty as a parent.

Dog Days

2011-07-03T21:02:00.000-07:00

Summer in Minnesota!

This was June: Monday, fifty-five degrees. Tuesday? Seventy-five. Then rain. The next day, ninety and humid. The Matron practically pulled out an entire department store in order to clothe her family for the cyclonic shift in temperatures (and temperaments, but that's another story).

Children? More demanding than the weather, mostly because they have been Underfoot.

Here is the Matron, mopping the kitchen floor while creating the week's grocery list and pondering the meaning of life and wondering where the soul goes (if there is one) after death and fretting because she hasn't checked email in a week and wondering if the fifteen students who need attention over the summer really mind waiting another month or maybe (hopefully) they've forgotten those incompletes?

So, she's busy. Of course, 99% of this multi-tasking is in her mind, but still. She' sweating (that floor, after all).

Merrick: "Mom? Have you seen my set of owange dice and the fake fouw leaf clovew?"

Matron: "No. When was the last time you saw them?"

Merrick: "Chwistmas? But now I need them NOW. Can you find them?"

Clearly, this child did not read minds because if he did, he'd notice that his mother was in the midst of FINDING the answer to the meaning of (her) life, had just completed the grocery list and had given up on souls. If that wasn't being busy enough, what about the hands-and-knees mopping dance she was currently doing?

Matron: "They're too tiny. I'm in the middle of mopping."

Merrick: "I need them NOW!"

Matron: " Why don't you put out a magnet and see if they just miraculously toddle out of some corner and head to the magnet?"

Merrick: "Weally?"

Matron: "Really."

And when he zipped off in hot pursuit of a magnet ("Mom? Whewe's the magnets?"), the Matron was acutely aware that parenting dipped to a new low. Multiply this scene times two thousand and there was a week in her life during June.

So she took a nap. For six weeks.

Now that the urge to encourage 8-year-olds to play with matches has dissipated, the Matron is able to clear the foggy brain and return to all things prose and, possibly, better parenting. All three children are still alive and Satan's Familiar continues to terrorize. Something never change and some return, different.

She's back!

Intermission

2011-05-25T21:05:00.000-07:00

The Matron is hanging up the blog for a month. She promises to shake out the sheets and put in fresh laundry around June 24th! Check back in!

Merrick's Latest Artistic Endeavor

2011-05-24T18:17:00.000-07:00

Yes, the blog has been a bit of a desert-scape as of late. The Matron has been in NEED of many things, including a little respite.

Here is the latest artistic output from Scarlett and Merrick!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qq3_Hrsyyt0

One More Year

2011-05-18T19:46:00.000-07:00

The Matron met her future husband shortly before his 30th birthday. She had no money but a big heart --and knew this was love instantly.

But, what the then Youngish Miss had was a big tax return coming up: nearly $300. When you're a 28 year old graduate student that's a LOT of money.

And in the mist of romance, guess what she did with most of that money? Let's just say that John scored big time with his birthday, from bathroom towels to a new camera.

And this year? Nearly 20 years later? It's a coffee cup, plants, and a little bit of loving (the latter perhaps the most valuable).

An End, A Beginning

2011-05-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, the Matron wraps up her semester.

Look for eye-popping prose immediately afterward!

Coming Back

2011-05-06T20:54:00.001-07:00

Needed the break after nearly 2, 000 posts in five years : -).

The Wedding of the Century

2011-04-27T20:54:00.001-07:00

In 1995, after four years of living together, one couple married. They married mostly for the party and gifts, not really being invested in the institution itself.

The week before their outdoor wedding, it rained nonstop. They went to bed (in the same bed, apologies to the Pope) worried about the weather. This is Minnesota. The weather shapes everything. The sky was black and rain pouring. They were expecting 300 people for an outdoor wedding the next day.

The future husband involved is a big believer in special shades that shut out all light (so he can sleep). The morning of the wedding, after a solid week of rain, the couple in love opened the night shades to:

The most spectacular, sun-driven, blazing morning ever. The grass was vibrant green; the sky shone. Flowers sprout up overnight.

They both cried.

The wedding was spectacular. The 300 people all showed up -- and know when you have 90 first cousins between two people, the wedding will be large. The sun sparkled. Everyone was alive with the joy that comes with warmth and sunshine in a state largely defined by snow.

This union produced three amazing, successful, happy children. This union has defined the lives of two people, who still hold each other every night and talk about life, the universe, the family, meaning of the world.

So when a certain someone (ahem) reads about the 'marriage of the century' happening in England?

She knows that another marriage already made that marker, even if history won't record it.

And she's certain there are others out there, just like hers. Doesn't have to be marriage, but just a bond of love that anchors one's life, whether that bond is a child, friend, male, female, cousin, mother, etc. This knowledge gives her faith and makes her happy.

She's still going to watch that other big wedding on TV and probably cry a little. She's soggy that way. But soggier still for the real deal: the bonds that tie us that aren't legal, but love.

Sisterhood

2011-04-26T21:08:00.000-07:00

The Matron has noted that all of her 'foll0wers' are female.

Comments? Let's just note that women rule. She's not sure if this a general blog trend or specific to her blog. But duly noted.

Thanks, women!

Things are tight lately (family stuff, work,and a cold that rivals smallpox, etc) but can she make a recommendation to the women willing to visit another mom, even via internet?

Read Woman on the Edge of Time. Big recommendation. It's dated -- you'll see the seventies mentality-- but there's a universal feminist sensibility that still resounds.

She knows it's slim as of late. But, as one of the dear readers posted, why apologize for free prose? That's where she's coming from, post-cold medicine : -).

Mr. Weenie

2011-04-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

Yes, the title of this post should give everyone pause.

Here's the history.

Matron: "Merrick, sweetie, will you grab your sweatshirt so we can go to school."

Merrick: "Don't call me sweetie. I'm too big fow that."

Never mind that someone who can't pronounce 'r' isn't too big for anything except an infant sling.

Matron: "Okay. No more sweetie. Honey, will you get the backpack and sweatshirt?"

Merrick: "Dr. P -- (Matron's real last name). Honey is just as bad. You can't call me honey or sweetie."

Matron: "How about Merrick?"

Merrick: "That's not good either."

This gives the Matron pause, as Merrick is his given name. Everyone calls him Merrick.

Matron: "What do you want to be called."

Merrick: "Mr. Weenie. Not just Weenie but MISTER Weenie."

Here, the Matron decided against against further investigation. Weenie? There are some phallic nuances here.

But this morning, she woke up Mr. Weenie and brought him to school.

The Flying Guitar

2011-04-18T08:07:00.000-07:00

The Matron is safely back from New Jersey and her mother? Recovering.

But a drama unfolded during her absence.

John on the phone to the Matron: "I can't find my guitar. I've looked everywhere -- each closet, every crevice, each room. It's gone. Who stole it?"

Yes, his 35 year old guitar -- a very expensive, lovely instrument -- went missing. While the Matron was driving her mother to various doctor appointments on the East Coast, John was searching the house. He looked in each child's closet. He climbed into all the storage spaces. Tore apart the workshop. That guitar was gone.

Note: John is a musician. He's written many songs and was, for a time in his youth, the lead singer in a band that toured the midwest. His main goal then wasn't actually artistic but hedonistic. The lead singer always gets the girl in the audience. Prospects always landed in the front row and found their way to him after the show. But that's another story. Remember, he's prettier than she is so his 'musical career' was fairly successful.

Now that he's an old married man without that guitar -- which brought him great luck (continuing today except maybe not so much the sex) he sat down the three children.

John: "This is REALLY important. Does anyone know where my guitar might be?"

Children in unison: "No."

Sleepless nights. Where could that guitar be? The Matron fretted from her perch in New Jersey. They both went over people in the house: could someone have taken it? Yours truly ran down the list of friends and family running in and out in the past two weeks -- impossible. Nobody would take that guitar.

Matron over the phone: "The side door is always unlocked. Someone stole it, I'm sure."

The dearly beloved was beside himself.

John: "I swear if I find that guitar I'll write four new songs in the next two weeks."

Matron: "Promise?"

John: "You know where it is!"

But no, she did not. However, any pledge toward art is held dear and she wanted a firm commitment, just in case.

Alas, no guitar materialized. The Matron returned home on Saturday and helped search the house and interrogate the children. Nothing. A friend of 35 years, gone.

Last night as John was helping Merrick (aka Meatloaf Head, another different story) prepare for bed, he paused in front of a large wooden chest that's sort of the marker of the second floor hallway.

He opened it.

There was the guitar, sitting atop the blankets and moth balls.

Let's just say there were tears and an instant song.

Merrick was witness to this miraculous discovery. He watched his dad sniffle and strum, and noted the reunion.

John: "How in the world did this get in here?"

Merrick: "Now I wemembew. I stole it fow Apwil fools and then fowgot."

Turns out that Merrick DID steal the guitar as an April fool's joke but the instrument was so heavy he dumped in the trunk instead of continuing to carry it to its final, concealed designation.

After interrogation, the Matron and her husband believed that Merrick knew he had taken the guitar but had forgotten where the instrument had landed. Still. That child kept his lips shut for five days while his father was in agony.

