Bad Stuff. Happens.

The Matron could be feeling incredibly sorry for herself. She had a couple of crabby days. Then there was a dark evening that extended into night and beyond. Trust her, if there was a pool of muck to wade in, she indulged.

But that's over.

Regular readers may know that yours truly has had her share of adventures in health care. Thank you, God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah-Universe, her Affliction Plate has been filled: Graves' and Hashimoto's diseases (yes you can have both and if you don't believe her check in with her endocrinologist who is at the MAYO clinic and also treated Barbara Bush. There). She also suffered from Graves Opthalmopathy, a particularly unpleasant adventure that involved taping her eyes shut at night for a few months.

Then she had carcinoid cancer. (but got a really good story!)

Plus, she is a well-documented hypochondriac: weekly brain tumors masquerading as headaches or stubbed toes that most certainly will develop gangrene.

So the Matron gave herself a big old pat on the quaking back for NOT getting hysterical about something as middling as heartburn. Pat, pat and down two Zantac. . . . and baking soda, throat coat tea, omeprazole, lemon, or honey.

For three yeras.

Until December's Mystery Flu. Which nobody else got. And didn't feel like 'normal' sick. Three weeks of intestinal acrobatics followed the 'flu.'

On some level, the hypochondrial, cancer and autoimmune-prone Matron was not much surprised when an esophageal biopsy revealed . . . . a brand new rare disease!

(it's okay to grip your keyboard here and feel sorry for her for just a second--even if spitting out the story is taking a very very long time. Certainly, you will humor her. Poor Matron)

She has Eosinophilia.

So . . . her esophagus is chalk full of these darn little eosinophils, busy makin' her life miserable and eating, unpleasant. But she can LIVE with that. The tough stuff? The main cause of this disorder/disease? Food allergies.

Final testing comes Friday but it looks like the Matron may be allergic to a long long list of items that include wheat, corn, dairy, coconut, pineapple, orange, cocoa (chocolate), and those are just the things that she likes and can no longer eat.

There's the poor little chocolate-cookie-brownie-pie loving Matron's problem. No more favorite foods.

So she's over the Hump of self pity? Not yet. But accepting recipes and a new immune system.

And You Know This . . . How?

When confronted with particularly egregious gaps in or missteps of knowledge, the Matron routinely asks her students: "How do you know this? Where did you learn this?"

The answer is SILENCE while the brain struggles to retrieve the exact source of information -- kernels of knowledge like health care reform will cost every American $1000, women make even MORE money than men, Asians are better at math than (rest of planet), or Native Americans are, well, peaceful by nature.

No one can ever point to the article they read documenting and quantifying why most men who like to figure skate are gay. Everybody just knows that.

Her point? Much of what we 'know,' we get by an osmosis of sorts, cultural wisdom or myth that free-floats through public and private space to settle as 'truth' in psyche and soul.

Or it comes from your grandma.

The Matron was reminded of this high-brow, finely-tuned method of Knowledge Acquirement just this morning when she (for no real reason) asked Scarlett if she always washed her hair with shampoo, twice.

Matron: "Because you have to wash your hair twice to get all the dirt out."

Scarlett: "Where did you learn that?"

Matron . . . . silence! It's the brain struggle! "Uh . . . Stephanie Luknic. Eighth grade. I was at her house while she was washing her hair in the kitchen sink and she told me you had to use shampoo twice before conditioner. Otherwise your hair stays dirty."

Scarlett (knowingly): "Thought so."

Alarm!

Knowledge that the Matron -- believed in and practiced! -- was not only dated by about 30 years but from a completely unreliable source AND she didn't engage in this conversation with her sons but just her daughter.

Her entire adult grooming life has centered on the advice of a 13 year old. Plus she is sexist.

She is not alone in the camp of dim or dubious knowledge.

Lectures from the Minivan

Among her peers, the Matron's feats of herculean driving can be the object of pity, disdain or admiration -- depending on mood and vision. You see, the Matron, by and large, drives her children to where they want to go.

Hunger Games cast at Mall of America with over 8000 young fans in attendance, many of whom spent the night in line for a chance to breath Hunger Air?

No. If somebody else's parent wants to navigate that disaster: have fun, sweetie! But not she.

Over 200 trips to the Children's Theatre Company so that your daughter can appear in a title role in a production?

Absolutely.

How about the same number -- 200 or so -- of trips so your child can be in the ensemble of a theatre production and not the star?

Absolutely.

Debate, tennis, hockey, driver's ed, friends' houses, sleepovers, school, auditions, head shots, commercials, baseball, swimming, ice cream socials, allergist, dentist, doctor, blacksmith (just to see if you're reading), piano lessons -- the Matron has even driven a sixty mile round trip to yo-yo lessons. Not that these happen all during the same era -- but you get the drift. Lots and lots and lots of driving.

Scarlett wants to see a play? The Matron drives her. He Who Cannot be Named needs to work on a video project with a friend across town? The Matron drives him. Merrick's friends live on the other side of town? Hop in the van.

Not infrequently, the driving annoys her.

Scarlett has been largely in productions for the past five years. Performances at professional companies can mean 10:30 pick-ups on a school night; this is part of the family fabric. The Matron drives her youngest to school every single day and picks him up (there's no bus service but public school).

She knows many parents who put their foots down far, far ahead of Events of Mass Hysteria like the Mall of America event the Matron recently vetoed. In fact, she's probably driven their children.

The Matron doesn't particularly enjoy Life on the Urban Road but she flatly refuses to consider her willingness to export her children leniency or indulgence (as is sometimes construed or accused).

Let's take the word 'urban' for a moment. The Matron lives smack dab in the middle of the city, a walk from downtown. This means that friends are far-flung. Kids attending the elementary school live within a ten mile radius -- not ten city blocks. Want to take a swimming lesson? There is no 'neighborhood pool' but the cheapest, most convenient lessons that are offered a few miles away. Audition for a play in your hometown? If the hometown contains a quarter million people, chances are that a child can't hoof it to the theater.

Let's take the word 'no' for a moment. No: your mother is not going to drive you forty miles for a sleepover planned just yesterday. No: Not driving during rush hour so you can see that movie.

But? No: I'm not making the 50 trips necessary for you to be in this play, participate on this team, be a debater? No, I'm not going to drive so you can go to the best public school possible and make you attend the crummy neighborhood school instead?

The Matron just says no to that no. Indulgent. You bet. Indulging dreams and the expansive task of building a future.

