Haughty?

Michael Gerson has annoyed the Matron.

Here's his Washington Post headline: The label will stick: Obama is haughty.

If you're in a foul mood and want someone to swear at, go ahead and read. For the rest, the main points that most engaged the Matron were these.

After positioning Obama as an intellectual, Gerson proclaims that "The arrogance of the aristrocrat is nothing compared to the arrogance of the academic."

Dr. Professor Matron takes umbrage! First, she will be the first to admit that P.H.D occasionally means Putty Head Dumb. Just ask her to add double-digit numbers. Second, she will point out the anti-intellectual impulse of her American people. Those who can't do, teach. In some circles, there's nothing more laughable than the wizened, puddling, pooling college professor, lost in his or her own blather.

This anti-intellectualism finds its roots, she thinks, in American egalitarianism, which is fundamentally a good thing, a fine ideal. Equality? Why, the Matron believes she's fought for that concept her entire adult life, in different directions. But not all brains are created equal.

Neither are all bodies. But Michael Jordan made millions for what his body can do. He's Role Model and cultural icon. Brain wattage? Not quite the same currency, cultural or otherwise.

Gerson proves the Matron's point when he says: "It is now possible to imagine Obama at a cocktail party with Kerry, Al Gore and Michael Dukakis, sharing a laugh about gun-toting, Bible-thumping, flag-pin-wearing, small-town Americans."

He also claims that Obama's way of analyzing and explaining "always places the explainer in a position of superiority."

The Matron wants to take Bubba out of the picture. She is not talking about some stereotypical trailer park resident, slugging Miller Lite and tuning into Fox. Let's talk about her lovely middle-class husband. He's the smart, capable average Joe, running a successful business. His collar is white. He is very good with numbers and can carry two children at once, in a pinch (although he has yet to build a fence that can contain Satan's Familiar).

He is not Presidential material. Neither is the Matron, who is still befuddled by the loss of the Soviet Union and unclear on fine distinctions between The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Great Britain, and England.

Indeed, it is just fine with her that the future President is smarter than she is! My God, she hopes so!

The other underpinning of anti-intellectualism has some merit, however. The Matron's favorite French philosopher (okay, really the only one she knows) Michel Foucault famously posited that the ability to create Truth is the ultimate power.

Just consider what Truth--the one truth, my truth, the sole truth that I the wise one pass onto you--has wrought. Fundamentalism of all stripes, you name it. Truth isn't something that exists all pretty on a shelf and untouchable.

Truth operates in the real world, on bodies and in lives. Truth, certainty, fueled several men who flew airplanes into tall buildings.

So the Matron thinks it's important to question our academic and intellectuals, the religious leaders and the politicians who make proclamations, who produce Truth.

Oh, where are those weapons of mass destruction?

Anyway.

So she thinks that suspicion of those in the 'know' also has that more legitimate leg. But she's pretty sure that Gerson is building an argument solely out of that more problematic egalitarian mandate.

So Obama seems superior?

The Matron has another complaint. Gerson's prose leans just a little too hard on a "that man is too big for his britches" stance. The Matron also can think of a rather ugly historical phrase used for Black men in just that position. She wonders just how close a textual analysis Gerson's editors did. She hopes he has a good psychoanalyst.

Barack Obama, superior?

Sounds like just what we need to get out of this mess.

Boys Will Be Boys?

Political power? Seems to equate entrance into a very special Club. The Matron has no doubt that this Club has long historical roots, but here, she acknowledges one of the 20th Century's most prominent members.

This President is also a long-time member of the Club, in good standing


Recent initiates? Let's start with Dan Todd, the Attorney General of Ohio.


Everyone remembers the day Eliot passed his entrance exam and became a member. Here he is, family man.


And the moral icon who replaced him?


The Matron wonders if perhaps this is the only certain way to circumvent the Club's increasing popularity?


Who knows, though? Maybe Hillary will be pulling ambassadors into hall closets. A quickie in the Oval Office? Talk about breaking new ground and same old, all in the same fluid motion.

But the Matron is pretty sure the next President with the opportunity to join the Club will be this man.