HWCBN came up with an excellent punishment. Scarlett had another excellent, different punishment -- both so severe that shackles and rope come to mind. Then they fought over which punishment was more appropriate.

So it's 10 pm at night. Everyone is arguing about Merrick's punishment; the culprit himself is still awake even though it's a school night and he's eight. John continues to sniffle and is completely without his senses as he ponders the discipline options offered by HIS OWN CHILDREN.

Matron: "We're done. Everyone go to bed. Parents decide consequences, not siblings, period. End of conversation."

HWCBN: "That's SO UNFAIR!"

Scarlett: "But a week without screens is the BEST thing!"

Matron: "End of conversation. Go to bed."

This morning, Merrick did indeed endure the first of three days of limited computer and television time -- okay, no computer or television time. But mom and dad made the call, not the brother and sister.

Most importantly?

John is upstairs in the family room right now, with his longtime friend, composing another song.

Here's his latest public splash . . . look for John Thompson and click 'listen.'

And the Matron is now locking the side door and happy that the one she loves is reunited with both her and his guitar. Strum away, darling. She'll watch Merrick during the desert season from screens.

Flux

2011-04-15T13:12:00.000-07:00

The Matron is still in New Jersey, tending to the ailing parent. All looks good for her mother -- but the blog? Last thing on the list.

Hang in there!

She promises to be back in full force on Monday.

Xanax

2011-04-13T06:13:00.000-07:00

The Matron is taking two.

Doctor to Matron: "Just take on and see how that works."

Matron: "Okie dokie." Knowing full well she would take two and consider the bottle.

In about an hour, yours truly is doing her absolute least favorite thing in the world: boarding an airplane. This is a vehicle that will actually fly -- into the air, high -- and she will not be in control of the navigation. The combination is deadly.

She's heading to the east coast to help her mother after that heart/artery surgery and perhaps spend an afternoon in THE city beside Paris: New York.

If you hear someone screaming today, from far away, it will be her. That's the level of love of flying.

Repeat

2011-04-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

The Matron found out today that she got tenure!!

It's not acceptable to stand up and do some kind of belly dance in her honor, but required. However happy that is, she is also heading to a distant state to attend to her mother recovering major surgery -- lots going on.

Can anyone volunteer to grade 103 assignments?

So a repeat. She knows the blog has been a little thin but . . . well, as one reader noted, don't apologize for free literature. So hang in there.

Here's the repeat.

______

Gentle Reader. Friend.

Please, sit down for a moment. Perhaps take a few yogic breathes and enjoy a sip of chamomile tea. Grounded? Calm?

Here's the punch line of this blog post: on New Year's Eve, the Matron and her husband went to a very well reviewed St. Paul restaurant and paid $12 for ONE CRACKER.

A $12 cracker with some kind of bland spread.

The restaurant is Heartland and because the place was supposedly full (lots of empty tables) and the Matron and her spouse were sorta Mary & Joseph-like, with no reservations at any Inn, they dined at the wine bar. Or rather, dieted.

Here is the wine bar menu.

The unsuspecting duo had a glass of wine apiece. They ordered the "Wisconsin parmesan cheese-pumpkin gougere with haralson apples, wild mushroom mousse, DragSmith Farm microgreens and Montmorency cherry-port wine syrup."

This was the cracker with spread, a dollop of some sort of sauce with a few sprout-like spiders on top. ONE CRACKER FOR TWELVE DOLLARS. And an uninspiring cracker to boot! The Matron figures that the capital S in DragSmith added a good ten bucks to the cost. Really -- just the word DragSmith must be worth a Hamilton.

Now, the Matron just about fell off her pretty stool, rendered instantly hysterical at the actual bona fide experience of seeing, eating and otherwise being confronted with the bland cracker that would cost her twelve bucks.

Then came the $24 lake trout -- a nondescript hunk of flesh on top of TWO parsnips and TWO carrots. John enjoyed the Iowa chestnut-sheep milk cheese ravioli for the ten seconds it took to eat: Baby Raviolis. That $22 price tag must be a dollar per second for the time it takes you to swallow and wipe the lips. Imported from IOWA and all that.

John: "But it's the artistry of the food we're paying for--the synergy of ingredients, eating space, lighting, flavors, texture and quality. The experience. This is a tasting menu."

Matron: "Good God man. We're talking about a cracker with sprouts and a flavorless hunk of fish. There's no artistry involved other than old-fashioned con artistry. Tasting menu? There is no taste! This king has no clothes, darling."

While she was scraping her insulted sensibilities off the ceiling, she also noticed that the restaurant was populated entirely by middle-class, middle-aged heterosexual white couples. Who probably read all the restaurant reviews and were all agog to eat in a place that supports "food artisans who employ sustainable agricultural practices." Food artisans? Give this girl an old fashioned cook.

Not two people in that place were touching. No sirreeeee. . . . . this was button-the-collar-sex-in-the-dark-twice-a-year-raw-energy. Sturdy shoes were had by all and everyone appeared to enjoy the expanse of table between them.

The Matron has more of an appetite. She and her husband were knee to knee at the bar, which made them, well, nearly naked.

But still. .. . she strangely fit right, being a middle-aged white heterosexual middle-class unit.

After spending a much regretted $77 before tip on about six ounces of under-examined food (yes, Heartland, she hopes you have tracking software and find this review which is also going to an online magazine next week) she and her husband continued on their middle-class, middle-aged white heterosexual journey by catching It's Complicated, the latest Meryl Streep flick also starring Alex Baldwin and Steve Martin.

Where they sat in the midst of an entire theater full of middle-class, middle-aged, heterosexual white couples barely touching shoulders.

And guess what? The Matron fit right in.

John: "I guess this sort of tells you about our place in the Universe."

That's right, honey. Either here or behind the wheel, driving Scarlett. At least the Matron's five bucks got her a BUCKET of popcorn, a full belly and a nice palm oil buzz-- a way better deal than a TWELVE DOLLAR CRACKER.

Wonder what Heather Armstrong -- who single handedly brought down Maytag and got herself some fine new appliances to boot -- would do with that!

Weeping while Teaching

2011-04-07T17:13:00.000-07:00

The Matron is currently teaching a class called Race, Gender, and American Culture. Yours truly is the sole faculty member in the Gender and Women Studies department at her college.

Everyday, course content in the above class brings at least one person to tears. The Matron has handed out plenty of tissues (she brings a box every day and is now sort of proud of her track record of hysteria) and heard a lot of personal stories. Most of these students are first generation college students, immigrants, poor. The Matron loves each and every one. Well, mostly.

Currently, the class is analyzing rap and hip hop to examine how the intersections of race, class, gender and heterosexuality operate in popular culture.

Students offered a couple of 'underground' links to revolutionary rap. Here they are:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lCPXEARpE8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7Vl0peys90

Thanks to these students for helping the Matron during her dry spell AND allowing her to teach 24/7. She imagines most blog readers are not 19 years old and here's a glimpse into the world of young people who care about the well-being of all people.

Actual Conversation

2011-04-05T21:38:00.001-07:00

In the van after school . .

Merrick: "Mom, when I gwow up can I be a bad guy?"

Matron: "What's a bad guy?"

Merrick: "You have a gun and maybe a mean dog."

Matron: "Do you have a mean dog right now?"

Merrick: "No."

Matron: "Do you have a real gun? One that shoots bullets?"

Merrick: "No."

Matron: "Are you happy?

Merrick: "Only if I can be the bad guy."

Pause.

Merrick: "Do bad guys weaw footie pajamas? 'Cause I need mine."

And, as usual, the minute they arrived home, Merrick ripped off his clothes, put on his footie pajamas, grabbed a stick and played with a couple of dogs. And then hung out on the tire swing.

Bad guy.

Documentary

2011-04-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

More life . . that's Scarlett in the red page cut as Romona!

The Matron pretending she's 25

First day of school

One of the Matron's pet peeves is her husband's proclivity toward photography.

Here's the Matron in the midst of a birthday party full of four, five, six and seven year olds. She is sweating. There are presents to open, cake to cut, pizza to slice and young children to navigate. The latter means that arguments, jealousies and love fests ensue.

As she's (sweating) cutting cake and herding children, here's John.

John: "Everybody smile!" Click!

John: "Merrick, can you open that slower so I can film it?"

John: "Nobody move! This is a great shot!"

While the husband documents, the Matron labors. Here she is picking up tissue paper on Christmas morning or making Thanksgiving dinner while John takes pictures. She looks good in an apron.

Matron: "Uh, can you put down the camera and help out right now?"

John: "Never. You'll thank me for this later."

And with this post, she is.

Dry

2011-03-31T11:29:00.000-07:00

The Matron's funny bone?

Broken.

Sentiment? Dried up.

Quirky kid stories?

Well, nobody's been quirky lately.

After nearly four years and 1500 posts, yours truly is in a virtual vacuum: what to say? Is there nothing new under the sun?

Like Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow is another day. She's sure she'll be pithy, witty and wise. But for the past couple of days there's been pea soup and nothing magical. She also believes that just writing this sets the cosmic stage for excitement.

Hang in there!

