Meditation

Yesterday, the Matron spent much of her time in the company of children. Expanse and energy abounded! There were a solid dozen of these spirits, racing through the yard (with hula-hoops, balls, rackets and joy) and making theater.

She spent some sober moments over a cut on the finger. It was an important finger ("Mary, this finger is my BEST useful") belonging to the world's clearly most adorable child, a seven year old girl with wire rim glasses, long hair, big eyes and a serious inclination.

Then there was the worry about rigging the curtain for the fifth annual backyard theater production. Here are highlights from last year. It is a full throttle all family, all friends and neighbors event involving many children, set design, audience, costumes, choreography and more. Every afternoon and evening, a bevy of young people come to produce, stage, design and star in their own theater show. On Saturday, over 100 people will gather for the performance.

The Matron, bless her, is in charge of food and leaves all that other stuff to Scarlett.

But yesterday, Scarlett and her friend Elle spent some time pondering the expanse of the curtain, how it draped and fell and shaded, what was right and needed perfecting. This took more time than yours truly had imagined. The girls felt the need to discuss all this with the Matron, who was chomping at the bit to get 'back to work.'

Then there were the problems with overalls for orphans in Annie (that's the play). Many needed alteration and device, pins and thread and needles. Again, time stalling as the parents attended to the whims and worries of children.

In the midst of all this -- while the Matron was, admittedly, impatient and determined to move on with life instead of tending to children and the massive family centered, kid-focused theater event she helped create (and now slightly dreaded) -- she noticed her across-the-street neighbors returning home.

From a funeral.

These are people who build stuff for a living. They do film and commercials -- the wife is a creative director and the husband builds sets.

The Matron has lived across the street from them for seven years and never once seen the man of the house outside of wardrobe completely utilitarian. Here is a man who hauls, hammers, cements, envisions and builds not only for a living, but when he's home. He's a truck and boat kind of guy, the person you want at your back when your car is under five feet of snow. When he's not in a t-shirt and jeans building stuff at work, he's doing the same at home. Their yard is a beautiful jungle, an adventuresome collection of foliage, flower and construction.

Yesterday, she watched as this couple emerged from a truck (no way would they have a car) after saying good-bye to someone they loved, deeply. He was in a stunning, impeccable gray suit; she was similarly outfitted. They were quiet and internally focused; they didn't notice the Matron pause while refilling water balloons for the 15 children running through the front yard.

She was sobered by the juxtaposition: here, in the midst of chaos, children, delight and energy, all possibilities unbound and optimistic and there, just across the street, the march toward the death we all face and the interminable loss of those we love.

Then the husband opened the back of the truck and hauled out a box full of shrubbery and flowers.

"Back at it?" he called to his wife.

Of course, she said.

That's life. The future, the moment, the unimaginable end. The getting on with what's in front of us.

This realization allowed the Matron to return to the play, cut --the useful finger--the curtain and all the rest with new appreciation, and a wee bit of joy and an awareness of her own brevity.

How do They do it?

Look at this lovely vase. The Matron carefully constructed an artful arrangement of purple and green in her living room.

Right below? This piece of paper has been on the floor since May 12th. Yes, folks, nearly one month. She will never, ever--as long as there is blood and breath pumping through her -- pick up this remant from a Giraldi chocolate square.

Here's another view:

Perhaps the lighting makes this art? And that's why her husband can read the newspaper on the chair next to the paper and not pick up the garbage?

That little square scrap of paper may outlive cockroaches. Daily, each family member walks by this piece of paper without being bothered by its eternal existence. Even Scarlett--born with the UTD (uterine tracking device) -- is oblivious. That child knows where the gnawed pencil that Merrick used for homework on January 12 is, but she hasn't yet registered the garbage on the living room floor.

The Matron thinks that a month on the floor is quite spectacular, worthy of photo documentation (which doesn't come naturally as she has a new cell phone she can barely answer, let alone photograph from).

Consider this another installment of What Fell Friday, only on Wednesday.

