Today, the Matron finally felt back on her feet -- and back to the blog.
Priorities, ordered: family, job, grant application, book. If a task at hand doesn't fit into one of those categories, she's tossing it out. A few old commitments will tag along into this new focus, but anything new? Not happening.
Because . . . yours truly began that book, the long awaited 'third time's the charm' pile of paper. Wish her well: it's a memoir. High end personal dish, she hopes. Every single life is a story, from the first breath to last. She's just penning hers.
She took that life outside today, on a spectacular Minnesota afternoon. If the word "Minnesota" elicits pollen or polar warnings, that's actually true. But about three weeks a year, the weather is perfect!
What a day for a run! As of late, the Matron has felt more kinship with exercise. Yes, she's pounded the pavement, done a mean downward dog, swam laps and spun the elliptical, but mostly it felt like duty. Now, she's quite fond of those runs -- fond enough that some sort of actual sign-me-up real race might be in her future. In that spirit, she decided to time her run. She doesn't wear a watch while running so she checked the kitchen clock and sprinted out the door. Four miles would be behind her in no time!
Eight blocks in, much to her complete delight, she saw a neighbor who is also an old friend from another era. They hadn't really talked in at least year! So when the Matron saw Trudy trundling through her yard, she did what you would do: she stopped for a conversation.
Back on the road, the intrepid running calculated that lost time -- seven minutes. She did her mental mechanics and got back on the timing track . . . . . for about another mile. When she had to pee.
Now the call of the bladder is the Matron's most constant companion on her runs. She is forever in debt to the Parks and Rec workers who unlock certain bathroom doors at 6 am, without fail. The Matron knows exactly how much time it takes her to walk into the park building and pee (in the right place, people). Three minutes.
Foiled again! Inside the public bathroom was a very young mother with a toddler and an infant. It appeared that everybody was crying . . . the baby was screaming, the little girl wailing and the poor mom? Just about ready to burst. The Matron hadn't seen anyone waiting for these folks outside so she wondered if the mom -- a teen, really -- was on her own.
You guessed it. The young mama handed the Matron a bottle so she could hold (and pacify) the little guy while the mama took the toddler to the potty. Everybody did their business, including the Matron eventually, she handed the baby back and went on her way.
She had no idea how to time that one.
Still -- there was a sense of schedule! There was the home stretch, unfolding in front of her! This is the prettiest part of the run, right along a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. The view is spectacular!
Which is precisely why the young lovers holding hands and kissing, STOPPED the Matron -- very, very nicely and apologetically --and asked if she would take their picture against the stunning city and river backdrop. They were all dressed up: suit, skirt, heels and tie. And super happy.
Here, the Matron gave up. She tossed aside that schedule and intention, and took a whole bunch of (she hopes) not too fuzzy photos! It turns out that yours truly has a keen photographic eye, as she even did some arranging: you, here. No, turn that way. It was wonderful.
Just to make the whole thing perfect, as she was running home she decided to stop by and introduce herself to a new neighbor, check on her dear friend Ann, and pop into Stephanie's house up the street. All in all that hard-core, timed kick-ass run?
Not as important as all those people who got in her way.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Sunday, Meditation
The Matron fairly flew to her regular Sunday Mediation Group. She loves these people beyond reason, a room populated by other souls who search.
Today,, yours truly needed that meeting, that half hour of silence shared by a handful of people. She was in a mood.
Actually that mood dogged the Matron all week. She was irritable and overwhelmed. The heart of the week included the three required "Professional Days" at work, most of which involved college faculty stuffed into an auditorium listening to people talk at them. One day this activity last SIX HOURS.
Yes, six hours of sitting. While people talked.
The Matron can't even tell you what transpired during those lectures as she was mightily occupied with her Kindle and Anne Enright. Indeed, over the course of those three days, she managed to read everything Enright has ever written -- and she recommends you do the same. Start with The Gathering.
But this was the Matronly state. Not present. Discontent. Distracted. Annoyed.
Her husband annoyed her. Children, grated. Even the dogs, the dogs! One must be in a particular state of mind to welcome the mad swoop of love from an 82 pound coon hound. She wasn't there.
