Memory Lane

The Matron's creative juices are more or less visiting the Bahamas.

So she's traipsing through the past for material.

When the Matron and her husband moved the crew into their current home, they were in love with the neighborhood -- a gem nestled above the city with a vast regional parks and (from her window!) a panoramic view of the entire city. All the houses were tidy and well-maintained and neighbors included golf pros, newspaper reporters, free-lance theater professionals, the Assistant Attorney General and other interesting ilk.

Except for the house next door.

This particular property was populated by people who seemed to hold no real jobs but held guns. Not that the Matron is fundamentally against guns (okay, she is) but should any 12 year old have a hand-gun in his pant's pocket? Let's just say that's not a rhetorical question.

The house was -- is -- owned by a single mother (call her J) with two adult sons. The problem was her boyfriend who brought with him two teenage boys from a previous relationship. The boyfriend, we'll call him K, was a big believer in all things dangerous. Not only did he carry a gun (and his kids did) but he had a 15 foot boa constrictor in the living room. NOT KIDDING.

Stryker: "Mom, can I go next door and pet the snake?"

Stryker: "Mom, can I just HOLD that gun?"

Stryker: "Mom, can I go with K on his motorcycle?"

Stryker: "Mom, do you like K's tattoo?"

To make the situation more interesting -- not that living next door to a life-threatening reptile and an ammunition factory wasn't fun enough -- the boyfriend fought with everyone all the time: his sons, the girlfriend, the neighbors. J was also a player at that table. Therefore, the Matron will forever be grateful to this household for introducing her to the term "small dick bitch" which is what you call your boyfriend at 3 am after a case of beer.

Now, the Matron is a good Buddhist and has been trying to disengage and not judge for many years. She worked hard to be friends with her neighbors, even while searching the internet for child-size bullet proof vests.

Still -- this very event occurred.

One day a large truck showed up. Turns out K was leaving.

Matron: "Really? You're breaking up?"

K: "Swear to Satan. I am f$%% going to Afghanistan and shoot something."

Matron: "With your children?"

K: "They're armed and ready to roll."

Yes, yes, she's prone to hyperbole. But it was that bad.

So when the truck left -- and the gun-wielding men packed up their rats (did she mention that?) and snake, and the block became suddenly silent -- she walked into her kitchen and fell to her knees.

FELL ON THE FLOOR.

Matron: "I believe in Jesus! Thank you Lord!!!"

Stryker: "Does this mean we have to go to church now?"

No honey.. . . . but you won't get squished by a 15 foot seventy-pound snake or shot in the neck, either.

Buy Stock In Q-Tips

Oh, how the Matron loves her Q-Tips. Is there a better invention? She uses these daily. Indeed, might be a bit obsessive about ear wax -- in anyone (especially children). Let's just keep everybody's dignity intact and note that the Matron is of a people with clean ears.

Q-Tips, in a pinch, are dog toys. Satan's Familiar has been known to hop about the house with one in his oily jaw.

Q-Tips are undeniably a must-have in any household with children. You can use them for glue, paint and glitter. Or building material. It is entirely possible to build a castle out of Elmer's glue and Q-Tips. This feat has been accomplished several times in her household.

Now. . . remember the Matron and her special Y2K hysteria? The era in which she was convinced the Apocalypse was pending -- or at least just for her? Remember how the Matron stocked up? On only Q-Tips?

Here's how many she purchased. After daily swabs, one dog and dozens upon dozens upon dozens of crafty endeavors . . . . the Matron is down to 5 Q-Tips.

She might just keep them as antiques. But that was well over TEN YEARS of Q-Tips she purchased in preparation for Y2K. Thank goodness she didn't decide to stock up on ice cream sandwiches. That would really be a mess.

What DOES a Q-Tip go for these days?

Why She Loves Him

The Matron has a friend who gives David Sedaris a run for the money, on a daily basis. This friend, except for the voice, probably IS David Sedaris in hiding, they are that much alike.

So she calls him -- at work - -this morning. He is currently toiling as a receptionist at a law firm.

Matron: "Good morning, honey!"

David Sedaris In Hiding: "Darling! Let me tell you about my cat's latest attempt to take my life. Oh damn. That phone. What are these people thinking! Hold on a minute."

da-da-da-da holding. . . .

DSIH: "Can you believe the nerve, some of these people, calling? Where was I? Good God! Someone is walking in the door.!! Oh my GOD now I have to deal with this dunce. Hang on a minute. . . "

da-da-da-dah waiting. . . .

DSIH: "I'm back! Got rid of him, snap crackle pop! Listen, did I send you the link to the pornographic nun site yet? There is just NO LIMIT to what some people will do, darling. And at least the critics are remembering Farrah as a serious actress. It is a burden to be born with amazing hair -- I know! We suffer great jealousies. Great jealousies."

Matron: "Your hair IS terrific, sweetie. I'm sorry that's been so hard."

DSIH: "Beauty! A burden only those suffering can appreciate. . . OH MY GOD that damn phone! I think I'm going to answer "sewage storage site." How fun! Hang on a minute while I get rid of this one lickety split."

Ah yes. A whole new twist to the concept of reception. Love you, darling! Happy Friday to us all!

The Matron Does the Math

Remember the Matronly quest for success?

Attempting to climb that mountain, she's reading Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers: The Story of Success.

From page 39:

"The idea that excellence at performing a complex task requires a minimum level of practice surfaces again and again in studies of expertise. In fact, researchers have settled on what they believe is the magic number for true expertise: ten thousand hours."

