Fun with Hormones

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.

Actual Conversation

The Matron spent another day combing hair (see The Lice Chronicles), cleaning upholstery, washing bedding (after attending a three hour workshop for her job) and contemplating, more less non-stop, the odd feeling on her own scalp -- a sensation that shifts and morphs and grows, sort of leaning into every spot that she THINKS about. Which is the whole darn head.

For new readers, let it be known that the Matron is a bona fide hypochondriac. The emergency room? Sort of like heaven. There is diagnostic equipment there.

Matron, at midnight, exhausted: "I am SO tired."

John, moving closer: "But aren't these bugs sort of an aphrodisiac?"

Matron: "Touch me and I divorce you."

John: "But doesn't trial and tribulation bring us closer together?"

Matron: "Not when it means touching the head of anyone else in this household."

John: "How about other body parts?"

Macho, Macho Man

Today, the Matron noticed -- not for the first time, but noticed in a particular way and with keener understanding-- her dear husband's nearly knee high white athletic socks that he wears all summer. Not the same pair, but the style? Never varies.

Those socks might go well with black dress shoes. They're that sacred.

Then there are the pancakes. John is in charge of pancakes.

Matron to houseful of children: "Does anyone want pancakes?"

Children: "Is Dad home?" This phrase is uttered with palpable alarm.

Bacon is also his terrain.

The Matron can organize three lives -- with theater, sport, play dates and education. But the person able to sizzle bacon to just the right texture? WINNER. Hands down.

Here is a man who can take on the gutter, the weed, the hot water heater -- not to mention a clogged sink! That backyard BBQ apron and chicken on the grill? Be still, thy beating heart! Nothing sexier. . . .

John: "Boys? Do you want to toss a ball?"

Well, let's just say the world stops.

A hat off to the (macho? if you use man cream on our face at night?) man of the house. . . .

Two Decades In

Most nights, the Matron and her husband make their respective ways to bed, separately. Why? Yours truly needs Alone Time. Space. SPACE sorta like rocket-ship, outer-space, don’t come near this woman, Space. So this is why John watches Letterman in the family room, while the Matron perches in the kitchen, two whole floors away. Where she also enjoys her nightly snack of (Drum roll ) cauliflower. Trust her on this –microwave cauliflower until it’s a little soft, toss in some poppy seed dressing, diced red onion and tomato and you have a filling low calorie bedtime snack. And if you’re in the kitchen, you get to eat with nobody watching.

Now look what’s happened. She started out writing about sex and somehow ended up on food.

Which is sort of the eventual point-- that backburner, not-so-dependable, shape that sex takes in a seasoned marriage. At least this marriage.

So on those nights when she and her husband emerge from their private spaces to enter the bedroom at the same time-- or do stay together, in front of a movie or watching the news or are so spent from the day’s dramas they stumble in immediately after the children—those nights, there’s always that tension, that unspoken waiting in the dark: to see what will happen next.

A few nights ago, the Matron lay in the dark next to her husband, in one of those silent spaces. She could just feel—or at least imagined she felt—every fiber (especially a few of them) in his body screaming: SEX SEX SEX NEED SEX.

The Matron? Uh, not so much.

But she felt very very badly about it – and wondered suddenly if the poor man was really being, well, generally under-serviced—not just tonight but routinely.

Hmmmm. . . how to broach the conversation? Delicately? Just so?
Matron: “John? Do you wish I was the kind of forty-something wife who routinely jumped your bones? Who wanted a daily romp or who did crazy things like jump out of closets naked when the kids weren’t home or wanted to have sex on appliances?”

Pause.

John: “Not so much.”

RIGHT ANSWER

John: “I don’t think I could handle that. Wow. I can’t believe I said that. Not so much.”

Matron: “Then, do you wish you could return to the old days, pre-children?”

John: “Wasn’t that what you were just describing?”

Matron: “You flatter me. But really?”

John: “Everybody’s waiting for those good old days to return about something. Maybe ours is daily sex. But the good old days are just that, old. No, I’m pretty happy with what I have now.”

Here, insert a pleasant pause in which both parties allowed that to settle into their souls: happy with what is now.

