Flat Out Old Fashioned Small Town Unabashed Pride

Here's what he does for a history project. You know, He Who Cannot Be Named but is taking this to the state History competition after inadvertently turning a 'write a paper on recent history of your picking' into something really cool.

Even better? He said she could post this.

Be still, beating heart.

Is It Really Getting Better Folks?

My, my, my. . . the Matron has been very interested in details at the Colony!

She read the Kevin Smith comments with a HIGH degree of interest. She chortled at Mrs. G’s temporary move from Switzerland to . . . well, at least Ireland.

But the outright vilification of flesh gave the Matron pause. Why? She’s thinking of our daughters. Yes, yes, the boys –and she has two of them—feel pressure to adhere to cultural ideals, yes, indeed. But she’s here to argue that there’s a unique condemnation of female flesh. Is there any male counterpoint to Oprah’s battle of the bulge? Starr Williams? Ricki Lake? She could go on and on and on. For every Jared, there’s a Jenny Craig, Valerie Bertinelli, Kirstey Alley and every celebrity who has ever given birth. The Matron would love to take every “how she got her body back after baby” article to kerosene and torch. That would be one big bonfire. She’d toss in a few pages on Jennifer Aniston’s abs, just to make that flame burn brighter.

Every few days, she’s reminded of how cellular these issues are to women, how this deep-tissue condemnation of female flesh is being passed along to our daughters. You see, the Matron has a good friend – a rail-thin woman who, not unlike the Matron, works toward that condition--- who cannot get her daughter to be thin enough. The daughter is not fat. Not thin. She is firmly in the middle, a 12 year old with new breasts, hips, and a little bit of tummy. The Matron’s friend, Jay we’ll say, is routinely saying things like this:

“I’m taking Kay for a walk tonight to make sure she burns some calories.”

“Do you pack carbs for Scarlett's lunch? I’m just leaving carbs out of Kay’s diet unless she asks for something like a cookie.”

“I know, I know, I’m worried about the weight. But it’s so much easier to be thin. Your life as a woman is easier.” (True)

“Kay? Do you really need to eat a whole hamburger or is half okay?”

“Girls? Can we skip a snack after school and save our appetites for dinner?”

The Matron is not condemning Jay but putting her on a spectrum, a spectrum in which the Matron herself, survivor of an eating disorder, is firmly situated. With three spindly young ones, the Matron hasn’t (yet) navigated the land of ‘watch what you eat.’ But she sees plenty of mothers, not just Jay, fretting about their daughters’ physiques.

Last week, Jay’s daughter, Kay, said this to Scarlett. The Matron overheard from her secret spot out in the open two feet away from the kitchen table:

Kay: “Scarlett, let’s go on a cleansing diet next week. No carbs, no wheat, no diary, no meat, no sugar. What do you think?”

Scarlett: “Sounds good! We can get healthy just like our Moms!”

Oh darlings. It is a little more complicated. Please don't emulate your mothers.

Move beyond us.

She Didn't Get The Grading Done Because Her Six-Year Old Sliced Off His Fingertip?

This would be the Matron's rendition of the all time favorite COLLEGE tune: The Cat Ate My Homework.

Sung to the tune of The Beverly Hillbillies.

BUT. Really? The Matron DID INDEED get all of her grading done. And her course preps. She showed up to all her committees and meetings.

Thankfully, Merrick's finger looks pink and pretty and, most importantly, full intact. He was the Hero in school yesterday, wielding splint and bandage as Badge of Honor, and earning that most coveted Minnesota grade school privilege: he got to stay inside and paint during recess --with a friend!

His life has never been better. Next time he's aiming for a more dramatic digit.

But the Matron had her own dramas in mind this week as she contemplated obstacles faced by her community college students --AND -- the consequences of how they respond to those dilemmas.

Now, the Matron is a big believer in policy and rule, particularly at her very-well-run institution. She fills out the forms and takes the head count. Accordingly, she withdraw students from her class, should a student go two consecutive weeks without any effort at attendance or communique.

Usually this means a lot of extra work for the Matron. Because she dis-enrolls them and they immediately get back in touch -- panicked! Asking to be let back in because:

1. You are a forty-four year old single mother of three trying to get your 12 year old son out of the juvenile home where he's been living for two years, your computer crashed and one of your other children has the stomach flu.

2. You are a 23 year old single father to a two-year old boy, recently returned from Iraq (army), unable to find a job and if your teacher withdraws you and you're not in school, all those GI benefits (nearly $4,000) go away and that is ALL THE MONEY you have. In the world.

3. You are a 46 year old, twenty-two year army veteran recently retired, sole supporter of wife and three children, returning to school and the shift supervisor for a turkey processing plant--and the plant fired the other shift supervisor (money) forcing you to work every single night of the week and THEN go to school full time and be a husband and father.