After much searching, she realized just one phrase -- and one alone -- described her. The Matron was a fussy bitch.
Now, the combination of fussy-- its implicit prickly and prissiness--and bitchy--with its all out snark and critique-- is pretty much an entirely uncomfortable place to inhabit. One must remain in a state that is both snullen, dark, critical and snappy, WHILE ALSO offering prim critique of the unacceptable world infringing on one's own pristine (and practically perfect) state.
A woman of considerable talent, the Matron managed both, pitch perfect. Her poor family tiptoed around, not knowing if they were to be subject to sarcastic commentary or passive-aggressive critique. Mostly, John, of course.
"How nice that you slept nine hours! I was SO happy when I was vacuuming the cars at 7 am after checking my email and sweeping, just knowing you were getting really good sleep."
Or her favorite: "No, really. I'm FINE."
So she roared into meditation (again, that talent allowing her to straddle multiple, contradictory emotional states) all fussy and bitchy.
THAT'S MY ZAFU, IDIOT!!!
That's what she wanted to say to the 75 year old grandmother of 12 huddling on a cushion. Instead, she closed her eyes and the miracle -- the regular, predictable and life-saving miracle -- of silence took hold. She succumbed to the roil and ripple of silence, the breath in the room.
And felt better.
That more settled state situated her in a more receptive state of mind. You see, fussy and bitchy project. Fussy and bitchy is reactive. The Matron's particular fussy-bitchy state certainly found its origins in the world around her, beleaguered and overwhelmed by the stacks and stacks of tasks stealing every hour. She didn't write all week! Didn't meditate!
The Matron went over her woes -- this considerable list, this stack of woes -- with a friend after meditation.
The list? She's teaching more than full time (130% -- for the money) and that extra class is brand new, and online (Creative Writing). Not only that, add on the details of children! Performing Arts high school for Scarlett, auditions, rehearsals, the endless stream of friends and outings! Why, even on Sunday, the Matron had three hours of attending to the actor ahead. He Who Cannot Be Named's debate team needs money and yours truly? She is the grant-writer savior, hoping to plow out at least 20 to major local foundations. If you haven't written a grant? It takes hours. Then the driving, the friends and there's Merrick: tennis, drums, and the extra tutelage means slogging to tutors. If she wasn't already Over-Burdened, the Matron began the process of applying for a Fulbright to be used during her 2014-15 sabbatical. Plus, she's strutting her stuff for a massive grant application (50 grand and 5 thousand to three finalists), is revising a novel and oh . . . she'll have about 150 students. Don't even get her going about cleaning the house. . . and OH. She has to WRITE A PLAY for a local theater company. When in the world will she have time to write a play?
But a strange thing happened as the Matron moved down her list of troubles. Her voice trailed off a bit . . she became hesitant, unsure. A little bit embarrassed.
These are not troubles.
You may already know this, reader, looking at the above List of Woes. Not one item - not one -- on that list is an actual problems. The so-called burdens she's been railing against all week? Gifts. Gifts born entirely of success, hard work, and no small amount of luck: engaged children, a solid career, aspirations, a lovely large house.
The Matron has been commissioned to write a play. And was whining about it (there's that talent again).
As God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe is her witness, the Matron did not know this until that electrifying, reality-shifting moment on the sidewalk. All that worry, all that 'to do' settled on her shoulders like an ocean, is entirely 100% good stuff (okay, except maybe grading freshman comp papers), things she herself set in motion.
She's overwhelmed with opportunity. She gets to teach Creative Writing! And Contemporary Fiction, Introduction to Gender Studies. That's fun, folks. How lucky - -how fabulous -- to have a super-smart, top-five-of his graduating class son keen on debate --and if that's not enough, that she possesses the precise skill he and his team need, that grant-writing experience and ability. How amazing -- spectacular and singular -- really, to have a daughter like Scarlett? Talent, joy and kindness trailing her across every stage she's ever walked. How lucky that the Matron was able, at 44 and after staying home with children for a decade, to not only land a job at a college but establish a career. Then there's writing. A gift that's pure lose-yourself-pleasure. She'll be doing a lot of it, soon.
