The Wedding of the Century

In 1995, after four years of living together, one couple married. They married mostly for the party and gifts, not really being invested in the institution itself.

The week before their outdoor wedding, it rained nonstop. They went to bed (in the same bed, apologies to the Pope) worried about the weather. This is Minnesota. The weather shapes everything. The sky was black and rain pouring. They were expecting 300 people for an outdoor wedding the next day.

The future husband involved is a big believer in special shades that shut out all light (so he can sleep). The morning of the wedding, after a solid week of rain, the couple in love opened the night shades to:

The most spectacular, sun-driven, blazing morning ever. The grass was vibrant green; the sky shone. Flowers sprout up overnight.

They both cried.

The wedding was spectacular. The 300 people all showed up -- and know when you have 90 first cousins between two people, the wedding will be large. The sun sparkled. Everyone was alive with the joy that comes with warmth and sunshine in a state largely defined by snow.

This union produced three amazing, successful, happy children. This union has defined the lives of two people, who still hold each other every night and talk about life, the universe, the family, meaning of the world.

So when a certain someone (ahem) reads about the 'marriage of the century' happening in England?

She knows that another marriage already made that marker, even if history won't record it.

And she's certain there are others out there, just like hers. Doesn't have to be marriage, but just a bond of love that anchors one's life, whether that bond is a child, friend, male, female, cousin, mother, etc. This knowledge gives her faith and makes her happy.

She's still going to watch that other big wedding on TV and probably cry a little. She's soggy that way. But soggier still for the real deal: the bonds that tie us that aren't legal, but love.

Sisterhood

The Matron has noted that all of her 'foll0wers' are female.

Comments? Let's just note that women rule. She's not sure if this a general blog trend or specific to her blog. But duly noted.

Thanks, women!

Things are tight lately (family stuff, work,and a cold that rivals smallpox, etc) but can she make a recommendation to the women willing to visit another mom, even via internet?

Read Woman on the Edge of Time. Big recommendation. It's dated -- you'll see the seventies mentality-- but there's a universal feminist sensibility that still resounds.

She knows it's slim as of late. But, as one of the dear readers posted, why apologize for free prose? That's where she's coming from, post-cold medicine : -).

Mr. Weenie

Yes, the title of this post should give everyone pause.

Here's the history.

Matron: "Merrick, sweetie, will you grab your sweatshirt so we can go to school."

Merrick: "Don't call me sweetie. I'm too big fow that."

Never mind that someone who can't pronounce 'r' isn't too big for anything except an infant sling.

Matron: "Okay. No more sweetie. Honey, will you get the backpack and sweatshirt?"

Merrick: "Dr. P -- (Matron's real last name). Honey is just as bad. You can't call me honey or sweetie."

Matron: "How about Merrick?"

Merrick: "That's not good either."

This gives the Matron pause, as Merrick is his given name. Everyone calls him Merrick.

Matron: "What do you want to be called."

Merrick: "Mr. Weenie. Not just Weenie but MISTER Weenie."

Here, the Matron decided against against further investigation. Weenie? There are some phallic nuances here.

But this morning, she woke up Mr. Weenie and brought him to school.

The Flying Guitar

The Matron is safely back from New Jersey and her mother? Recovering.

But a drama unfolded during her absence.

John on the phone to the Matron: "I can't find my guitar. I've looked everywhere -- each closet, every crevice, each room. It's gone. Who stole it?"

Yes, his 35 year old guitar -- a very expensive, lovely instrument -- went missing. While the Matron was driving her mother to various doctor appointments on the East Coast, John was searching the house. He looked in each child's closet. He climbed into all the storage spaces. Tore apart the workshop. That guitar was gone.

Note: John is a musician. He's written many songs and was, for a time in his youth, the lead singer in a band that toured the midwest. His main goal then wasn't actually artistic but hedonistic. The lead singer always gets the girl in the audience. Prospects always landed in the front row and found their way to him after the show. But that's another story. Remember, he's prettier than she is so his 'musical career' was fairly successful.