The Matron Must Hire a Hit Man, Again

2011-03-29T20:29:00.000-07:00

Regular readers might appreciate the antics of Satan's Familiar.

He poops in the basement with amazing regularity. If only everyone could be that reliable with bowel reduction.

His favorite place to sit? On someone's lap at the breakfast/lunch/dinner table. There are children in the household who foster this propensity.

But the new dog -- the now 80 pound blood hound has surpassed Satan's Familiar. Indeed Boc (sadly his name is an acronym for Big Old Canine, thanks to the children; the Matron preferred Othello) is stellar in the destruction arena.

Here are John and the Matron in the car on the way home from some event or errand.

John: "Dollar amount? How much destruction did Boc do today while we were gone?"

Matron: "Ten dollars."

John: "Eleven. I just won."

And he did. . .

Friends, not only does this dog eat socks, t-shirts and leftover food, he has an amazing ability to steal knives from the dishwasher. How he opens that it beyond her intellect, but he does.

Routinely, children are terrified. This is the end of March in Minnesota, which means the Matron wipes up all kinds of footprints and cleans up after Boc finds leftover goodies in the backyard from last spring (yes, we're talking poop).

Satan has landed the Matron another henchman.

But at least she can target the dogs as the rule of the devil instead of the teenagers. The young people should kiss each snout every day and thank their lucky stars that another being in the household is pure evil.

Tribute

2011-03-28T20:32:00.000-07:00

Monday, the Matron went to a funeral.

She never met the man who died; he was related to her in a married sort of way and discretion shall prevail here. Let's just say there might be a brother or sister-in-law who lost a parent. But the Matron's husband knew the deceased well and demonstrated that he was capable of tearing up for 9 hours without pause.

Let's just note that the Matron was mightily annoyed about the whole funeral event, despite her spouse's investment. First, her children were on Spring Break all last week. Spring Break is a really bad idea, especially when it's 32 degrees and there's six inches of snow on the ground. Mostly it means trying to work while also feeding children.

Merrick: "Mom? Can I have lunch?"

Matron: "No!"

That's sort of how it went.

So there was juggling the jobs and the children for a week and the Matron was LONGING for Monday when they went back to school and she could catch up on work. Think! From 9:17 (not that she's counting minutes) until 3:22, there would be time to work.

Then, inconveniently, on the first day children went back to school, the Matron and her husband spent the day at a funeral.

The drive to and from the event? Over two hours.

The funeral itself? Nearly two hours. We Catholics know how to rock and roll. Ahem, she means stand and kneel.

But as the Matron sat in the church, crabby and critical of the artwork on the walls (really, really, really bad and let's just say the artist aimed for something beautiful and fell on his/herbelly) she couldn't help but listen to the sermon and eulogy.

A man who raised ten children died. There were nearly 50 grandchildren and already half that many great-grandchildren. They were all there and the emotion in the church moved even the crabby, non-committed, uninvolved Matron, who never met the man.

Let's pause here. If you're planning a funeral?

Here's what you do: have those 10 children, nearly 50 grandchildren and various great-grandchildren sing The Lord's Prayer in unbelievable harmony. Because that's what happened. The priest paused the traditional (LONG) Catholic ceremony to say the family had something to offer.

Fifty people harmonized to the Lord's Prayer.

The Matron is not a Christian (okay, stop following her right now if this bothers you -- she's a hard-core Buddhist) but that song? Breath-taking.

Here's how they sounded.

Well, okay. Like 20% of the King's. And that's good enough for her. Sort of sucked that crabbiness and impatience out of her and swung her into the present moment, in a church full of 200 grieving people.

Here's to the ones we love and how we lose them. Sort of the universal connection.

Lessons of the Heart

2011-03-24T17:50:00.000-07:00

Recently, the Matron learned that her mother is unwell. Heart explorations and surgeries are in store, along with other procedures. The Matron will be traveling to New Jersey to care for her mother as needed.

The failing heart was not lost on the Matron.

Here's how the heart works:

You hold that baby, one minute old and look into the face of eternal love. You're exhausted and spent, but the love means you can sprint the globe.

There's the wedding. Yes, gifts and receptions are good. But those minutes alone with someone who loves you beyond all else?

You're in college and a horrible series of events ensue. You call your best friend (thank you Sherri) and not only does she listen, but she shows up in about an hour to help you move out of your dorm room into a better place. Without asking.

Every tooth your child loses. The Tooth Fairy is love.

Santa.

The day your 9 year old comes home with a question about what being White, Black or Asian means and wonders if he should feel guilt; he's confused because his family runs the racial gamut. The answer is no to guilt but understand history and current status. Not guilt, but resolution.

Your husband looks at you behind the backs of the arguing children and throws a kiss.

The 75 blood hound puppy throws himself on top of you at 5:30 am. The older dog, now six, is sound asleep.

Elizabeth Taylor. Let's just say she lived love. Good-bye, my dear.

Giving your father's eulogy. Just toss in an extra dollar with your tip and you'll be remembering someone the Matron loved.

Driving 3 hours a day to theaters, baseball, tennis, violin.

The end of the day . . . watching stupid late night TV and talking. Holding hands. Let's just say that 20 years is good. Please -- she knows this is sappy but it's true.

Making sure everyone does homework.

Watering the plants and tending to the garden.

Tucking everyone in at night.

This is the heart. Certainly, there's an organ that pumps blood and the Matron hopes hers -- and her mother's -- works hard for many years. But the heart? As metaphor and meaning in the world?

Watch the face of your child tonight.

Not Gone

2011-03-23T13:28:00.000-07:00

Major life events. Hang in there. The Matron will be back. With frequent flyer miles under her Xanax belt. . . .

Fiction

2011-03-21T15:09:00.000-07:00

Matron to John: "OMIGOD! I saw 20 people I knew at the grocery store! It was like a party!"

John: "Twenty? Name them."

This is actually 20 years of marriage speaking, folks, but at the end of the post you won't believe a word.

Matron: "Okay -- Becky, Ned, Ali, Desiree, and Beth."

John: "That's five. Five is not twenty."

Matron: "But it felt like twenty. Can you give me that?"

John: "Yes, because it's you. But five is five, honey. We can both live with that and still celebrate your experience."

Matron: "Did you just say 'celebrate your experience'?

John: "Uh, yes. Unless that means I have to clean the bathroom on the third floor."

Matron: "Can we make a pact? I'm going to err to the side of hyperbole forever and ever. If I see five people, it's twenty. If I have a scratch, it's near-surgery. That's the way I operate and we'll both deal. You can sort out the truth on your own but I need to live my fantasy."

John: "Okay."

And friends? That okay? Made her love him more. Because then he just kissed her on the forehead and moved on.

Guess who saw FIFTY people at the grocery store today?

The Matron's Problem

2011-03-17T21:31:00.001-07:00

The Matron has a major issue with pregnant women. We're talking complete strangers. Her issue? She wants to gush about becoming a mama.

First, she does about 15 checks to make sure someone didn't just eat too much pasta last night but is genuinely pregnant. So far no misses.

Second?

Matron: "Oh!! When is your baby due! That's so wonderful! Is this your first, second, fifth?"

This happens at Target, in the grocery store, at schools, in the park, and at the library. The Matron sees a pregnant woman and immediately wants to spill blood and kiss a belly. It's that bad.

Today, yours truly was leaving her college and a very young woman -- ready to burst with baby -- walked through a campus door. Friends? The Matron nearly fell to her knees.

Matron: "OMIGOD. When is your baby due? You look great!!"

Complete Stranger, immediately bursting into tears: "April 1! I'm scared out of my mind."

Let's just say more sobbing ensued.

With that there was some wise counsel, the Matron understanding that she was a professor and this 20 year old a student, and she took that into consideration. She took the weeping, hormonal, near childbirth young adult to a corner and gave her a cup of tea.

Captive audience. So she regaled the complete stranger with all her birth stories. It's sort of like blogging. You're in charge.

At the end of the half hour -- it really was just a blip in the day -- the young woman wiped her eyes and said: "thank you."

Then, the baby had a major muscle move. He or she pummeled visibly.

Complete stranger: "Do you want to feel him or her?"

And the Matron put her hands and then her ears to the belly and felt the surge of a new life. And when the day seemed hard later? Well.

Breaking Free?

2011-03-16T21:33:00.000-07:00

When the Matron was a Youngish Miss and earning her doctorate, she went to the same bagel shop every day, before work/school, for -- let's all just gasp here: FIVE YEARS.

She ordered the same thing every day for (gasp again , it's okay) five years. A raisin bagel with peanut butter (crunchy) and a large hazelnut coffee.

This was long ago.

But for the past three years, the Matron has enjoyed oatmeal with peanut butter and fruit (here she's variable on the banana or strawberry debate) and black tea every single morning.

John: "Do you want bacon and eggs?"

Matron: "Are you kidding? I'm having oatmeal."

Today, her beloved husband queried her about pajamas.

John: "Have you noticed you've worn the same pajamas to bed for 12 years?"

Matron: "And hopefully 12 more to come."

She's going to make a really, really good old lady.

Dear John

2011-03-14T12:49:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a "Dear John" letter. But not that kind.

