Where the Boys Are (Not)

The Matron is currently teaching a basic writing and research skills course, one that constitutes the bread and butter of her English faculty existence.

Graduating from this particular college? First, you must pass English 1009.

Merrick: first you must learn to read! That seems like a separate story, but is it? A steady fretter about her youngest, the Matron has long worried that her son's disdain for all things academic is simply setting him in the middle of the male pack.

And just how is that pack doing up the road--the boys in college?

Please do return to the topic of English 1009. In her online sections of this class there are 57 registered students. Of those 57 students, just 14 turned in rough drafts of the first paper. It's okay to gasp here. She did and had to steady herself on a desk.

Of those 14, guess how many were women?

The ONE man to turn in a rough draft is an adult student pushing forty. The Matron has barely heard from the 18-24 group. The English 1009 Online Discussion Board?

Courtney to Elizabeth; Brandee writes to Deirdre; Sandy asks Elle a question; Veronica to Brittany (one of the thirty); Katie queries Catherine.

You get it.

This trend is not simply anecdotal.

More women than men graduate from college.

Scrolling down a decade to the college student in the making, the Matron has been scheming for ways around Merrick's deep tissue resistance to reading--to touching a book, even.

The person to finally make the most significant breakthrough to date is a family member about whom she is not allowed to blog, HE WHO CANNOT BE NAMED (because the neighbors are watching) and the only person in the family advancing to a regional scientific competition and currently the proud possessor of grades that only include straight A+s. . . . (that's a plus, folks, not that she's bragging? well, sorta). . . .

Merrick has been introduced to the magazine version of Think Geek.

This magazine features gadgetry and gear beyond all measure! Light sabers, pepper shakers in the form of R2D2, mini Darth Vaders, lights, lasers, mini-cameras, key holders, spy cameras, thermometers . . . you name it!

Yesterday, not once, but several times, the Matron came into the kitchen to find Merrick at the table absorbed with the turning of pages.

"Mom? Does this mean fowty dollaws to buy?"

! Yes! He now knows some numbers!

"Mom? This wowd is 'sale' wight? Does that mean we can buy it?"

Merrick can read. Still below grade level. Still stwuggling. But the child has discovered the world of shopping by catalogs and cannot be restrained. Better than nothing. The Matron is thinking of this breakthrough sorta like her son's own little rough draft, turned in.

Bad Choice, Mama

Merrick is all into the bad choice.

John: "Merrick! Time for bed!"

Merrick: "Daddy, that is a bad choice. Make good choices like let's stay up fow ice cweam."

Carrots at dinner? Bad choice.

Homework? You know the drill. But add REALLY before bad.

The Matron was reminded of this recurring family anthem early this afternoon when she decided to get gas and wash the van.

Pause here.

Do you live in California? Kansas? Oregon?

If so, you have absolutely NO IDEA what "wash the van' really means. This is MINNESOTA. Today was a typical weather day: wrapping up 8 inches of snow, 19 degrees and a whopping north wind. If you want to walk or drive, you are required to plow through six inches of gray slimy half-snow half pollution half dirt gunk. Which gets on your car.

The Matron washed her van about eight days ago. This afternoon, the vehicle was unrecognizable as such but instead a murky gray-grown palette of slush. Windows and mirrors, unusable. Parking in the lot at her very fine community college, she emerged from meetings to find this swiped into the dirt on her van:

WASH ME.

SLOB

Okay, okay. . . why does her thirteen year old follow her everywhere?

But here's the deal.

The Matron tried very very hard to run her vehicle through the car wash. But here's the deal. The Matron? Brave, true, tried, humble and all get out great --- has a pathological fear of car washes.

Here she is, in the middle of the brush, valve and soap, LOCKED INSIDE, and creating her obituary:

"Local woman crushed in bizarre car wash accident when soaping suddzers went amuck and crashed into the front seat."

The details of the narrative vary but the end result, the same. Death to the Matron. Poor dear (Me, Her) cannot sit through a car wash without panic, sweat and anxiety attack. And that dratted obituary.

"Death by soap brush."

"Woman drowned in car by bizarre car wash breakdown."

"Mother of three crushed when car wash took on a life of its own, plunging massive scrubber brush into front seat of minivan."

"Why don't car wash doors open in emergencies?"

Today, friends, she made a choice.

The van was black. Windows unusable. Car wash? Horrifying.

So when she filled up the car with gas? You know those little pouches of window wash with the squeegee? The Matron decided to wash her van with that. Sorta like the window but the whole vehicle.

