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.

In Honor of Her 1147th Post

Every hundred posts or so, the Matron rolls out an early blog entry -- written before her third person persona was fully realized. This time, she actually missed the landmark that is Post 1100 and is actually already on 1147! But every 100 or so, the diva of prose falls back on an old favorite.

This is an actual God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe conversation that took place between the deeply self-involved Matron and one of her best friends. She knows most of you have seen this, but every 100 posts or so she needs to put her feet up and gasp.

Over a Thousand Posts!

Really, this blog might be her third novel!

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

I had lunch with a friend yesterday.

As in a member of the Top Five Friends, the first you call on the days corporeal punishment sounds, well, reasonable or when you buy that $188 purse at ValuThrift for $7.49.

Me: "Tomorrow will be my 200th post."

Friend: "What?"

Me: "Blog post. I started with four weenie ones in September and I'm up to 200."

Friend: "I always forget about that blog."

Me (!): "You're kidding. I thought you read every day."

Friend: "Actually, I talk to you every day. Why would I read the blog?"

Me: "Because I'm writing it? It's good?"

Friend: "Actually, I like you better in real life."

Me (umbrage, taken!): "How could you! No you don't."

Friend: "Yes, I really do."

Me: "You can't possibly."

Friend: "You're wrong. I like you better, here."

Me: "But I'm funny on the blog."

Friend: "You're funny in real life, too."

Me: "I am not!."

Friend (sigh): "Yes, you are."

Me: "But I'm funny in a more thoughtful, well-done way on the blog."

Friend: "Actually, you're quick as a whip in real life. "

Me: "Now you're hurting my feelings."

Friend: "Sorry, but I prefer the real deal to the blog."

Me: "But I offer interesting political commentary on the blog. Gender stuff, too."

Friend: "Mary, you are Commentary, incarnate. In real life. You're just like that."

Me: "Oh my God. I can't believe you're saying this about my blog."

Friend: "I'm saying this about you."

Me: "But my blog is climbing in numbers! In just four months of steady postings I havehundreds of readers!

Friend: "Do they pay you?"

Me: "Of course not!"

Friend: "Are these relationships? If their kids showed up at your doorstep, do you know what to feed them? Tampax or Kotex? Which bathroom in their house is for public use and whichstrictlyoff limits?"

Me: "I know them through comments. There are kids' names involved, like Nature Girl and Boy G. Mr. T and Mr. G. Wild Child. See?"

Friend: "Hmmmm."

Me: "They put my name on their blogrolls: Minnesota Matron."

Friend: "That's not your name."

Me: "Yes, it is. And it looks good sitting up there for everyone to see, all shiny and taut: Minnesota Matron."

Friend: "You like being the center of attention."

Me: "I do not!"

Friend: "Who are we talking about?"

Me: "But I wish you preferred the blog."

Friend: "Center. Of. Attention."

Me: "Oh my God. I'm so sorry! Let's talk about you."

Friend: "Sweetie, you're always the center of attention. That's okay."

Me: "Thank God. I was getting worried, you hating my blog and all."

Friend: "Mary, the internet was created specifically for your blog. Online creativity can now take a rest. Can we order now?"

Me: "You like the blog--better? Prefer it to me in real life?"

Friend: "At this moment, yes. Very much so."

Me: "Thank you. Lemon grass soup?"

Yes, friends: the Matron is utterly self-absorbed. But in a way that's VERY interesting to others.

If You Go to the Dog Park

Now, the Matron quite likes the dog park.

She's lucky enough to live within minutes of just such a place: 30 bucolic acres, replete with ponds for paddling, fields for frolicking, and woods for otherwise pursuing.

This is an off-leash dog park. There are tidy little entry points with gates, where doggies can safely get unleashed and then -- boom! -- set free to race, chase, fetch and otherwise raise general Doggie Mayhem. Sort of what these critters were born to do.

Unless . . .

You are the person at the dog park who insists on leashing your dog. Really? The Matron wonders why these people subject their supposed beloveds to the torture of seeing their counterparts run free while they strain at the leash, a fur ball of envy and instinct.

You are the person who decides to do a U-Turn from that trail you were on and follow the Matron during her entire walk. No, she is not adverse to chatting with fellow dog-lovers. Oh no. The 'chat' is a vital part of the process.

Stranger: "Oh, what kind of dog is yours? He's adorable?"

Matron: "Not as adorable as yours! Look at how he gnaws that stick. What talent!"

That would be genuine, non-sarcastic chat at the dog park. Sort of like a play group without genetic stakes.

But . . . the stalker is different. He or she abandons independence and sticks to your side.

Stalker: "And then my neighbor's cousin lost her house to foreclosure. It wouldn't be so bad if their kids still had teeth. All those little ones rotted out because of sugar. Did I tell you about my husband's bunions?"

Sigh. The dogs can run free. The Matron? Trapped. It's hard to make a get-away: "Uh, I need to take that trail to nowhere right now?"

Yes, the dog park is a lovely place unless you are also the control freak. Now, the Matron does carry that funny bone herself, but it does not extend to dogs. One cannot make a dog 'behave.'

Stranger: "Charlie! Be a good boy! Share that ball."

Stranger 2: "Lola! Don't scare the little dog!"

Stranger 3: "I'm really sorry about my dog. He just likes to jump on things."

Hmmm . . . hog the ball, bounce at other dogs, jump up on bigger dogs? Sounds like a normal day at the dog park to the Matron.

But her all time favorite?

The person who brings ONE bright orange tennis ball to the dog park with his lone dog. Throws said tennis ball in the midst of a field of 15 dogs, all of whom immediately CHASE the ball.

There is an unspoken rule among dogs: each and every ball is MINE.

Alien with Ball: "Hey! That's Freddy's ball!! Get back!"

Not that this happened today at the dog park.

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.