4. You are 19 years old and recently emigrated -- with your parents--from Haiti. Need she say more? You have just lost four close family members, your old home, and you are working at McDonald's as the main breadwinner for your now grieving nearly hysterical parents and helping out with the four younger siblings.

The Matron? Dear friends: she ALWAYS lets these students back in! With a plan for how to catch up and sometimes? A tissue and a conversation.

So imagine this . . . here she is in her tidy little office.

Ring, ring (this is the phone for the slower people).

Matron: "Hello?"

Kiara (so not her real name): "Mary? This is Kiara X. I'm in your Class NeverShowUp."

Matron: "Well, not any more Kiara. You haven't been there since January 19th. I just withdrew you from the class."

Pause.

Kiara: "Well, Mary. I have had a bad migraine."

Now it's the Matron's turn to pause.

Matron: "A migraine? Nothing else? No jail, no bankruptcy, unplanned pregnancy, fifteen family members moving in?"

Kiara: "Actually, I've been sorta hanging out at home watching TV with my husband when he's not at work. It's just a bad migraine, that's all. I've been taking care of myself real good with movies and home-cooked meals. I think I'm on the mend."

Matron: "Have you seen a doctor? Are you okay?"

Kiara: "Oh, I will be FINE next week. When I get a bad headache I just need a break from life. Get comfy and CHILL and take care of ME, you know. My migraine is all gone and thought I'd come back to class next Tuesday, in a week, just to kick it, you know."

The month long migraine?

Sigh. This is where the Matron draws the line. Sorry, Kiara.

Good Times, Cupid

The Matron had much to say over the weekend.

But . . .

All was lost when Merrick sliced off his left index finger tip at 4:47 pm last night. The ER doctors in St. Paul are pretty cute and depressingly youthful.

The slicing was thanks to a sturdy scissors and Merrick's determination to rid his jeans of all the threads that Mama's patching created. Bad Mama.

Perhaps her favorite moment during the crisis was when she called Stryker for a medical consult. Merrick had just sliced off his fingertip. He screamed (Hitchcock would have recruited). The Matron, who had been loading the dishwasher, reeled around to the kitchen table where Merrick thrust out a finger nearly severed from the center of fingernail on up. Sly Matron, she saw that the severed finger section was a perfect puzzle match for a little pouch on the finger below. She shoved the flesh back in and thought, "okay maybe I am still going out for dinner."

But Merrick kept wailing and --because nobody else was home-- she asked Stryker to see what was what.

Matron (above Merrick's screams): "So what do you think Stryker? Does that look all good like it's going to just heal on its own?"

Stryker, calmly hugging Merrick: "Mom, that looks great. I wouldn't worry."

Stryker, then moving BEHIND Merrick to stage whisper and gasp behind his back, mouthing: "CALL THE HOSPITAL."

She did, and--crashing all those Valentine Dinner dreams--the ER nurse told her to come on in.

Turns out stitches don't work on severed fingertips. Tight bandages, hope and youthful regeneration are the fix. Every doc and nurse reassured them that all looked really good! If you're going to whack of a digit and keep it, well, your name is Merrick.

The only danger?

Fever!!!!

Everybody warned of infection's danger with this sort of thing and advised monitoring, closely.

Drama aside (and oh my Lord this child gave his sister a run for the money), all was well until just before bedtime: 101.1

Sigh.

Where the Boys Are (Not)

The Matron is currently teaching a basic writing and research skills course, one that constitutes the bread and butter of her English faculty existence.

Graduating from this particular college? First, you must pass English 1009.

Merrick: first you must learn to read! That seems like a separate story, but is it? A steady fretter about her youngest, the Matron has long worried that her son's disdain for all things academic is simply setting him in the middle of the male pack.

And just how is that pack doing up the road--the boys in college?

Please do return to the topic of English 1009. In her online sections of this class there are 57 registered students. Of those 57 students, just 14 turned in rough drafts of the first paper. It's okay to gasp here. She did and had to steady herself on a desk.

Of those 14, guess how many were women?

The ONE man to turn in a rough draft is an adult student pushing forty. The Matron has barely heard from the 18-24 group. The English 1009 Online Discussion Board?

Courtney to Elizabeth; Brandee writes to Deirdre; Sandy asks Elle a question; Veronica to Brittany (one of the thirty); Katie queries Catherine.

You get it.

This trend is not simply anecdotal.

More women than men graduate from college.

Scrolling down a decade to the college student in the making, the Matron has been scheming for ways around Merrick's deep tissue resistance to reading--to touching a book, even.

The person to finally make the most significant breakthrough to date is a family member about whom she is not allowed to blog, HE WHO CANNOT BE NAMED (because the neighbors are watching) and the only person in the family advancing to a regional scientific competition and currently the proud possessor of grades that only include straight A+s. . . . (that's a plus, folks, not that she's bragging? well, sorta). . . .