Fussy Bitch packed up her broomstick and flew home.
So did the Matron. Lit. With gratitude.
Today,, yours truly needed that meeting, that half hour of silence shared by a handful of people. She was in a mood.
Actually that mood dogged the Matron all week. She was irritable and overwhelmed. The heart of the week included the three required "Professional Days" at work, most of which involved college faculty stuffed into an auditorium listening to people talk at them. One day this activity last SIX HOURS.
Yes, six hours of sitting. While people talked.
The Matron can't even tell you what transpired during those lectures as she was mightily occupied with her Kindle and Anne Enright. Indeed, over the course of those three days, she managed to read everything Enright has ever written -- and she recommends you do the same. Start with The Gathering.
But this was the Matronly state. Not present. Discontent. Distracted. Annoyed.
Her husband annoyed her. Children, grated. Even the dogs, the dogs! One must be in a particular state of mind to welcome the mad swoop of love from an 82 pound coon hound. She wasn't there.
After much searching, she realized just one phrase -- and one alone -- described her. The Matron was a fussy bitch.
Now, the combination of fussy-- its implicit prickly and prissiness--and bitchy--with its all out snark and critique-- is pretty much an entirely uncomfortable place to inhabit. One must remain in a state that is both snullen, dark, critical and snappy, WHILE ALSO offering prim critique of the unacceptable world infringing on one's own pristine (and practically perfect) state.
A woman of considerable talent, the Matron managed both, pitch perfect. Her poor family tiptoed around, not knowing if they were to be subject to sarcastic commentary or passive-aggressive critique. Mostly, John, of course.
"How nice that you slept nine hours! I was SO happy when I was vacuuming the cars at 7 am after checking my email and sweeping, just knowing you were getting really good sleep."
Or her favorite: "No, really. I'm FINE."
So she roared into meditation (again, that talent allowing her to straddle multiple, contradictory emotional states) all fussy and bitchy.
THAT'S MY ZAFU, IDIOT!!!
That's what she wanted to say to the 75 year old grandmother of 12 huddling on a cushion. Instead, she closed her eyes and the miracle -- the regular, predictable and life-saving miracle -- of silence took hold. She succumbed to the roil and ripple of silence, the breath in the room.
And felt better.
That more settled state situated her in a more receptive state of mind. You see, fussy and bitchy project. Fussy and bitchy is reactive. The Matron's particular fussy-bitchy state certainly found its origins in the world around her, beleaguered and overwhelmed by the stacks and stacks of tasks stealing every hour. She didn't write all week! Didn't meditate!
The Matron went over her woes -- this considerable list, this stack of woes -- with a friend after meditation.
The list? She's teaching more than full time (130% -- for the money) and that extra class is brand new, and online (Creative Writing). Not only that, add on the details of children! Performing Arts high school for Scarlett, auditions, rehearsals, the endless stream of friends and outings! Why, even on Sunday, the Matron had three hours of attending to the actor ahead. He Who Cannot Be Named's debate team needs money and yours truly? She is the grant-writer savior, hoping to plow out at least 20 to major local foundations. If you haven't written a grant? It takes hours. Then the driving, the friends and there's Merrick: tennis, drums, and the extra tutelage means slogging to tutors. If she wasn't already Over-Burdened, the Matron began the process of applying for a Fulbright to be used during her 2014-15 sabbatical. Plus, she's strutting her stuff for a massive grant application (50 grand and 5 thousand to three finalists), is revising a novel and oh . . . she'll have about 150 students. Don't even get her going about cleaning the house. . . and OH. She has to WRITE A PLAY for a local theater company. When in the world will she have time to write a play?
But a strange thing happened as the Matron moved down her list of troubles. Her voice trailed off a bit . . she became hesitant, unsure. A little bit embarrassed.
These are not troubles.