Then a few small sighs and twists and turns start shifting the male side of the bed.

John: “Uh, honey. . . . listen. . . . even though I just said what I said, we could start that tomorrow and tonight try the whole crazy daily insatiable romp thing? Hmmmm . . . ?”

Matron: “That’s the spirit! But this flesh isn’t there tonight.”

John: “Okay, how about if I give you a really good back rub?”

And he did—and you know how sometimes one thing leads to another? It didn’t. And that’s about being okay with what is.

Actual Conversation -- with Husband

While John was dealing with dinner on the home front and the Matron, driving and on the cell phone . . .

John: "I'm making Scarlett a carrot salad, yogurt and scrambled eggs for dinner before her show."

Matron: "Perfect! All that child has eaten in the past three days has been carbohydrates, so it's good to steer clear of simple carbs for once."

John: "Oh. Then I won't give her the carrot salad."

Matron: "What! Carrots are a vegetable. They might be high on the glycemic scale, but carrots are still a vegetable. She should absolutely have carrots."

John: "Oh. Then I won't give her the eggs."

Matron: "Eggs are a protein."

John: "Really? Are you sure?"

Matron: "Positive."

John: "Then out goes the yogurt, right?"

Matron: "Why? Yogurt is a dairy product."

John: "What should I not give her then?"

Matron: "I can't take this any longer. I have to hang up now."

And she did.

Divorce Court, Anyone?

Yesterday, the Matron's husband made this inquiry of her --without irony or humor.

John: "If I can figure out how to get the lessons free, would you take driver's training again?"

!!

She will leave her response (although there was more than one expletive involved) to the imagination. But she now is in need of retribution, rebuttal, revenge! Ideas?

Or a good divorce attorney. . . .

The Matron's Man

When the Matron met her husband, it was pretty much Love at First Sight. Shortly thereafter, she learned that he had once been in a band--although not her sort of band. John spent his 20s in spandex on stage, screaming Heavy Metal into a mic. Believe it or not, that was a great way to meet babes. Or so he said.

The metamorphoses that occurred on both sides --Heavy Metal Man moved on musically and socially, finding different sorts of fun evening activity and understood women to be more than the day's catch, and meanwhile, Feminist (who is now the Matron) cooled and let the head on her hair grow back and started removing those under her arms and softened her brow a tiny bit --until they met somewhere in the middle, where they are now.

When the Matron met John, he had already moved into the more mellow singer-sing writer mode, where he continues to reside. Now, although the Matron cannot carry a tune to save her life, she knows the pulse and tenor of prose like nobody's business!

So when Minnesota Public Radio asked for original music here, Songs from Scratch, the Matron and John teamed up! She penned the words and then he changed some of them and did absolutely everything else!

Before you listen to him, here, know that the song had to refer to The Wizard of Oz and to incorporate these lines, written by Adam Levy of The Honeydogs:

"From the ends of the earth to your own back yard,

Mouth and mind drink all but won't fill an empty heart.

It's all within -- energy and matter namaste and ohm,

Myriad formulas, nostrums and prayer -- all roads lead home."

After you listen, don't be shy! Leave a comment! And not that the Matron wants her man to win or anything -- you know, be all ablush in 9s and 10s and top ratings -- but she wouldn't complain if you gave him a rating. The site makes you jump through a couple of register-hoops, but she thinks he's worth it!

If you don't think he's the cat's meow, just listen to some of the other entries and compare!

Plus, the Matron can't believe she actually participated in Song. A first. Isn't that tune well-written? And hot dang, she's sizzling! Because 0nly the Matron can work the name Salman Rushdie into a song lyric.

Men

Tonight, the Matron flew the coop for dinner with friends.

Before she left, she walked John through the two hours she spent in the kitchen.

Matron: "So I made edible dishes out of all that raw veggie material, waiting to rot. You'll find a carrot and beet blue cheese salad, another dish with green beans, onions and pecans, and a big tossed salad. Enjoy!"

When she came home, she opened the fridge (because that's kind of what she does, walk in and open the fridge for all the latest information), and saw all that food, untouched. Knowing just how much garlic was in the beet and carrot concoction, she pulled that out and nibbled.