Now that he's an old married man without that guitar -- which brought him great luck (continuing today except maybe not so much the sex) he sat down the three children.

John: "This is REALLY important. Does anyone know where my guitar might be?"

Children in unison: "No."

Sleepless nights. Where could that guitar be? The Matron fretted from her perch in New Jersey. They both went over people in the house: could someone have taken it? Yours truly ran down the list of friends and family running in and out in the past two weeks -- impossible. Nobody would take that guitar.

Matron over the phone: "The side door is always unlocked. Someone stole it, I'm sure."

The dearly beloved was beside himself.

John: "I swear if I find that guitar I'll write four new songs in the next two weeks."

Matron: "Promise?"

John: "You know where it is!"

But no, she did not. However, any pledge toward art is held dear and she wanted a firm commitment, just in case.

Alas, no guitar materialized. The Matron returned home on Saturday and helped search the house and interrogate the children. Nothing. A friend of 35 years, gone.

Last night as John was helping Merrick (aka Meatloaf Head, another different story) prepare for bed, he paused in front of a large wooden chest that's sort of the marker of the second floor hallway.

He opened it.

There was the guitar, sitting atop the blankets and moth balls.

Let's just say there were tears and an instant song.

Merrick was witness to this miraculous discovery. He watched his dad sniffle and strum, and noted the reunion.

John: "How in the world did this get in here?"

Merrick: "Now I wemembew. I stole it fow Apwil fools and then fowgot."

Turns out that Merrick DID steal the guitar as an April fool's joke but the instrument was so heavy he dumped in the trunk instead of continuing to carry it to its final, concealed designation.

After interrogation, the Matron and her husband believed that Merrick knew he had taken the guitar but had forgotten where the instrument had landed. Still. That child kept his lips shut for five days while his father was in agony.

HWCBN came up with an excellent punishment. Scarlett had another excellent, different punishment -- both so severe that shackles and rope come to mind. Then they fought over which punishment was more appropriate.

So it's 10 pm at night. Everyone is arguing about Merrick's punishment; the culprit himself is still awake even though it's a school night and he's eight. John continues to sniffle and is completely without his senses as he ponders the discipline options offered by HIS OWN CHILDREN.

Matron: "We're done. Everyone go to bed. Parents decide consequences, not siblings, period. End of conversation."

HWCBN: "That's SO UNFAIR!"

Scarlett: "But a week without screens is the BEST thing!"

Matron: "End of conversation. Go to bed."

This morning, Merrick did indeed endure the first of three days of limited computer and television time -- okay, no computer or television time. But mom and dad made the call, not the brother and sister.

Most importantly?

John is upstairs in the family room right now, with his longtime friend, composing another song.

Here's his latest public splash . . . look for John Thompson and click 'listen.'

And the Matron is now locking the side door and happy that the one she loves is reunited with both her and his guitar. Strum away, darling. She'll watch Merrick during the desert season from screens.

Flux

The Matron is still in New Jersey, tending to the ailing parent. All looks good for her mother -- but the blog? Last thing on the list.

Hang in there!

She promises to be back in full force on Monday.

Xanax

The Matron is taking two.

Doctor to Matron: "Just take on and see how that works."

Matron: "Okie dokie." Knowing full well she would take two and consider the bottle.

In about an hour, yours truly is doing her absolute least favorite thing in the world: boarding an airplane. This is a vehicle that will actually fly -- into the air, high -- and she will not be in control of the navigation. The combination is deadly.

She's heading to the east coast to help her mother after that heart/artery surgery and perhaps spend an afternoon in THE city beside Paris: New York.

If you hear someone screaming today, from far away, it will be her. That's the level of love of flying.

Repeat

The Matron found out today that she got tenure!!

It's not acceptable to stand up and do some kind of belly dance in her honor, but required. However happy that is, she is also heading to a distant state to attend to her mother recovering major surgery -- lots going on.

