Dear John

Yes, this is a "Dear John" letter. But not that kind.

John,

The Matron is grateful that she's married to a man who has no spare time but yet spends the few seconds he gets on artistic ventures, like this.

Honey, she's sorry you missed the deadline for the jingle contest but the end result? Still lovely.

Your wife remembers when she wasn't your wife but your girlfriend. After several months of schlepping between apartments, a joint residence was secured. Before the big move, yours truly spent an entire day -- as in from 8 am until 9 pm -- cleaning and converting a basement room of the joint residence into a music studio as a surprise for you. She put art on the walls, secured rugs, hauled in used furniture.

This was before cell phones and she was unavailable by land line.

You were certain she had been abducted, given the lack of minute by minute communication to which you were accustomed. Instead, she was scrubbing a basement and installing carpet.

John: "Mary? Are you alive?! I've been calling your apartment all day." Tears ensued and these would not be the Matron's.

Youngish Miss: "Alive. Just busy."

At the end of the day, you walked into a man-cave designed for music-men. More tears ensued and these again, were not the Matron's.

Today, instead of single-handedly building a music studio, you are grateful if she makes you a pot pie or takes care of the oil change. What a difference 20 years make! Courtship certainly has its advantages and those advantages include more frequent frolicking between -- or on top of -- the sheets.

Let the next decade of wooing begin.

Unplugged

Friends,

The Matron has not dissappeared and she's not planning to do so in the future. Instead, a spate of horrors (okay, remember she's prone to hyperbole) have unfolded over the past few days.

First, the Matron is on 'spring break' from her college. The temperature is a balmy 27 degrees (and that is intended as balmy and not irony for Minnesota in March) and there is four feet of snow on the ground and more coming. Spring break, indeed.

She has spent most of 'Spring Break' attending to the kind of work crisis that keeps one awake all night.

HWCBN momentarily (she hopes) hates her and is exceptionally good about making that known, much to the dismay of his siblings, who still had some slim hope that their mother really isn't a staggeringly effective reincarnation of Joan Crawford.

Dream on, children. Optimists live only to be disappointed.

Hiss, hiss.

But the kicker is that her computer crashed. Everything? Gone. She'd like to say that the IT people at her workplace are fully mobilized. This is her dream:

IT People: "OMIGOD! We need to work around the clock to get this instructor's computer hard drive and find her a new one!"

IT People #2: "Call in the temp workers. Let's get on this right now!"

Instead, the person in charge of fixing her problem is taking a couple of vacation days. With her laptop on his unoccuppied desk.

Now, the Matron is of belief that every once in awhile, lots of stuff goes wrong. This time in her life comes to mind: no jobs in the household, toddler, baby on the way and a 15 ton tree destroys your house right before you're diagnosed with a serious autoimmune disease.

So work problems, teenage dramas, Scarlett transportation and broken computer? Okay then. Seems like summer.

Bear with her and send her good energy. Posts should resume as usual tomorrow. In the meantime, she's working on the 'gaming' computer which, let us say, has been an enlightening experience.

Thanks for being here! It's good to sort of sigh and know that a couple hundred people hear that sigh float and hold on to it, toss it back, transformed. She's optimistic that way and plans not to be disappointed.

Someone who is a Better Writer than the Matron

Today, the Matron -- after taking off three days -- was going to write a searing, witty post about family and work and the so-called balance women are supposed to strike.

Instead, she's weeping in her coffee over this poem, and offering these stunning words to her readers today. Just beautiful. She hates to admit it but reading this? Lots of work to hone her own artistic skills; this is majesty.

Acidic commentary tomorrow. Today? Look out the window and be happy you're alive.

Antilamentation

by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don't bother remembering any of it. Let's stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

A Week in Letters

Dear Howard and Mona,

Nobody on this blog knows you (and even so, these are so not your real names). Well into your 80s, there's no computer in your household. The Matron is shifting in the rare "I" form because that's the kind of people you are.

I'm so amazed that so many neighbors shovel every inch of your property. People? If you don't live in Minnesota you might not appreciate what that means. The snow sometimes piles up to the eyebrows. Shoveling is not a casual endeavor but a two hour event. Really.

