Dusty Earth Mother

I am the kind of tired that can only come from nerve-jangling anticipation followed by ecstatic fun followed by post-show tears followed by falling into a coma.

This was Listen To Your Mother NYC.

Yeah, that says “Sten To Your Mother”, but you get the idea.

Directed by the incomparable Amy Wilson, assistant-directed by moi, produced by the hardest working women in show biz, Holly Rosen Fink and Varda Steinhardt, this show was a mother-love fest. All of the pieces read were stellar, and here are a few of them that you can actually read online: Marinka absolutely KILLED with It’s Always Bad News; Kim Forde and her 8 and 1/2 month pregnant belly gave us some love and laughs with Welcome To The Circus; and Elizabeth (Kizz) Robinson wowed ‘em with About Me. Hopefully, I’ll be able to share stories more with you soon, along with the professional photos (by the incredible Jennifer Lee), but here’s a teeny-weeny shot of the bow.

I know you’re salivating for this (or not), but here is the piece I read on Sunday. This one’s for you, Mama Rose.

Rose’s Turn

I would have liked to listen to my mother, but I had trouble hearing her over the zils. What? You don’t know what zils are? Oh, I guess that means that your mother wasn’t a belly dancer.

In 1972, there were 35 suburban housewives who took Miss Evelyn’s Oak Lawn, Illinois Park District class “Bellydancing for Fun and Fitness”. 34 of those housewives did not go on to make bellydancing their profession, performing at restaurants and anniversary parties and baby showers all over the state of Illinois. One did.

If you asked me “was it strange having a mother who was a bellydancer while all the other moms in the 70’s were going to PTA meetings and making pot roasts for their families?”, I would say yes and no. You see, Mama Rose was the original multitasking wonder so she was also making pot roast and attending the PTA, she just occasionally would do so with a bright red jewel in her navel that she had forgotten to remove.

And since I didn’t usually accompany her to her “gigs”, it wasn’t right in my face. And when I went away to college, a good three hour drive from where I grew up, I almost forgot what Mama Rose did for a living.

Until my 21^st birthday.

I had planned to celebrate quietly, meeting a few friends that night at our usual hangout, a restaurant/bar just off the campus of the University of Illinois.

The strange thing was, that throughout the day the party kept getting bigger and bigger. Every one I saw would say, “See you tonight, Shari!!” and they seemed really excited. Huh.

Oh sure, it seemed a bit strange when one of my professors, a dapper graying-at-the-temples British gentleman also  said, “See you tonight, Shari!”, but what could I think other than “Wow. I’m really popular”?

At my “little gathering” that night, we took over the entire place. I was glowing, both from the literal dozens of people who had shown up, some of whom I barely knew, and from my first legal margarita. I was on top of the world! 21 years old! Popular! Loved even by middle-aged Brits with tenure!

And that’s when the middle Eastern music blasted over the loudspeakers. And my mother, complete with veils, a waist-length wig, sparkly push-up bra and a glowing red ruby in her tanned, bare belly, danced in.

And the place went up for grabs. People were screaming. Dollar bills were flying. Mama Rose was doing back-bends and my distinguished leather-elbow-patched professor was tucking a five-spot into her cleavage. Cooks were coming out of the kitchen and people were coming in off of the street. It was complete and utter pandemonium.

And I just sat there. Stunned. With many thoughts. Here are five of them.

1. “Uhhhhhh….”

2. “Where did she come from?! Did she drive three hours in her costume, put money in the meter, and just dance in?”

3. “I’m 21 today. That means she’s 51. That belly dancer over there. 51.”

4. “I’m not popular. But my mother certainly is.”

 5. “Did everyone know? Did every single person who smiled at me today know??? Yes. They all knew. Look at their faces. No one here is surprised. Except me.”

I would like to leave you with a mental image. An image of a skinny little girl holding a melting margarita, staring at her absolute marvel of a mother spinning and shimmying and swooping by in a blur of sequined veils.

May I only inspire such awe, adoration and dread in my own children someday.

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And may I ask you a favor? You know that I’m turning 50 soon and I’m making my desires known over on In The Powder Room today. Since I assume you’re shopping for my present, this will make things easier for you.

Gift Guide For The Girl Who Likes Nothing.

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