Another One for the Stage Mother Books

In her travels and travails as a Stage Mother, the Matron has seen some sorry sights indeed. Now, just to bust those stereotypes, the Matron has also discovered that 99% of these Theater Hounds -- the young ones wedded to the stage-- are completely self-driven. As she's said before, you cannot WILL a child to radiate joy onstage 74 shows in a row.

But there's always that odd one percent and the Matron stumbled across just that today during a commercial audition.

These auditions follow a tight pattern. This is not a Secret Coded Pattern but something a normal human being picks up after, oh, one audition. Sort of like behavior for the dentist's or doctor's office, where you don't parade around in your panties. On auditions, you are in a waiting room with adult actors, child actors and their attending parents. You whisper because there is filming going on in an immediate room and it is POLITE to be quiet. (Did you hear that, Typhoon Mama? more on her coming) With the exception of the child actors, the other people in the room are professionals working locally in theater and film; many have supporting day jobs, as well. These people are colleagues in an industry and occasionally chat, as colleagues are wont to do. Sometimes the professional child converses as well. But mostly there is reading and the cornered adult whispered exchange about jobs or who just got divorced or what show is in the makings.

So this pattern was being adhered to today when Scarlett and the Matron arrived. As predictable as Minnesota snow in November, the auditions were running late -- this time as much as 40 minutes. Hooray! The Matron is devouring The White Tiger and was more than happy to wait, as was Scarlett who is on her third reading of The Lightning Thief series. (Dear Lord, to make that much money!) Everyone else in the room was in focused isolation on laptops and behind books; one pair was in the corner, updating lives and sharing pictures of children.

In walks . . . how shall she frame them? The Clampetts? Okay, that might capture parent's appearance but Jed definitely had more psychological sophistication than these two, combined. It wasn't just that they were dressed poorly and bearing beefy smelling Wendys bags into an office suite defined by citrus clean, sunshine and hip sophistication, but they were instantly, tremendously the Center of Attention. By their own design.

It did not help their situation that the parents were paired like Jack Sprat and his unfortunate wife -- the wife as rotund, loud and testy as the husband was tall, lean, and clearly longing for invisibility.

Still, one can -and should-- forget Appearance. But Behavior? Open game.

The first thing Typhoon Mama did was to gaze at the couch where the Matron, Scarlett and another man were sitting, survey the five inches of seat available on said couch and query:

"Can you guys all squinch over so we can sit and eat?"

Everyone 'squinched' and Typhoon Mama plopped plaid polyester self down next to Scarlett and patted the inch on her other side for her daughter -- a striking, stunning human of such beauty that the Matron nearly fell over. And? This 11 or 12 year old looked like she wanted to die. The Matron soon saw why. It wasn't the unfortunate decision to chow down on aromatic fast food while waiting for the audition, the bad clothes or generally scraggy appearance. Or that she spread food out on the pristine, magazine-fueled coffee table and LAID IN. It was this.

Typhoon Mama: "Dan! Dan! God dang it! Get over here! I know there's no place to sit but get over here. Give me them forms! You are SUCH an idiot."

Forms, gotten. Dan retreated to his corner again. Idiot, after all.

Typhoon Mama to daughter: "Baby, do you know how much you weigh? NO! I cannot believe that you don't know your own weight. Good God next thing you know you won't know your phone number. Dan! Dan! GET OVER HERE! Do you know how much Baby weighs? Of course not, you wouldn't know your own mother is I didn't point her out. Jeez, you two. HEY YOU!"

The 'Hey You" is Scarlett, who looks frightened for her life, probably because she will soon be told how useless she is and her older brother is nowhere in the room to do the deed.

Scarlett: "Yes?"

T.M: "How much do you weigh? Stand up a minute."

Scarlett stands up. The Matron pretends to be reading.

Scarlett: "Seventy pounds."

TM: "Turn around."

Scarlett spins.

T.Mama: "Okay, that's what we put seventy pounds. You can sit down now."

Scarlett sits. Squinches visibly closer to her Mama and SERIOUSLY puts her nose in her book.

T. Mama: "Dan! DAAN!! Why are you standing so far away! I mean, we need to know conflicts for January? What about that show Baby is in? Do you know when it rehearses? We need to know if Baby is available for the commercial shoot."

Dan: "Forget it. Who cares. This is a goddamn lottery. She's never going to be in a commercial anyway. Might as well buy that lottery ticket. Crazy business. Doesn't matter one whit what you write because she is never going to be in a commercial anyway."

