Unplugged

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

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.