You may already know this, reader, looking at the above List of Woes. Not one item - not one -- on that list is an actual problems. The so-called burdens she's been railing against all week? Gifts. Gifts born entirely of success, hard work, and no small amount of luck: engaged children, a solid career, aspirations, a lovely large house.
The Matron has been commissioned to write a play. And was whining about it (there's that talent again).
As God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe is her witness, the Matron did not know this until that electrifying, reality-shifting moment on the sidewalk. All that worry, all that 'to do' settled on her shoulders like an ocean, is entirely 100% good stuff (okay, except maybe grading freshman comp papers), things she herself set in motion.
She's overwhelmed with opportunity. She gets to teach Creative Writing! And Contemporary Fiction, Introduction to Gender Studies. That's fun, folks. How lucky - -how fabulous -- to have a super-smart, top-five-of his graduating class son keen on debate --and if that's not enough, that she possesses the precise skill he and his team need, that grant-writing experience and ability. How amazing -- spectacular and singular -- really, to have a daughter like Scarlett? Talent, joy and kindness trailing her across every stage she's ever walked. How lucky that the Matron was able, at 44 and after staying home with children for a decade, to not only land a job at a college but establish a career. Then there's writing. A gift that's pure lose-yourself-pleasure. She'll be doing a lot of it, soon.
Fussy Bitch packed up her broomstick and flew home.
So did the Matron. Lit. With gratitude.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Maybe Someone Will Mention Freud?
Tomorrow, the Matron is hosting the English Department faculty for a Fall Semester Precursor Potluck. Fun! Her entirely-pleasant colleagues will attend - with their families. This would also include young children.
Young children who perhaps have not yet been introduced -- or whose introduction has been condoned -- to the world of SWAT and militia in which the Matron lives. Her house. A quick survey this early Saturday morning reveals no less than 20 guns (air soft, nerf, toys of various sort) in plain sight. The place is a bunker. She can imagine tomorrow's discourse over Julia Kristeva being peppered with gunfire and small children bleeding from their eyes . . . oh wait. Nobody's going to be talking about Kristeva. She forgot--COMMUNITY college. Conversation will center on retention and grammar.
Oh well.
Still, today is the munitions sweep. Which reminds her of a favorite parenting moment and a pretty darn funny blog post. Happy Saturday!
Our kids go to a public Montessori school that is also an international peace site. The schools is known for attracting left-wing, hippy-dippy, peace-sign wielding families.
Mean looks are disallowed. Breath hard? You need therapy. People are serious about peace here. Righteous.
Merrick had his first ever birthday part today: Five Years Old!
He invited six little friends from his combined age 4 and 5 year old classroom--and his longtime, best friend, probably future husband Lachlan.
Spouse aside, these kids were total strangers to our family. Most of this little group of five year olds are all first-born to their families, trend setters.
Thus, there were detailed phone conversations in advance of this major social event. Little Q gets a tummy ache after eating wheat. Will there be toast or cracker? T and L don't quite get along. Can't we disinvite one? H. is scared of dogs. Can you euthanize yours?
So today all the fussy parents dropped off their kids for Merrick's birthday party. I used to be one. I understand.
The children held hands. They sang in harmony. Girls and boys pecked cheeks--they shared cake and inquired about hurt feelings and state of mind. They frolicked and radiated sun beams and goodwill.
Until one of the kids went under the couch (why do they do that?) and stumbled across Merrick's hidden arsenal: Knives, swords, guns. Big guns. Lotsa guns. Pop guns, Nerf guns, shot guns, air guns. Sky's the limit.
Now, our household went nearly ten years without guns. I am (theoretically, Opposed). But last year, a friend handed Merrick a bag. He opened it and found a 1950 style pistol. He never looked back.
And because he is child number three, we just took the Path of Least Resistance.
Guns inspire love. This exchange routinely takes place in our household.
Merrick: "Here's my gun!"
Lachlan: "I wove the gun!"
Merrick: "You take the gun."
Lachlan: "No, you take the gun. I wove you."
Merrick: "You have the gun. I wove you better."
And so on.
So the over-attended peace loving children found our cache of juice. Those young ones dropped their flowers and love beads and took up arms. Girl and boy, they spent the next hour killing one another.