John,

The Matron is grateful that she's married to a man who has no spare time but yet spends the few seconds he gets on artistic ventures, like this.

Honey, she's sorry you missed the deadline for the jingle contest but the end result? Still lovely.

Your wife remembers when she wasn't your wife but your girlfriend. After several months of schlepping between apartments, a joint residence was secured. Before the big move, yours truly spent an entire day -- as in from 8 am until 9 pm -- cleaning and converting a basement room of the joint residence into a music studio as a surprise for you. She put art on the walls, secured rugs, hauled in used furniture.

This was before cell phones and she was unavailable by land line.

You were certain she had been abducted, given the lack of minute by minute communication to which you were accustomed. Instead, she was scrubbing a basement and installing carpet.

John: "Mary? Are you alive?! I've been calling your apartment all day." Tears ensued and these would not be the Matron's.

Youngish Miss: "Alive. Just busy."

At the end of the day, you walked into a man-cave designed for music-men. More tears ensued and these again, were not the Matron's.

Today, instead of single-handedly building a music studio, you are grateful if she makes you a pot pie or takes care of the oil change. What a difference 20 years make! Courtship certainly has its advantages and those advantages include more frequent frolicking between -- or on top of -- the sheets.

Let the next decade of wooing begin.

Unplugged

2011-03-10T06:17:00.000-08:00

Friends,

The Matron has not dissappeared and she's not planning to do so in the future. Instead, a spate of horrors (okay, remember she's prone to hyperbole) have unfolded over the past few days.

First, the Matron is on 'spring break' from her college. The temperature is a balmy 27 degrees (and that is intended as balmy and not irony for Minnesota in March) and there is four feet of snow on the ground and more coming. Spring break, indeed.

She has spent most of 'Spring Break' attending to the kind of work crisis that keeps one awake all night.

HWCBN momentarily (she hopes) hates her and is exceptionally good about making that known, much to the dismay of his siblings, who still had some slim hope that their mother really isn't a staggeringly effective reincarnation of Joan Crawford.

Dream on, children. Optimists live only to be disappointed.

Hiss, hiss.

But the kicker is that her computer crashed. Everything? Gone. She'd like to say that the IT people at her workplace are fully mobilized. This is her dream:

IT People: "OMIGOD! We need to work around the clock to get this instructor's computer hard drive and find her a new one!"

IT People #2: "Call in the temp workers. Let's get on this right now!"

Instead, the person in charge of fixing her problem is taking a couple of vacation days. With her laptop on his unoccuppied desk.

Now, the Matron is of belief that every once in awhile, lots of stuff goes wrong. This time in her life comes to mind: no jobs in the household, toddler, baby on the way and a 15 ton tree destroys your house right before you're diagnosed with a serious autoimmune disease.

So work problems, teenage dramas, Scarlett transportation and broken computer? Okay then. Seems like summer.

Bear with her and send her good energy. Posts should resume as usual tomorrow. In the meantime, she's working on the 'gaming' computer which, let us say, has been an enlightening experience.

Thanks for being here! It's good to sort of sigh and know that a couple hundred people hear that sigh float and hold on to it, toss it back, transformed. She's optimistic that way and plans not to be disappointed.

Someone who is a Better Writer than the Matron

2011-03-07T10:05:00.000-08:00

Today, the Matron -- after taking off three days -- was going to write a searing, witty post about family and work and the so-called balance women are supposed to strike.

Instead, she's weeping in her coffee over this poem, and offering these stunning words to her readers today. Just beautiful. She hates to admit it but reading this? Lots of work to hone her own artistic skills; this is majesty.

Acidic commentary tomorrow. Today? Look out the window and be happy you're alive.

Antilamentation

by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don't bother remembering any of it. Let's stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

A Week in Letters

2011-03-03T20:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Howard and Mona,

Nobody on this blog knows you (and even so, these are so not your real names). Well into your 80s, there's no computer in your household. The Matron is shifting in the rare "I" form because that's the kind of people you are.

I'm so amazed that so many neighbors shovel every inch of your property. People? If you don't live in Minnesota you might not appreciate what that means. The snow sometimes piles up to the eyebrows. Shoveling is not a casual endeavor but a two hour event. Really.

Every day, Mona, you need someone to come into the house -- morning and night -- and administer medication and eye drops. You have no children or immediate family so there's the goodwill of the immediate vicinity.

And immediate vicinity?

Goodwill.

Today, after putting out the garbage for your household and feeding the cats, I watched another neighbor come into your house for the eye drops --and was felled. You are not alone. Over the weekend, someone across the street is building a ramp and putting in handles for the shower. No -- I didn't ask anyone to do this; we're talking a village that looks out after it's people.

So, no third person tonight. I'm humbled by the generosity of spirit around me, living in a hard-scrabble inner city neighborhood where if someone strange enters a garage 15 people call 911. And someone is willing to come over every morning and night to do the eye drops. Not me (I'm garbage and outdoor cat food mostly--and sadly, sometimes litter box).

Which is what's so wonderful. That person who comes over every single day -- twice -- is my neighbor. And would do the same for me.

My father once told me to always give the waiter or waitress an extra dollars as a tip. What does it matter to you, he said? But to them, that's an affirmation and a way of expressing humanity.

There are quite a few extra dollars out there (okay, I leave 30% tips because of my father who died not long after this dictum). And someone doing eye drops every morning and night, without complaint, question or applause.

Not me. But I have a new model for how to operate in the world.

A Week in Letters

2011-03-01T17:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Scarlett,

First, I love you more than the moon shines.

Second, being nearly 13 is hard. You're not quite a teen and not a small kid. You're solidly in between. Plus you look like you're nine.

For the second time in five years, you have no theater work lined up after the current production closes. This puts you in good company with many accomplished actors but isn't easy when you're 12. Your parents have also said 'no' to so many opportunities (requiring travel and complete family disruption) that your agent has sort of stopped calling. The parents hope that the greater good of the family will be worth the sacrifice in the long haul.

You're in a new school. All of your friends are in another school.

There's homework. The blood hound puppy of whom you're not particularly fond (when you're an adult you'll acknowledge you're not a dog person). Your little brother vying for your attention and the big brother who takes some joy in diminishing everything you do.

Your mother tries to talk to you every night -- about life, bodies, homework, friends. But you're the most insular person she has ever met and that's not an understatement. There might be some connection between being an accomplished actor and never communicating with people outside of a stage.

My dear: it's heart-breaking and wonderful to see a person emerge has her own self without parental dictations. This mother just wishes she could help you a little bit more (other than all that driving).

Friends -- a nearly 13 year old daughter? If you have one or have been through that, hat off.

Dear Dogs

2011-02-28T13:40:00.000-08:00

Dear Satan's Familiar and Boc,

Your human mama loves you both very much. Unlike children over 10, you like your bellies rubbed. When the Matron walks in after a long day at work?

Matron: "I'm home!"

Scarlett: "I need a ride to rehearsal."

HWCBN: "Uh."

Merrick: "Everyone's mean to me and can you make me ice cream?"

Dogs? You two are bounding up and down with joy--it's the Matron! Home again! Could life get more perfect?!!!

So she's here to first affirm. But . . .

Let's discuss weather. Scruffy, it's winter. You need to poop in 10 degrees, outdoors in the backyard, and not in the basement. Instead of being physically picked up and tossed outside, your delicate self should romp out and do its business without so much parental bullying.

S.F.: you are not a human being. Yes, yes, pillows are lovely little clouds. But one of these pillows belongs to each human head, not yours. It might be time to consider your desired sleeping spot -- on the Matron's own favorite pillow. She's happy to share many things, but her slim hours of sleep are not one of them.

In sum, young henchman, despite your desire to sit on someone's lap during dinner (okay, guilty) , rest your tender head on down feathers, use an indoor toilet and eat steak: you are a dog. Also, the mailman just sent this household a fifth and final letter: unless you stop eating the mail as it comes through the door slot -- thus terrorizing yet another new postal carrier -- mail to this household will be stopped.

Let's consider this. The Matron's family is in danger of receiving NO MAIL EVER AGAIN because of a dog who weighs 17 pounds and doesn't bite humans.

Is there rehab for dogs?

Boc, the Matron first wants to apologize for your name. She had so many lovely literary options. You could have been an Othello, Iago (sorry), Lear, Hamlet. Regal, domineering. Instead, your name is an acronym for Big Old Canine. Very sorry about that. If you put Othello and Big Old Canine on the scale of justice, you lose.

Now, despite the less than desirable name, the Matron thinks you have a pretty good life. You go to the dog park 6 out of 7 days. The bed? That's where you sleep. Don't tell John that his wife gives you steak and turkey in your 'puppy food' most of the time. You get combed nearly every day and you have Merrick has a real live chew toy; he's an equally happy participant. Considering you were scheduled for death (three families in four months before this family) the Matron thinks you should be very, very happy that someone took you on forever --and will give you treats every ten minutes. Every piece of furniture is open to you and you like them all.

But . . . just a word or two of wisdom. It's okay not to rise your 75 pounds onto the kitchen counter and eat dinner for a family of five while the chef is in the bathroom or answering a door. Salad? Come on, honey. Dogs don't eat lettuce. Or pickles. Just a reminder about the gene pool here.

