Back Tomorrow

Really.

Not a dry spell. She's been busy making Herman Cain buttons . . .

Wherein the Matron Lends a Helping Hand

Dear Presidential Candidate Herman Cain,

It's way cool that you'd like to be President. The Matron also thinks living in the White House would be a trip. Groovy and all that: movies, bowling, and take-out food eaten in, every day.

The other day when you said you really weren't familiar with the term neoconservative, she was like, who among us can really be expected to know all of the big words?

The Matron is nothing if not the embodiment of generosity. In that spirit, she is offering her short-term -- well, one-time only -- services as Senior Campaign Adviser.

Lucky for you, the Matron just so happens to be an expert on women -- because she is one. Of course, there is that degree in Feminist Studies but let's just forget about that silly old PhD anyway. Who needs so many pesky intellectuals messing things up?

Here's her twofold, one-time, ass-saving advice.

The next time that you conduct any significant legal business, write a little note in your datebook or calendar.

"Sexual harassment grievance settled for ______________. Reminder to self of alleged women harassed ______________. "

The Matron promises that you will find this inordinately helpful in case future events require recollection of such instances. It's so easy! Any kind of date book or calendar will do and it just takes a second.

Second, the Matron completely sympathizes with your love of consistency and the simple statement. It's resounding to oppose something with no exceptions. Authoritative, strong. Presidential, even.

But, Herman, honey?

"I am opposed to abortion without exception, even in cases of incest, rape or risk of life for the mother"

This just doesn't have quite the necessary ring. To be frank, rape, incest and death make that whole abortion thing unpleasant. Messy complications, all that.

Voters like their slogans suffering free.

And a slogan for life that also connotes suffering (all those women raped, betrayed, dying) is just wrong -- in a Way Too Much Information sort of way.

Thankfully -- and this is what you may pay her the big bucks for -- the Matron has an inspired slogan to replace 'no abortion, no exceptions for rape, incest, death.' Even better, this snippet will also wipe out THE ENTIRE problem of those nagging exceptions.

She understands, Herman, how hard it is to power through, On Message, when confronted with the reality of a 13 year old impregnated by her uncle or stepfather. Sometimes a belly pat and "welcome to the family, junior" isn't the best idea.

Her idea? Drum roll . . . . how about: No Rape. No Incest. No Exceptions.

Trailblazer that you are, you can be more than the run-of-the-mill-rich-guy with an eye on the White House. Here's the super fun part: you are the anti-rape and incest candidate. You will campaign on the numbers -- just like the budget. Same concept. Numbers don't lie. Visit Montana? Talk about numbers: the average prison term for a convicted rapist in that state. New York? How many children under the age of 18 are victims of sexual violence?

This is an equal opportunity slogan and concept. Boys and men are victims too.

Not to toot her own horn, but the Matron is inordinately fond of this idea! She's never seen a national campaign revved up about violence against women.

So The next time you have the bully pulpit, forget Congress, forget Wall Street, forget those angry bankers. Save that rage for the sex offenders and you have a sure-fire strategy for success.

You, Mr. Cain, are the Reform Candidate. Starting with yourself.

No Wonder

Yesterday, Merrick posed this question to his mother.

Merrick: "Mama? How come you'we a little stwange?"

Matron, looking up from the book she is reading while attempting a recipe for French soup that involves $20 worth of some kind of clawed sea creature -- and the book is a novel, not a cookbook.

Matron:""What do you mean, strange?"

Merrick: "You know . . . like you don't like football or bake cookies vewy easy . . " Pause while Matron takes umbrage at inconvenient truth . . . "and you don't like sweatshiwts. Lots of moms weaw sweatshiwts. And you kiss dog snouts."

Matron: "Exactly what is wrong with a snout kiss and a packaged Oreo?"

Merrick: "Mom?"

Matron: ?

Merrick: "Why is the stove on fiwe?"

But this exchange gave the Matron pause (and a reason to abandon the cooking project). Yes indeed, she has -- here and there and upon occasion -- been categorized as a little, well, 'unique.' Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe, she knows exactly who to blame.

Highlights to the road of aberrant behavior would include her decision, as a Wee Miss, to read Gone with The Wind and The Exorcist, back to back, when she was around 10. For better or worse, these books shaped a world view that still persists.

Lest anyone think she is kidding: remember, the Matron named her only daughter Scarlett. And her best party trick? Reciting the first paragraph of the book from memory or putting any sentence -- sentence -- of the thousand page book into the context of its appropriate paragraph. Without looking, of course.

Upon consideration, however, reading was only one art form that permanently shaped the Matron into who she is today. There was also music.

When yours truly first began dating her beloved John, whenever a male voice trickled through the prehistoric listening devices called radios and stereos, she immediately called out: "Is this the Beatles?"

Female voice? Young Miss: "Is this Barbra Streisand?"

John: "Who's the greatest living guitar player?"

Matron: "Rocky?"