Now, this transformation began while I was in the kitchen. By the time I walked into the war zone, a dazed John was asking what kind of Kool Aid we were serving.
Watching D (only child allowed just 15 minutes of television a week and taking careful selection of dance, language, and Suzuki violin) scream with joy while taking out Merrick with a Nerf bazooka, I decided just to let the whole thing go.
Lord of the Flies? Yup. Mini-reenactment here. By the time the mayhem was complete, the children were sweaty, exhausted, content, murderous pros.
Before the parents arrived, we put away weaponry and handed out banal party bags; tootsie rolls, noise makers and plastic frogs. Not exactly lying.
Little D slid up to me: "This was the best party ever."
I considered explaining to parents at pick up time: yes, we have guns. We have them. They were hidden. Big accident, lotsa fun, apologies.
But I didn't.
I decided to let nature take its course. And imagined lots of this, at bedtime:
"Merrick has guns!"
" I shot L!"
"Merrick has a shot gun. Why can't I?"
"Today at the party we all killed each other! "
Rite of Passage
As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room--
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in each other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats,
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.
Sharon Olds
Young children who perhaps have not yet been introduced -- or whose introduction has been condoned -- to the world of SWAT and militia in which the Matron lives. Her house. A quick survey this early Saturday morning reveals no less than 20 guns (air soft, nerf, toys of various sort) in plain sight. The place is a bunker. She can imagine tomorrow's discourse over Julia Kristeva being peppered with gunfire and small children bleeding from their eyes . . . oh wait. Nobody's going to be talking about Kristeva. She forgot--COMMUNITY college. Conversation will center on retention and grammar.
Oh well.
Still, today is the munitions sweep. Which reminds her of a favorite parenting moment and a pretty darn funny blog post. Happy Saturday!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~
Our kids go to a public Montessori school that is also an international peace site. The schools is known for attracting left-wing, hippy-dippy, peace-sign wielding families.
Mean looks are disallowed. Breath hard? You need therapy. People are serious about peace here. Righteous.
Merrick had his first ever birthday part today: Five Years Old!
He invited six little friends from his combined age 4 and 5 year old classroom--and his longtime, best friend, probably future husband Lachlan.
Spouse aside, these kids were total strangers to our family. Most of this little group of five year olds are all first-born to their families, trend setters.
Thus, there were detailed phone conversations in advance of this major social event. Little Q gets a tummy ache after eating wheat. Will there be toast or cracker? T and L don't quite get along. Can't we disinvite one? H. is scared of dogs. Can you euthanize yours?
So today all the fussy parents dropped off their kids for Merrick's birthday party. I used to be one. I understand.
The children held hands. They sang in harmony. Girls and boys pecked cheeks--they shared cake and inquired about hurt feelings and state of mind. They frolicked and radiated sun beams and goodwill.
Until one of the kids went under the couch (why do they do that?) and stumbled across Merrick's hidden arsenal: Knives, swords, guns. Big guns. Lotsa guns. Pop guns, Nerf guns, shot guns, air guns. Sky's the limit.
Now, our household went nearly ten years without guns. I am (theoretically, Opposed). But last year, a friend handed Merrick a bag. He opened it and found a 1950 style pistol. He never looked back.
And because he is child number three, we just took the Path of Least Resistance.
Guns inspire love. This exchange routinely takes place in our household.
Merrick: "Here's my gun!"
Lachlan: "I wove the gun!"
Merrick: "You take the gun."
Lachlan: "No, you take the gun. I wove you."
Merrick: "You have the gun. I wove you better."
And so on.
So the over-attended peace loving children found our cache of juice. Those young ones dropped their flowers and love beads and took up arms. Girl and boy, they spent the next hour killing one another.
Now, this transformation began while I was in the kitchen. By the time I walked into the war zone, a dazed John was asking what kind of Kool Aid we were serving.
Watching D (only child allowed just 15 minutes of television a week and taking careful selection of dance, language, and Suzuki violin) scream with joy while taking out Merrick with a Nerf bazooka, I decided just to let the whole thing go.
