Are You Sharron Matthews? – A NEW YORK CITY STORY

FEBRUARY 7th, 2025

This afternoon around 4pm I was standing in the self checkout line at the C-Town Market on Broadway near 207th in New York City.
In one hand I was clutching a jar of dairy free Strawberry Sorbet and in the other, a cloth bag with all the ingredients for a mushroom casserole I was going to make later for my dear friend Jason.
Jolene (my dog) and I are staying with him for a while and he’s been so kind that I wanted to do something nice for him…although, if anyone knows my history with cooking, I was remaining very hopeful about said casserole.
It’s not that I suck but I’ve really just started learning to cook.
I know.
Better late than never, people.
Making something for someone seems a lot more heartfelt than ordering UBEREATS…which, for the record, I’m not against AT ALL AND did JUST two days ago.
Goddess, I really want this to be edible.
Namasté.

It’s been six days since I locked the door on my place in TO, put Jolene in the backseat of my Subaru and drove across the border…presenting my passport with my temporary E1 visa (while I await my Green Card’s arrival) AND Jolene’s travel papers to the border guard…as Jo hoovered the layered peanut butter/chicken/peanut butter concoction that I’d pulled the Tupperware lid off of 5km’s before the Peace Bridge.
She barks like a banshee and I was afraid the US might not want her…EVEN THOUGH she was born in Texas.
When I finally placed the plastic bowl in the backseat JUST as we were driving up to the border guards little hut she made nary a peep.
After I made it past the obstacle of getting her across the border…something I’d been concerned about for a while RE: barking-like-a-loon…suddenly I was free to have level seven anxiety about the fact that I was taking my spicy dog and moving into my friend’s house in NY for…well, for a bit of time.

What are you doing? Truly. Sharron what the fuck are you doing?

That thought circled my brain on a one song repeater for hours as I drove south through snowy Upstate NY.
Hours.

Breathe.
I reminded myself that I’d been planning this for over two years.
Breathe.
I reminded myself that THIS has always been my dream since I watched RocketShip Seven on Channel Seven out of Buffalo EVERY MORNING of my childhood.
Breathe.
I reminded myself that I really always wanted this…I just thought it would happen earlier, you know? Like, when I was 30. Or 35. Or 40. Or 45. Or fucking 50, even.

What are you fucking doing?

I was supposed to be driving to LA, but pivoted when the wildfires started a month ago.
Thankfully, again, my friend Jason was kind enough to take us in last minute.

God, I hope that mushroom penne fucking casserole turns out.

The drive down required two Hail-Mary phone calls, seven MARCO POLOS, three voice texts, one stop for windshield washer fluid, three bathroom breaks and endless amounts of OUT LOUD positive self talk.

WHAT the FUCK are you DOING?

Finally, I decided to stop for the night instead of driving Jolene into NYC AND straight into a new place after eight hours in the car.
A king’s ransom was spent on a Hampton Suites King room in Monticello, NY which I picked because Jason said it would be a big enough town to have things like hotels AND ALSO because I thought it was a place that Alexander Hamilton had once owned an estate and I knew this from…Hamilton…because like him, I’m shooting my friggen shot.
The room was nice, clean and when I plunked down Jo’s bed on the corner of my bed, she hopped in and fell asleep.
Though she’d been trying real hard to mind my commands to lie down in the back seat after five hours of driving and a bit of whining (from both of us) I let her lay on top of the netting that separates the front from the back and relax. She just wanted to put her nose on my arm.
Part of me thinks she was worried that she was going to left somewhere.
Her anxiety did not much to help mine but one of us had to be in charge and drive, right?
After eating good food the whole drive, I’d bought four pieces of Popeye’s Chicken at the drive thru in Monticello as Jolene barked and barked, and after I’d tended to all Jo’s needs…including a big round of ball…I let myself eat and go numb for a while.

The next morning my stomach was a mess.
Was I sick?
Was I gonna throw up?
Was this Popeye’s revenge?
What the fuck?
I was in a town 90 minutes north of NYC and I had a lot of hurdles to jump before the end of the day…and my stomach was just rebelling.