All the working professionals who are routinely in commercials and know it is NOT a big deal whatsoever, are seriously, studiously not looking in this couple's direction, as the pair engage in a spirited debate about their daughter's ability to be in a commercial and said daughter's various shortcomings ("Well, she has YOUR nose") -- while that daughter dies a thousand visible deaths at their sides.

Typhoon Mama: "Hannah? (okay Baby actually has a name) Do you know your conflicts for the play? If you're in the commercial they want to know your conflicts. You're in that play in December. You're just one kid in the show so being absent shouldn't matter."

Hannah: "Mom, I'm two people in the show. I need to be there for two parts. I don't have my schedule yet."

TM: "You're one kid. Who cares if you're two people. Don't be stupid. One kid."

Hannah: "But I'm TWO characters which means more time. Two."

TM: "You're one kid. The most BIT player possible. Good grief. I drive you all the way here for all this hassle? Who cares what conflicts you have. You're never getting a commercial. Why am I wasting my time? This is MONEY not like the show. GOD. You are SO STUPID."

Hannah wilted. The future fell across her face and it was - hopeless.

The Matron wanted to: A) Grab this mother by the throat and shake her till the Wendy's burst her esophagus and B) Instill hope in this beautiful child: You can make your own destiny. You can escape! You are the next generation, the future. The beauty and grace within you will serve as your guide.

Instead, she sat glued to her book, praying for this moment to be over.

T.M: "HEY? Anybody here named Weisman? You're auditioning with my daughter as her parents? Stand up and BE SEEN. Yea, you? You're Weisman? You have blue eyes. That works. Heh-heh. You're my kid's new parents. BETTER GET SMARTER."

Weisman? A skinny forty-something man who'd been monitoring the drama from a corner, safe behind a People magazine.

Weisman: "Actually, I think your daughter has outpaced us all. She appears to be a (pause) survivor. I'd be honored to work with her."

And this stranger--this incredible, kind-hearted fatherly sort--stood up, walked to the couch, and put his hands on Hannah's shoulder and kissed the top of her head.

"You are beautiful, smart and kind. Never forget it. You'll go far."

Okay - it took ONE MILLION YEARS of evolution to get the Matron to the point of self-restraint where she didn't knock over Scarlett and land a big juicy wet one on that man's lips. Hero, hero, hero.

Hannah melted.

Dear Hannah. Here's to you, sweetheart. The Matron saw intelligence and discretion on your face. Things will get better.

Weisman?

Bless you.

Nothing She Can Say to Precede

Though he was ill and in pain,
in disobedience to the instruction he
would have received if he had asked,
the old man got up from his bed,
dressed, and went to the barn.
The bare branches of winter had emerged
through the last leaf-colors of fall,
the loveliest of all, browns and yellows
delicate and nameless in the gray light
and the sifting rain. He put feed
in the troughs for eighteen ewe lambs,
sent the dog for them, and she
brought them. They came eager
to their feed, and he who felt
their hunger was by their feeding
eased. From no place in the time
of present places, within no boundary
nameable in human thought,
they had gathered once again,
the shepherd, his sheep, and his dog
with all the known and the unknown
round about to the heavens' limit.
Was this his stubbornness or bravado?
No. Only an ordinary act
of profoundest intimacy in a day
that might have been better. Still
the world persisted in its beauty,
he in his gratitude, and for this
he had most earnestly prayed.

Wendell Barry

Actual Conversation

The Matron is the unfortunate and complicated situation of selecting both a Junior High School for next year's seventh-grader (Scarlett) and a High School for the He Who Remains Invisible and Nameless otherwise known as HWRIN, pronounced RIN.

Scarlett requires a special path be paved and she has had several, mostly satisfying, conversations with school principals who promise theatrical support.

But she recently experienced this special conversation while phoning Como Senior High School.

Matron: "Hello! I'm calling to see if there are any tours of the school planned."

Secretary (?): "We're not scheduling those until February."

Matron: "February! The forms are due in February! Other schools are already doing tours."

Secretary: "No, they're not."

Matron: "Yes, they are!"

Secretary: "No, other schools are not doing tours. We're not doing tours until February. No schools are doing tours, period."

Matron: "Yes, they are!"

Secretary: "Like which school?"

Matron: "Ramsey Junior High school tours start on December 9 and run every Thursday through February."

Secretary: "No, they don't."

