AAAAWWWWW

It is 6 pm on a Friday night in a state that hasn't seen sun like this since Ocotber 2008.  Satan's Familiar has escaped from the backyard once today, nor has he pooped in the house.

Jekyll is still alive.

The Matron has her tooth, even if it remains unuseable.

She is wearing sandals and a smile.

The brown city landscape is sprouting early evidence of summer's lush life.  In a few minutes, she'll hop in the van and have dinner with friends in Minneapolis.

It is Tech Week.  Do you know how on Prairie Home Companion, they do the "Ketchup" gig?  

Big soft pharmacy sweet voice:  "Bankruptcy?  Homeless?  Divorce?  Ketchup.  Solves all."

It is Tech Week.  Scarlett is at the Theatre from 11 am to 11 pm tonight and tomorrow,  and it is the Matron's turn to drive home tonight.  So she is all "Ketchup" on all the very GOOD things in her life:  those waiting friends, the tooth, the fact that she didn't spend two hours chasing a dog today.  Because the Matron does not much enjoy middle of the night parenting, which is largely what tech week entails.  Ugh.

Ketchup.  Oooom.  Sun.

And on the Children Theatre's web site:  this.   She guesses aaawww is all a mama's allowed to say, even a mama who will be STILL driving children, near midnight.

Good News and Bad News

The Matron went to that Litlte Shoppe of Dental Horror, prepared.    You see, immediately following, it was her turn to be on duty for the children's Tech Week break, conveniently located at the 4-6 time slot.  

Prepared?  She brought extra contacts in case hers dried out from crying or scrunching eyes shut and a clean shirt in case she bled out one more time, in case the last one didn't prove to be sufficient thrill.  

But friends?  

The good news is that you all clearly tapped into the Power that is God-Allah-Oprah-Buddha-Universe.  The novacaine?  Worked like a charm.  The implant?  Went in perfectly!  The blood?  Stayed inside the body where it was warmer.  Thank you!!

The bad news?  She had absolutely no idea until today at 3 pm that the new tooth is a temporary, waiting for the implant (screw) to integrate with the tissue.  In the SIX #%(#* month interim, she may not bite upon or put any pressure upon said front temporary tooth, lest the 'integrating' implant come undone.  

Come undone!  Back to the retainer!?  Which the Matron was handed in a solid little box and instructed to safeguard, sorta like the Queen's Jewels.  And here she thought she could melt it in the microwave and bury it.  Grrrrrrr.

Six months will mean just about one year of this spin through Alice's Wonderland Whirl.    How long did Kathy Bates imprison her writer in Mercy?  That's the Matron!

But she thanks you from the bottom of her crusty little heart for your good energy.  She FELT it.  Really.  Love and kindness is even better than xanax (which has quite worn off, darn it).

For the moment, she is reacquainting herself with the roof of her mouth and various sounds, like "ch" and "S" and is, despite the ordeal and the potential dangers ahead -- happy!  

Save Money

For her local readers. . . 

If you buy tickets to Ramona Quimby before 3 pm on April 17th, the tickets are 50% off!  You can purchase tickets for shows from April 28th through May 17th.  Call 612-874-0400 and the promotional code is ramonaoneday.

Don't forget (via yesterday's pathetic plea for help) her mental health is in your hands. 

Pray for Her. She's Not Kidding.

Remember the dental appointment that Satan built?

Tomorrow, the Matron's dentist is going to try again.  She dares you to click that link.   It was BAD.

At the moment, the Matron is still wearing a thick, ungainly retainer containting a fake false tooth.  Tomorrow -- from 1-3 Central Time (make a note of it) -- she will undergo a second Procedure to secure an implant and permanent 'tooth.'    Oh, how she doesn't want to bleed out and leave orphans  (John would die of grief or codependancy, she's certain).

  

Here's her plea.    Which starts with a story she told earlier on this blog.

There's Mary Kay Blakely. The Matron never forgot hearing this co-founder of Ms. Magazine give a radio interview, in which she credited communal energy as the source of her recovery from a deadly, two-week long diabetic coma.

About 20 years ago, Blakely fell into this coma. She was dying. Thank goodness she had friends like Gloria Steinem, good women friends --the very best kind -- who are inventive and loyal beyond all else! Her friends sent thousands of messages to thousands of people asking everyone to send Blakey healing energy.

Create those waves! Will her to recover! If the Matronly memory serves, these thousands focused their brain wattage and collectively envisioned Blakely's recovery simultaneously, at an allotted hour.

And Blakely woke up!

The Matron has goosebumps, just thinking about this!

So friends - from near and far.  Know that the Matron is done with the thick and ungainly retainer, the slurred word and thick mouth (for SIX MONTHS)!!   She doesn't want to bleed for an hour.  She NEEDS tomorrow's appointment to go as planned, per text book.

Shall we provide another urban legend?  Please, please think of her -- anytime from 1-3 Central -- and envision, pray, chant, beg---that the appointment is Butter, smooth as all get-out, and she emerges with a new tooth intact and a retainer in the garbage.

Did she mention she's taking a Xanax beforehand?  Or two.

 

Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum!

Some people have music humming in the background. The Matron? National Public Radio -- the talk kind -- feeding her news and information, all day long!

She's sorry, children. Sometimes fear for the successful mathematical meshing of her children's brains overtakes her, and she switches to classical music. Sometimes.