Picture this. Heels, good coat, nice hair, tidy. Disgusting everything else falling apart as she's streaking the van with industrial strength wind-shield washer. Mind you, she got under the wheels really well even if it meant exposing thigh (with wind chill).

Between the ruined shoes, the ridicule, the gas station worker running out and asking "are you all right," the streaked ugly van, and the children's horror?

Bad choice.

Baby Games

Sniffle!

Snort!

The cycle of life both began again and came to a grinding halt at 10:17 this morning when the Matron's little brother and his beautiful (true) wife welcomed their third -- and currently unnamed -- son into the world!

The Matron recommended to her brother that he allow his older sons -- six and nine-- to make that final name decision from a short acceptable list, just as she did. With mixed results as Merrick is now unfortunately named after a Yu-Gi-Oh character.

And what's so final about a new baby? This is the end of the reproductive road for the Matron's siblings. All those grandchildren and cousins? All here: five boys and Scarlett. Who never fails to address this issue at family gatherings.

Scarlett: "It is not FAIR. Where is my sister?! Where is my cousin?!"

To imagine the volume and intensity of this lament, the Matron opens a wee window into this morning's before school scrimmage. Scarlett, who has been on antibiotics for strep throat since Thursday announced today that the infection must have spread to her stomach and right hip because both were causing her UNBEARABLE pain.

She limped around the house, dragging the game leg behind her and moaning about the stomach (and throat). The Matron became aware of this emergency while in the basement. Scarlett was on the second floor. She has projection power second to no one.

Gee, you would think those antibiotics would have kicked in by now.

Matron: "Scarlett, you can use a hair dryer to dry your hair before school."

Scarlett: "No I can't. My hair doesn't dry normally. Dryers don't work on it."

Some days, the Matron is very very glad that there is just one other set of ovaries in this particular roost because she thinks one hysterical operatic hypochondriac with hair unable to dry normally is about all she can handle.

If You Have a Sore Throat Please Don't Tell Her

For about two weeks, the Matron and her husband have been preparing for this Thursday and Friday, the two most scheduled days of the decade. Because they must pick both a junior and senior high school (Scarlett and Stryker) the past month has been a whirlwind of school tour and pedagogical pitches. Pile onto that plays, school, work, voice lessons, hockey, debate, computer club, and play dates.

Thursday was the big debate meet, huge work meeting for the Matron, evening conferences at Stryker's school (can you say all A+?!!! DYING of pride) and an evening show for Scarlett. Friday started at 7:30 with the first of three high school tours, culminating in a day of shadowing at a prospective high school for Stryker, tossing in an after school play date for Merrick and a dance for Scarlett. Throughout the week, there was also Merrick in the mix --who can drive the six-year old when everyone else is peering into some school, driving to a performance or schlepping to some lesson? Don't forget that the Matron and her husband also have full time jobs (cough, cough). Amazing how many hours of work you can squeeze into a single afternoon.

Sooooo. . . the Matron woke at 6 am on Thursday morning ready to go 48 hours at full throttle. Which she did until 1:47 pm later that day.

Ring! Ring!

Matron: "Hello?"

Stryker: "Mom? It's me, Stryker. I'm in the nurse's office and I have a fever of 101. I'd really like to go home."

Matron: "What do you mean, "it's me, Stryker"? Don't you know that I will recognize your voice for the next 50 years?"

Stryker: "Do we have to have this particular conversation when I'm nearly dying?"

No. She immediately retrieved him, only to pick up Scarlett and Merrick at school later, and be subjected to this:

"MOM I AM DYING. MY WHOLE BODY ACHES AND I DON'T THINK I CAN WALK TO THE CAR."

Merrick: "My tummy huwts and why awe my eyes all wed?"

Thus, the much anticipated 48 hour whirlwind disappeared to be replaced by a whirlwind of a different nature.

Last night was a circus of Kleenex, cough drop, thermometer and pill. With a fever of 100, Scarlett dragged herself to her show at The History Theater at 7L30 pm, weeping the entire way there. The Matron felt HORRIBLE but both she and her actor knew that no understudy -- especially a novice to theater -- should go on with half an hour notice.

Scarlett soldiered on. Stryker missed his debate (sorry, team). Stryker missed all the school tours. There was no dance for Scarlett. The Matron volunteered today in Merrick's classroom without her son around to witness her heroism. Instead, the Matron has spent the past 24 hours ministering to sick children. . . all three propped up on the couch with ginger ale and video instead of at school (and this did indeed screw up the whole concept of parents and employment).