Maybe he's in it already. The Matron hopes not. In fact, she doesn't think so. Because while Hillary did this

And Silda sucked in her gut for the sucker punch


And Michelle not only stood by her man, but had an affair herself-- helping deflect attention away from his wrong doings. Sorta like balancing the scales.


But the Matron? She doesn't think that this Michelle


looks like the kind of woman who would tolerate cheating. Not for one tiny second.

Yes we can! The candidate for change! The Matron very much hopes this extends to Club by-laws regarding sexual harassment, abuse of power, lying, and a general inability to keep little Hermie tucked safely in, home.

But if our next President should earn himself Club membership, the Matron hopes that the First Lady stands up for herself, instead of by her man.

What do you think?

The Matronly Milieu

Searching for fresh faces, the Coen brothers have been seen scouting in local synagogues. They're holding an open call for three roles in a movie to be shot (possibly) in Minnesota: an eighty year old man; a sixteen year old girl who wants a nose job; and a 12 year old boy preparing for his Bar Mitzvah.

Of course, the Matron had this conversation:

Mother: "Are you taking Scarlett to the open audition for the Coen brothers movie?"

Matron: "No. Why would I?"

Mother: "Well, maybe they'll see her and create some kind of role for her. Those things happen. I'm going to take XX."

Matron: "Isn't XX nine years old?"

Mother: "Can't hurt! Maybe I'll call and see if they can create something for him. Your older son is eleven. What about him?"

Matron: "He doesn't look the least little bit Jewish. The nose job thing makes me think they're going for a certain look?"

Mother: "Maybe they can make some part for him. I think I'm just going to call about XX. There must be somebody I can call."

And then she had this conversation with someone else:

Mother: "I'm going to take WW to the Coen brothers audition."

Matron: "Oh. Isn't WW ten? And female? Are they looking for that now?"

Mother: "No. But once they see her, maybe they'll create a role. You know, once they see her."

The Matron doesn't think that the Coen brothers are going to rewrite their script to include all of the child actors who show up and waste everyone else's time by creating a much, much longer line and more complex situation.

People, people.

Sunday

Yesterday was such a surreal pastiche that even the Matron's deft prose will never completely capture the complexities of the day.

Parkway Little League opened its season! Here is the Matron's favorite new player.



The Matron's neighborhood is in the very working-class, blue-collar East Side of St. Paul. Parkway Little League's players and parents reflect the racial and economic diversity of this neighborhood.

It is a place where a college professor can discuss a pitcher's curve ball with the tattooed toothless truck driver. If the professor were to know enough about baseball to actually participate in such conversation, that is.

"Good swing! Way to go!" That would be the Matron.

John (hissing): "Mary! He looked terrible. Nobody is cheering!"

Well, she is all about spirit.

Merrick's T-Ball activity was precious beyond words. Basically, the adults on the field directed frantic traffic as the five-year olds figured out where to go when once you hit that ball.

Merrick spent a lot of time looking in any direction other than the one a ball might be coming from. That's him in the middle, swinging his glove.


You cannot imagine the Matron's shock when she discovered that Satan's Familiar has a twin!


Griff is the adorable creature who does not poop in the house or jump the fence. He's on the left. If one hadn't been born in Illinois and the other in Minnesota, the Matron would swear they were brothers.

The Matron put on a Parkway apron and shoved hot dogs onto buns at a heart-stopping pace for nearly two hours. Did she mention yet that her family was at that field from 9:30 in the morning until well past 4 pm?

Remember Uncle XX from California?

He not only showed up but decided going on the field during a game to take better pictures would be a really fine idea. Yes. He took his eccentric, chubby, elderly self onto Field 3 and asked Merrick to slow down, just one minute, so he could capture the moment at third base.

Someone asked the Matron: "Does he belong to you and does he need assistance?"

Later, Uncle XX fell off the bleachers and more or less rolled several feet! The entire Parkway fan base found Uncle XX to be a faster paced game than T-ball. He was the center of attention.

After Uncle XX had been dusted off and straightened out, he waved good-bye and continued on his Minnesota journey. First, he took the opportunity to introduce himself to many Parkway parents, shake some hands and pass out business cards declaring himself The California Ambassador to Minnesota.

Yes, he probably does need some sort of assistance.

That night the Matron and Scarlett stepped into an entirely new Universe at the second callbacks for Madeline and the Gypsies.