It's lovely that you're artistic, but it's really fine to stop creating little artistic masterpieces on door frames. Those paws are lovely and yes, powerful.

Barking is a good thing. If an armed intruder is at the door, your mama is happy that you're there to bellow and yowl. But a fly? Flies don't care that you bark at them. This is another task you can let go of.

The Matron also thinks that destroying furniture is another task you can set aside. Someone else will do that, truly. Eating cushions and chair legs is an admirable endeavor, but the Matron thinks you're already stressed with all the barking and chewing on Merrick. Plus, the two most expensive pieces of furniture are already threadbare so she thinks your work in this department is done.

Now that honesty is on the table, the Matron is here to tell you that sleeping on a stomach is okay but not the most comfortable spot in the house. Wouldn't be nice to cuddle alongside her instead of laying on top (someone else would be happy to do that for under half an hour three times a week). She knows that once she's asleep there's a bit of a target, but it's really okay to not throw your body on top of her and then drool on her cheek. Yes, yes, it's a little endearing but when you add in the bad gas situation . . well. . .it's okay to let this job go.

Finally, dear Boc, there is something call garbage. The Matron is respectful of your dexterity. You can open particular doors and pull down an 8 year old in two seconds. But the door to the kitchen garbage is sort of like the Wizard of Oz's curtain: cannot be unveiled. She appreciates the fact that the smells might be tempting -- all those coffee grounds and leftover sandwiches -- but wonders if the monthly million dollars worth of dog food your skeleton requires might just be enough?

Still, she marvels at the ability to eat copious amounts and not gain weight. How do you do it?

So.

Satan's Familiar and Boc: get on the team. It's okay to be team players, even cheerleaders. Your mother looks forward to the day that poop, garbage, vomit, bites, and utter destruction aren't part of the family plan. She'd like to continue getting mail. Isn't that sort of an American right? Be better patriots. Don't eat the mail and only knock down Merrick when he's ready.

With love,

The Matron (the one who feeds you)

Thank you!

2011-02-24T15:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, the Matron woke to her youngest's sobs.

Merrick: "I have a headache! I haven't seen you ow Daddy in FOUW days! Please don't make me go to school. I hate that place."

Now, the Matron and her husband arrived home at 11:30 pm on Tuesday night. All three children were asleep (thanks, Grandma) and welcomed home their parents on Wednesday morning before school.

Or sort of before school.

The Matron watched the newly diagnosed Merrick blink, open his mouth and lick his lips every twenty seconds on Wednesday morning while he wailed about school. He plastered himself onto each parent and both dogs, one by one. He begged for a mental health day. The Matron's household has a 'mental health' policy. Every child gets two days to skip school for no reason whatsoever but for rejuvenation and mental health. Merrick has used his up (he's tidy that way).

Quick consultation in the bathroom as the Mom/Dad team compared notes on the puddle that would be Merrick.

Matron: "Honey, you can stay home today. Mom and Dad both have to work, but if you're okay with watching television, playing with the dogs and eating snack food, you can skip school."

Merrick: "Mama?"

Matron: "Yes?"

Merrick: "Is that what heaven will be like?"

Junk food, TV, dogs, and no school. Yes, my dear. Heaven.

Merrick? Your mother was happy to have you home yesterday. Yes, she just got back from an intensive work conference and had -- has -- about 2 million assignments to grade. But she called in sick and threw work to the wayside so she could cuddle with you, play with dogs, watch TV and snack.

Heaven, indeed.

Happy Birthday, Merrick (Late Again)

2011-02-22T12:33:00.000-08:00

Merrick,

You know you're the third child when your mother --- on the actual DAY of her other children's birthdays -- posts long, loving picture-filled posts about these babies.

The third child?

Well, she forgot!

Worse yet, she went to Florida for a work conference and MISSED your birthday.

Merrick: "I can't believe you'we leaving me for my biwthday! Don't go!! Cancel that twip!"

Matron: "Honey, it's four days out of nearly 15 years. I really do need to go for work."

Merrick: "Then I'm asking Daddy to stay home."

Matron (same line she uses a lot): "Remember, Daddy and I are on the same team. If one of us says something, the other agrees."

Merrick: "I hate that team."

Honey, she fully appreciates that you do hate that team. But the team is sort of essential to mental health and parental stability.

And darling youngest child, your mother knows this has been a rough couple of months. You were recently (potentially - waiting for the neurologist) diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome. At first, your mother thought it best not to mention this to you until the official confirmation but here's what happened at your 8 year old check-up:

Pediatrician (after observing Merrick for ten minutes during her exam): "Merrick? Mom? Do you mind if I ask another doc to come in and we can play a game with Merrick. Mom, you can watch or wait in the hallway."

Immediately, the Matron knew something was up. How many times do TWO doctors play a 'game' with an 8 year old for his well child check up? It was a nerve wracking game for the mama who watched the the ten minute board game.

Both were in agreement: Tourette Syndrome . And they sprung this on the Matron in front of Merrick -- whose teacher actually called a few days earlier to note that she was worried about the 'tics.'

Teacher: "Mary? Have you noticed that Merrick has some odd habits with his mouth and with blinking? Is he under stress? Other students have started to notice and make comments."

Matron: "I think he needs lip balm and more sleep. But thanks for asking."

And then after the 8 year old well check up in the car on the way home . . .

Merrick: "Do have tuwnip disease? Will I die fwom it?"

Matron (who at this point, fresh on the heels of the diagnosis she knows in her heart to be true, really wants to pull over and throw up and then cry): "No, no. You can't die. It's not turnips but Tourette's. It's when your muscles want to pull. You can't stop it and it's totally okay."

Merrick, in a statement that really did break her heart: "Is that why I need to blink and open my mouth? Sometimes I need to blink weally weally hawd and I can't stop it. And my mouth too. It feels good."

Matron: "It's just who you are. Just like I yawn or wiggle with my hair."

Merrick: "Kind of like Stwyker having braces, wight?"

Matron: "Right. No big deal."

For the rest of her life, the Matron will be grateful to this observant pediatrician who--in ten minutes -- explained many of the things about which the Matron and her husband had been wondering.

Neurology starts in April. This, after five hours of tests last month to follow up on the heart arrhythmia. The irony is that this is her athletic, body-bound kid who can hit a baseball and win a tennis tournament without any effort.

But for Merrick's 8th birthday? A bit of a fork in the road, friends. Guess who plans on heading the National Tourette Syndrome Association in about ten minutes after the official diagnosis. Only half joking and she's now an expert.

Merrick -- The future might have shifted for you. But your mom and dad are steadfastly by your side. You're a beautiful, shining spirit. And that's what everyone sees first.

And it took the Matron a long, long time to decide she could blog about Tourette Syndrome .

My baby.

Shock to the Matronly System

2011-02-21T07:36:00.000-08:00

The Matron and her beloved, John, have a 14 and a half year old firstborn. That's 14.5 years of parenting.

And they have not traveled alone together for 14.5 years until now.

Yours truly undertook a major technology training, conveniently located in FLORIDA. Where there is no snow. She is currently sitting on the beach grading papers and hoping no one notices her absence at workshops and presentations.

John is completely idle. He feels like he should be cleaning bathrooms or driving fellow hotel guests to dance, theater, voice, baseball, debate, school or other activities.

John: "Mary? Can I get you anything? Are there chores to do?"

Matron: "You're on vacation."

John: "Can you send me a link to a definition of that concept?"

The Matron marvels that everyday someone comes into their hotel suite, cleans the bathroom, makes the bed and does dishes.

Wait. Isn't that why she had children? Hmmm. . . . let's just say the last time any offspring in her lineage loaded a dishwasher might have been 1975. And that would have been a much, much younger Matron.

There are 12-18 inches of fresh snow in Minnesota. The state is closed down. Here, people are drinking adult beverages at 9 am by the pool or on the beach.

So no distinct narrative today, just a sigh. Vitamin D is pouring into her veins and nobody needed a fourth drink of water last night or got up at 6 am for school. And here she thought heaven was just a myth.

And the Winner Is . . .

2011-02-18T21:00:00.000-08:00

Here's the outstanding post about bullying, per the Matronly request.

Patty -- You win tickets to "Mean." Send me your mailing address at mpetrie@inverhills.edu. Easier to use this address. Yours truly will deliver the goods but the show closes a week from Sunday so we need to be quick.

And in amazing, untoward and somewhat strange turn of events, the Matron and her family have been asked to audition for "Minute to Win It." This is a strange reality television show. Let's just say 'strange' and 'reality television' belong together.

It turns out the casting director saw Mean, Scarlett's latest show, and asked all of the actors to audition. The Matron is about ready to throw herself over a bridge at the thought, but everyone else in the family is already on a plane to California.

People, this involves juggling things on your tongue. So much for brain power . . . .