Every day, Mona, you need someone to come into the house -- morning and night -- and administer medication and eye drops. You have no children or immediate family so there's the goodwill of the immediate vicinity.

And immediate vicinity?

Goodwill.

Today, after putting out the garbage for your household and feeding the cats, I watched another neighbor come into your house for the eye drops --and was felled. You are not alone. Over the weekend, someone across the street is building a ramp and putting in handles for the shower. No -- I didn't ask anyone to do this; we're talking a village that looks out after it's people.

So, no third person tonight. I'm humbled by the generosity of spirit around me, living in a hard-scrabble inner city neighborhood where if someone strange enters a garage 15 people call 911. And someone is willing to come over every morning and night to do the eye drops. Not me (I'm garbage and outdoor cat food mostly--and sadly, sometimes litter box).

Which is what's so wonderful. That person who comes over every single day -- twice -- is my neighbor. And would do the same for me.

My father once told me to always give the waiter or waitress an extra dollars as a tip. What does it matter to you, he said? But to them, that's an affirmation and a way of expressing humanity.

There are quite a few extra dollars out there (okay, I leave 30% tips because of my father who died not long after this dictum). And someone doing eye drops every morning and night, without complaint, question or applause.

Not me. But I have a new model for how to operate in the world.

A Week in Letters

Dear Scarlett,

First, I love you more than the moon shines.

Second, being nearly 13 is hard. You're not quite a teen and not a small kid. You're solidly in between. Plus you look like you're nine.

For the second time in five years, you have no theater work lined up after the current production closes. This puts you in good company with many accomplished actors but isn't easy when you're 12. Your parents have also said 'no' to so many opportunities (requiring travel and complete family disruption) that your agent has sort of stopped calling. The parents hope that the greater good of the family will be worth the sacrifice in the long haul.

You're in a new school. All of your friends are in another school.

There's homework. The blood hound puppy of whom you're not particularly fond (when you're an adult you'll acknowledge you're not a dog person). Your little brother vying for your attention and the big brother who takes some joy in diminishing everything you do.

Your mother tries to talk to you every night -- about life, bodies, homework, friends. But you're the most insular person she has ever met and that's not an understatement. There might be some connection between being an accomplished actor and never communicating with people outside of a stage.

My dear: it's heart-breaking and wonderful to see a person emerge has her own self without parental dictations. This mother just wishes she could help you a little bit more (other than all that driving).

Friends -- a nearly 13 year old daughter? If you have one or have been through that, hat off.

Dear Dogs

Dear Satan's Familiar and Boc,

Your human mama loves you both very much. Unlike children over 10, you like your bellies rubbed. When the Matron walks in after a long day at work?

Matron: "I'm home!"

Scarlett: "I need a ride to rehearsal."

HWCBN: "Uh."

Merrick: "Everyone's mean to me and can you make me ice cream?"

Dogs? You two are bounding up and down with joy--it's the Matron! Home again! Could life get more perfect?!!!

So she's here to first affirm. But . . .

Let's discuss weather. Scruffy, it's winter. You need to poop in 10 degrees, outdoors in the backyard, and not in the basement. Instead of being physically picked up and tossed outside, your delicate self should romp out and do its business without so much parental bullying.

S.F.: you are not a human being. Yes, yes, pillows are lovely little clouds. But one of these pillows belongs to each human head, not yours. It might be time to consider your desired sleeping spot -- on the Matron's own favorite pillow. She's happy to share many things, but her slim hours of sleep are not one of them.

In sum, young henchman, despite your desire to sit on someone's lap during dinner (okay, guilty) , rest your tender head on down feathers, use an indoor toilet and eat steak: you are a dog. Also, the mailman just sent this household a fifth and final letter: unless you stop eating the mail as it comes through the door slot -- thus terrorizing yet another new postal carrier -- mail to this household will be stopped.

Let's consider this. The Matron's family is in danger of receiving NO MAIL EVER AGAIN because of a dog who weighs 17 pounds and doesn't bite humans.

Is there rehab for dogs?

Boc, the Matron first wants to apologize for your name. She had so many lovely literary options. You could have been an Othello, Iago (sorry), Lear, Hamlet. Regal, domineering. Instead, your name is an acronym for Big Old Canine. Very sorry about that. If you put Othello and Big Old Canine on the scale of justice, you lose.