Enter, John: "What's that?"

Matron: "The beet and carrot thing I told you about."

John: "What! I looked for that! And the bean thing."

Matron: "What do you mean, 'I looked for that?' This was on the top shelf, right in front. Sort of singing and dancing when the door opens."

John: "But it's a Whole Foods container. Did that come from Whole Foods? Did you make it?"

Matron: "Remember our earlier exchange about the beet and carrot salad? How I made it and all and you should eat?"

John: "But the Whole Foods container? That totally threw me. I mean, I didn't know if that was yours and I shouldn't eat it. And who knew what it was!"

Matron pauses to consider the year-old container that has no label, is worn with wear and yesterday held strawberries (that he ate). She ponders the distinctive beet therein. Not your ordinary vegetable.

Matron: "You couldn't find the food in the refrigerator, could you?"

John: "Did you have wine? Let's get you another."

~*~*~*~*

The First Recipe!!! Fanfare and Firework!


Four or five beet peeled raw beets

Four or five carrots

1/4 cup olive oil

Blue cheese to taste, about 1/4 cup

3-4 cloves garlic


Grate the beets and carrots. Crush that garlic. Mix garlic, oil and blue cheese. Dump over beets and carrots. Real food. Real good.

Life on Different Planets

Our free-wheeling professions (adjunct professor and realtor -- it's okay - we don't need wool socks and money in the mail, yet) mean John and I have a lot of time at home while the kids are in school.

We often eat lunch together.

I send him a funny email and then yell in the direction of his office, upstairs: "Did you get that yet?"

He pops into my little study and inquires about my availability for romps of various sort. "Just checking. Just in case."

Rare.

He unloads the dishwasher. I yell various commands about housecleaning, which he generally follows.

Every once in a while we get really crazy and go to my favorite thrift store together. Like a hot date, digging through somebody's else's rejected trousers.

So we have plenty of time to talk. Converse. Convene and communicate.

Insert sound of telephone ringing, here. The time is 8:32 on a Monday morning.

Me: "Hello!"

Mother-in-law: "Hi Mary. Is John there?"

Me: "No -- he's driving the kids to school. What's up? I can give him a message."

MIL: "Tell him the thing today is called off."

Me: "What thing?"

MIL: "The wedding."

Me: "What? Who's getting married."

MIL: "Well, I am. Donald and I were going to renew our vows today in church. At 10 this morning. Didn't John tell you?"

Me: "Uh."

MIL: "But we're postponing because of the funeral."

Me: "Whose funeral?"

MIL: "Beth and Herman's oldest son, Fred. John's cousin on his Dad's side. Didn't John tell you?"

Me: "Uh. . . "

MIL: "But you're on board for Thursday, right?"

Me: "What's Thursday?"

MIL: "You and John are cooking for Ann and Dennis. She just started her six months of chemo. Didn't John tell you?"

Me: "Six months of chemo? What are we making?"

MIL: "A pot roast. With carrots and potatoes but no throwing in any of your fancy tricks, like peppers or yams. Better have John cook it."

After my substandard cooking skills have been more thoroughly discussed (particularly worrisome is my regular use of that exotic creature, the vegetable), I hang up--and give a small, ritualistic moment of silence to honor all of the weddings, funerals, family reunions, illnesses, emergencies, birthdays and pot luck suppers I will never hear about in this life time.

Sorry, Sweetie

A gifted singer and songwriter, my husband plans to enter a talent show during an upcoming real estate convention.

Talent show? Real estate convention? Perhaps they'll serve special grape Kool-Aid during the dirge.

Before you start sending us wool socks and new underwear - John's business is going great. Turns out those progressive, populist,left-leaning Buddhist values make him a gem among the nebulous. There's always a good guy or two in the maligned professions and who better to turn to when the going's rough?

Back to the talent show. John's plan? "I'm going to write the epic realtor song."

Let's see how that's working for me---epic and realtor.

Nope.

Sixteen Years

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.


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).


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 she's looking every bit as adorable as nine-year olds go.

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.

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 remembered and bought the gift. I am lucky in love, indeed.