Added bonus? The captive adolescent audience is sometimes able to tolerate nostalgic trips down parental memory lane, particularly if stuck in rush hour traffic just long enough.

Spring Cleaning

One advantage to living on a bluff along a river: the eagles have landed. This picture? Taken right from the Matronly balcony (she's JUST like Juliet in so many ways). For the past three years, winter marks its end with the eagles' return. They nest just down the street from the Matron and produce two to three adorable eaglets a year.

Their nest, big as a child's wading pool, is a tourist attraction.

The Matron doesn't have to walk down the block to snap her pictures. This tree is their second favorite spot in the 'hood -- a tremendous cottonwood visible throughout the city. Just find the tallest tree on the eastern landscape and it's hers. Not really. Nobody owns this beauty.

And every day, the Matron watches two eagles circle through her yard. Possibly scoping out Satan's Familiar as supper, but well, who is she to mess with Mother Nature?

Completely overcome by all this evidence of spring -- thundering cottonwoods, thawing yard, sprouting greens, nesting eagles -- you name it, it's growing or melting -- put yours truly in a March sort of mood, as in Spring Cleaning.

Given her extensive online life, she thought she would start with electronics. Why get all exhausted scrubbing walls when you can cozy up to the computer (with cookies and coffee) and still clean?!!

Specifically, the Matron was bothered by a vague, back-of-the-mind awareness of online accounts trailing in her wake, of computer files stored with the exact same system she uses for socks called "toss in drawer and shut tight."

So she poured that coffee and raided the chocolate chip cookie stash, settled in all comfy and confident. By lunchtime, her computer would be pristine! Accounts ordered, files stored, projects organized-spring season off to a sturdy start!

Lo and behold, the Matron found 67 accounts trailing in her wake.

Weebly? Dvolver? Anyone know how to use these? Sixty-seven accounts with a staggering array of user names and passwords, meaningless deceptions meant to trip up hackers (like there's a legion lined up to get her) that only made her task, well, unpleasant to impossible.

Utterly defeated --and without passwords for a few vital entities, including the dusty Matronly facebook account -- she turned instead to her computer files.

There are 17,512, not counting system files.

Wait!? What's that? Uh . . . excuse her. Those dirty walls are calling.

Ah, Matronly Memories

Tonight, the Matron just so happened to rekindle a correspondence with an old friend; during the course of said rekindled correspondence, the mandatory Holiday Letter was mentioned.

Matronly Memory!

The Matron is sharing the actual, honest to God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe first-ever holiday letter she penned and subsequently sent to about 200 people. Some of whom still email her and say "Oh, remember that letter?"

Unfortunately, her children are now SO spectacular that even a parody could be misconstrued as undue parental enthusiasm.

Really?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

December 2000

Dear Family & Friends,

It began when I stopped apartment roving and settled in with John and two dogs. Things escalated quickly from there: buying a house, getting married, having children. Now I’ve reached the height of modern domesticity—the traditional holiday form letter. Rules of format, style, and tone threaten to overwhelm: one must present recent career advancements, life milestones, children’s growth and exploits, and well wishes to all. The order of presentation may vary but never the tone, which is of paramount importance. Accomplishments (especially those related to money and children) must remain upbeat, yet moderate—no gloating or bragging allowed. Above all, no complaining or whining! This is holiday cheer, after all. With these guidelines in mind, prepare gentle reader, for my own foray into such festive fare:

First, in the year 2000 it became glaringly apparent that John has no rivals in the real estate business, selling houses right and left with such swiftness, such deft and cunning that his peers were left breathless, clients thrilled, and bank account neatly padded. Modest man that he is, he chalks everything up to luck and Alan Greenspan. I know better, and now, so do you. It’s brilliance. Of course, he had some help. Imagine having a devoted, even doting, Wife capable of preparing gourmet meals in a heartbeat (think crepes and soufflés), ironing shirts to the precise crispness required by a real estate mogul, shining shoes until they glisten, and cheerfully attending to his every whim and demand. Yes, just imagine that. Through it all, John managed to attend to his parenting duties with equal zeal and ardor. Does a man get any better?

John’s household and parenting duties reached a new peak this year, meaning he tucked in the children and did the dishes while yours truly finally plowed through that dissertation to earn a doctorate in English Literature and Feminist Studies. Some misguided souls, prone to dreary realism, may have thought my doctorate a lost cause after nearly a decade in graduate school. It may come as a happy shock to discover that I was incubating! Yes, incubating what certainly may be one of the densest theoretical treatises known to academia; a document that will undoubtedly propel me to the forefront of that fast-paced, dynamic, and slightly dangerous field of English Literature. Watch your covers of Time and Newsweek. Undoubtedly, once literary theory takes it’s rightful place in the universe, I’ll assume mine on those covers. While I wait for the world to right itself, I continue my position as an adjunct faculty member at Metro State University.

Did I mention the children? Here, gentle reader, I find myself at a loss for words, torn between decorum and the brutal reality of their perfection. As the enclosed photo(s) indicate, there are no finer specimens of beauty and exuberance. Stryker is now four, showing potential in too many areas to list. Wait, I’ll try: art, literature, dance, finance,physics, and astronomy. He draws perfect stick figures, scrawls his own name in nearly recognizable form, break-dances through family heirlooms, allocates our cash for only the finest ear-shattering toys, defies gravity, and stays awake late into the night for the sole purpose of plotting new constellations. He may be the next governor of Minnesota, considering his propensity for bold wrestling moves and attention.

At two, Scarlett is all princess, a child so attuned to both fashion and her own sensibilities that she’s shunned pajamas in favor of lace dresses and flowered tights at night! What taste, what style! Like her brother, she too has unusual abilities, including a voice so pure that her rare crying tantrums are a treat—just to hear that mezzo soprano pour through the house, the yard, into the neighbor’s windows! Already pulled in different directions by her multitude of talents, Scarlett is currently torn between a career as a principal ballerina, opera singer, and surgeon—demonstrating various skills in each of these areas throughout our house and on her dolls. John and I only hope we have the wisdom and humility necessary to guide these young protégés into their shining futures.

Throughout the year, we’ve also been busily engaged in a wide variety of ordinary middle-class activities: the children and I have begun attending Sunday meditations at Clouds in the Water Zen Center (even a two year old, especially one as precocious as Scarlett, can say “Buddha”); I continue to practice and teach yoga; John and I both held court at our respective 20 year high school reunions; John has picked up his guitar once again, knowing how the world awaits his music; I’m frantically finishing my next opus, a novel, and already beating back calls from Oprah; Stryker is nearly ready to teach the sign language class he’s taking in preschool; I’ve tossed out my parenting books (given the nature of our children) and am now parenting by astrology and psychic guidance; and finally, I’m available for spell casting and Tarot readings, two other recent interests. My fee is nominal.