Merrick has been introduced to the magazine version of Think Geek.

This magazine features gadgetry and gear beyond all measure! Light sabers, pepper shakers in the form of R2D2, mini Darth Vaders, lights, lasers, mini-cameras, key holders, spy cameras, thermometers . . . you name it!

Yesterday, not once, but several times, the Matron came into the kitchen to find Merrick at the table absorbed with the turning of pages.

"Mom? Does this mean fowty dollaws to buy?"

! Yes! He now knows some numbers!

"Mom? This wowd is 'sale' wight? Does that mean we can buy it?"

Merrick can read. Still below grade level. Still stwuggling. But the child has discovered the world of shopping by catalogs and cannot be restrained. Better than nothing. The Matron is thinking of this breakthrough sorta like her son's own little rough draft, turned in.

Bad Choice, Mama

Merrick is all into the bad choice.

John: "Merrick! Time for bed!"

Merrick: "Daddy, that is a bad choice. Make good choices like let's stay up fow ice cweam."

Carrots at dinner? Bad choice.

Homework? You know the drill. But add REALLY before bad.

The Matron was reminded of this recurring family anthem early this afternoon when she decided to get gas and wash the van.

Pause here.

Do you live in California? Kansas? Oregon?

If so, you have absolutely NO IDEA what "wash the van' really means. This is MINNESOTA. Today was a typical weather day: wrapping up 8 inches of snow, 19 degrees and a whopping north wind. If you want to walk or drive, you are required to plow through six inches of gray slimy half-snow half pollution half dirt gunk. Which gets on your car.

The Matron washed her van about eight days ago. This afternoon, the vehicle was unrecognizable as such but instead a murky gray-grown palette of slush. Windows and mirrors, unusable. Parking in the lot at her very fine community college, she emerged from meetings to find this swiped into the dirt on her van:

WASH ME.

SLOB

Okay, okay. . . why does her thirteen year old follow her everywhere?

But here's the deal.

The Matron tried very very hard to run her vehicle through the car wash. But here's the deal. The Matron? Brave, true, tried, humble and all get out great --- has a pathological fear of car washes.

Here she is, in the middle of the brush, valve and soap, LOCKED INSIDE, and creating her obituary:

"Local woman crushed in bizarre car wash accident when soaping suddzers went amuck and crashed into the front seat."

The details of the narrative vary but the end result, the same. Death to the Matron. Poor dear (Me, Her) cannot sit through a car wash without panic, sweat and anxiety attack. And that dratted obituary.

"Death by soap brush."

"Woman drowned in car by bizarre car wash breakdown."

"Mother of three crushed when car wash took on a life of its own, plunging massive scrubber brush into front seat of minivan."

"Why don't car wash doors open in emergencies?"

Today, friends, she made a choice.

The van was black. Windows unusable. Car wash? Horrifying.

So when she filled up the car with gas? You know those little pouches of window wash with the squeegee? The Matron decided to wash her van with that. Sorta like the window but the whole vehicle.

Picture this. Heels, good coat, nice hair, tidy. Disgusting everything else falling apart as she's streaking the van with industrial strength wind-shield washer. Mind you, she got under the wheels really well even if it meant exposing thigh (with wind chill).

Between the ruined shoes, the ridicule, the gas station worker running out and asking "are you all right," the streaked ugly van, and the children's horror?

Bad choice.

Baby Games

Sniffle!

Snort!

The cycle of life both began again and came to a grinding halt at 10:17 this morning when the Matron's little brother and his beautiful (true) wife welcomed their third -- and currently unnamed -- son into the world!

The Matron recommended to her brother that he allow his older sons -- six and nine-- to make that final name decision from a short acceptable list, just as she did. With mixed results as Merrick is now unfortunately named after a Yu-Gi-Oh character.

And what's so final about a new baby? This is the end of the reproductive road for the Matron's siblings. All those grandchildren and cousins? All here: five boys and Scarlett. Who never fails to address this issue at family gatherings.

Scarlett: "It is not FAIR. Where is my sister?! Where is my cousin?!"

To imagine the volume and intensity of this lament, the Matron opens a wee window into this morning's before school scrimmage. Scarlett, who has been on antibiotics for strep throat since Thursday announced today that the infection must have spread to her stomach and right hip because both were causing her UNBEARABLE pain.

She limped around the house, dragging the game leg behind her and moaning about the stomach (and throat). The Matron became aware of this emergency while in the basement. Scarlett was on the second floor. She has projection power second to no one.

Gee, you would think those antibiotics would have kicked in by now.

Matron: "Scarlett, you can use a hair dryer to dry your hair before school."

Scarlett: "No I can't. My hair doesn't dry normally. Dryers don't work on it."

Some days, the Matron is very very glad that there is just one other set of ovaries in this particular roost because she thinks one hysterical operatic hypochondriac with hair unable to dry normally is about all she can handle.