Dark

The Matron should be attending to the nearly seven thousand pieces of student work for which she is responsible. Certainly, now would be the time for a deft discussion of the perils of the community college educator: meaning lots of students and therefore, lots of student work. Of course, most of this work is already recorded and, in honesty, thanks to online teaching technology, a portion of it automated. But she likes saying "nearly seven thousand."

Yet she feels oddly calm, even in the thick of those final papers.

Remember the name of this blog? Minnesota Matron.

The season of bright lights, eggnog and cheer (feigned and real) falls in the thick of winter night. It's the worst kind of winter. Snow has yet to fully descend; when she does, there are sweeping buckets of lace and ice that sparkles by day and shimmers, a ghost, at night. Snow softens the landscape but December is largely, simply: night.

This year, the Matron has donned the season. Three weeks ago, she returned to the Buddhist sangha she frequented a few years back for their noon meditation: four days a week. She has been sitting on a pillow, lost, for thirty minutes, seven days a week -- four of those among like-minded people. Consistent meditation rewires the brain; that's not snappy prose but scientific fact.

Her particular cellular tune-up means that she can no longer sweat the small stuff. Her work ethic is slow and steady instead of frenetic. She's sitting with the children and talking on the phone more often. Wondering, really, how you're doing when she's asked. The smallest encounter can send memories one, two, three decades past into her immediate present. Not in a bad way, just a picture she looks into and says: that is who I am. Not all of this is pretty.

The rewired brain is not melancholy - -not at all. It simply sees truth beyond the clock and the checkbook, beyond the accomplishments one can whip out at cocktail parties. Maybe this is a function of biology, of facing the impending next decade. Maybe it's something else.

And every day as she heads to the Zen center for meditation or drives to a school or rushes out to get kale at the co-op or take the doggies to the dog park, she drives past her neighbor's house.

Inside, her friend is facing death -- not as the Matron has been in a 'one day please not too soon' sort of fashion, but in illness driven, crisis reality: death is coming for me. It is on its way.

Driven by love, all the Matron can do is watch. And realize that this, waiting, is actually the full extent of human power over death.

The blue light of Christmas, brittle night and black sky -- sitting on that pillow, lost, every day -- a child actively preparing to embark upon a life separate from hers -- the insipid television and rush for money -- everything is sharper.

Finally, she is looking at people and understanding what it means to say "this is what really matters."

The Twenty Year Marriage and Four Year Blog

The past couple of months, the Matron has felt her heart swell with nostalgia of those early, heady days of blogging.

She couldn't get enough! A post a day? Of course! Magnificent, well-thought out creatures worthy of paid publication and accolades? Darling, that's just for starters. Every day she looked forward to her hour with the computer, secretly composing stories in her spare time instead of focusing on mundane tasks like rearing children and earning a buck.

The blogs needs were met, and then some.

Sort of like sex in a new marriage and then not-so-new, marriage. Hot and heavy turns steady turns scheduled. Not always, but in long marriages there are eras, not months.

So dear little blog, she promises that things will get better. She will fondle and coo. Post more. Feed you robust words with lust and think of you again with longing, instead of one more entity requiring her care.

You too, John. She promises.

The Matron is finishing up the semester for the record books. She is working full time. Did she say this before? When the grades are all entered, she will have evaluated about 6,520 pieces of student work in sixteen weeks.

And she's still typing.

So dear little cold abandoned and shivering blog, take heart. Don't despair. The slow silent era reminds her that, like a good marriage, she's in it for the long haul. You are not forgotten just an afterthought for a little while.

She won't continue the marriage metaphors but let's just say her husband may be shivering curbside with the blog. Hang in there honey.

Every era has its beginning and end. She's ready to write that "happily ever after" any day now!

Fun with Hormones

The Matron is sitting at the kitchen table. Laptop open. TV on. Tea simmering. The rest of the house is busy: John and Merrick are building a fire, HWCBN is engaged in some online war, the dogs mine for treats and love.

The Matron is alone with her psyche until John and Merrick walk into the room.

Merrick: "Mom? What's the mattew?"

John: "What's wrong sweetie?"

Matron, taken aback: "Why, nothing. I'm just thinking."

Merrick: "It must be pwetty awfuuul." ( he still talks that way, Buddha bless him)

John: "Nothing can be that bad!"

Matron, doubly taken aback: "Actually, I'm trying to think of something funny to blog about. I'm sitting, here, thinking funny."

John's turn to be taken aback: "Good God."

Merrick: "Weally?"

Matron: "Really. I just can't think of anything funny to blog about. It's time for levity in the blogosphere."

John: "Well . . . maybe you should watch Modern Family or something instead of CSI?"

Matron: "That's funny."

Merrick: "How come you say something is funny when you look like you'we going to hit somebody?"

Matron: "It would appear that my life is completely devoid of humor. I find nothing whatsoever funny."