Finally, my apologies, dear reader, for this letter’s brevity, for the way limitations of time and form required such brief descriptions of our children, for my strict adherence to moderation, for the plodding tone and humility you’ve found here. Despite this letter’s shortcomings, I find myself strangely buoyed by another domestic duty well done, and by my ability to remain attentive to, and respectful of, the exact tenor of tradition.

Season’s Greetings.

Tidings of Joy ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

No Wonder

Yesterday, Merrick posed this question to his mother.

Merrick: "Mama? How come you'we a little stwange?"

Matron, looking up from the book she is reading while attempting a recipe for French soup that involves $20 worth of some kind of clawed sea creature -- and the book is a novel, not a cookbook.

Matron:""What do you mean, strange?"

Merrick: "You know . . . like you don't like football or bake cookies vewy easy . . " Pause while Matron takes umbrage at inconvenient truth . . . "and you don't like sweatshiwts. Lots of moms weaw sweatshiwts. And you kiss dog snouts."

Matron: "Exactly what is wrong with a snout kiss and a packaged Oreo?"

Merrick: "Mom?"

Matron: ?

Merrick: "Why is the stove on fiwe?"

But this exchange gave the Matron pause (and a reason to abandon the cooking project). Yes indeed, she has -- here and there and upon occasion -- been categorized as a little, well, 'unique.' Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe, she knows exactly who to blame.

Highlights to the road of aberrant behavior would include her decision, as a Wee Miss, to read Gone with The Wind and The Exorcist, back to back, when she was around 10. For better or worse, these books shaped a world view that still persists.

Lest anyone think she is kidding: remember, the Matron named her only daughter Scarlett. And her best party trick? Reciting the first paragraph of the book from memory or putting any sentence -- sentence -- of the thousand page book into the context of its appropriate paragraph. Without looking, of course.

Upon consideration, however, reading was only one art form that permanently shaped the Matron into who she is today. There was also music.

When yours truly first began dating her beloved John, whenever a male voice trickled through the prehistoric listening devices called radios and stereos, she immediately called out: "Is this the Beatles?"

Female voice? Young Miss: "Is this Barbra Streisand?"

John: "Who's the greatest living guitar player?"

Matron: "Rocky?"

You get the picture . . . and here she blames music, the three main pieces of music to which she was exposed for six solid weeks when she was 16 and TRAPPED in a station wagon with her FAMILY (shudder on behalf of teenagers everywhere) driving to and from California during summer vacation.

The three artists that bent her musical ear?

Barry Manilow--commericals, specifically, Neil Sedaka, and John Denver.

When the Matron went to college, she thought "The Who" was something commonly confused with "to whom" in writing. The day John Lennon died, she had grown savvy enough to know to feign unspeakable grief until she figured out who in the heck John Lennon was.

Because when somebody very famous dies, people don't go around mourning-by-resume: "OMIGOD the former Beatle, music icon, activist and husband of Yoko Ono just died!"

No, it was just inconveniently "John, John, John." Not a lot of information in that, so it's a good thing her feigned grief was unspeakable. It's much easier not to embarrass yourself with your mouth shut.

This is the long route to the mystery: how did she get to be so 'stwange'? She blames music. Let's just say Barry Manilow in particular, as driving by a McDonald's with the Matron can be somewhat surreal.

Bucket of chicken, anyone?

What She Has Learned Thus Far

Regular readers know that the Matron is also otherwise known (mostly fondly) as Queen of Hyperbole. Understanding that this role, upon occasion, renders her narrative a wee bit unsteady (she can't quite bring herself to say unreliable), here, she promises Truth.

She is in the midst of the grading equivalent of the Haitian earthquake. And, as a wise reader noted, papers suck the life right of you. Details, details, but 9 days from today, she will have read, internalized, commented on and graded 55 basic freshman comp research papers, 23 Gender Studies papers, 35 Contemporary Fiction papers, 70 research assignments, and 210 (approximately) online discussion posts.

Not that she's counting.

Part of the Matronly dilemma -- in addition to having an existential crisis that nobody but Boc seems to understand and that is why HE gets his picture on the blog -- is that her grading blitz coincides with an usually busy week of driving children. Meaning that when she should be busy whipping through essays, she's winding through traffic.

As usual, Scarlett offers herself up as the primary person in need of transportation. Thursday, the annual head shot session. Unfortunately, while an adult actor's photo may last for five years (if s/he is of durable skin and good teeth), children change yearly, thus requiring an update photo on that basis. This is a half day event. Today, she auditioned for a Disney sitcom. This, is a 20 minute event, taped in the agency and sent to Disneyland.

Should a parent let a child audition for a television show with the words Zombie and Cheerleader in the title? Let's just say this is not a rhetorical question.

But she did.

Then, there's all the driving for Mean. And the high tech Matron has actual moving human beings on her blog!! A video! The diva is the one with the glasses. The last week before opening night is tech week: long hours, high emotion, last minute changes. And PUH-LENTY of driving.

So . . . although the Matron wishes she could share a gem or two from her current crop of papers, as that would give this post a point, nothing pops out. Instead, she will leave you with her all time Favorite Student Sentence(s), submitted in a paper two years ago:

"The size of a human being depends on what size grain they eat. People in Norway eat long pasta and are big. Asians are small because they eat rice."

After pulling herself out from under her desk, the Matron simply asked the student: "You need to cite these facts with academic, peer-reviewed sources?"

What she wanted to say was: "What about couscous?"

Putting the Destination Back in Drive

Oh, the Matron woke up with a dark cloud around her. Not just dark -- a really menacing swirl of steel gray, accentuated by swirls of angry red.

You see, she woke with road rage, without even entering the road. Indeed, she was still in her very fine soft king-size bed, replete with down comforter and pillow, yet she managed to HURL herself instantly onto the very freeway she resented.

For this is one of many weeks of the road. Three kids and only one can take a bus to school. The other two must be driven, with conveniently incompatible end-times, meaning kicking around forty minutes a day with Merrick (let's just say the Matron has plans to only do errands during that time). Since all the school start times stagger and the one bus that does arrive does so at the CRACK of dawn, the Matron will be up from 5:15 am until the last one is dropped off at school at 8:30 am. Then, HWCBN is still the master of debate, requiring transportation three days a week instead of the bus home and Scarlett has daily rehearsals from 4:30 to 6:30 and this week, is taping a commercial, which not only means driving but interminable amounts of waiting around with people who are justifiably wary of the parents on the set, and therefore exercise self-protection against eye contact.