You get the picture . . . and here she blames music, the three main pieces of music to which she was exposed for six solid weeks when she was 16 and TRAPPED in a station wagon with her FAMILY (shudder on behalf of teenagers everywhere) driving to and from California during summer vacation.

The three artists that bent her musical ear?

Barry Manilow--commericals, specifically, Neil Sedaka, and John Denver.

When the Matron went to college, she thought "The Who" was something commonly confused with "to whom" in writing. The day John Lennon died, she had grown savvy enough to know to feign unspeakable grief until she figured out who in the heck John Lennon was.

Because when somebody very famous dies, people don't go around mourning-by-resume: "OMIGOD the former Beatle, music icon, activist and husband of Yoko Ono just died!"

No, it was just inconveniently "John, John, John." Not a lot of information in that, so it's a good thing her feigned grief was unspeakable. It's much easier not to embarrass yourself with your mouth shut.

This is the long route to the mystery: how did she get to be so 'stwange'? She blames music. Let's just say Barry Manilow in particular, as driving by a McDonald's with the Matron can be somewhat surreal.

Bucket of chicken, anyone?

Something for Everyone

Every year, educators and students throughout the state of Minnesota pause for a two day breath, of sorts, called Education Minnesota -- a Thursday and Friday in which educators educate themselves and students, well, frolic during two days of freedom.

Monday, the Matron realized that this year was actually the Education Minnesota Festival -- not two, but three days without school for her three children.

Tuesday, the Matron realized that the Education Minnesota Festival meant that she herself was also liberated from teaching her Thursday class, if not from grading all of those papers and exams. Drat.

Wednesday morning, as the children woke, the Matron realized that while HWCBN and the Diva were fully loaded with activities and homework, Merrick had NOTHING TO DO.

Merrick: "MOM I'M BORED! WHO CAN PLAY?"

Matron on phone: "N? Can J play?"

Matron on phone: "H? Can R play?"

Matron on phone: "Grandma? Do you want company?"

Email: "hi hope all is well . . we'd love to see (insert name of close friend and then distant relative) today. . we can host AND I can drive . . no rush to let me know but here's my cell number.

Nothing. All of the buddies were already farmed out to various camps by parents who actually think more than two hours ahead.

Matron: "Merrick honey, there are no friends. Stryker and Scarlett are both going to be gone almost all day today and tomorrow. Dad and I both have to work. You're just going to have to hang in there and find some stuff to do, okay?" Translation: you get to watch TV for three days

Good sport that he is, Merrick did the only logical thing. He put on his favorite camouflage footie pajamas, grabbed a dog or two, and hunkered in for some quality screen time. For the next day and a half, he basically sat in the back of the van while the other children were transported, watched TV, played with a stick and waited for his parents to feed him.

Finally, today, the Matron took pity on her baby.

Matron: "Merrick! Let's do something fun, just for a little while!"

She suggested the dog park, children's museum, science museum, the magic shop, Candyland, bike ride, tennis.

Merrick: "No, thank you."

She was sure that television ripped out his soul!

Until . . .

Merrick: "Mom? Can I go to the uniform store?"

Now, Merrick - he of all things police and militia - just so happened to know that A) there was such a thing as a uniform store that sold holsters, night sticks, mace, police hats, sun glasses, boots, etc. and B) where that store was.

And so the highlight of Merrick's Minnesota Education Festival? Forty-five minutes sighing with deep-seated joy over police boots, uniforms, pins, holsters and rain jackets.

It takes all kinds. . . and this one is hers. Who is currently sleeping with his brand new compromise $8. nightstick, which the Matron deemed far more acceptable than the much lobbied for mace.

Good night Merrick. Just one more Festival day left.

Today's Actual Students

Today, the Matron put her best pedagogical foot forward and administered a fair, yet comprehensive, exam in class XXX. Because students did so poorly on the last exam, she also graciously offered this version as an open book!

An open book exam! In a fun and interesting class! Sounds like a party!! Compare this to calculus and well, let's all groove on that humanities thing!

Early this morning, however, calamity struck. She's sure her students were each, surprisingly, coincidentally born under the exact same astrological constellation. How unusual!

Email 1: "I am on my way to the dentist for an emergency root canal. When can I take the test?"

Email 2: "My car stalled on the highway and I'm typing from cell phone. What should I do?"

Well . . . she guesses that depends entirely on the veracity of the report.

Phone call: "My dog ran away, Mary. I need to keep looking for him. Can I take the test tomorrow?"

Email 3: "Funeral. Same time as test."

Email 4: "All of my four children are sick and I have to stay home to take care of them."

Phone call: "I lost my book!"

By the time yours truly got to the actual exam itself, she was beaten. Demoralized. Worn to a pulp and also annoyed with the extra work she just went to, setting up a second time for these absent students to take the exam. Yes, she gave them one final shot.

Just in case there really was a root canal, funeral, stalled car, sick children, lost dog and misplaced book. She's weak that way . . what if. Damn those stars.