According to Gladwell, from Bill Gates to Yo-Yo Ma, that's ten thousand hours of programming, practicing. . . . . writing?

Let's see. This is her 704th post. She mostly limits herself to half an hour per post, so that's about 352 hours of blogging since September 2007.

Wow. That's 352 hours she was mostly alone with a laptop. Not bad!

Now, there's her dissertation, weighing in (minus the bibliography) at 217 pages. Writing a good page ususally takes her about one hour. Let's add another hour for revision, bringing her another 434 hours of prose.

Using the same formula with the novels (274 pages and 334 pages), pile on 1216. Then she's going to just round up because she knows the two took more than two hours per page. Let's settle on 1250.

1250 + 434 + 352 = 2036

The Matron is pretty sure she logged a high number of hours pre-novel and dissertation, too. Let's stretch the possibilities and just double that number to 4072.

Nowhere near 10,000. Yet.

But if Gadwell is onto something, this might explain the observation that a very good literary agent once made to the Matron: for some reason, writers come to their own in their 40's.

Maybe they've finally logged enough hours at their craft

Just under 6000 hours to go for the Matron. Finally! A reason to spend more time BLOGGING!!

Humane Society, Her Foot

The Matron was sad to hear that the local Humane Society 'rescued' 130 cats from a house and promptly killed them. She guesses the real shocker is that the two events--the rescue and the slaughter--were nearly the same day.

Sniffle. And rant. The link has all that and more.

If I Were

Please take a big historic breath.

I have broken every single chain letter I've ever received, even the ones that threatened dire consequences or promised big return.

Now, I'm participating in a meme--thanks, Laura. That 'thanks' was fully loaded.

Meme? I first saw this word in October, right after I started blogging. Does one write a meme? Participate in a meme? Create? Here's a helpful little blog about memes. Blog. Meme. Tag.

Who created this vocabulary? Where's the sustenance to these words, some syllabic punch?

Here we go:

If I were an ice cream I'd be sherbet because I can't follow rules.

If I were a fried food I'd be tempura. Does that count?

If I were an extreme sport I'd be . . . what are my options here? Anybody know anything about this?

If I were a retail store I'd be Bergdorf Goodman. Of course.


If I were a vegetable, I'd be daikon radish, tart and tangy that will do your body good.

If I were a fruit, I'd be a cashew. . . that's right. The cashew or caju is native to Brazil and the thing we call a nut? The seed of a fruit.




If I were a building I'd be the Statue of Liberty and starting letting the tired and weary back in.

If I were a car, I'd be a sturdy blue Volvo wagon, circa 1990.

The Gauntlet, Laid.

Over at while they play, Kalurah is celebrating one year of blogging and 50 etsy sales by giving away an Amazon gift certificate of Significant Dollar.

To win, you write THE kick-ass caption to a photo that makes epidemiologists orgasmic with disease potential. It's a contest.

The Matron, she has no competitive bone in her body. Oh. No. Those years of academic toil, intellectual intensity and bad-ass drive made absolutely no mark on this sweet psyche.

That's why the Matron has zero Master Plan -- no strategy for success--- in regard to this contest. Submissions close at 8 pm tomorrow and oh no, the Matron won't be circling that blog like a hawk for her rivals, seeking inspiration, and scouting the pack before swooping in with a knock-down-drag-out Contender of a caption.

Coleslaw: The New Crack

For dinner last night, I ate one beef hot dog (made from antibiotic-free cow that spent unbound life frolicking on Otis Family Farm before being heartlessly slaughtered for my pleasure) and a bucket of coleslaw.

Some sit down and devour a pint of ice cream. When I was pregnant with Stryker, I once at an entire roasted chicken during the drive home from the grocery store--yes, John was driving. He still marvels at the amazing magical powers of the pregnant woman.

But this is different.

I fell hard for Mississippi Market's coleslaw. Love at first sniff! This is no ordinary slaw, no pedestrian slather of mayo and chemical goo. Mayonnaise doesn't even top the list of ingredients--here we have cabbage, carrot, onion. Apple cider vinegar, pepper, sea salt.

Who can explain? It's some karmic constellation that's imprisoned me.

This is the new physiology of my marriage. Me, calling John on his cell: "How's your day going, sweetie?"

John: "I'm not going to Mississippi Market."

Me (offense, taken!): "I actually called just to say hi."

John: "I'm not in St. Paul. I'm in the suburbs. . . . uh, Golden Valley."

Me: "No you're not."

John: "I'm not going to that store again. We go every single day."

Me: "I hear footsteps. You're at the office."

John: "We go every day."

Me: "But you're four blocks away! That's why we go every day."

John: "No, that's how. Why is different."

Me: "Why is we like our coleslaw fresh and creamy. It makes the household happier, if you know what I mean."

John (with zero joy): "Fine. I'll do it."

Not even cost matters. Last night's bucket set me back nearly 10 dollars! You heard that. At my natural foods store, the fine organic ingredients are first doused in Holy Water and then blessed by the Dalai Lama. In Paris.

Cabbage for the cost of a bottle of wine? I told you: the situation is serious.

Today, I went to Mississippi Market for more. The cashier who had rung through my groceries the day before had no one in her line. I hesitated. What if she recognized me? Suspected my weakenss?

But, there's that perpetual hurry in which I live - children to be picked up and duties done. Reason prevailed--it's just coleslaw, after all. This is legal! All these people--why would she even remember me?

And as the cashier slid my stash across that electronic register, she arched an eyebrow, just so--nuance, knowledge, depth and pity--and said: "We really like our coleslaw, don't we?"