Oh, and then there's the drive to work, the orthodontist, the errands, the playdates for Merrick and you get the drill. Her life is probably like yours: the minivan is actually a complete home, with food, blankets, jackets, wipes and water.

But something strange happened to the Matron while she scowled at the ceiling of her bedroom. She suddenly remembered a lovely essay she'd been reading last night, a bit of wisdom inspired by William James and others of the theological elk. The kernel of wisdom from the essay bit into the center of the cloud (drat, she hates it when that happens) and in a heartbeat, there was a cool gray mist, clearing, instead of the iron gray.

Fellow travelers on those roads with children -- soccer practice, violin, gymnastics, college, dentist, grocery store -- she knows you want that nugget of wisdom!

The essay posited (see how she uses words like 'posited in blog posts? her dissertation adviser would either be proud of horrified) that spiritual conversions require but a single element: that the destination of one's life and the pathways there -- windy, non-linear roads -- are fueled and defined by what's sacred. To you. So if art is sacred, spirit or God or creativity, that your destination in life is fueled and defined by art, and what you do in your day-to-day life feeds into that, reflects and is steeped in respect for, pursuit of, joy in, art. Even if this means whistling Dixie while you do the dishes . . . well, you sometimes have to look for the sacred. If you're living the life toward your destination, organically, the sacred is already there.

The Matron isn't entirely sure how she would define sacred for herself: the destination and its pathways. But she has a vague, visceral understanding that there is something divine in all of us and that divinity manifests itself in unknowable, unimaginable ways -- and this is something sacred. So is art. Justice and its unwavering pursuit, too.

But while art felt elusive on I-94 (and 494W, 35w South, 494 E, Highway 5, Shepherd Road and 280, all of which felt the weight of her wheels today), divinity sat in the back seat with Lays potato chips and a root beer. And sometimes even smiled back at her and asked what was for dinner and did it look like rain?

Ah, that cloud. Pink now and steady, a heartbeat.

Gift

When the Matron was a Wee Miss, she begged her mother for stories -- stories about her own mother, and the mysterious ancient childhood she had.

Wee Miss: "Mama? Tell me. What did you wear on your first day of school?"

"Did you ever have a picnic?"

"Would you eat soup with a big spoon or a little one?"

"Did you have a dog? A cat? A bird?"

"Who was your best friend?"

But Wee Miss's mama could never remember. As We Miss grew, she stopped asking. She knew there would be no stories, not the kind she wanted. Because she didn't care about family reunions or what the neighbors did but WHO this woman was as a girl. Who was her mama?

That question, for the Matron, remains unanswered.

Perhaps this is why she is fast and loose with her offer of stories.

Matron: "Merrick, would you like to hear about the time I got lost walking home from first grade?"

Merrick: "Not weally."

Matron: "Scarlett, let me tell you about the WORST slumber party I ever went to when I was a kid!"

Scarlett: "Uh . . . that's okay, Mom. I'm reading."

Sigh.

Matron: "Boy, I remember how scared I was when I learned how to drive!"

HWCBN: "Seriously? You're telling me this?"

Triple sigh, literally.

Now, the Matron is married to a wise man. An observant man. One day after attempting to download key childhood memories onto Merrick, she pouted about the futility of the effort to her husband.

Matron: "Why aren't they interested in my stories?"

John: "They don't need stories. They already know you."

If that's a spin on the situation, she'll take it.

Last of the Bunch

As of 1:02 a.m. on Saturday, August 27, the Matron has two teenagers in the house.

He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) is well into that tumultuous decade -- he will, in fact, soon begin the art of Driver's Education. Be still, Matronly heart! She won't indulge in driving jokes as she's pretty sure you've heard them all and, like her, been taken aback on the freeway when noticing that the driver beside her appears to be, uh, ten.

HWCBN also has gainful employment. He is building computer networks, web sites, and actual computers after resourcefully posting an ad in a neighborhood online site. That boy has been busy! He also spent a month in Chicago and officially towers above his mother. College? Already a topic of conversation and a light on the horizon. Three years go fast in mother years (sorta like dog years only twice as speedy).

Scarlett is the new teenager. She's been remarkable since she was 8 and landed her first show. This is the child with an agent, big ticket theater credentials and head shots. And her own blog. Having been graced with that great female gift, Uterine Tracking Device (UTD), she can locate any lost sock, shoe, toy, ball or book in the house -- just like her mother. Her father, the Official Laundry Man of the household, can no longer distinguish between his daughter's clothes and his wife's.

John holding up pair of black stretch pants: "You? Scar? How can you tell?"

Matron: "My pants aren't quite so ornamental. Notice the glittery stars up and down the leg?"

John: "Uh, no."

Honey, that's because you are a MAN.

But with all this grown up fuss -- the newly minted teenager daughter just back from New York and the eldest of the pack headed out daily for his job -- somebody got lost in the Big Kid Shuffle.

Merrick: "I'm bowed."

He is eight. His brother is wiring invisible elements into something that will someday be called a hard drive and his sister is at rehearsal for the next play. Even if they were home, they are slowly fading into something elusive: more thoughtful, quieter people who resemble adults more than children. His world is still being 'security' for his dogs (Merrick looks good wearing a badge and a Nerf gun while walking Satan's Familiar) and climbing halfway up the tree.

So abandoned -- and in ways he cannot yet appreciate but are just emerging -- Merrick has taken to hanging around his mother more. Today, he pined in her office as she tried to type out comments on student work.

Merrick: "SIGH."

He languished. Moaned. Stared pitifully out the window.

Merrick: "Mom? Do you have time to take me to the cownew stowe and buy a suckew?"

Matron: "Hmmmm. . . . I'm working."

This time the sigh was genuine and it pierced her concentration. And heart. What's 15 minutes in mama years?

Not only did she take him to the corner store, she did the UNHEARD of and drove the three blocks, letting Merrick sit for the first time in: the front seat. Yes! She threw the air bag warnings to the wind for three two mile an hour blocks and let her baby get a taste -- a tiny taste -- of big kid life. He loved it.

They chatted about the different view, the texture of the seat, the way the window worked. They commented on the lollipop options or lack-there-of and settled on lemon drops. Landscape changes in the neighbor's yard were duly noted.

