Inland Empress

My mother, the maven

My mother, Lenore, celebrated her 75th birthday yesterday and her four kids and nine grandkids feted her with stories, poems and other tributes. Here's my contribution. You need to know that she's a psychiatric nurse but is into wacky, homeopathic stuff and is plagued by asthma. And "maven" is Yiddish for "know-it-all."

The Maven
(with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)

Once, while wracked with wretched wheezing, while I languished sick and sneezing
Over a growing mound of crumpled, dirty Kleenex on the floor
While I sipped some coffee steaming, suddenly I felt like screaming
There came a woman broadly beaming, beaming from my bedroom door.
‘Tis some crone, I muttered, beaming from my bedroom door
I need some aspirin from the store.

I should’ve seen my impending doom as the old crone crossed the room
Tucked in my sheets, took my temp, then peered as if inspecting every pore.
She perched upon my windowsill and from her purse plucked Benadryl.
“Take two for now, unless somehow, I decide you really should take four.”
“Who are you,” I cried, “that I should allow you through my door?
“I shall not abide you anymore.

“I find your prying crass and craven. What are you, some kind of maven?”
“You just watch your tone of voice,” said she, “or I’ll give you a big what for.”
That old lady, what a pistol, when she waved her magic crystal
I felt a shudder sliding down my spine and to my very core
As if she’d stepped from some dark and eldritch Medieval lore.
Quoth the maven, “I’m Lenore.”

“To treat a multitude of sins, I brought a case of vitamins
and Echinacea and goldenseal to soothe a throat that’s sore.”
While I lay there, dumbly blinking, she asked me if my head needs shrinking
And perhaps I had a single-malted Scotch for her to pour.
Just two ice cubes, if you don’t mind, and nothing more
Would do for that Lenore.

I tried to send that maven packing, but on my sill she still is yakking
Having rearranged my closets and critiqued my home décor.
My deathly symptoms leave her scoffing, in between her fits of coughing.
Stooping stiffly, she picked up all the Kleenex off the floor
So thoughtful are the ministrations of the wise Lenore
Who shall be noodging evermore!

Catch of the day

Proof that women are crazy: this man is still single. Look at him. Doesn't he look like a nice guy? Doesn't he look like he takes care of himself, has a good job, never says mean things and loves little kids? Of course he does.

He's my youngest sibling, and he graced us with a rare visit yesterday while in the region on business. My handsome baby brother (I mean, look at him, c'mon) recently split with his obviously insane girlfriend and says he's already horrified by the dating scene. He signed up for J-Date, an online matchmaking service, which apparently sorely needs a living, breathing Yenta to manage things.

Ladies, please. When he says he wants a non-smoker, is that too much to ask? He's an athlete -- a little obsessive about it, but then, look at the results. You want this man, you'll have to reduce your size-14 tush to a size 8, at least. Whatever happened to the idea of self-sacrifice? Trust me, he's worth counting carbs for.

Tall women, thirtysomething women, brainy women, women who whine all the good ones are taken -- what are you waiting for? This offer won't last!

Besides, you'd get me as a sister-in-law, isn't that inducement enough? Good! You just email me with your vital stats (IQ, education, dress size, psychiatric diagnosis) and if I like you, I'll eventually get around to forwarding your name to my ready-to-commit, Ivy-educated, professional, condo-owning, only-slightly-outside-the-beltway, metrosexual brother.

If you don't hear from me, assume it's because you're not worthy. I do have the family gene pool to consider, y'know.