Scarlett presented her usual fatigued and disinterested front. But during the auditions themselves, when for some reason the children must have been instructed to scream and cause mayhem, she clearly heard her daughter giving the task her all.

Scarlett's main talent may simply be projection.

There was lots of fussing over hair and anxious mothers. The Matron was taken aback by the presence of make-up. Nearly all of the girls--and we are talking as young as nine-- had lipstick, liner and mascara.

While the girls were gone, mothers instantly slipped into pairs or small groups and whispered intently. The woman in the pink sweat suit was back, this time in regular clothes. They spent the entire hour taking about their daughters. Suffice it to say those mothers are pros.

Their daughters are: in dance competitions; auditioning for the Coen brother movie; winning horseback riding medals; singing in contests and at fairs and for opening days of this festival and that; entering beauty pageants; auditioning, auditioning, auditioning; in commercials; modeling; and looking for new agents because, Goddamn it, my daughter deserves better than being a bit player in a print ad!

Afterward, Scarlett and the Matron entered the elevator with a mom clearly new to the scene, her teenage daughter who didn't audition and her younger daughter who did. The teenage daughter turned to her mother and said: "That was the most intense atmosphere I have ever been in! Those women were horrible! My God! You'd think it was them instead of their daughters!"

And the Matron smiled to see she finally was in some good company at this particular theater.

Stage Mother: The Callback!

The Matron was a bit disappointed that the callback was so, well, uneventful.

She was also surprised, considering that several days ago, this message appeared on the answering machine. Conjure upbeat female voice:

"Hello! This is a message for Scarlett from the Children's Theater. Because winnowing down from 350 people was just so much fun, we decided to hold yet another open call in order to add a gazillion more children to the mix! That means Wednesday's callback will be the first of two! Instead of a 15 minute solo audition, you'll be doing singing, dancing and improvisation in a group. The final callback we save for the anointed and their runners-up."

Spool forward to Wednesday. Scarlett yawned the whole way there. "I'm so tired. How long will this take?"

Matron: "Aren't you a little bit excited?"

Scarlett (shrugs): "Not really."

Once there, each child received the same number they were given at their original audition. Scarlett pinned 226 to her chest. The Matron nearly fell over when 502 walked by.

The Matron, having learned some lessons, brought papers to grade and Riding Shotgun: Women Write about Their Mothers. This is a perfect book. She thinks you should read it!

And Scarlett yawned and languished and sighed and read her book as they waited in Rehearsal Room B. She nearly fell asleep, she was that noncholant.

At precisely 7 pm. someone came in and said: "Okay Group B! Step on up!"

Scarlett could barely stand, she was that weak in front of her mother. "Bye Mom," she moaned.

But in a magical moment, the Matron happened to catch a glimpse at her daughter -- who thought she was out of the maternal eye range -- and friends? The Matron now understands what the phrase 'gleam in her eye' really conveys. That child radiated and blew, energy just flying off of her. Those eyes blazed.

The Matron is not quite sure why Scarlett must establish portrait of stoic disinterest in front of her mother (and father). She suspects that her daughter wants to make clear: this is mine, not yours. So they will not share in the experience, in anyway, whatsoever.

And this Stage Mother thinks that is a very fine idea!

During the audition, the Matron kept her head low. She thought grading papers would make her far more unapproachable than reading so she spread out the whole darn mess and worked.

She did follow, however, the activities of another Stage Mother who had caught her eye earlier because she looked like her child's personal trainer. First, the woman wore a polyester workout suit with the top neatly tucked in. This suit was pink. Pop, pop, pop pink! With little white flowers around the edges. For some reason, this bothered the Matron who believes that pink flowered sweat suits in women over fifty are, well, frightening and possibly illegal. Contributing to the look was behavior: she carried her daughter's gear (the child was not a teen, easily 16) and handed her the water bottle whenever those lips required moistening.

The amazing thing was the daughter drank and handed the bottle back for her mother to hold, poised at her side for the next sip.

Maybe the Matron was doing it all wrong! Because earlier when she noticed all these water bottles and gear (what were these people carrying in the big bags?!), she asked Scarlett: "Do you need a drink of water?"

"I'm fine."