Break a Leg, Scarlett (Belated so Maybe that Leg is Long Broken)

2011-02-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

Photo from The Match Girl's Gift (see way way at end of post)

Scarlett's current show is Mean at Youth Performance Company. Friends, the Matron is here to tell you that this intrepid theater is the best thing going for teens in the Twin Cities! The show addresses all things 'mean,' from online bullying to the jostling in the high school hallways and bathrooms. The actors? Let's just say Glee pales in comparison.

Here's the deal: yours truly has six tickets to Mean to give away. Write about bullying on your blog-- whether that's helping your children through something or a memory of your own, an experience that shaped you, etc. -- and I'll post all the links to your posts on Friday. Send me your links at mpetrie33@gmail.com and I'll pick a couple of strong stories and toss some tickets in your direction. The Matron reserves her right to select one or two winners that move her.

But this is an important topic, so even if you're in Japan (and you know who you are : -) or Australia, consider a post about bullying and meanness. I'll put everyone's links up on Friday.

And even though this show opened on Saturday and the Matron is late . . . break a leg, Scarlett! She's reverting to her regular "break a leg" post with new content (and an update on four shows) at the end.

*~*~*~*~*~*

She knows regular readers have seen most of this. New content, at the end. Beware if your child likes acting!

But back to the more fun part of being a Stage Mother.

Scarlett was seven when Theater stole her from the Matron. This happened while she watched a performance ofEsperanza Rising at the Children's Theater. She wept--mourned, wailed and railed-- about illegal immigration until well-past midnight. The play's topic became urgent and real. Art had hold.

Scarlett: "Mom, I want to be in theater. Can you get me a show?"

A couple of months later, she and a 15-year old friend wrote, produced and directed a backyard production ofAnnie that involved 27 children, 100 audience members, a sound system, choreography, enormous painted backdrops and red hair dye (lasted six weeks).

You know who's Annie.

During the course of the week-long rehearsals, Scarlett requested email addresses for the children's families so she could better communicate with her cast. She is not yet eight.

When tucked her into bed after the first rehearsal, she offered this: "Mom, why don't those orphans listen better? They're supposed to do what I say." A director is born. You can rework those letters just a bit to get dictator, you know.

John and the Matron were in charge of food. Lots of it. Those orphans had no issues there.

Next, Scarlett auditioned for Little Bird at SteppingStone Theatre, St. Paul's children's theater. She stood on that big stage and belted out a song. She shivered and cowered on cue.

She didn't get in. But she went back for the very next audition with undiminished joy. And landed the role of Gladys Herdman in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. You know the book. This Official Theater Debut came four months after Annie.

Scarlett recognized that SteppingStone Theater was actually her new home and a much better place to be. Below, here she is, once again embodying poverty, in The Prince and the Pauper.

The cast of The Prince and the Pauper then became the cast of The Sound of Music for Scarlett's Second Annual Backyard Production. She was Gretel. And all those teenagers from SteppingStone traipsed to our house for more singing and dancing, under Scarlett's Command. She's eight now.

Our neighborhood is high on a bluff above the river. When the Matron mentioned to a neighbor that Scarlett was rehearsing a backyard play, the neighbor said: "We all know. These hills are alive with the sound of music, my dear." And it made life a little sweeter, she said.

Now, the Matron didn't feel like a real stage mother -you know, all claws and competition--till auditions at the Guthrie. This is the real deal, folks. Cash money and world stage, all that. Here is The Matron's Very Fine Rule for auditioning at the Guthrie Theater: Do Not Talk To The Other Mothers. Then, you're fine. Here's Scarlett as Maisie McLaughlin, impoverished and dirty Irish waif in The Home Place.

Check out that playbill. Yes, that's her in the second picture, the only person in pony-tails. Scarlett rubbed shoulders with Fame. And what did the famous do in return? Showered her with candy. gifts and generosity of spirit. The child landed a Webkin, drawings, flowers, jewelry, ornaments, (did she mention candy?) books,boundless good will and adoration. She was also exposed to a staggering scale of swearing, drink and Late Night (uh, some of this from her very own Mama). The child supervisor said he tried to cover her ears at just the right moments.

Every night she stood on that stage and hundreds applauded. That was her favorite part, she reports.

Next came Almost to Freedom at SteppingStone Theater. Scarlett played Mary-Kate, the plantation overseer's daughter. It's a stark, beautiful play about slavery. Kim Hines did the adaptation from the book by Vaunda Micheaux Nelson. If you don't know this book, it's worth trying.

This was the first play in which the Matron watched her daughter and thought: Wow. A child of her blood could harmonize in front of hundreds? Thank goodness John witnessed the birth or she might not have believed it.

That 9-year old pro's next show was also with SteppingStone Theatre. Scarlett was a weasel in Anansi the Trickster Spider. By this point, the Matron was getting so, oh, nonchalant about the whole endeavor, that she forgot about pictures (and she had a whole month to get some).

Here's how Scarlett has spent her free time for the past two years: online looking for auditions.

After Anansi came the Third Annual Backyard Production. This time it was Peter Pan. Scarlett was a definite Tink, not a Tinkerbell. The cast included a sea of pirates, Indian maidens and mermaids. The grand finale was a highly highly choreographed blast of Elton John's Crocodile Rock. More than one parent wiped an eye in the Matronly backyard--once again stuffed full of people!

Wait! The Matron forgot the movie! During the month of July, leading up to the play was the small independent art film: Minka is Here. Here is the daughter in a movie.

If you go to film festivals, you might even see it someday. It's lovely.

Reader, are you tired yet? Because the Matron is. Between the actual Theatrical Event comes the down home theatrics AND the search for the next gig. Because when Scarlett doesn't have a show?

She's worried. But if she's down, she can just think of her favorite things and feel better. Like realizing a (short and adorable) lifelong dream and being an actual Von Trapp child on an actual stage in an actual play that is NOT in the backyard.

This time for The Sound of Music at the Phipps Center for the Arts! Scarlett was Marta. Here she is charming up the Julie Andrews type.

Sound of Music took this child away (and the Matron to Wisconsin!) nearly every night for six weeks this fall.

In December, Scarlett traded traipsing through the hills for the deaf blind shuffle. Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker! Now, if Sound of Music stole Scarlett and kept her busy, this production did not. Indeed, the first 2/3 of private Helen and Annie rehearsals were cancelled. Here you are, in the midst of the actual shuffle.

"We don't need them."

But wait! The Matronly psyche did! That's an awfully big role to be dropping stage time. Not that she knows one single thing about theatre. Still, Stage Mother fretted as rehearsals fell like the stock market.

But all went well. The show opened to rave reviews.

For the entire run, Scarlett, you came home with spectacular bruises, splinters, two inch gashes on your arms. The role is physical. You were doused with water. You had so much blocking to remember you said it's almost like being in two plays at once. But you still found time to play 'school' with your brother and tried to mention all of your friends, by name, in the program.

Your fellow actors gave you high praise. You're a good team player. Even if Helen appears, well, fiesty.

After being the only child on the set for The Miracle Worker, the Mother Ship opened her arms to you and you happily climbed aboard, mid-March. The Matron doesn't think she's seen you since. Have you grown?

A little. Here you are, on a rehearsal break, with your latest set of best friends, the people who see you more than your family does.

Sometimes when she misses you, your mother tunes in as best she can. She watches this. That's pretty much the most direct contact she's had with you in a good long while, except for the driving.

But . . . being an icon is a once in a lifetime thrill. Right, Ramona?

Oh wait. You were just Helen Keller. Okay, you get to be an icon twice (three times, it turns out, but that's coming up next). You took the definition of trooper to new levels, Scarlett. Seventy-six shows in six weeks! Once you went on stage with a mouth stuffed with cotton and gauze, bleeding from an emergency tooth extraction and sick from the anesthesia. Your mother watched you cover once when your adult counterparts forgot their lines. She knew then you'd crossed one: you are a professional.

Over the summer, you reprised your role as Gladys in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. This is the annual backyard production that resulted in more wet parental eyes and about $600 in groceries. The closer your friends get to teenagers, the more they are eating. Can we stop this upward climb?

There are no pictures of the summer show. That's a whole other story.

Then, this fall you donned yet another adorable wig (actually two but th Matron hasn't yet signed the permissions form for the cute culy redhead wig) and stepped into a third iconic role:Annie!

Even when the skin on her neck hangs so loose and low it can cover small children (and possibly developing nations), your mother will never forget the morning you woke up after being offered that role. The theater had called late the night before, just as you had arrived home from the audition.

The next morning, your mother opened your door to find you stretching into the day, just emerging from the night's cocoon. You opened your eyes and whispered "I'm Annie" with such pure and uncomplicated joy that your mother nearly cried. If only we all could wake like that each day! I'm _____________ .

Just look at that joy.

Your mother was once again shocked and slightly disturbed that her lineage could actually sing. Really well. Amazing, actually. The autograph seeking crowd afterward was 40 minutes deep.

Annie was an emotional moment for the Mama, who relived that first backyard production and all that came in between. Her daughter was living the dream -- her own dream! Hey, that's what the Mama wants to be doing too (only this dream involves a computer and one lucky book publisher, no vocals).

Somewhere in the middle of Hooverville, Scarlett decided that she should do . . . drum roll . .. .

Dinner Theater.