Now, despite the less than desirable name, the Matron thinks you have a pretty good life. You go to the dog park 6 out of 7 days. The bed? That's where you sleep. Don't tell John that his wife gives you steak and turkey in your 'puppy food' most of the time. You get combed nearly every day and you have Merrick has a real live chew toy; he's an equally happy participant. Considering you were scheduled for death (three families in four months before this family) the Matron thinks you should be very, very happy that someone took you on forever --and will give you treats every ten minutes. Every piece of furniture is open to you and you like them all.

But . . . just a word or two of wisdom. It's okay not to rise your 75 pounds onto the kitchen counter and eat dinner for a family of five while the chef is in the bathroom or answering a door. Salad? Come on, honey. Dogs don't eat lettuce. Or pickles. Just a reminder about the gene pool here.

It's lovely that you're artistic, but it's really fine to stop creating little artistic masterpieces on door frames. Those paws are lovely and yes, powerful.

Barking is a good thing. If an armed intruder is at the door, your mama is happy that you're there to bellow and yowl. But a fly? Flies don't care that you bark at them. This is another task you can let go of.

The Matron also thinks that destroying furniture is another task you can set aside. Someone else will do that, truly. Eating cushions and chair legs is an admirable endeavor, but the Matron thinks you're already stressed with all the barking and chewing on Merrick. Plus, the two most expensive pieces of furniture are already threadbare so she thinks your work in this department is done.

Now that honesty is on the table, the Matron is here to tell you that sleeping on a stomach is okay but not the most comfortable spot in the house. Wouldn't be nice to cuddle alongside her instead of laying on top (someone else would be happy to do that for under half an hour three times a week). She knows that once she's asleep there's a bit of a target, but it's really okay to not throw your body on top of her and then drool on her cheek. Yes, yes, it's a little endearing but when you add in the bad gas situation . . well. . .it's okay to let this job go.

Finally, dear Boc, there is something call garbage. The Matron is respectful of your dexterity. You can open particular doors and pull down an 8 year old in two seconds. But the door to the kitchen garbage is sort of like the Wizard of Oz's curtain: cannot be unveiled. She appreciates the fact that the smells might be tempting -- all those coffee grounds and leftover sandwiches -- but wonders if the monthly million dollars worth of dog food your skeleton requires might just be enough?

Still, she marvels at the ability to eat copious amounts and not gain weight. How do you do it?

So.

Satan's Familiar and Boc: get on the team. It's okay to be team players, even cheerleaders. Your mother looks forward to the day that poop, garbage, vomit, bites, and utter destruction aren't part of the family plan. She'd like to continue getting mail. Isn't that sort of an American right? Be better patriots. Don't eat the mail and only knock down Merrick when he's ready.

With love,

The Matron (the one who feeds you)

Thank you!

Yesterday, the Matron woke to her youngest's sobs.

Merrick: "I have a headache! I haven't seen you ow Daddy in FOUW days! Please don't make me go to school. I hate that place."

Now, the Matron and her husband arrived home at 11:30 pm on Tuesday night. All three children were asleep (thanks, Grandma) and welcomed home their parents on Wednesday morning before school.

Or sort of before school.

The Matron watched the newly diagnosed Merrick blink, open his mouth and lick his lips every twenty seconds on Wednesday morning while he wailed about school. He plastered himself onto each parent and both dogs, one by one. He begged for a mental health day. The Matron's household has a 'mental health' policy. Every child gets two days to skip school for no reason whatsoever but for rejuvenation and mental health. Merrick has used his up (he's tidy that way).

Quick consultation in the bathroom as the Mom/Dad team compared notes on the puddle that would be Merrick.

Matron: "Honey, you can stay home today. Mom and Dad both have to work, but if you're okay with watching television, playing with the dogs and eating snack food, you can skip school."

Merrick: "Mama?"

Matron: "Yes?"

Merrick: "Is that what heaven will be like?"

Junk food, TV, dogs, and no school. Yes, my dear. Heaven.

Merrick? Your mother was happy to have you home yesterday. Yes, she just got back from an intensive work conference and had -- has -- about 2 million assignments to grade. But she called in sick and threw work to the wayside so she could cuddle with you, play with dogs, watch TV and snack.

Heaven, indeed.