During the audition, Pink compared notes with several other mothers. They discussed upcoming auditions, directors, company politics and fine arts training. There were several groups and couplings, actually, parents who knew one another from previous shows. The Matron listened from time to time, but all they talked about was their children.

Yawn. There's a war going on, folks! A black man and a woman are duking it out to be President! Husbands to complain about! Jobs to discuss, local politics, and don't forget Al Franken!! Say it isn't so, Al. The Matron just can't help but be annoyed at you for owing $70,000 in back taxes from 17 states while you're running for Senate. She thinks that's just sloppy. Now even she doesn't want to vote for you! If your mistake means six more years of Norm, she will personally come after you!

And she has a secret weapon.

Friends, online and off?

The Matron now understands two things. First, the Stage Mother material is so rich, so textured, so fundamentally screwy and askew (and she means the psycho-dynamics, the people, the hours, the competition - every last little bit) that this could make a very fine book? The next YA novel?

Second, she now knows she possesses an amazing secret weapon. A tool so powerful that it can only be deployed with gratitude, respect and care-- your beautiful, unstoppable, indomitable good energy!

Because today this message appeared on the answering machine. Use the same voice you did for the first one: "Hello! This is the Children's Theater calling for Scarlett! Scarlett, we would like to see you at the final callback for Madeline and the Gypsies. The callback is one hour, 7-8 pm, this Sunday, May 4! Congratulations."

That zip and pop in the child's eye? The Matron can't help but think it was you. Thank you for that good energy!! She also believes that collective power planted that book idea. She's doubly indebted.

One more time? Sunday, 7-8. Aim that ray.

The greedy writer that lives inside the Matron? She thanks you!

The Mistake She Made

When the Matron was a Wee Miss, she spent several summer weeks in giddy anticipation of Brownie Camp. Wee Miss was new to the world of Girl Scouts and was a prime candidate for a badge of any sort, so organized, efficient and ambitious was she.

Wee Miss was not just attending Brownie Camp. She would reign.

So imagine her complete and total psychological collapse when this exchange took place:

Wee Miss: "Mama! It says on the calendar that today is Thursday! And the date is July 23. Is that true?!"

Mama: "Why yes."

Wee Miss: "BROWNIE CAMP STARTED ON MONDAY! I missed Brownie Camp!"

Silence.

Wee Miss: "How could you forget Brownie Camp!!! How could you!!"

Mama: "Mary, honey, I am so sorry."

Now, Wee Miss was fundamentally altered at that moment. How indeed? She had been prancing about in Brownie Camp cloud all summer, tossing Brownie Camp glitter and painting Brownie Camp dreams.

But her mother forgot the very thing that was most precious to the Wee Miss. Her dream. Worse, her mother knew about the dream. Watched it dance and plot every day. It was impossible to overlook.

Wee Miss picked up this little black ball of pain, sorry and rage and swallowed it whole. She nurtured that ball. Took it out and shined it up from time to time. As she grew, Young Miss picked up the burden. She felt that ball growing and rolling, in the pit of the belly for years.

Until one day Aging Miss realized --- there was no money. Her mother hadn't forgotten. Wee Miss talked about Brownie Camp every single day. That was the year at the cusp of food stamps and welfare, the lost father. Her mother had nothing--no food stamps, no money, no husband, no job, and no money for Brownie Camp.

She felt sorry for her mother, that very young single mother who struggled so hard to build a life for her three young children that she pretty much abandoned her own. And, the Matron saw herself, again, in a new light, how sometimes our grievances operate more like self-inflicted wounds.

Last week, the Matron returned to this moment and her personal journey because of this phone conversation:

M: "Hello, Great River Montessori Charter Public School! I'm calling to see where Stryker is on the waiting list for Junior High. The letter we got said he was #37 in February. Hopefully, he's much higher now."

Long ominous silence.

GR: "He's not on the waiting list."

M (alarm!! alarm!!): "What! Of course he is!! We filled out our application on time! You know me! We've been to that school, inspecting, thirty million times! His heart is set on it!"

GR: "Mary, you read the letter but we never received your confirmation form. If you read all the way down on the letter, you would see that you were to fill out a form accepting the spot on the waiting list and return this to us. We never got yours. We're way past 37. He would've been in."