Current Matronly Causes for Concern

Cause for Concern Number One

Given the Matron's hysteria over Merrick's complete and utter lack of interest in all things Letter and Word, she dropped a few hysterical hints to Grandma Mary about Headsprout, a nifty online learn-to-read-tool. Of course, Grandma Mary -- being all things educational herself as a teacher for lo those many years -- immediately purchased said online program for Merrick, despite the fact that small villages in Africa could be sustained for the cost of Merrick's six-month edification.

Now, the Matron didn't give it much thought when Grandma Mary signed up Merrick using her own email and password as sign-in for the reluctant student.

Reluctant?

It took Merrick about ten seconds to smell the whiff of parental (okay make that maternal) desperation emitting from the internet.

Matron: "Merrick, don't you want to play that new fun game with the aliens?"

Merrick: "THE ONE THAT YOU'WE TWICKING ME INTO WEADING WITH!"

Matron: "You can play while you eat Halloween candy and both dogs can sit in your lap!"

Merrick: "What do you mean, PLAY? THIS IS WEADING."

And so on. . . . that child definitely has to board the bribing bandwagon!

This isn't even the cause for concern. Oh no. Turns out that Grandma Mary, who paid the handsome fee, is getting these regular updates from Headsrout.

"Dear Mary: We see that it's been six days since Merrick last logged in! We hope he comes back to prance with Alien Bob soon."

"Dear Mary: We're concerned that Merrick hasn't visited Headsprout in 10 days!"

"Dear Mary: We hope that Merrick finished level one in the 10 minutes he was logged in. The more time your child spends . . ."

You get the picture.

The best part? Grandma Mary emails each of these updates to the Matron, with no comment. Just the emails indicating that her dollar? Not well spent.

Matron: "Merrick OMIGOD. YOu can't watch TV until you do Headsprout. Grandma Mary is watching!"

Merrick: "Now she knows that I don't like weading even on the 'puter."

Cause for Concern Number Two

The Matron took a good long look at Scarlett's schedule and realized that between this child's current and upcoming shows -- Fezziwig's Feast, Sister Kenny's Children and the Miracle Worker reprised, here -- she just has NINE days without a show or rehearsal until April!

Scarlett: "MOM! What am I going to DO on April 1st!? Have you found any auditions for me! I am INCREDIBLY worried about April 1st! Are you checking the playlist HOURLY?! I don't want to miss my chance! Can you find any auditions for Broadway too -- I bet it is HUMANLY POSSIBLE to get onto Broadway at 11!"

Stage mothers. So pushy!

Cause for Concern Number Three

In case you didn't know, people actually eat these. People with tongues and taste buds.

Thirteen

Like a true slave to the Word, the Matron was listening to talk radio on her morning run when she heard this father and son team.   Stephen and Isaac Yoder write about money--from angle of father and son, respectively, for The Wall Street Journal.

While listening to this very funny and astute duo, Idea dropped from the sky and knocked her over.  A really, really good idea.  You know, the kind that make your body light up and blood glow?  

The Matron would write write a book chronicling her son's thirteenth year -- with Stryker!   Together, they would offer their differeing perspectives on technology, screen time, privacy, dating, art, politics, religion, college -- the issues that engage and occupy that thirteenth year.  The book would consist largely of the Matron's essays, but these would frame Stryker's original thoughts on his mother's parenting, his life and life of a young person, in general.  

The Matron thought it a VERY fine idea!   Sort of like the blog, only longer!  And what a rich experience, mother and son, to delve into Philosophy and Prose so deeply.

The beauty of this idea allowed her to soar home, happy.  Even the four times she fell over Satan's Familiar didn't phase her (why does that damn dog just stop right in front of her for no reason at all?!).

She couldn't wait to tell - ask--Stryker.   Well, pitch the idea.  It all hinged on him.

That night, she plied him with pizza and extra time online.  When her child was sated and grateful, the wily Matron outlined her Plan.   Including the trump card.  If the book made any money?  They would split it down the middle.  Stryker would get half.  

Matron:  "Whaddya think!?"