Last night was not one such occasion.

News hummed in the background as the Matron worked with Merrick on his kindergarten homework. This endeavor wrought all kinds of havoc on both the Matronly ecosystem and Merrick's, as his reading situation has not much improved.

Indeed, the Matron spent much of her time trying to convince Merrick that 9 was not a member of the club that constituted the Alphabet. Nine had its own team and it was called Numbers.

Merrick: "Weawwy?" Because he cannot say R or L yet, either. Weawwy is his response to all new, compelling, or potentially contradicting information -- and to any news his not-so-reliable siblings dish out.

Matron: "Yes. Really. How about this 8. You have 8 dogs and 3 run in the yard. What's that number that's left?"

Merrick: "B?"

Just as the Matron was about to impale herself upon a giant L, NPR sputtered out something about the Somali Pirates and that whole hostage-ship-capture thing that has dominated the news to all get out.

Merrick: "MAMA!! DID THEY SAY PIWATES ON THE WEAL NEWS?"

Matron: "They did indeed." And because this guy is the family's one and only future NRA member, (she hopes) she told him ALL about the pirates climbing aboard, seizing and stealing, and general good-time pirating.


Finally convinced that real life pirates still roamed the face of the Earth, Merrick literally -- truly -- pretended to fall off his chair in joy, shook his adorable booty and shouted to the ceiling: "Piwate USA come to Mewwick, Baby!" His propensity toward adding "USA" onto any phrase, as emphasis, puzzles the Matron, who has never personally modeled this chest-thump for her child.

Then the Matron had a wicked, beautiful idea.

Matron: "Merrick. The pirates are also in the newspaper. There are pictures and a whole article about them. When you learn to read, you can read all about the REAL pirates. Every day. While you eat candy. I promise." She pushed over the newspaper, evidence.

Merrick: "Weawwy?"

Matron: "Really." (okay she might be lying about that candy thing but if this continues into age 8, who knows. . .)

Merrick: "Okay! I want to wead about piwates!" And with that, he promptly pointed to the word "could" and said: "Is that 100?"

Maybe he'll be a master at world languages, since he's got that number/letter translation down pat?

E.T. Go Home or Maybe Only Minnesotans Get This Worked Up

The Matron adored this man. Really. She will never forget that dark October day when Senator Wellstone's plane went down. It's one of those 'moments,' like where were you when John Lennon was shot. . . . at least for this woman. She was five months pregnant with Merrick and walking across the kitchen when the radio background noise arced into something urgent. The radio announcer's voice cracked. Still. No confirmation for about an hour. But the plane went down.

As she wept and railed throughout that evening -- at the loss of this incredible, passionate man then seven-year old Stryker put his hands on her belly and predicted: "Mama. Maybe Paul Wellstone will be reborn in our baby's body."

Well. Stryker, that was an effective way to render your mother a complete drippy, helpless emotive wreck. Good job on that one. Please don't replicate the trick any time soon. But she will admit that she looked at her burgeoning belly with a little more depth and hope, after that. What if? (report from the field: Merrick is probably not Wellstone, reincarnated, nor can he read or recognize all of his numbers but he can STILL make the trip down a huge flight of stairs on his belly, wearing footie pajamas).

As if losing Wellstone wasn't trauma enough, an ill-advised funeral turned rally flipped the state's pace and the Matron's next senator was this man.

The Matron is clearly the kind of woman who holds on tight to Tragedy and Injustice, both of which operated in the death of Wellstone and the election of Norm Coleman. While the Matron's political tread is generally a light one (she honestly believes that discussion, dissent, conflict and disagreement are good if well done), in this arena she continues to kick and scream!

Imagine her discontent at the current moment. Waiting for Norm to exit the stage. While the feminist Matron will never truly care for Franken, (she's sorry but there is no such thing as a joke about rape), she is ferverently waiting the end of the Coleman era.

Why? Besides the fact that she disagrees with Coleman on 99.9% of the major issues or that Coleman's victory was only at the expense of another man's life?

Because she continues to be haunted by this article, penned by this man.


If the assessment is true (and she's sort of a taker in that direction), he can't be definitively booted, any faster.

Let's put down the toys and go home, boys. An entire nation nodded and succumbed when the Supreme Court swung and picked our President. Let's obey those same set of rules and end this without appeal.

Here's How She Handled that Delicate Topic

Stryker turns 13 in July.

This December, as Christmas loomed alongside the economic downturn, Stryker fretted about his holiday booty.  She wishes she could say he was wrenched about his ability to give, but his concern was the get.   He knew his parents had no extra money.

To fully appreciate this next sentence, understand that Stryker uttered these words with complete conviction and sincerity.

Stryker to Matron:  "But I'm not real worried, Mom.  There's alwaysl Santa."

!

Yes, Santa made his regular appearance.  

But as Easter approached (one more holiday that this decidedly non-Christian Buddhist family celebrates with seculary selectivity), the Matron opted for the proactive approach.  After all, there is an age after which Certain Belief is a bit embarassing.

Matron to Stryker in one of those special, mother-son, moments:  "Please tell me that you don't think a giant bunny is traveling the planet and delivering baskets of candy tonight."

Not only did he not consider said presence possible, the question provided big belly laugh.  And Santa?   Well, the Matron made sure they were on the same page there, too.  She's pretty sure she put the final nail (gently) in a coffin not quite sealed but closing before she got there.