Wait.
Waaaait.

The last time my stomach felt this way was the night before, and the morning of the day, I climbed The Crack in Killarney on my birthday.
The last time BEFORE THAT that my stomach had felt like this was when my marriage ended…back then my doctor called it DIVORCE STOMACH.
Ma’am.
No joke.

I put my hands on my belly and took some deep breaths.
THIS was anxiety/transition stomach.
There were so many scary and untrue stories running around my head…faulty programs left from years of living with fairly serious anxiety…programs that I thought I’d gotten rid of…but no.
Turns out they emerge from the vault when I do something particularly audacious…like get a Green Card and leave my home country for an unknown amount of time with my spicy dog.

SIDEBAR:
I used to say Jolene was koo koo but my trainer clicked her clicker at me and said that spicy was a better word. More positive. Honestly, though she’s kinda right and I use it, I feel that it reads a bit too bougie for us.
End of Sidebar.

As I lay in that hotel room bed all those untrue stories SCREAMED at me to stay still, to not move, to pay an ungodly amount of money to stay at the hotel another night…basically, to not do one GD thing.

It’s very interesting that after many years of therapy I’ve studiously built a part of myself that silently watches for this kind of movement…and talks back…and formulates plans…and scrolls through my list of tools and victories…and tells me to breathe…and then tells me to MOVE.
One step at a time, sweet goddess.
As with The Crack, I’ve learned that the only way onward is to meet my anxiety with compassion and a handshake and GET THE FUCK UP.
Swing your legs over the bed, or out of the car, or off of the chair.
Stretch a bit.
Breathe.
Put on some music.
Pet my dog.
Have a shower.
Make good food.
Move.
Move.
Move.
Staying still and ruminating is not helpful.

I can handle big emotions.
You can handle big emotions, Sharron.

You CAN do VERY BIG THINGS, SHARRON.

So, I did all those things and moved. I moved around that expensive hotel room.
And then I did one of the best things I’ve done in a while…besides telling my menopause doctor to stop talking for a second because I’d stopped hearing her and started to doom scroll in my brain and needed a second…before I left the Hampton Suites I wrote my pal Jason a text telling him how nervous I was about bringing Jo into a new place, with a new human…and a new dog.

Sidebar #2:
I’ve spent the last year working with JO haaard and introduced her to two border/walkers who have dogs. I’ve intro’d her to my sister’s dog. She has a best friend dog named Maxine. I’ve been preparing for this…but still.
Cue Anxiety.
End of Sidebar.

Jason is a very chill guy…with a very chill dog…but still.
If anyone has been following my blogs you know how hard I’ve been working with JO and I KNEW that it was past time to make my world…our world…bigger.
But still.
Woof.

The text I sent Jason from the Hampton Suites told my friend how transitions are challenging for both me and JO, so if I seemed unfocused or nervous I was just figuring our shit out…I didn’t want to pretend.
He wrote me back an encouraging text right away…he was there for whatever I needed.
How do you ever thank a person like this?

God, this casserole better be tasty.

As I drove across the George Washington Bridge with Jo’s nose on my arm, seeing the NYC skyline I thought back to all the times I’d been to NYC and never dreamed that I would come back one day with my Green Card.

I’ve traveled here to see shows, I’ve traveled here to see friends, I’ve traveled here to do auditions and call backs, I’ve traveled here for fittings, I traveled here to do my shows at Joe’s Pub and 54 Below…but even then I never believed that this day would come. I thought I was past it. I thought I knew what my life was going to be.

Sur-fucking-prise, Matthews.

To fast forward, we got into the apartment and it’s not been a picnic BUT it’s not been a shit show.
It’s been something I like to call either THE UNCOMFORTABLE MIDDLE or just plain CRUNCHY.
Jo and Mona are trying to make it work.
Mona is patient.
Jo is…Jo…and she’s working hard…we’re working hard.
I’m doing my best to set us up for success and not give up on change.
We walk a lot.
We’re steps from a gorgeous national park. For reals. RIGHT on the Hudson River near Columbia University.

While we settle in and get a routine going it’s a bit me-and-her-all-day till Jason comes home from work.