This afternoon? The doctor! The results are in! Three cases of strep (there are three children so you can match that up), in addition to one bronchial infection (Stryker) and one case of pink eye (Merrick).

Really. Don't you wish you were here?

But the biggest drama, as it so often does, centers around Scarlett whose current show features all teenage actors and one adult. Scarlett has strep--is contagious. And is a centerpiece of a show where there is hugging, touching and contact. That child could theoretically take down the entire cast with her virus.

For the first time in four years, Scarlett is missing a performance. Her understudy is THRILLED when not puking in a hallway wastebasket. That young teen understudies THE ENTIRE SHOW. Yes -- she has memorized every line and movement in a two hour performance. The Matron wishes this beautiful girl-- who has never been in a professional theater show before -- godspeed on a night she probably won't forget.

In the meantime, she is off to administer sympathies, drugs and mama's best medicine everywhere - TLC. All three children are languishing on various couches, exhibiting various degrees of Need. Let's just say that the child who has only one diagnosable illness has by far the most HEIGHTENED set of symptoms.

"MY KNEES ARE THROBBING LIKE THEY'RE BROKEN. AND THEN THERE'S THAT WHOLE THING ABOUT MY LEFT EAR TWITCHING. PLUS MY ELBOWS FEEL LIKE THEY MIGHT HAVE AN INFECTION IN THE SKIN. WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED A SEMI-WARM LEMON WATER WITH ONE SQUIRT OF HONEY, YELLOW YARN AND MY MEDIUM KNITTING NEEDLES AND THE PIECE OF PAPER I LEFT ON THE COUNTER TWO WEEKS AGO, THE ONE WITH TESSA'S PHONE NUMBER.

CAN YOU GET CANCER IN YOUR EYEBROWS?"

The parents are relying on wine.

And here's a peek at the show Scarlett won't be in tonight. Yes, she's the wee one moaning and being ferried.

Oh the Pressure!!!!!!

Today, the Matron made the mistake of picking up Poets and Writers magazine, a little rag to which she subscribes but rarely reads (time, children, job, inertia).

She stumbled across the writer Michelle Wildgell (editor of the literary rag Tin House) and was subjected to this:

Poets and Writers: "You write fiction, you're an active cook and you edit Tin House, you're married. How do you balance all of it?"

OMIGOD. Let's just unpack that. Pare down to actual duty (cooking and eating do NOT count) and basically this person has a job and writes. Without children but with (in theory) a supportive spouse. He might be a jerk but he exists, regardless.

How does she balance all that work, writing and marriage (and eating) indeed?

The Matron?

6 am: up with Stryker for the bus

7:30: wake up the other two

8:40: drive littler ones to school

9:10-11:55: manage children's lives (new schools, auditions, doctors and dentists, play dates, lessons) by internet and telephone.

11:55-12:15: gobble food

12:15-1:50: squeeze in 15 hours of full time job

2:00-3:30: world's most worthless work meeting

4:00-6:00: backpacks, laundry, cleaning, witness to myriad narratives about day etc.

6:00-6:45: prepare dinner children will sniff, inspect and reject

DINNER

7:30-8:00: fret about homework

8:00-9:00: this blog post and American Idol

9:00-10:00: bed time

Wow. How does one balance all that work and cooking?

In Just One Day OR The Matron Lives Life Like the Princess Sleeping on the Pea

Heavens! Who sent this meteorological hailstorm her way!? In a single day -- today -- ALL OF THESE THINGS DEEPLY DISTURBED THE MATRON!!!

1. A colleague was compelled to pop open her partially shut office door and share with her the fact that he just walked by a 20 something male student with one finger up his nose and the other down his pants, scratching his butt. If this image and the interruption weren't unpleasant enough, the colleague then went onto say the student was experiencing complete pleasure on many levels. This would be a male colleague. The Matron sorta thought the student crude and disgusting (and completely unaware of social convention) but the complete pleasure comment and the wistful expression on her (gulp) colleague's face gave her pause. And fear.

2. NASA is going to outsource space flight to the Space Station. Shall we let that one sink in? The federal government is turning over flight in space -- in big scary rockets -- to private companies. Oh,now she gets it. Sorta like how they outsource war.

3. California Representative Duncan Hunter was on NPR fretting -- she means, FRETTING as in one could hear the sweat poppin' off his forehead -- about repealing the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" law that prohibits openly gay men and women from serving in the military. Hunter kept repeating: "We are talking about serving in CLOSE QUARTERS" about one million times and with such anxiety that every listener knew damn well how scared that man is at the mere thought of bumping elbows next to a man who thinks Hunter's ass looks fine. It was when Hunter dangled the horror of transgender people and eunuchs serving on the home team that the Matron had to turn of the radio in complete exasperation.