John, tentatively: "Actually, that's funny."

Merrick: "I'm funny! You have me."

Matron: "Did you clean your room?"

Merrick: "Mom. That's not funny."

Matron: "See? Life. Completely. Devoid. Of humor."

John: "Can I just say again . . . that really is funny."

Matron: "In a dark sort of way, granted."

Merrick: "I know, I know! It's funny you sitting here awguing about blogging about funny!"

Matron: "Not really."

John, assessing with 20 years of wisdom behind him: "PMS jokes? Sound funny?"

Matron (snappy): "Now why would that be funny?!"

John to Merrick: "Remember that emergency fire drill stuff we practiced? Time to do it now, very carefully out of the kitchen and away from Mama."

Merrick immediately drops to his belly on the floor and starts writhing toward the door.

John: "Husband in training."

That, the Matron found funny.

Calling It Like It Is

The Matron is enlisting this woman to work on the Herman Cain campaign.

Seriously, read that link. Read it now. Nobody can say it better.

The Matron's lighter touch continues to evade her. Yes, Satan's Familiar refines his fetid habits (mostly involving routing out excretions of any sort for dessert) and the big guy, as all 80 lb coon hounds are prone to do, knocks over toddlers with his tail. Her busy actor is fully deploying the emotional range available to all newly minted teenagers. Let's just say nobody here really needs to step into the theater for drama (the Matron thought she'd drop that in there to keep you hooked for an upcoming Stage Mother). He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) lives the mysterious life of a young man poised on adulthood: his own. Merrick is, well, eight. With a perpetual sling shot and nerf gun by his side. All this by way of saying that levity does indeed exist in her world, always.

She's simply not there.

Instead, the Matron is one more angry person on the planet. Note that gender was not invoked. Because the vast majority of men, who do not rape, kill, torture, maim, kidnap, prostitute and capture women should also be very, very angry at those who do. We should have a whole lotta anger revvin' up the place.

Guys? Some of your ilk are giving the breed a bad name.

Here's the thing -- while there is justified moral outrage surrounding what she calls The Penn State Silence, there is umbrage and suspicion when sexually harassed women speak. The victims are being questioned, called to task: what do they have to gain? why now? who's paying the lawyer?

When asked "why" she was coming forward, Sharon Bialek replied that it was "the right thing to do."

Not doing the right thing at Penn State is a moral crime (yes!) but doing the right thing regarding Cain is cagey. Just read this ABC report on Sharon Bialek for the tenor surrounding these women. From headline to first paragraphs, this reads like a rap sheet. The photo selected? Why, she's pretty darn happy about her new found place in the media sun.

Now, the Matron knows exactly what you're thinking: raping children cannot be equated with sexual harassment. True. She even put it in colorful italics for emphasis. There is a fundamental difference between the psychological and sexual torture to which those young boys were subjected and the pain, however sharp, of sexual harassment.

Yet these two events -- big stories that enthrall a nation -- do share a fundamental quality: male violence. The Matron is just now establishing an official continuum for male violence called the MVC or Male Violence Continuum. Sexual harassment is on one end, the rape of children on another. But that continuum is a stream of the same impulse: male violence.

Yes, women harass, steal, torture and kill. Let's get that out of the way. But here, the Matron is addressing the majority. Americans like majorities. We have the Moral Majority on the right and now the new Occupy claim to the 99% of us on the left. Big groups rock. They get our attention, hold sway, demand notice. So . . . she's looking to the thick part of the violence pack and she sees testicles.

Yours truly did a little google search and then a more refined search in the education and government fields for "male violence." Here's what she got: domestic violence, gun violence, youth violence, gang violence, Central American militia violence, war violence against women, violence against women, men who murder their families, and intimate partner violence.

Ding, ding, ding! Anyone hear 'men' in there? But not one web page explicitly used the word 'men.'

This came up, too.

Ask why men commit most violent crimes -- no, wait, just POINT OUT that men commit most violent crimes and you are a feminist bitch determined to derail half the human race. Wow. That's a whole lot of power in these feminist hands.

And the Matron, 'bitter feminist' that she is, does indeed hope to reduce men who rape, kill, torture, kidnap, maim and prostitute to middling puddles of poo on the carpet.

Guys? Once again (sigh, this always happens -- such a burden on her) you have the Matron to thank. Because the majority of victims of male violence are other men. See? Those rotten eggs are sullying the entire basket. Men and women alike have much to gain by noticing that masculinity and violence are intricately connected. Because men get mugged, raped, kidnapped, tortured and prostituted too.

Hey! There's that darn white elephant in the room!

Pointing out that men commit the majority of violent crimes -- from trying to shove a woman's head into his crotch to raping a girlfriend or boyfriend -- isn't a feminist plot to dethrone the phallus as ultimate signifier or in anyway dehumanize men.

It's just the truth.

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?