Best three blocks this mama has had in a long, long time. She wishes those fifteen minutes really felt like years. Just flying.

The Final Stop

Let's turn the last corner on the Matronly ride through her defects and shortcomings. Mind you, this is not self-flagellation. The human condition = shortcomings, flaws. And certainly, three little blog posts aren't enough to romp through all of the Matron's.

But she's ready to move onto brighter things. Fickle that way. Sigh . . .another shortcoming.

The last hurrah here is gluttony.

Gluttony. Not a word heard much these days.

Friend to Matron: "How are you?"

Matron: "Suffering! I just feel like such a glutton."

And she would be meaning shoes, not donuts.

Shoes or books, jeans, mugs, earrings, rings, purses, scarves, vitamins, socks, tights, dog collars, combs or anything else that shines at a certain moment: BUY ME.

Because gluttony is not limited to food and drink. No, gluttony includes excessive consumption of 'wealth items.' (thanks wikipedia -- but don't tell her students that she used a less than stellar source).

Now, she wonders what exactly constitutes a 'wealth item'? And what is excessive consumption? You all know what gluttony means: too much. When that too much is ingested, the body -- without moral compass or discernment -- knows. Ugh. Too full, too fat, too floppy, too wired, too tipsy or just, well, stuffed.

But stuff is another matter entirely. How many jackets are enough? (remember this is Minnesota). Of course, a nice orange fleece that's sort of dressy will look lovely for work -- and it's SO unique. She has nothing like it. Then what about running out the door? That lovely piece is eggshell blue but also looks toasty warm; what an unusual combination! Basic black? Must have. Gray hoodie? Who in America doesn't own one?

Just yesterday, the Matron stood at her favorite thrift store (ValuThrift) and contemplated a brand new designer sweater set, white with faux pearls and very pretty, on sale for the whopping price of $4.97 -- something that probably soars close to $70 in the store. A deal! A steal! Who wouldn't take it! Now, the Matron normally DOES buy with this mind: "How much am I saving? What a steal!"

Less frequently does she ask herself if she really needs it.

But this time, she did. Her mind limped over the clothes rack. How many sweaters exactly like this one but just a different color? A quick scan popped up a pink, three blue, two black, one gray, one green, one rose with flowers, a cream with red embroidery, and a silver.

So the real question was: does she need one more color of the nearly exact same sweater (we're talking your basic 1950s button up the front, carry along for if you're cold).

It nearly KILLED her to pass up another opportunity to flaunt a good deal in front of anyone who would listen, but pass, she did. But the agony of it all -- the desire! the decision! the drama! -- made her realize just how connected she is to STUFF.

Cheap stuff, thrift stuff, organic stuff, fair trade stuff, locally grown and animal-cruelty free stuff? Sure. But all the progressive politics in the world can --and now, often do -- result in more stuff, stuff, stuff.

Gluttony. Ah, gluttony, she says with a smile, happy for the choice of pajamas and a blue or red popcorn bowl. She's not sure if that's something one gives up or is an essential part of middle-class America.

Monday, Meditation

Lovely Ladies (and man -- hello neighbor!).

Thank you for your kind words last week (Jan -- see message to you in comments).

After some respite and deep tissue digging, the Matron has found strength anew. That deep tissue digging meant poking through those psychological nooks and crannies. And the Matron was humbled by what she found there.

Seriously.

In all honesty, the Matron has been in a contemplative phase. Introspective. Quieter than normal. Happy to not be the center of attention (trust her, that phase would be new indeed). Part of her blogging ennui was reticence. It's easy to whip out funny -- and mostly true, thank you life -- stories about children, dogs, and daily dramas, but more difficult to hit the mark when the mark feels, well, more personal.

Welcome to the week of introspection. She plans to exorcise a few demons.

Sick of Herself (sorta)

The Matron is experiencing a wee bit of blog ennui. Excuse her while she looks in some cognitive nooks and crannies to see if there's anything interesting behind those cobwebs.

She may even resort to the dreaded horsemen of conversation: taxes, death, religion and politics. Largely because she has much to say about the last two topics (thanks Michele Bachmann, for being from Minnesota) and her own fine self is seeming pretty, well, bland these days.

Plus, having been through the 'don't blog about me' morass with HWCBN, the Matron has come to fully realize that Scarlett -- who is decidedly NOT bland and was sort of born to be the subject of scrutiny and center of attention -- is of an age where the things about which the mother is concerned (or even simple observations) suddenly do not make appropriate blogging material. A little phone call fodder? Fine. But the real stuff? Hands off, Mom.

Hmmmm . . . what's a die-hard blogger (celebrating four years in September) to do? She thinks she's entirely too normal. Perhaps some bad behavior or existential drama is in order; the former will definitely elicit comments.

Bear with her. She may return to Actual Student Emails for awhile, pretend Merrick is much more interesting than he is, or feign some illicit activity about which to blog.

Crossroads or the four year itch. . . sigh.

Yesterday, over two hundred people visited this little-blog-that-could. What would YOU like to read about? Remember, this is a family blog, prime time and all that. Sorry, John.

For This She's Paying X Thousand Dollars?

Please excuse the Matron's absence. She's been on the phone.

Now, when HWCBN absconded to Northwestern Debate Institute -- for a month -- she experienced this dearth of communication, despite the fact that debate participants had unlimited access to their cell phones.

Here is the Matron, texting her beloved offspring: "hi honeyu how is ur day goong?"

Two days of silence later, she receives this: "When are you going to learn how to use the key pad on your cell phone? I'm fine. Bye."

She tries again, more carefully: "Eating okay? Do you guys go out a lot? Things here are good. Merrick got a hamster and no dog has eaten it yet. We named it Omar."

Four days later: "Send a picture of Omar. Thanks!"

Now, the Matron will admit that she grew to enjoy this pattern. Sure, she missed her guy. If you stumbled across her doing dishes, running errands, working on a syllabus or any other mundane task, the thought of HWCBN would pour through her, eliciting a warm, nostalgic sentiment. She missed him. But this was not a searing, all consuming pain but more like a wistful --even pleasant -- ache laced with the certainty and contentment that he would soon return.

She rather enjoyed having just two children to drive and administer.

Then Scarlett went to camp.

This is a three week theater fest with NO CELL PHONES for the first week. Campers receive their beloved lines to the outside world on the first Sunday at 8 pm Eastern time.

Here in the Midwest, the phone rang at precisely 7:02.