Can anyone volunteer to grade 103 assignments?

So a repeat. She knows the blog has been a little thin but . . . well, as one reader noted, don't apologize for free literature. So hang in there.

Here's the repeat.

______

Gentle Reader. Friend.

Please, sit down for a moment. Perhaps take a few yogic breathes and enjoy a sip of chamomile tea. Grounded? Calm?

Here's the punch line of this blog post: on New Year's Eve, the Matron and her husband went to a very well reviewed St. Paul restaurant and paid $12 for ONE CRACKER.

A $12 cracker with some kind of bland spread.

The restaurant is Heartland and because the place was supposedly full (lots of empty tables) and the Matron and her spouse were sorta Mary & Joseph-like, with no reservations at any Inn, they dined at the wine bar. Or rather, dieted.

Here is the wine bar menu.

The unsuspecting duo had a glass of wine apiece. They ordered the "Wisconsin parmesan cheese-pumpkin gougere with haralson apples, wild mushroom mousse, DragSmith Farm microgreens and Montmorency cherry-port wine syrup."

This was the cracker with spread, a dollop of some sort of sauce with a few sprout-like spiders on top. ONE CRACKER FOR TWELVE DOLLARS. And an uninspiring cracker to boot! The Matron figures that the capital S in DragSmith added a good ten bucks to the cost. Really -- just the word DragSmith must be worth a Hamilton.

Now, the Matron just about fell off her pretty stool, rendered instantly hysterical at the actual bona fide experience of seeing, eating and otherwise being confronted with the bland cracker that would cost her twelve bucks.

Then came the $24 lake trout -- a nondescript hunk of flesh on top of TWO parsnips and TWO carrots. John enjoyed the Iowa chestnut-sheep milk cheese ravioli for the ten seconds it took to eat: Baby Raviolis. That $22 price tag must be a dollar per second for the time it takes you to swallow and wipe the lips. Imported from IOWA and all that.

John: "But it's the artistry of the food we're paying for--the synergy of ingredients, eating space, lighting, flavors, texture and quality. The experience. This is a tasting menu."

Matron: "Good God man. We're talking about a cracker with sprouts and a flavorless hunk of fish. There's no artistry involved other than old-fashioned con artistry. Tasting menu? There is no taste! This king has no clothes, darling."

While she was scraping her insulted sensibilities off the ceiling, she also noticed that the restaurant was populated entirely by middle-class, middle-aged heterosexual white couples. Who probably read all the restaurant reviews and were all agog to eat in a place that supports "food artisans who employ sustainable agricultural practices." Food artisans? Give this girl an old fashioned cook.

Not two people in that place were touching. No sirreeeee. . . . . this was button-the-collar-sex-in-the-dark-twice-a-year-raw-energy. Sturdy shoes were had by all and everyone appeared to enjoy the expanse of table between them.

The Matron has more of an appetite. She and her husband were knee to knee at the bar, which made them, well, nearly naked.

But still. .. . she strangely fit right, being a middle-aged white heterosexual middle-class unit.

After spending a much regretted $77 before tip on about six ounces of under-examined food (yes, Heartland, she hopes you have tracking software and find this review which is also going to an online magazine next week) she and her husband continued on their middle-class, middle-aged white heterosexual journey by catching It's Complicated, the latest Meryl Streep flick also starring Alex Baldwin and Steve Martin.

Where they sat in the midst of an entire theater full of middle-class, middle-aged, heterosexual white couples barely touching shoulders.

And guess what? The Matron fit right in.

John: "I guess this sort of tells you about our place in the Universe."

That's right, honey. Either here or behind the wheel, driving Scarlett. At least the Matron's five bucks got her a BUCKET of popcorn, a full belly and a nice palm oil buzz-- a way better deal than a TWELVE DOLLAR CRACKER.

Wonder what Heather Armstrong -- who single handedly brought down Maytag and got herself some fine new appliances to boot -- would do with that!