So she was in a no-nonsense mood when the exam arrived for the students actually prepared to take it. With a book. To the Matron, this is sort of like saying: here are the answers. But she did it anyway. . .just in case that last test really was too hard.

Those students dug in. Got to work. Focused with barely a pause for a question or two. A peaceful, somewhat foreign, aura of genuine studiousness permeated the room. She began to relax.

Click, click click. Ten minutes are the test time was up, she gave the stragglers a two minute warning.

Click, click, click. The stragglers wrapped up and sort of meandered about, a few waiting to talk to the Matron. Except one, who kept on writing even as her instructor (the supposed authority figure) stood next to her and said: "really, it's time to stop."

Student Q: "I just need, like, another hour."

Matron: "Well, it's a timed exam with a grace period. That's all part of the process." Plus, the Matron had plans for that hour that did not include sitting in this classroom.

Student Q sighed deeply and shut her book: "Okay, but I did horrible."

But, there appeared to be a solution for Student Q. She handed the Matron her test and said: "You should just let me take this again tomorrow, okay?"

Now . . . the Matron isn't sure if it was the build-up -- the well-timed emergencies, the hours spent creating an exam (open book tests are tricky), the grading ahead -- or if it was just the 'you should' part that hit that wee little gas light that had ignited within her that morning.

Actually, she's pretty sure it was mostly shock that colored her reaction.

Matron: "ARE YOU KIDDING? NO. No. NO. This is a TEST which means how you actually perform on it MATTERS."

Student Q: "Well, it was just an idea. How else can I get a better grade on this test?"

Matron: "You can't! It's a test! Like Driver's Ed where if you crash you fail. The 'how can I do better' part is over!"

Student Q: "Well, the whole test situation just doesn't seem right."

Here, she was in complete agreement.

The Good Mother

Saturday, the Matron was overcome with the urge to decorate for the upcoming holiday (Halloween - not Christmas). Now, this is not Standard Matronly Operating Procedure. Indeed, her sainted husband is the one who arranges furniture and selects drapes; even her idea of decorating for Christmas is opening the door when John brings in the tree.

But Saturday, the Matron took a look at the neighbor's yard: stark witches, ghosts, orange lights, tombstones, and spiders! She just knew there were apples to bob right on their front porch, too -- knew it without even landing an eye. One look at her own barren porch spoke volumes: her children were being deprived of their God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah given RIGHT to garish Halloween fare all over the front yard.

So she put on her best June Cleaver apron.

Matron: "Kids! Let's go into the basement and see what we can find for free Halloween fun!"

Merrick: "Awe you okay, mama?"

Scarlett: "Shouldn't we go to Target instead?"

Merrick: (honestly said this) "Okay, but do you WANT to do this or will you get cwabby?"

Frightened already (who needs Halloween when you've got the Matron!) into the basement they dove and much to the children's amazement, discovered much that could be eventually somehow with a little imagination construed as 'fun.' Forgotten treasures were unearthed -- some orange signage, lights, a witch's hat. Channeling mothers throughout time, the Matron (who actually does not even own a sewing needle because safety pins are more decorative) even created a few dozens ghosts to hang from a tree -- white plastic garbage bags scrunched into figures to hang by some string.

She was pretty darn pleased with herself. Once again, she had saved her children.

After they trotted off, she returned to the basement. Rumbling through boxes, she came across the only dolls that her oldest ever received, a beautiful Raggedy Ann and Andy given to him by his grandmother when he was just a few months old.

Tossed back a life time, the dolls made the dear Matron smile and return to those early days of babies and toddlers. Indeed, holding that Raggedy pair, her entire life as a mother flashed before her eyes.

Now, she's not sure what happened next. She really didn't think anything at all, but suddenly was overcome with a certainty -- an instinct, a drive, a compulsion -- that these dolls would make the PERFECT Halloween prop. She turned her artistic hand to the task and found it oddly, well, cathartic.

And so hanging from the front porch . . . Raggedy Ann

And her sidekick, Andy

For some strange, subterranean reason, the Matron felt that these macabre Halloween delights were . . . perfect.

She couldn't wait to show them to the children.

As Scarlett ran out the door to a neighbor's the Matron inquired: how do you like my creations?

Large shriek: "THAT IS COMPLETELY CREEPY!"

Matron: "Really? I think they look super terrific!"

Scarlett, poised on the edge of womanhood, took a good, long look at her mother and said: "No, it's creepy because YOU, a mom, did it."

Just wait, darlin' . . . she's got some plans about what to stuff with that turkey.

Stage Mother

Sometimes God-Oprah-Allah-Buddha-Universe just hands the Matron a blog post. So, Stage Mother will simply post a link to her daughter's big commercial. Big because it paid for the high school laptop coming next year.

Scarlett is the one in braids. Oh, how she loves to dance.

Still driving, cleaning, cooking, teaching and grading! One grain of rice at a time . . .