Scarlett: "Mom!! Where's my package of food? The food is horrible! I'm in a really good play and I play a whole bunch of roles and I'm the youngest one here and one of my cabin mates might be on Annie on Broadway because the directors are coming here tomorrow and she's Annie here and she's really good and some of these kids are amazing singers and what is Merrick doing RIGHT NOW? How's Boc? Did you take the dogs to the dog park today? What are you doing? We had roast beef for dinner but remember I'm a vegetarian and we have a volleyball tournament coming up. What's a WASP? We're going to dress like WASPs because there's a contest and that relates to who we are in my play and . . . "

Her daughter! The Matron could not get enough! This was what camp communication was supposed to be like, the breathless call, the excitement, the flood of news! After a week of silence she relished the conversation. Was thrilled she could be of actual assistance from a distance: "A WASP is an acronym for White Anglo-Saxon Protestants and you can think of it as privileged uptight white people who are conservative in their social values and probably political values too."

Scarlett: "Like cousin Janet?"

Matron: "Exactly."

Scarlett: "I have to go! But we have break times at 10:30 am, 4:00, and 9:00 and I'll be sure to call then. Write me everyday. I'll call!"

And she is. Every day, at every opportunity.

Now, do not misunderstand the Matron. She delights in her daughter. She thinks Scarlett one of the most amazing, talented and gracious creatures currently occupying the planet.

But. Doesn't sending your child to a three week (expensive) residential camp somehow imply an ABSENCE of said child -- who is supposed to be having an amazing experience in independence, autonomy, friendship and community? Instead of this:

Scarlett: "Oh, it's raining today." Silence.

Matron: "Raining? Really? Oh, that's too bad." Silence.

Over the past two weeks, the Matron has spent more time in dialogue with this child than when she was just ten feet away. It is just 9:30 on Monday morning as she types this, and there has already been one communique. At home? She's said two words to Merrick who is watching TV and HWCBN is still in bed. Silence.

She's even tried not answering the telephone if she's genuinely busy (as in that full time job which requires actual brain space and time).

Answering Machine Clicks On: "Family? This is Scarlett! Where are you? I'm going to lunch in a few minutes but now I'll be TOTALLY traumatized by the fact that I can't reach anyone in my family. It will be hard to eat with all that anxiety. Bye."

And guess who made SURE her daughter packed that cell phone charger? Sigh . . .

Magical Thinking

From time to time, people ask Matron key life questions:

"How do you maintain the same weight for thirty years?"

"What do you do to escape?"

"How do you handle anger?"

"Why do you fear death?"

Conveniently -- and perhaps quite unusually -- the Matron has a single answer for all four of these vital queries.

Her brain.

Weight? The Matron is an avid exercise devotee. This is no secret. She rises at an early hour, hits the elliptical or the streets. Then she stretches, lifts weights. The outside actions are obvious, but it is that internal driver, the motivation to get up when it's still dark and to pound the pavement or pads until spent -- that's the key. No, it's not just a drive toward health or figure, but the sheer unadulterated pleasure of spending time alone with HER BRAIN.

You see, while the Matron exercises, she indulges in Magical Thinking. During her exercise sessions, she wins the lottery. This started out as a paltry one million; now she's up to 350 million -- a truly staggering, limitless amount of cash that would allow her to achieve fame by being the BIGGEST lottery winner and have the capacity to solve most of the world's problems.

In her mind, she dishes out that money, million by million. There's a running list of what relatives would get, how much each kid inherits, what the new houses will cost, the foundation she will start and how she personally will feed most of the starving children. You ask how she can run four to five miles daily?

Friends, who wants to walk away from 350 million dollars? Because that lush fantasy -- so real, so perfected, so coddled and carefully fostered -- ends the minute her run does.

Escape? Why, here's where the brain brings her fame and leisure. She posits herself in exotic places she has never seen (exotic to her of course and not the people who actually live there): China, India, Hawaii, Spain. In each, she sets herself up in some stunning residence that generally involves solitude and a library. In these voyages, she is a World Famous Writer. Manuscripts drip off of her fingers during her three hours of writing time each morning. The rest of the day she reads.

Sometimes, often, in the midst of such fantasy, she is pulled back to the Real World. It is genuinely painful.

Anger? Easy. She makes things (and people) explode. Car cuts off the Matronly mini-van (with its ironic peace sign)? She imagines the offending vehicle spontaneously combusting. Fenders, headlights, doors, seats: BOOM. The entire thing in flames with lots of special effects and soaring parts. People, institutions, buildings, letters, legal systems are all at risk. Boom.

Sorry, innocent bystanders.

And then the death thing. . . the Matron's brain brings her much joy, mental health (well, sort of) solitude, pleasure and entertainment. It pains her to realize that she will leave such riches all behind.

Indeed, that thought requires an immediate trip to Barcelona. Lovely how she can visit there while snuggled in bed.

Pinch Her. But Not Yet

This morning, the Matron woke up late.

She had a peaceful breakfast, worked out on the downstairs 16th century torture machine (an elliptical her family calls Bob), and then took the dogs on a leisurely (for her) romp through the dog park.

This was all before 8 am. And it made her happy.

There were errands to run, nothing out of the ordinary: Target, post-office, gas. She grabbed a coffee along the way and listened to talk radio, which is sort of her version of music.

You can totally rock out to political pundits and book reviewers.

Then, best of all. Peaceful lunch while reading a brand new book.

After that, she donned her psychological warfare hat and took on the house. Friends, what she accomplished is nearly orgasmic. Imagine Merrick's room, clean. The entire downstairs, polished. The workshop --- let us pause here. This is not a 'workshop' although there remains a semblance of industriousness in the shelves and workbench left, and built, by the previous homeowner. No, this is the Matron's Black Hole. It is a sometimes wide open space, a depository for everything else in the Universe that has no home.

Pants too small? Put them in the workshop. Old boxes that might be good someday? Report cards, old photographs, sweatshirt somebody left here, pot that blackened, tissue paper, half-written-in notebooks, broken toys, forgotten Pokemon cards, remote control jeep missing a wheel, shoes that might be recylced to another kid, winter boots, jackets, mittens, hats?

Workshop.

After an hour of mine excavation, one can now walk four feet into the room. This too, made the Matron happy. She then swept and mopped every floor in the house. It is a big house. Her knees hurt.

She took the dogs on an unheard of SECOND outing, this time just a few blocks around the house. In a particularly bold move, she drove to a nearby convenience store --aptly named, she thought--and purchased a bag of lime chips which she ate while reading a book and watching Hawaii-Five-Oh.