Stryker:  "No way."   And then he laughed.  He would have none of it.   Indeed, he vehemently -- ardently -- deconstructed and destroyed the idea, right down to the very last chapter.  

That was six week ago.

Ever since, the Matron has been bringing up the subject of this book whenever she has the chance.  Particularly, she has found a way to introduce said project in front of the adults her son admires, like his algebra teacher.

Algebra teacher:  "Wow! That is a genius idea.  Stryker, man.   You're gonna be able to bankroll my comic book habit."

She is shameless.   In the face of an expensive electronic advertisement, she says:  "If we wrote that book there's the possibility that you'd have money for something like that."

Billboard with an airplane?  "Wouldn't a national book tour be incredible?"

After a steady diet of this pitch, on Monday, the Matron received this gift.

Stryker:  "Mom.  You know that book idea that you mentioned awhile back?  I've been thinkingi about it and I'm really willing to do it.  I think we absolutely should."

!!

There is a Jesus!  He can join Allah-Buddha-Oprah-God-Universe on the list now! 

Yesterday, the Matrom emailed the idea to the literary agent she hopes will represent the book, just to make sure the idea wasn't Suckification, disguised.

It is not.  The agent approved the idea but warned that it's all in the delivery.   The writing itself.  So the already always anxious Matron is now Nerves Incarnate as she considers the start of this book.  

The agent wrote:  "Send me a few chapters as soon as you have them."

No problem?  Stryker turns thirteen on July 17th.  Today, she starts writing.  This will be her THIRD agented book (the other two, novels), friends, and nothing yet published.  

Third time's the charm?!

Recommended Reading

Why the Matron will not be friending her students on Facebook AND why she visits the pages of 13 year old boys (Stryker and his friends) with some trepidation. Speaking of all things online, she wants to take a moment to thank her readers! She hit the 200 mark this week and wishes she had more time to spend reading and writing like this, which she has come to prefer over actual human contact. Just ask her family.

Seventeen Years

Updated from December 28, 2007, before the Matron's third person was fully realized. She'll be back tomorrow.

Dear John,

On December 28, 1991, we went out for coffee. That lasted five hours. We went for a walk, remember? And ended up in a church, peeking in on somebody else's wedding. I swore of Family, Children, Domesticity, all sort. Here stands that resolve in 2005.

After coffee, you asked if I wanted to come over to your house for dinner. A meatloaf supper. It is Vast Testament to my keen interest in you that my answer was yes. And you lived in a carriage house! I was sure you were gay, you were so pretty and the place was that quaint. And clean (except behind the tub but I discovered that later). You even had a pretty black square plate with decorative sand design sitting on a coffee table. What was not to like?

Here's your youngest, running, about three years ago. Look at those cheeks! Those munchkin legs!


Meatloaf supper, indeed. I stayed two days. When we finally parted, you admitted relief. Your single (serious) reservation about me had been laid to rest: despite the tie dye leggings I wore (with groovy black leather boots), I was not a Deadhead. Indeed, I could barely distinguish between musical groups. I asked: "Is that the Beatles" when Simon and Garfunkel came on. Still, you loved me. I moved in a week later.

Here is the first time Scarlett went on an official stage, in front of a significant audience. She's the one with her eyes shut, all anticipation and joy.


A few years later, we have a third job between us, driving.



Now, I can't advise hauling over suitcases within a week of the first date. But I did. My friends were worried. I was just days out of the last relationship, after all. And then there was History: "Remember Brian? Remember Kevin? Steve? Hassan?" Yes, Impulse tended to overtake.

But I knew this was different. Right before I moved in, you told me you loved me. With clarification. You said, "I love you. To like four degrees out of ten, because we've only known each other six days."

Here's Stryker with bad hair that's even worse now, doing one of the yo-yo tricks that helped earn him that national championship. We learned about the tournament the very morning it started. You dropped everything and rearranged your whole day so he could go. And I wouldn't have to do it (at the Mall of America).


It is possible for the hair and hobbies to worsen.



