Chronicles of the Alpha Mom: The Saga Continues

I had another encounter with the alpha mom. You know--the one whose daughter read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest at age six and who was teaching other kids how to ski in Spanish. Whatever. Anyway, today the alpha mom told me she'd spent the morning at the shooting range, practicing with the new 22 she'd just purchased. She informed me she has a concealed weapons permit, and keeps the gun in a special zippered pocket in her purse--presently locked up in her car, of course.

Of course.

The concealed weapons permit was a necessary precaution, she told me, as a violent parolee had just hit the streets: a smart guy with a law degree, who'd shot his girlfriend seven times. Unfortunately the poor woman hadn't died, which meant he hadn't been locked up for life. And now he was out, and out for the alpha mom. She'd been the DA on the case, she told me.

Don't you have to be elected to these kinds of positions?

Anyway, during this two-minute conversation the alpha mom also told me that she was trained in knife fighting. I'm not sure what that means--I'm imagining switchblades. She'd learned from the worst of the worst, she said. Special ops guys. She said she could stick a knife into someone's thorax in point-three seconds. Quick enough to disable a man with a gun.

"You have to be fast," she said.

I could imagine.

"So," I asked. "What's the name of the training facility?"

"Oh you know, special ops guys. Worst of the worst and all that. You know."

I don't, but I didn't press it. Alpha mom's pudgy blonde daughter came trailing out of the classroom to use the bathroom, hair ribbon loose and dangling, forgotten, down one side of her face. She beamed and waved at us energetically.

"People just think I'm some dumb blonde," alpha mom said. "Ha ha."

"Ha," I said. "Ha Ha."

A crazy blonde, maybe. But I didn't say that part.