The things she learned today! That show is back (remember the old one?) and the new cops are pretty hunky. Plus, she still has retained the skill of reading, eating, watching TV while occasionally wiping counters and talking on the phone.

Did she mention she also got caught up with her grading?

And if regular readers think that she has suddenly inhabited another woman's calmer, peaceful and productive life, the Matron will share that she has the previously unimaginable pleasure of being ALONE in her house for an indeterminate amount of time (not lasting longer than 48 hours and perhaps even already over for potential intruders -- excuse her while she tells John to put away his baseball bat and the dogs to stop baring their teeth).

Alone. Alone. Alone. From climbing into clean sheets to waking up in sheets with nobody else hogging them. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Not one time today did she hear this word reverberating through the hallways: "MOM!"

God-Universe-Buddha-Oprah-Allah?

Thank you.

Driving in the Dark

Several years ago, the Matron found herself doing a lot of late night driving. She was teaching a night class way out in the 'burbs. The class ended at 9:45 pm, just in time for her to make the forty minute drive to downtown Minneapolis to retrieve then 8 or 9 year old Scarlett from her stint at The Guthrie. Little did the Matron know that this was just the first of many late night runs she would be making to pick up her stage-minded daughter.

But the gift in the driving?

The Matron discovered The Story, American Public Media's late night devotion to the drama of real, non-celebrity lives. Each night during that drive to The Guthrie, the Matron was transformed. Hurtling through the darkness, in the midst of headlights and blinking city skies, a stranger shared his or her story -- heartache, surprise, tragedy, success, joy and pain. It was a strangely intimate experience, hearing these people pour out their hearts, yet also completely solitary. Just her, the van, the voice, the black outside her windows.

Yesterday, the Matron listened again as she drove home, late (no theater this time because Stagedoor Manor is just three days away and that's another blog post).

Her night class had been long and demanding, and had included the most cherubic, chunkiest, adorable five month old baby in the history of babies -- and she (the baby) wasn't even the Matron's!

You see, one of her students is a new mom, struggling with this little dumpling who needs to nurse every twenty-five seconds. The new mom's night class --the one the Matron teaches -- is three and a half hours long, three nights a week. The new father? Tearing out his hair and texting his wife throughout his own three and a half hours of torment, three nights a week.

Student: "This is so hard! She never sleeps! I'm trying to work and go to school, take care of my in-laws and I can't even go to the bathroom. My poor husband can't do anything to calm her. I don't know if I can finish this class -- I'm really sorry."

Let's just add that this student is an unusual person, someone who has endured hardships most of us cannot imagine (and is not quick to share these, but sometimes the teachers get a view) and has left her entire family half a world away so she could live in safety. This brave woman, felled by a five month old. This, the Matron could not stand.

Matron: "You can bring the baby to class if you need to."

Student (shocked): "Really?"

Matron: "Really."

She didn't. Until the next to the last day of class when her husband's psyche needed some rest and the baby needed her Mama. So last night, the Matron got to hold, cuddle and play with the beautiful K -- while her Mama worked on her papers. It was fun to realize one can lecture while holding a baby.

The entire class went "AAAH" and "OOooo" more than once.

Then, on the way home, tuning into The Story, she was treated to this: The Longest Shortest Time.

Her landing in the past was swift and bittersweet, remembering her firstborn and his demands --and how she struggled to meet them, railing against all she lost: freedom to move, an intellectual life, quiet evenings with her husband, a good book in a cafe. As a new mother, the Matron felt she had been given a life sentence of constant demand, need and feed.

Now of course, she realizes she had been given a life.

She finished the drive home, thinking of that baby and her own firstborn, far away in Chicago (summer camp -- debate institute) and a good foot taller than his mother. He's planning for college with an eagerness that doesn't escape anyone in the house.

And the sky drifted clouds and darkness as the voices of those new mothers traveled with her, women in a different place on the same journey, a journey that seems forever and an instant.

The fire fly lives we lead. Bright, rapid -- short.

Oh, That Matronly Eye

Today, the Matron was sitting in a community meeting, innocently minding her own business . . . well, not really. She was at a neighborhood meeting, after all, which means she was attending to the entire NEIGHBORHOOD'S business and somehow got a gold star for her control freak ways.

But that's another blog post.

At said meeting, a particular disturbing sight caught her delicate eye. Across the room sat a man -- sort of pudgy, late forties she guessed, dressed in a casual button down short-sleeve shirt and khaki shorts. Nothing too alarming, right? But this casual button down short-sleeve shirt was unbuttoned halfway down its owner's chest. The shirt fell open, to the breast bone. The owner of the offending attire was wearing a crisp white t-shirt underneath the unbuttoned, button-down short-sleeve shirt which was almost worse than a bare hairy chest. Worse because the gaping neckline (well, nipple line) screamed "trying to be HOT even though I'm nearly 50" and the white t-shirt underneath said "I am SO not hot and I'm nearly 50."

The mid-calf white athletic socks and green Crocs completed that sentence.

This garb unduly bothered the Matron. Instead of neighborhood concerns--whose trash was piling up, what to do for National Night Out, why a stop sign wasn't approved, etc. -- she fretted about her exposure to such a frightful outfit. Damage, being done! What if the image is permanently imprinted in her brain?!

Poor Matron!

Because then she remembered that earlier that day, she ran into a friend -- a woman in her fifties -- who spent actual money (the kind that goes into a bank and can pay the mortgage) to have tiny teeny little braids woven into the side of her otherwise long straight hair--just like her teenage daughter. That's right: matching mother/daughter braids, with feathers in them.

This sent the poor fraught Matronly psyche hurtling back through time when her friends wore smocks -- one cannot rightfully call these creations dresses -- that matched their small daughters'. Grown women in apple green dresses with full skirts and pink etching on sleeves and scooped necks: just like their four -year olds!

Worse, somehow it was acceptable to be seen like this in public.

What about the man and woman she saw recently, walking side by side down an otherwise unobtrusive city street. The man wore a t-shirt with a big thumb pointing toward his female companion: "She's the Boss."

Hers? "Dealing in Dollars and Sex."

This nearly did the Matron in. Until she remembered the toddler with the mohawk. It was pink and stood about a foot off the little boy's head. The Matron's own far more perfect children didn't even have sufficient follicles to launch such head-gear at two, let alone the gumption to pull off pink.