Matron (!!): "Yes, they do! Call them and find out! Go to the web site. It's right on there!!"

Secretary: "They're a junior high. That's different."

Matron: "Great River Senior High school is currently also doing Thursday tours."

Secretary: "No, they're not."

Matron: "Yes, they are! Again, the web or phone will confirm."

Secretary: "They're a charter school. That's different. We're a district Senior High School and those aren't having tours or meetings until February."

Small beat while the Matron rips out all of her hair, throws the phone and screams while shaking the skin off Satan's Familiar.

Matron: "Actually, another regular District Senior High school that is an EXACT MATCH with your school, Central Senior High School, has an informational meeting for parents on Thursday November 19."

Secretary: "No, they don't."

Matron !!!: "Really, call them. It's true."

Secretary: "You're wrong. They don't have a meeting."

Matron (wondering why she herself was SO invested in this bloodletting): "YES THEY DO!!! I'M GOING TO THE MEETING THEY ARE ACTUALLY HAVING!!"

Secretary: "But they have an International Baccalaureate program so that makes them the only school doing tours."

Matron: "I just can't believe we can't visit Como High School until February. It seems strange."

Secretary: "Actually, we have a tour scheduled for prospective parents and students on Friday morning, November 20 at 9 in the morning."

Here, the Matron wonders what kind of orbit this woman lives in and if one is required to arm-wrestle for envelopes instead of simply asking.

Matron: "Thank you."

Universe to Matron: Do you want to deal with this woman or people who tolerate this behavior for the next four years? Guess who hadn't the stomach for the tour, if it truly existed.

Got a special customer service nightmare to share?

Blethic

The Matron will admit to occasionally living in a blog post.

Here she is, standing in line at the supermarket, composing the scene in her mind: "The Matron is the impatient sort and today's drill did not please."

Here she is, reading a student essay, composing the post in her mind: "And because tea comes from China, we should now have accents?"

Here she is, engaged in canine mortal combat, composing the post in her mind: "It is actually possible for a dog to jump three feet in the air in order to snatch a sandwich out of a TALL child's hand if that sandwich contains meat."

That last one was the foster dog, the Jack Russel terrier named Snappy and required a wooden spoon wrenched in his his jaws to open the mouth and pry out the sandwich. That Merrick then requested to eat.

Anyhoo--this blog post isn't about Doggie Drama, exciting as it might be. It's about the blog. Because the Matron has been pondering Blog Ethic=Blethic. She thought that word up. She's so creative!

Recent comments inspire the Matron to say this: This is CREATIVE non-fiction. This means that while mostly stuff here is true, she gets leeway. In fact, her stepmother knows this so much that she knew enough to email and inquire: "Is Scarlett REALLY auditioning for a major motion big time Hollywood picture or are you just messing with me?"

Really. Filming today, actually. Send luck.

This brings the Matron to the Stage Mother thread. Does she really honest to God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe think that her child A) has enough talent to star in a major motion picture and B) will actually get in one?

No and No.

That's the Mary real person. But the Matron does indeed love a narrative arc and Stage Mother offers so many options! So many delicious delights! But some of those delights could involve a pretense or pretension that doesn't actually exist. Because there is a real life child involved with colleagues, friends and family who sometimes read this blog (hi honeys!) the Matron tries not to mine this vein too much and to keep it more or less real. More or less. Most likely, sorta, sometimes! See how that CREATIVE nonfiction confuses!

Trust her -- she could really get out the claws and wig this one out. But it would be really truly fictive. Because guess who is the person upstairs watching the original movie that is being remade? Who memorized her lines and rehearsed? Who forced her mother to call the casting agent regarding wardrobe?

"MOM WHAT TIME ARE WE LEAVING?!!!!!"

Guess who has desire? Fuel. Juice.

The other Blethic consideration is the journey. Outcomes are completely unknowable and out of one's hands. But the journey? All hers. And parenting is a journey that takes unpredictable directions. Her particular journey just so happens to include that daughter and her desire and drive. And it also includes the son who will not be blogged about, the teenager who has given his mother ONE PRECIOUS WEEK of prose devoted to him. The week ends today, neighbor. So there is no snitching.

What do you you do when you're a writer and you write about your life -- are even working on a book of essays about said life-- and one of your children declares him or herself off limit? This is a real-life Matronly Mary dilemma. For the moment, she is granting Stryker his wish and taking him off-line, starting tomorrow (sorry, Stryker fans!!). But she has told him that children do not dictate to parents what they can and cannot write about. She promises him that she won't share HIS personal story but she is sharing hers and sometimes, his story intersects with hers. That's as far as she's going.