On February 7th, I left Jo in our space (separated from Mona) and went out to get the ingredients for the casserole.
I reminded myself over and over again that she would be fine.
That WE would be fine.

It’s def a process with her.

Shar, what the fuck are you doing?
You’re 56.
Who do you think you are?

I walked around the grocery store and everything told me AGAIN to order UBEREATS. My brain just didn’t want to accept a new grocery store.

When I moved to Liberty Village in Toronto and into the first home I’d bought on my own, I was a bit shook.
Transitions, y’all. Not my strong suit.
I needed to get groceries.
You know when you go somewhere new and you have to figure out a new routine…and it ALL feels a bit ill-fitting and crunchy? I walked into the Liberty Village Longo’s and felt…old.

How the fuck did I think I could start all over again?

And I shook hands with the anxiety, grabbed a cart and followed my list.

This is not your grocery store…but it WILL be your grocery store.

It might seem like a silly, simple thing to tell yourself…but it was JUST the fucking thing. I’ve actually shared this little story with a few friends who’ve been starting new things and they got it.

This is not your grocery store…but it WILL be your grocery store. Keep moving.

I took a breath, pulled out my shopping list for the casserole and got moving.
When I got to the checkout of the second grocery store…I had to go to TWO to find the kind of sorbet Jason likes just in case the casserole bit it…I stood at the self-checkout reminding myself of my grocery store analogy when I heard someone say my name.

I turned and a man I’d never seen in my life asked me again if I was Sharron Matthews.

I was gobsmacked.

It was the kind of ask that meant this person knew me from TV…which seemed nuts. So, of course, I swore.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me? Lord. Sorry!

He: Oh my goodness, my mother is not going to believe this. She loves you. She is the biggest Frankie Drake fan.

Me: Really? You know what we better step out of line, people are looking hostile.

We stepped out of line. They WERE looking hostile.

He: During the pandemic I went to live with her in Wisconsin and we watched Frankie every day. You are her favourite character! She loves all you ladies! Can I take a picture of us to prove that we met? Is that weird?

Me: Oh my gosh, of course! I would love that. You know, I love all those girls that I worked with. And I see Rebecca all the time! She’ll get a kick out of this!

We take a selfie as the woman running the self checkout eyes us warily and scrolls her phone.

Me: Well, you know what? Tag me if you put this up on socials! I would love to see it and repost it!

He: Oh, we don’t have social media. I’m just going to send this to her phone.

For some reason, the sweetness of this made water come to my eyes.
In fact, THE WHOLE experience was making water come to my eyes.
I shifted the sorbet to the other hand and held out the empty hand.

Me: I don’t know your name…

He took my hand in his.

He: Oh! It’s Lars.

Me: Lars…from Wisconsin. That is about as Golden Girls as you can get.

He blushed and laughed.

He: Oh, I know! Thank you for doing this. She’s not been well…this will really perk her up.

Me: Well, send her my best, Lars from Wisconsin.

We smiled at each other and he walked away.

I took my sorbet to the self check out and the woman who runs it asked me if I’m famous.

Me: Oh no. I’m just Canadian.

That seemed to be enough for her.

I walked back to Jason’s place and my heart was so full.
It was the exact right thing at the right time.
Thank you, Lars from Wisconsin AND Lars’ mother.
Jason also loved this tale…and, you know what, the casserole actually kinda worked out.
I felt at home in his kitchen.
I feel at home in the room in which I’m writing this.
What a fucking gift this life is.

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be…so it Jolene.

This isn’t our grocery store…but it WILL be our grocery store…till we go to ANOTHER grocery store.

Yesterday, I went to a Farmer’s Market and bought some fresh bread…and then saw a rat.

I love NYC.

This is Jo in NYC…a dog who could barely walk a block in Toronto when I got her.

This is she and I in our NYC bedroom.

THIS is near where I saw a rat. I’ve seen a few. Life, right?

Hope you all are well. February can be a real bitch. Chin up, the sun is coming out for longer and longer.

S.M.
February 7th till February 9th
Inwood, NYC, NY