Silence. Because the Matron is crying (an activity she continued just a little bit once the phone call was over, too). She saw that '37' and read no more. She chucked that letter.

Stryker is now #19 on the list but has been informed that the list does not move that much over the summer. He's enrolled at two other junior high schools.

But his heart? His dream? His fondest desire? Great River.

This, my real-life and online friends, is a private mama-venting post. For the moment, the Matron is not offering to Stryker that she has made this mistake. If he asks or questions his position on the list, she will tell him. But she's not introducing the topic.

She hates to think of her son shining his own black ball into something permanent.

Mistakes, anyone?

The Matron's is still bringing her great, great mama pain.

The World, The Job, The Daughter Or How To Work Everything into One Post

People occasionally ask the Matron two questions about her blog.

First, how much time do you spend on that damn thing?!

Because the Matron prefers reading and writing to direct human contact, she could spend every waking moment engaged in those activities, online. But she limits her writing time to half an hour.

The second, more frequent, question is: don't you ever run out of things to say?

Never! In fact, she has the opposite problem. She has opinions on just about everything under the sun and is happy to share them. Her mind is just one big pinball machine, popping between this and sliding through that.

Even before noon, items of interest had come to the Matron's attention. First, she heard Antonin Scalia pronounce the Constitution dead. We should leave it exactly as those 18th century founders intended.

Convenient perspective if you're a white man. The rest of us had to fight for that vote.

Then, she gasped in horror when Karl Castle told her (this would be the radio voice coming from National Public Radio) that an Austrian man kept his daughter in a dungeon for 24 years. Where he raped her. All the time. Six children are on the planet as a result of that torture. A seventh died and his body was put in an oven.

He had a wife and family upstairs who claimed to know nothing about the dungeon, the incest/rape/torture, the body, the children.

She just cannot comprehend that degree of evil. The Matron stands and reconsiders her faith in people's fundamental goodness in the face of news like this.

Wait, she is going to not use the word 'person' to describe that monster. That will help.

Pain and politics in just one blog post. She also wants to write more about global warming and how we can shrink our carbon toes, all that. But her half hour limit forces her to be picky!

There's also Mary Kay Blakely to consider. The Matron never forgot hearing this co-founder of Ms. Magazine give a radio interview, in which she credited communal energy as the source of her recovery from a deadly, two-week long diabetic coma.

About 20 years ago, Blakely fell into this coma. She was dying. Thank goodness she had friends like Gloria Steinem, good women friends --the very best kind -- who are inventive and loyal beyond all else! Her friends sent thousands of messages to thousands of people asking everyone to send Blakey healing energy.

Create those waves! Will her to recover! If the Matronly memory serves, these thousands focused their brain wattage and collectively envisioned Blakely's recovery simultaneously, at an allotted hour.

And Blakely woke up!

The Matron has goosebumps, just thinking about this!

So now she needs to thank all of her kick-ass incredible loyal friends in real life and online for that massive, unstoppable wave of good will that carried on April 15th. Just like Gloria Steinem!

Not only did she get the job . . . she got the offer in a New York minute, slam dunk, hands-down winner!

She accepted the offer. But. She spent one moment in silence, sending energy and support to all the adjuncts, everywhere. She understands herself to be pretty darn lucky. . . to have had that wave!

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Not to be greedy, but the Matron has more energy suggestions.

First, send Scarlett that blast of good energy and success sometime between 7 and 8 this coming Wednesday, April 30th! She has her callback for Madeline and the Gypsies at the Children's Theater. And the Matron has a confession! She really wants her daughter to get in that play! Why? For the blogging material. She is clear that it has nothing to do with Scarlett and is all about HER.

Second, perhaps if we collectively envisioned Scalia a circus clown he could find a more suitable occupation? He sort of has the look, already. Don't you think there's a Bozo-like quality to the contours?

Finally, because the Matron really does believe that most people are good, she hopes that every single person who hears about that woman in the basement --throughout the world, every person and there will be millions -- sends this woman some focused love and prayer and peace.

She hopes humanity can somehow save that woman, now.

And if anyone remembers the Blakely story and knows that the Matron has it all wrong, please don't tell her!

She's happy to be a believer.