Sound right?

The third person narrator is now signing off, having fully fleshed out Blethic that had been bothering her.

Oh wait -- while she can still say this: how many 13 year olds can sell their laptop online and use the money to buy parts and components in order to build his or her OWN new computer, nearly entirely by scratch in a process involving drills and wires and software construction?

That's the sort of brain she's contending with. The end, Stryker.

On Language

Two unrelated notes on language today.

First from The New York Times.

The Matron always reads Sunday's Vows with her morning oatmeal (okay - let's pause and consider oatmeal for a moment. This isn't just any oatmeal,people. You put in a handful of organic blueberries, a dollop of peanut butter and raisins -- now you're getting the picture).

But this Sunday's column on Laura Straus and John Alexander gave the Matron pause. In the midst of a long article on the couple--how they met and courted and wed - came this:

"Mr. Alexander . . . told of the trauma of having left his wife and family in June 2005."

The phrasing makes it clear--if decorous--that Daddy was the one who did the ditching. He bailed. And in that line ''having left his wife and family," the Matron could only feel the pull of their story -- the wife and children he left behind. The children (and she's assuming that family referred to that ilk rather than a dog) never make an appearance in the paper.

Here is the Matron, toasting the happy couple? Better yet, a nod to the people he left behind. HIS trauma? Indeed.

Second really wildly unrelated and probably less popular note on language! The Matron has recently been struck by difference in tone. She is not insinuating that everyone with these views uses these phrases but she is saying she HEARS them from some.

Baby Killer ----- or abortion rights activist?

GO HOME or Deport the Criminals --- or Comprehensive Immigration Reform

Socialized medicine or government takeover of health care -- or Comprehensive Health Care Reform.

We progressives need better language!! Active verbs, people!

There. Unrelated notes on language.

Change of Events

The Matron will start this post the way she had planned. The weekend was a bittersweet event.

Photo by George Calger

Scarlett had her last two runs as Annie on Friday and Sunday night. Now, the Matron has sat in many an auditorium chair and watched her daughter -- including famous, prestigious or otherwise renown venues.

No, the Matron is no stranger to maternal pride watching her daughter prance onstage! But nothing could compare to the strange cocktail that Ashland's Annie handed this Stage Mother. The production was the best community theater the Matron had ever seen (not that she's partial?). The teen and adult talent flickered and flamed-- indeed, most of the adults were semiprofessoinals with CDs and rock-solid credit to their names.

The orphans? Delicious.

Annie?

The Matron honest to God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe could NOT believe that her flesh and blood contained this much talent in that little body. Scarlett blew the roof with her singing! When Annie sobs that all she wants is to find her parents and be a real kid like everybody else? Weeping in the audience. She can honestly say that she actually finally fully realized that her daughter had some gen-u-ine talent (she has been under the impression that Scarlett is over-rated-- probably a bad stage mother sentiment).

This little community-theater-that-could can boast one star to emerge from its ranks.

And the verdict from the theater ranks?

Scarlett is the next Laura.

The Matron was all duly flattered but the reason she was weeping? She just wants to bottle up this moment in time! Can she make this last forever--this gilded childhood of dreams come true?! A moment in which you can just sit back and marvel in your child's talents and joy?

Good Buddhist that she is, the Matron felt the moment nearly impossibly joyful because she was acutely aware during Annie's last show that this heady moment is -- over. Scarlett is just 11 but one day she will leave behind childhood, as well. The Matron hopes her transition into life's next stage is as blissful as the current, but she highly doubts it.

From life's peak we descend -- plains and valleys ahead.

So life's transience was weighing on the Matron today and she was all "oh those were the days" about that era -- well, that era that existed 24 hours ago. But a phone call today at 10 am reminded her that unknown great adventures could also be ahead.

That child has been asked to audition for a major motion picture directed by someone so famous the Matron nearly dropped the telephone!! She feels like it would be bad form to blog about it less discreetly (is blogging every discreet?).

But wow.

What a way to end Annie.

Photo by George Calger. Photo with the red curly hair coming when she gets them! It was impossibly adorable.

Not Forgotten

Something coming later today, she promises! It's been a busy and bittersweet spin the past three days. . . . but the white space of her blog has been haunting her!!!