When I was pregnant with Scarlett, we knew the baby was a girl. You said, "I hope she gets your brains and my looks." I pretended to be appalled but I hoped so, too. I guess the jury is still out on the brain thing, but how can you argue with this?



We actually met three months before that very first December 28th date. Remember? We shared a table at Dunn Brothers Coffee shop because the place was jam-packed. A man playing an accordion was conveniently located two feet from my head. You didn't hit on me. We exchanged pleasantries.

But then an odd thing happened. You appeared in one of my dream. We were doing silly, routine things like grocery shopping and getting a car fixed. We mowed a lawn. I woke up but remembered because the dream seemed, well, real.

Things weren't going well with my current boyfriend. I was thinking about him while preparing to visit and mused: is Kevin the one I'll spend my life with?

"No. It's the guy from Dunn Brothers."

That thought popped --whole and instructional --into my head. My next thought was: "I better find out his name."

So the next time I saw you at Dunn Brothers, I stopped at your table and got that name, encouraged Invitation. Before long, I told you about the dream and directive. I guess that was okay with you.

On my birthday you gave me a beautiful ring and a card that said, "Looks like we're getting married."

We have a history of unilateral decision making about our relationship. But I guess that's working out. We still have this dear friend, padding toward 16. He can't see us but he knows we're here.


And while I'm happily blogging, all warm and cozy, you are the one outside, searching for Satan's Familiar. True.

And you still look every bit as good as you did the day the woman in the car next to ours flashed you her phone number at the red light. Remember how she wrote that out, on a big piece of paper and held it up to the window?



Happy Anniversary--and, you're the one who made the personal, home-made card and gift. I am lucky in love, indeed.

Firefly Life?

Okay, she dares you to read that last line without tearing up.

And the Michael Phelps of blogging has an invitation, below!

Why the Matron Loves Women, Again

The Matron assumes most of her readers lounge and chuckle over at Derfwad Manor. If you don't, heaven have mercy, and run on over. The Matron just adores Mrs. G! She's certain if they were backyard neighbors, there would be mood-altering drink and the daily recitation of insecurities and failures and other topics close to the middle-aged female heart.

So Mrs. G. has launched the '08 Ass Project, a communal call for physical self-improvement. Mrs. G is planning a diminishing hinterland and will post a picture of said buttock (clothed, Johnny) every Wednesday. Being Mrs. G, she invited everyone to photograph their own evolving look or leg, etc. The Matron being the Matron, she signed right up!

You see the Matron? She decided that she would tackle the tiniest little tube of fat that clings to her tummy. Now. . . . the Matron has eluded to a fine svelte self many times. In fact, the Matron, like many, many American women, has had 'issues' regarding food and weight. Let's just say 'ingestion,' all sort, is subject to a myriad of Matronly guidelines, restrictions and requirements, for a variety of quite legitimate health and ecological reasons and also, for a bountiful variety of wacko-superstitious and certifiable ones. Add to this psychiatric cocktail the fact that she is already an exercise addict, pounding out 4-5 miles six days a week. And practices yoga.

This past week, as the Matron -- who just had her first ever bone density test and was relieved to find out that she had any and was also warned that her BMI was a wee bit low -- launched an assault on the one pound of fat she possesses, something felt funny. A bit ridiculous, indeed, a forty-something woman in size 2 jeans and worrying about fat. Sort of reminded her of her misspent youth, actually. (that's another story that she'll probably tell some day)

So. . . . the Matron is cheering on the rest of you Derfwads as you trim down, pump up, tone!

On Wednesdays, instead of a photo of her fine ass or tubular tummy (true assessments), she will turn to the underlying impulse of Mrs. G's message, the heart of the matter-- the "will you please stop putting off this thing that is very important and will make your life better, maybe even save your life, somehow?" -- For the Matron, that isn't toning up or trimming down, but turning the novel her agent couldn't sell into the Young Adult version all the editors requested. After making a big whoopla with her New Year's Resolution, she hasn't changed more than a few pages.