At least the toddler wasn't wearing Crocs. If memory served, he had a runny nose, though, probably a result of the terrible tension caused by wearing one's hair straight up in spikes before you're old enough to say the word spike.

The images were bright, painful and unrelenting. Yours truly could simply not focus on whether or not the elm tree on the corner of 3rd street and Bates had succumbed to or conquered Dutch Elm Disease because she was awash in a psychological nightmare of polyester, large lace collars on grown women and butt cracks fighting jeans for air space. Things took a turn for the worse: the entire decade of the eighties descended. Growing Pains! Full House!

Gasping, she searched the room for relief. Not a Vogue in sight. The only magazine visible was a weathered copy of Redbook.

Of course, she survived to tell the tale. Otherwise she wouldn't be safely sitting here -- in the spare, well-balanced and carefully coordinated comfort of her office -- typing this late night blog post.

Wearing skinny jeans, a tank top without words or a four-year old matching side-kick and a smug little smile -- that disappeared when her husband walked in and said "why is your shirt on inside out?"

Of course, that was what she wore to the meeting.

The Same Old Story

When the Matron was but a Wee Miss, say seven or eight, she remembers her mother sighing over Wee Miss's uneaten dinner (which would be from McDonald's or a box, but that's another story).

Mother: "When I was little, my parents always told me that children were starving in China and I should eat my dinner. What good did my food do for starving children in China? But you should eat your dinner. Someone is starving somewhere."

So Wee Miss understood that somehow, another child's starvation was related to her own untouched french fries.

Throughout her childhood, she remembers seeing pictures of hollow-eyed children in magazines and on television, toddlers with huge-heads, vacant faces, and stick limbs. They were always sitting in dirt.

Wee Miss contemplated these images and contrasted them to her own existence. You see, Wee Miss wanted Frances McGuire's life. Frances McGuire lived in a palatial estate (in Wee Miss's estimation). Frances McGuire had her own room and it was ENTIRELY IN PINK. And she had, dream of all dreams, a canopy bed. Her mother baked brownies in a spotless kitchen where all the plates had pretty, matching colors and designs. The bathroom towels were visibly fluffy and Frances McGuire herself wore crisp pretty dresses to school -- it seemed like a new one appeared every week -- and her hair was braided or curled or otherwise styled into something that spoke to Wee Miss about a mama behind a brush, a big house and happiness.

Wee Miss's own home and maternal experience paled in comparison. Her own clothes came from garage sales and there was never any money, let alone time, for good smells wafting out of the oven. The kitchen was shiny or spotless or even a kitchen, but a nook off of the single room serving as both eating and living space.

These circumstances -- her own misfortune and yearning in comparison to Frances and her own vast good fortune compared to the starving children in countries far away -- confused Wee Miss. Was she the luckiest little girl alive or the girl who lived a life far away from privilege?

Funny how some things never change.

As of late, the Matron has been yearning for what she doesn't have: financial security, extra money in the bank, a boundless income. She'd love to say with assurance to her children -- yes! Be smart enough and you can go to Harvard or Yale or any college of your dreams and abilities! She's love to say, yes! Let's tour Scotland and Italy and China and Thailand before it's too late.

Yes.

But today, while driving to the moderate-income job she's lucky to have, the Matron hit the tail end of a National Public Radio piece on Rupert Murdoch, his riches, fame and current fall. This is a story she's been hearing all week -- his thousands of employees, millions of dollars, infinity of influence and prestige. She supposes she can google and find out how many houses he owns.

Then, she heard the story that isn't this week's news, but the eternal story, the story that simply recycles itself generation after generation after generation: children are dying of starvation and disease. This isn't the story Americans are fed at their own dinner tables, whether those tables are full of fast food or organic greens. Exciting news is the unanticipated suffering of the Rupert Murdochs of the world. Endless news is the enduring, age-old suffering of people who have no choice.

And so . . . the Matron continues to wonder. How does this all relate to her own wealth, ambitions, shortcomings and excesses. How is it possible to have so much and always want more?

Intention

Today, the Matron attended an evening meeting which she was under NO particular obligation to attend and which mainly served to fuel a certain smugness that comes from being a good citizen.

Said smugness and self-satisfaction quickly dissipated when she returned to her van to find a ticket for $111!!! That's a whole lotta change, folks! Aghast (when was the last time you were aghast?), she scanned the ticket for cause: expired tabs on the license plates.

What?

Now the Matron and dear husband are diligent about these matter. Still, she scooted down to those plates only to see that someone had scraped off her 2012 tabs! Victim! So much for good citizenship.

Instead of wallowing, the Matron vowed to NOT let this unpleasant incident --and the required follow-up with traffic court or whatever government entity could prove that she'd paid her dues -- bring her down. No! She would continue on as the good citizen.

Even better! She would be spiritual, buoyant, ethereal, even.

In that spirit, she ran some errands before work. Because Minnesota is currently in the midst of a heat wave, those errands were basically a lesson in sweat (with a heat index of about 118 not that she's keep track). Soaked in sweat, yours truly was not unhappy to see the sky darken. A thunderstorm in the making!

Still ethereal and all things peace, the sudden downpour --as in flash flood levels of rain -- out of the blue didn't bother her. No matter that she was in her work clothes, standing outside of a library with her van and UMBRELLA (conveniently in the trunk) two blocks away. No! No matter. She would simply get wet and dry off before the job began.

So she darted and slipped through the torrent. Thoroughly soaked, and somewhat less sanguine, she couldn't find the right button to unlock the car.

Click, click, click.

Matron: " < Insert profanity of your choice >"

The car finally open, she wrestled with the trunk. Rain continued. Now her underwear was soaked and her shoes probably ruined. The damn trunk finally opened. She grabbed the umbrella (why, she wonders in retrospect when she could have just jumped in the car) but the umbrella handle looped into the trunk and got stuck!

Profanity of your choice, uttered the Matron.

After some pouring, she yanked the umbrella out -- now the wind was whipping at about 50 miles an hour, adding an interesting aesthetic twist to the torrential rain -- only to find that the trunk was now broken and would not shut.

Rain poured in that, too. Which also meant she couldn't drive.

Giving up, she decided to dash into a nearby coffee shop to dry off and have some tea instead of sitting in the car while waiting for the rain to stop.

Dash.

And . . . her purse handle broke, sending the purse and its contents all across the street. In the rain and wind, while her open, broken trunk looked at her longingly and the clock said ten minutes before she was due at work and now her internal organs were wet, never mind the underwear.

Ethereal, indeed.