Which she did, popping in as the scullery maid, Fanny, and Scrooge's sister (in one of those freaky childhood flashbacks) in a little holiday show at the Actor's Theater, Fezziwig's Feast.

You had a small part onstage but a big role in managing the younger children.

The Matron is glad that you are good with a comb. After Annie and Fezziwig's Feast, you had a blazing FOUR DAY vacation that included Christmas itself, and then started rehearsals forSister Kenny's Children at the History Theater. Yup, that's you in the braids.

The cast consisted of one very well known local adult actor, several teenagers from St. Paul'sPerforming Arts High School, and -- you. This experience only cemented your desire to attend this performing arts high school, just two years in the future.

High School? Scarlett? Two years? Hey -- fork over that Kleenex!

Fezzwig's was followed by a bit of a heartbreak: the second round The Miracle Worker was cancelled. There went your spring --but a big lesson in the up and downs of theater. Thank goodness there was a nice break for the first time in four years!

This summer, you were Amaryllis in The Music Man at Como Park Community Theatre. Your mother was once again amazed by your ability to harmonize (and had to remind herself that she was there at the birth and therefore, there is a bloodline). That show seemed almost like a continuation of the four month break, as rehearsals were entirely manageable.

Well, that all ended, didn't it, my dear?

More heartbreak: your fall show was also cancelled. This meant you had to scramble for auditions. Certain that you'd the usual round of rejection and perhaps one show, your parents allowed you to audition for THREE shows. You landed roles in all.

You were the unhappy and beleaguered Sarah-Kate in Afternoon of the Elves at Youth Performance Company. This theater has strict rules about age limitations -- 12 is the earliest one can possibly audition. My dear, you were counting the days. You probably don't remember, but you started begging to audition there when you were eight. Two days into your 12th year, you auditioned for the first time--and got a lead role. Your mother witnessed this and understood the meaning of joy, watching you. She bows down to teh people running this theater, which is without question the best place ever for teens, hands down.

Scarlett, last fall for the first time , you were in shows that overlapped. So while making audiences weep as Sarah Kate, you were also the young Clara in Isabella Allende's The House of Spirits at Mixed Blood Theatre , You went from performances to rehearsals and Merrick wondered where you were living. The van and a theater, said the mama.

During The House of Spirits, you started rehearsals for The Match Girl's Gift at the Centennial Showboat. Guess who was the Match Girl? Your mama wept every night at your near death. Hans Christian Anderson, for shame! Too much emotion for the hormonal and middle-aged.

And now, you're happily back at Youth Performance Company for Mean, perhaps a better version of Rent and Glee wrapped into one (not that she's biased). Once again, you're the busiest person in the household. The Matron watches in amazement as you complete all of your homework, get the straight A's and strut onstage several hours a day. Plus you still help your little brother with his homework and all things love. The Matron can barely look at the photos in the post without weeping, seeing how you've grown so she's savoring those moments when you cuddle with the little guy in the house.

When the Matron was pregnant with you, darling, she dreamed of a daughter who would be something special. Never, ever in a million years did she think she would get this lucky. And if tomorrow you're an apple seller too, you're going to be amazing at that. It's not what you're dong but the grace and intelligence you bring to everything in your life.

Your mother will always look at the night sky and blazing stars and feel grateful, knowing one bright light lives in her own household --and she gets to kiss that light's forehead every night and pull up the covers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Home Place Photo credit to Michal Daniel of Proofsheet Photograhy. Miracle Worker and Minka is here Ann Marsden and Ann Prim photo and movie credit, respectively. Sound of Music photographs are Mandsager Photography. The Ramona photo was lifted from the StarTribune. Fezziwig Photos by Alan Weeks and Annie shots by George Clager. Top photo (Match Girl) is from Leonard-Gorril -- more photos in the link.

Sweet Valentine

2011-02-14T12:01:00.000-08:00

Last night, the Matron had a significant psychological meltdown, requiring tea, cookies, late night television and the the cathartic y bowl of salsa and a bag of chips. Friends, you know those nights.

Suffice it to say, she was up late.

National Public Radio (she's liberal that way, even in the pre-dawn hours) blasted her awake at 5 am. She stumbled out of bed to feed the 70 lb blood hound puppy who just turned one and is officially a teenager) and Satan's Familiar, who is rapidly indoctrinating the new dog into all activities evil and vomit-inducing.

After the dogs had their fill and outdoor release, for a few optimistic moments, the Matron sat on the couch and considered being ambulatory. Then reason prevailed and she decided to go back to bed since this was a day in which she wasn't required to be on campus.

Matron to John in the dark: "John? Are you awake?"

This is being volleyed over Merrick, as he comes into the "big bed" every night around 3 am.

John: "Huh? Uh, awake. That's me."

Matron: "Since you're getting up with He Who Cannot be Named (HWCBN) at 6 am, will you wake me up at 7?"

You see, yours truly didn't want turn on a light to set an alarm and rouse the sleeping seven year old who mistakenly thinks the parental bed is his own as soon as the clock hits 3 am. And she was tired.

John: "Okay . . . 7. Got it."

The Matron put her weary head on the pillow and thankfully fell asleep instead of making various mental 'to do' lists. Thanks, late night angst! And she woke up at . . . 8:30.

Frantic Matron to John, who was fresh out of the shower: "Why didn't you wake me up at 7!!"

John: "Was I supposed to?"

Matron: "Since when do I ever -- in the history of humanity -- sleep until 8:30 on a school and work day? Don't you remember our conversation at 5:10, 48 seconds this morning?"

John: "No. And for the record, if you wake me up with requests before 6 am, I will never, ever remember them. Let's just be clear about that. Between midnight and 6 am, you can tell me tales of stripping or wildlife in the backyard, and I will never know these things at 6:05 am. Are we good?"

Good. Sometimes knowing limits is the key to a health marriage. Happy 20 years, honey!

Reality R Us

2011-02-10T15:22:00.000-08:00

According That Grape Juice, Lady GaGa instructed Vogue magazine that she has " one of the greatest voices in the industry."

My, my, tuts the demure midwestern mild-mannered Matron. People from Minnesota are not supposed to toot their own horns.

Student to Matron: "You're the best teacher I've ever had!"

Horrified Matron: "NO I'M NOT!"

John to Matron: "You look stunning today."

Matron: "Stop messing with me."

Now, the Matronly circle of influence is relatively small. She's a medium-sized fish in a medium-sized town and at a medium-sized college. Her range is limited. Lady GaGa, however, has the hormones necessary to place herself at the forefront of an entire global industry.

My, my, tuts the Matron.

So in that spirit:

The Matron is one of the best (if barely known) writers in the blogosphere -- when it comes to sheer narrative and prose. There, she did it. Friends, she's shaking and sweating to find herself so out of character.

Did the earth move? If you see a few stars fall tonight or the sky crack open in a Biblical sense, it's her fault.

The Matron is the best cook in her house!

Okay, not true.

The Matron is a great traveler and is looking forward to her flight home from Chicago tomorrow!

Again, not true.

Let's stick with the good writing thing.

Friends: be bold!! What are you good at that you're proud of?

Close Encounter with a Stranger

2011-02-09T15:16:00.000-08:00

Fully loaded with Xanax, the Matron left the house at 6:45 am to hop on a plane to Chicago! Yes: two nights of sleep without waking up at 3 am when Merrick muscles his way into the parental bed (he knows the hour of least resistance) and then again at 5 am when the dogs demand breakfast.

Of course, part of the problem is that she caves in to both of these disruptions which is part of the problem. But self help and boundaries constitute another blog post.

So the Matron is groggily happy on the airplane. She has her magazine, work material and laptop. Fully loaded. The man sitting beside her is a youngster -- looked twenty-something --and they said hello and disappeared into their own worlds of reading.

He did comment when she took that second Xanax. But he was funny and nice.

As the plane descended and yours truly realized she was probably going to live, she made a comment of relief to her fellow passenger and a joke about sleeping without children. Then, because he made eye contact and laughed, she asked if he had any?

Fellow Passenger: "My two year old daughter just died three months ago. This is my first week back at work."

Friends, what can you say to this? The Matron instantly started to well up.

Fellow Passenger: "Do you want to see a picture?"

He fumbled through his wallet and retrieved an image of a beaming, beautiful toddler with a big bunch of curls and a radiant smile.

Matron: "Oh, I'm so so sorry!! Was this a sudden illness?"

No. It turns out she had a genetic disorder and died at the Mayo Clinic after the bone marrow transplant didn't gel.

But the fellow passenger started to cry, just a little bit. He talked about his wife and how she's devastated and about their four year old, who keeps asking when his sister is coming home. By this time, the Matron is also a bona fide puddle and gave up all pretense of not crying.

Not sure what to do, she hugged him. And they both cried a little bit more. She'll always remember that very young man facing tremendous adversity and his willingness to be honest, open and vulnerable even with a complete stranger. May we all find someone in the crowd who will care for us.

Nostalgia

2011-02-07T12:12:00.000-08:00

Occasionally, the Matron reminisces. Fun! This is her second round with this topic but . . . well, new readers would not want to miss so much fun!