Instead of a picture, she will report a page count. The commitment? Scares her. But the focus feels better than those size 2 jeans!

Now, the Matron knows Mrs. G. will be supportive, because that's not just the way Mrs. G. is, but a whole lot of women online! Indeed, the Matron's tiny corner of the internet is populated by generous, kind, and creative women. The Matron has quite the Star Trek image of the internet, all vast and threatening. Except that she -- and all the women she knows -- live in the pretty parts of Oz when online. In brilliant Disney Techno-color.

One of these generous, kind and creative types awarded the Matron this! Thanks Tootsie!


If you haven't visited Tootsie, scramble over. Not only does she have a wicked sense of humor, she isn't afraid to aim that arrow in her own direction. Plus, she has a sense of proportion, and I'm not talking curves (although that's working for her, too) here again, either. It's all about attitude.

Susan Carlin is another woman who has made her way into the Matronly milieu. After seeing this picture of Merrick on the Matron's blog,


Susan sent her an email, asking if the Matron would mind if Susan created a painting from the photo - -and if not, would the Matron send a high-quality copy?

She didn't mind and she sent the photo. Weeks later, imagine the Matron's delight when Susan sent her this lovely image via email!



The Matron so loved the painting that she inquired about cost. But, given that her husband is a realtor (it's okay, you can get off the floor now) and funds are, well . . .hey! Where did all our money go?!!

Ahem, sorry.

Even though the price was reasonable, the painting was an extra that she sadly, but safely, declined.

So imagine. . . in a world where women rock! In a world where you do incredibly kind things for total strangers! Imagine . . . . the Matron's joy when Susan sent her the painting! Just contacted her, didn't ask for a dime (wouldn't even accept postage), and sent the unsold art to the mother of the subject.

Between Mrs. G, Tootsie and Susan, the Matron thinks she could pretty much live online. Disembodied consciousness might actually solve all her problems but that's back to the pathology part of the tale.

Page Count: 17

Housecleaning

The Matron has some corners to dust.

First, if you're a regular reader (or new!) and not already on her blog roll, please do leave a comment with a link to your own damn fine environs. She will add you to the list.

Yes, the Matron is in the mood to clean up! She suffers from a terrible case of Incurable Clutter Brain Suck. But Scarlett?

Does not. Views of the sonic boom, Day 3.


Yes, just 3 short days ago, Scarlett cleaned this room, top to bottom. The Matron could see the floor! The bed was free from food, crayon, and glitter! Scarlett had put away all of her clothes, shut drawers, shelved books. On the day of this sacred event, the Matron believed that the Palestinians and Israelis must just work it out.



The strange thing about this transformation, from pristine state to the current slide toward degradation? Scarlett cleaned on Thursday. She was home Friday. Saturday, she left early in the morning for an overnight, returning home mid-afternoon on Sunday only to immediately be forced to watch Stryker's Little League Tournament. (which they won! not that the matron is invested)



She returned home from the old ball park at 7 with the rest of her family. Where does she find the time, all this mess? That girl is a fast worker. The Matron is afraid to open that lovely vintage sewing box hanging (logically) with 37 other items on the door handle. She thinks she vaguely remembers it from 2005 and wonders where it's been in the interim. Food was involved.


A weekly or so cleaning seems reasonable, right girl friends? And in between -- the Matron is going to tell her frail psyche to just shut that door and repress, repress, repress.

Speaking of cleaning up! Monday is 25% off the already ridiculously cheap ValuThrift! The Matron will make a good senior citizen, she is that reliable in her shopping ways. She shows up every other Monday.

She got two Ann Taylor dresses for under $7.00. But she is so spoiled by this store that she expects at least that booty. Now, she doesn't always have brand recognition, but the Matron generally understands quality.

That's why she bought this for $3.49, without ever having heard of Twill Twenty Two:


Oh, and the reason she's never heard of this brand? She's guessing the jacket sells for well over a couple of hundred dollars. Way beyond her means!

Cleaning up! Leave that link if you're not already on board. . .