Lord of the Flies? Yup. Mini-reenactment here. By the time the mayhem was complete, the children were sweaty, exhausted, content, murderous pros.
Before the parents arrived, we put away weaponry and handed out banal party bags; tootsie rolls, noise makers and plastic frogs. Not exactly lying.
Little D slid up to me: "This was the best party ever."
I considered explaining to parents at pick up time: yes, we have guns. We have them. They were hidden. Big accident, lotsa fun, apologies.
But I didn't.
I decided to let nature take its course. And imagined lots of this, at bedtime:
"Merrick has guns!"
" I shot L!"
"Merrick has a shot gun. Why can't I?"
"Today at the party we all killed each other! "
Rite of Passage
As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room--
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in each other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats,
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.
Sharon Olds
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Acquiescence: Glue for All Marriage
Indeed, the Matron has determined that acquiescence is the key to marital tranquility and even, happiness. Note: not bliss. Acquiescence does not ignite. It soothes.
Please, do not confuse temperate, durable Acquiescence with moral collapse or God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe forbid -- caving. No, no, no!! To acquiesce is comply, to submit tacitly or passively. One can acquiesce in complete stubborn and self-righteous disagreement. Indeed, the Matron herself has acquiesced -- complied -- with the furrowed brow and folded arm.
What's the Matronly working definition of acquiescence?
Light at Night: John likes things pitch-black, not a sliver leaking from a shade. The Matron? Windows open and moonlight streaming. Early on, the benefits dark and light were much debated. The Matron, then a Youngish Miss, was deeply committed to her airy nights -- the expanse of spirit the night light brought out to her. John, equally smitten with night's silence and black tunnel . . . and at some point, the Matron simply -- relented. She still likes the windows open. When that man is away, those shades are up. But she also likes how he burrows into bed, happy.
Wash cloths. What are these things for? Oh! Creating more laundry. The Matron has no need for the wash cloth. Soap suds up just fine in her capable hands; she effectively lathers up. The perfect wash cloth -- texture, color, size, suds-ability -- is pretty much the winning lottery ticket for her husband. No real to-do would be made of these differing preferences, except that John insists that no bathtub or shower is complete without a stack of wash cloths nearby. Each bathroom must have stacks of these squares of colored cloth. If someone takes a shower, he likes to hear "boy, I liked that wash cloth today!" Wash cloths annoy the Matron. If indeed they are really sloughing off so much skin-gunk, then why should she touch yours? But the bathrooms in their house are replete with the venerable wash cloth.
Dishwasher. There is a right way and a wrong way to stack this. John's way is right. The Matron follows this. She is in absolute complete disagreement but indeed, stacks those plates to the left. Every time. And the key -- with a little stab of happiness because her beloved likes it just so (and is oddly attached).
Attached indeed. Sometimes the Matron considers just how steeped in Habit she is - how attached to the fold of a blanket in the living room or who parks which car where or what she eats for breakfast. Imagine given free rein here! Imagine no person or code bumping up against attachment to one's own desires. This of course would require living alone or with servants. Driving would be a nightmare.
But the general idea often gives her pause - how much of a good relationship with a spouse (or anyone, for that matter) is thinking not only of that person's legitimate needs, but their quirks, sensibilities and proclivities and allowing their presence -- as much as we allow our own.
It's easy to wax philosophical about this, of course, when there's nothing to acquiesce to at the moment.
The trick will be to carry this sanguine stance tomorrow morning when it's time to select a new color to paint the living room. The Matron believes slate is ideal. John a warm yellow. It's a big enough gap that somebody will just have to. . . acquiesce. Sounds so much better than caving --and it is.
Please, do not confuse temperate, durable Acquiescence with moral collapse or God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe forbid -- caving. No, no, no!! To acquiesce is comply, to submit tacitly or passively. One can acquiesce in complete stubborn and self-righteous disagreement. Indeed, the Matron herself has acquiesced -- complied -- with the furrowed brow and folded arm.
What's the Matronly working definition of acquiescence?