Given her recent run-in with the Virus which has taken up residency in her home (felling children in a domino, one at a time style just to extend its stay), she was reminded of other kinds of fortune.

You do not want to stand next to her during a thunderstorm.

Reader, spring is upon us. For some sweet innocents, that means the green leaf and the tender bud. For the Matron? April heralds Storm Season.

That's right. She is never happy, weather-wise. There is winter. Which is cold and inconvenient. And everything else (except Autumn, when she content -- ablaze, even).

See this?

When the Matron was a very very Young Miss -- as in just three years old --she was playing in the front yard with her doll, Beverly-Doris.

Don't you love the her way with Name, that early?

These are her very first memories of life upon this planet. The thick wet day, all heat and bother, drops instantly into something cold. She needs a sweater. So she grabs Beverly-Doris and walks toward the house when she sees the world has turned yellow. That fast!

And there is something brown and fuzzy, rumbling off into the distance. It looks like a moth, but makes noise.

Suddenly, Mama is screaming and crying: "Run, Mary, run!"

And they both do, in that instant when sticks and grass and leaves and old paper strips suddenly whip by, lightening speed and fury and ice. Does she run into the house or is she grabbed? Everything blurs together. She is falling--pushed-- down the stairs and under a mustard-colored blanket while the world whips itself dumb.

The windows all break. Someone is crying.

When they emerge, the house is gone. It's that simple and complex. Where there once was a life with dainty wine-glasses and wedding photos and sheets for the baby-crib, there is a pile of rubble.

The Mother takes Young Miss and her even younger sister and runs --as fast as they can-- to a neighbor's house. Because another tornado is coming.

Two days later, her mother sorts through the rubble and weeps. She is just 25 years old. She thinks she's lost everything. But one divorce, one more child and two more years later, that sky will be darker.

When she was 8, her Mother hauled the three children into the station wagon. Apparently, not enough church-going had transpired and the family was off to do penance. Er, Mass, on a random Sunday.

While en route, their car was struck by lightening.

Struck. By. Lightening.

The engine stopped and that car? Never moved again. Other vehicles backed up for miles to report the spectacle. Young Miss remembers a loud boom, an incredible white flash, and her rain boots tingling.

So bad weather has haunted the Matron in a very special way. Have a comparable story? No, she doesn't think so.

Hear that siren? She will be in the basement.

Except for the night that the 15 ton, 100 foot tree fell on her pregnant self, wreaking $45,00 worth of damage to a $65,00 (this was a marginal neighborhood in 1994 at the time of purchase) house.

See that tree? Under there, that's the Matron's old house!

Near the end of May 1998 while pregnant with Scarlett, a ferocious storm rocked Minnesota. Thunder, lightening and straight-line winds clocking 80 miles per hour.

The Matron was trying to be reasonable. This was no tornado. Just big old messy winds. John was watching television downstairs in the living room. The neighbors had lights on. Normal, regular old storm. But she sat up in bed, bothered, returning to a conversation with her 94-year old neighbor the day before.

Ninety-four year old Grandma Kueppers had shaken her finger at a neighbor's tree: "I've lived with that monster for over 70 years," she said. "That tree is going to fall. It's rotten."

When the wind moaned and branches whipped, she got up and checked on the (then) cherubic Stryker. Sound asleep in his crib. She looked at that tree. Was it shaking? Coward, she joined John in the living room just as the sirens went off.

While John grabbed Stryker and the Matron threw the dogs into the basement, that rotting tree picked itself up by the roots and slammed into the house, entering in four spectacular places -- and destroying two cars and a garage in the process, as a sort of bonus.

When they emerged from the basement, the house was awash in wind and rain and crackling power lines, downed. Soil in the kitchen, leaves where dinner should be.

Here's the Matron and two-year old Stryker at the roots, one day later. That was one helluva tree.

Indeed. The tree required a crane to dislodge from the house (this is how the Matron knows precise weight and height of said monster). That tree? Left a two foot long, one inch deep crack on the wall by Stryker's crib. The bedroom where the Matron was fretting? Absolutely destroyed. A tremendous half of the tree sprawled through it.

Here's what the engineer who examined the house said: "Wow. If this house had been built ten years and two bricks later, your toddler would've been dead."

Wasn't he considerate of her eight-month pregnant state? Are you allowed to murder engineers sent by the insurance company? She's sure there's a provision.

Later, the media men and meteorologists would debate whether the wind was just one big line-drive or a bona-fide tornado. The Matron doesn't quibble over semantics. She understands that disaster, by any name, strikes twice.

So when they moved into their current house -the dream house with 40 windows overlooking the river and city - the previous owners took care to point out The Tree.

"See this cottonwood? We think it's nearly 200 years old. You can see this tree from downtown and all the bridges."

Their single, heart-felt, on bended-knee request? Don't cut down that tree. It's historic.

Yes. You can live in St. Paul and look toward the city skyline at the biggest, tallest, oldest and most dangerous trees, swaying high above the city along the river bluff -- and there's the one conveniently located outside of the Matron's bedroom window. Ready to kill her.

Felled

2011-02-03T20:47:00.000-08:00

Flu has hit the Matron's household. One c child out of school for the entire week, and two more down today. The Matron? Also captive of the virus. She'll be back tomorrow --and thanks everyone for still checking in! Wit and narrative coming up soon!

Moralizing

2011-02-01T20:35:00.000-08:00

Friends, the Matron has restrained from doing so until this point. Moralizing that is. Each to him or herself or indeterminate gendered self, right? That's all groovy with her. Beyond do unto others, establishing a moral code is pretty rough.

Except for ONE THING. The bane of her existence -- 'tone of voice.' Let's just straddle that phrase: bane of her existence. And she's moralizing.

He Who Cannot Be Named: "Why can't I go to the batting cage right now instead of waiting for you to make dinner?" Key? This is not a query but a battle call, freighted with annoyance at -- of all things-- being inconvenienced by dinner.

Scarlett: "Why can't I have a peanut butter sandwich in my lunch instead of turkey?" Key? Now, this could be a very benign question. Consider how one orders food in a restaurant.

Patron to waiter: "May I please have a peanut butter sandwich and forgo the turkey?"

Waiter: "Of course!"

Instead, at the Matron's house. . . .

"Why can't I have a peanut butter sandwich instead of turkey?"

Matron: "Why are you yelling at me as if I'm the indentured servant on a ship in the 18th century?"

Yes, she says things like that to her children. She likes to think they'll thank her for that someday.

Merrick: "Whewe awe my gween pants!!!!!"

Now, this question more or less sounds like someone announcing nuclear death for the entire planet -- with rage.

Matron, over and over and over and over again: "Can you say that in a polite or neutral tone of voice?" Now, she doesn't pull out this line when her children are genuinely emotional or upset -- a disappointment, denial, fear, uncertainty, etc. Just when there's, well, a demand.

HWCBN: "You and tone of voice. I'll remember that until the day I die."

Matron: "Pardon me? Can you say that in the same tone of voice you'd use for a teacher?"

Because, dear reader? You and the Matron know that we're the primary teachers.

On Being a Good Buddhist

2011-01-31T09:01:00.000-08:00

Or not.

Several years ago, the Matron went to the very fine Kripalu Center to study yoga and, well, get all Zen and down -- as in calm down, be in touch, centered and all those goodies.

She sat through several lovely dharma talks. She stood on her head (really!), flexed muscles and meditated. There was nothing but loving-kindness and nonviolence, twenty-four hours a day for four days. Considering she then had a 4 and 2 year old at home, this was a much needed respite, even with a roommate, a lovely woman with a good decade on the Matron, a much better head of hair and a sense of humor.

One of the dharma talks that touched her most was on nonviolence: try not to step on ants, people. The value of life --- from a bug to a plant to a human being -- was emphasized. It was inspirational. It was the kind of talk that makes one leave the room infused with the desire --and drive -- to be a better human being.

That speech and inspiration came rather late one evening after a long day of downward dogs and deep breathing. Friends, she's here to tell you that deep breathing is more work than the phrase would imply. So she was tired, spent, at the end of the evening. She and her roommate discussed their desires to be better people for their time spent at the retreat. They shared a couple of stories, dreams, and retired.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

That would be the sound of the fly in their small room, zipping around with zeal from the roommate's face to the Matron's, in between the nun-like beds and then back to settle in for a potential feast or new home on someone's hair.

Still, silence except for the fly prevailed as the roommate and the Matron both continued their deep breathing, nonviolence, loving kindness stance. For about 15 minutes.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Roommate: "Mary?"

Matron: "Yes?"

Roommate: "Let's kill that sucker."

And so, after a day of reflecting on all things harmonious with the world and aligning themselves to be better people, the Matron and her roommate found themselves magazines and rolled up newspapers and spent half an hour stalking down the fly . . . climbing on chairs, hoisting themselves up walls, tumbling over beds.

Until they killed it.

But at least they made it 15 minutes.

Mean

2011-01-29T10:57:00.000-08:00

Why this Youth Performance Company show matters: just read this blog. There's not much more to say!

Even if you're not in Minnesota, chime in and support these young people who are sharing their hearts with the world. If that's not the bravest thing to do at 15? Well. The Matron thinks it is.