4. Not only can Merrick still not read, he announced today that he has decided NOT to join his classroom's book, for which the Matron is the sole parent volunteer.

Merrick: "I just don't want to. Do you need to know how to wead if you want to be a westlew when you gwow up?"

Freud, are you doing this for fun in the afterlife?

5. After eating a high-end lunch of a bagel with peanut butter, she stood up to discover that half of the peanut butter was creating art on her newly laundered black pencil skirt. Oil stains well, friends.

6. Her mother decided to move to New Jersey to live next to her brother and forgot to let the Matron in on the move. Thanks, Mom.

7. A friend/colleague of whom the Matron is openly (okay at least behind closed doors with her husband) jealous sent the Matron an email at 4:22 in the morning--this morning. The Matron queried and it appears there is among us a Super Woman who rises at 4, travels the world, writes numerous books, wins teaching awards and still has sex with her husband twice a week. She schedules it.

8. Say it ain't so, Darling!!

9. A student who has never once come to class in the three plus weeks since the semester started showed up in her office with this: "Hey yo I've missed class because I was in the Bahamas with my family and then after that ten day cruise I needed to chill and feel like, 100%,, for this class. Dude, it took me a full week to recover. After that my girlfriend wanted to have movie week where we spent every day scoping flicks, so that week was a loss too. Waddya think?"

10. She lives in Minnesota. Six inches of snow. Again.

David Letterman, top this.

The Company She Keeps

Last week, a colleague at the Matron's very fine community college sent an email message to a professional listserve.

The listserve goes out to over 2000 English instructors teaching in community and state colleges throughout Minnesota and Wisconsin. These are people who hold advanced degrees. Why, the Matron herself is the proud owner of a P-H-D. Dang! Her colleagues, by nature of their employment, must also own such a degree, or a Masters at the least.

The people on the listserve are responsible for shaping minds! For passing on essential information, appropriately.

The message the Matron's colleague sent? Completely appropriate! Professionally valuable, even, asking for feedback and discourse about developmental writing at the college level. Bring it on, thought the Matron, when she saw the message in her inbox.

Instead, this popped in the inbox next:

Remove me from this list!

Please delete me from this list.

Who put me on this list in the first place? Take me off?

REMOVE ME FROM THIS LIST.

Get me off this damn list!

Why am I getting these emails! Take me off the list!!!

~*~*~

My, my, these people are testy! Demands to removed from the list fairly flew into the inbox. All of these fine, well-educated people appearing incapable of reading the instructions for how to unsubscribe at the bottom of the message.

Finally! A voice of reason and calm!

Hello colleagues! If you want to be removed from this listserve please do one of two things. Follow the instructions for how to be removed from the list, copied here, or contact the listserve administrator, Dr. Very Nice Guy, at here's his email. Please don't continue to hit 'reply all' and perpetuate the very problem we're trying to avoid. Thank you and have a good day!

Whew, went the Matron! Back to blogging and coffee now that this drama's all wrapped up. But wait! What is this she is seeing?

Take me off this damn list.

Please remove me from the list.

Get me out of here!

You're all stupid which means your school must be stupid too.

Are there more morons on this list than anywhere on the planet?

Get me off this list.

Please remove me from the list.

People get a brain! Are you idiots allowed to drive let alone teach?!

F$(#k off or get me off this list.

Remove me too.

Take me off.

Reason and decorum vanished. Chaos ensured. People fell apart before her very eyes. Supposedly well-balanced professionals turned into L.A. drivers during rush hour: road rage by email! Email mania meant it was OKAY to call your professional colleague a "whining meanie."

The thing that REALLY amazed the Matron (okay, the entire toddler-like squall blew her away) was that these people were not anonymous: everyone sent an email with,well, NAME and EMAIL address and institutional information attached!!

So Dr. Doo-Doo at College Q can tell 2000 of his professional colleagues to: "F$(%K off."

She can't wait to see him at the next conference.

The Matron even googled several people to see if she could find a picture of someone who can be conscious and still write "your school is stupid and you are too." Middle-aged white woman wearing a really bad sweater, it turns out. Honest to God-Buddha-Oprah-Universe-Allah she wishes she would have saved that link to show you.

Forget Actual Student Email. Check out who's doing the teaching!

why cant u weanies get a live?

Didn't know such high end people were helping to shape our nation's future, did you?