Light at Night: John likes things pitch-black, not a sliver leaking from a shade. The Matron? Windows open and moonlight streaming. Early on, the benefits dark and light were much debated. The Matron, then a Youngish Miss, was deeply committed to her airy nights -- the expanse of spirit the night light brought out to her. John, equally smitten with night's silence and black tunnel . . . and at some point, the Matron simply -- relented. She still likes the windows open. When that man is away, those shades are up. But she also likes how he burrows into bed, happy.
Wash cloths. What are these things for? Oh! Creating more laundry. The Matron has no need for the wash cloth. Soap suds up just fine in her capable hands; she effectively lathers up. The perfect wash cloth -- texture, color, size, suds-ability -- is pretty much the winning lottery ticket for her husband. No real to-do would be made of these differing preferences, except that John insists that no bathtub or shower is complete without a stack of wash cloths nearby. Each bathroom must have stacks of these squares of colored cloth. If someone takes a shower, he likes to hear "boy, I liked that wash cloth today!" Wash cloths annoy the Matron. If indeed they are really sloughing off so much skin-gunk, then why should she touch yours? But the bathrooms in their house are replete with the venerable wash cloth.
Dishwasher. There is a right way and a wrong way to stack this. John's way is right. The Matron follows this. She is in absolute complete disagreement but indeed, stacks those plates to the left. Every time. And the key -- with a little stab of happiness because her beloved likes it just so (and is oddly attached).
Attached indeed. Sometimes the Matron considers just how steeped in Habit she is - how attached to the fold of a blanket in the living room or who parks which car where or what she eats for breakfast. Imagine given free rein here! Imagine no person or code bumping up against attachment to one's own desires. This of course would require living alone or with servants. Driving would be a nightmare.
But the general idea often gives her pause - how much of a good relationship with a spouse (or anyone, for that matter) is thinking not only of that person's legitimate needs, but their quirks, sensibilities and proclivities and allowing their presence -- as much as we allow our own.
It's easy to wax philosophical about this, of course, when there's nothing to acquiesce to at the moment.
The trick will be to carry this sanguine stance tomorrow morning when it's time to select a new color to paint the living room. The Matron believes slate is ideal. John a warm yellow. It's a big enough gap that somebody will just have to. . . acquiesce. Sounds so much better than caving --and it is.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Wherein the Moving Truck Forgot to Pick Up the Furniture
The Matron was feeling pretty darn good about her aging self. Inspired by Mrs. G to believe that hard work and good luck do sometimes happen at the same time to the same person, she bought a domain name:
minnesotamatron.com
So she lined up that pretty little purchase with a Wordpress blog. While she was at it, she picked up another little .com as a suffix and attached it to her very fine name: the Matron and her very own real-self professional writing blog. Now she had two more occupations to add to the daily to-do list, but no matter. This was the fun stuff, the things that made her happy.
Until Saturday night around midnight when after four hours of unsuccessfully attempting to move her BlogHer ads to her Wordpress site she googled: "can you put BlogHer ads on a Wordpress site?"
No.
It turns out that Wordpress is one of those touchy-feeling, anti-capitalist set-ups much like her own psyche. Rumor has it that ads might be allowed and that all will someday be good with Blogger but then again, there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, remember?
This might all happen someday but in the interim, she's sticking it out a while with blogger and doing some more thorough R&D. That's Research and Development, a capitalist term with which she is now becoming familiar.
Nobody likes to lose those big fat $30 checks from BlogHer!
So we'll have to settle here for pedestrian pictures and background to accompany the snappy prose. To entertain herself she's going to change her bloggy scenery every couple of days, just to say 'so there' to the internet. Because that's helpful.
Friday, August 10, 2012
The New World Didn't Start Friday
But soon! She'll stop whispering sweet nothings and just let you know!
Monday, August 6, 2012
The Matron is Moving
It's been quiet on the Matronly front for many reasons, one of which is the new environs. Yours truly is moving her blog to an easier address and site. The new world starts on Friday! She hopes you join her! Address up in a day or two as the site is currently under construction. New life, breathing.
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