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.

**********************************************************************************

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.

i’m dweaming of the most beeyootiful girl in the world…

oh, cool. I’s awake and she’s still here.

youse is witnessing my undying love.

AAAAAHHHHH, I LOVE HER!

It’s nice to be adored.

 ************************************

And just in case you’ve ever wondered what the American Girl Dolls talk about when you’re not around, come on over to In The Powder Room for a battle between 1934 doll Kit Kittredge and Saige, the 2013 ‘Girl of the Year’ doll in American Girl Doll Smackdown. It’s WWWF meets pre-teen plastic.

I’m going to be vulnerable and open with you all.

I have a geeky love for the movie “Yentl”.

(I hope we can still be friends.)

When Babs sings “Papa, can you hear me?”, oy veh, I get all verklempt.

But according to the title of this post, there is something that tops Hearing from Papa.

It’s Listening to Mama.

“Listen To Your Mother”  is a reading series taking place in 24 cities across the country for the sole purpose of “Giving Mother’s Day A Microphone”. Created by humorist (and my pal who let me sleep in her bed at the Erma Bombeck writer’s conference) Ann Imig, LTYM showcases moving, funny and socially relevant essays by local writers.

The New York City show is THIS SUNDAY, MAY 12 AT 5PM AT SYMPHONY SPACE IN MANHATTAN and guess who’s in it? Yes, yours truly. Oh, and Stacy Morrison, former Editor in Chief of Redbook Magazine and the present EIC of BlogHer, Inc., the fab Marinka of Motherhood in NYC, Sandy Rusin, playwright of Rated P For Parenthood, Tracy Beckerman, author of Lost in Suburbia, and more incredible, kind, hilarious and heartfelt writers.

AND I’M GIVING AWAY TWO TICKETS!!

Talk about verklempt.

If you would like to see this amazing show (and bring your Mother), just leave a comment below. The contest will run until midnight on Wednesday, May 8 and I’ll announce the winner on Thursday, May 9. But even if you don’t win, I hope you’ll consider buying a ticket and coming out to Symphony Space on Mother’s Day.

Because Listening is always better than Hearing.

May 9 UPDATE: We have a winner!

According to the song stylings of random.org, LAUREN is our winner! Thank you so so much for entering, guys, and I really hope you’ll still consider coming to the show. Here is the link to purchase tickets. You will not regret it, pinky swear.

I know people get all up in arms when they hear the unusual names that celebrities give their children.

I don’t.

As far as I’m concerned, if you want to name your kid

go right ahead.

If you feel that one weird name isn’t sufficient and you decide on

knock yourself out.

I don’t have time to worry about these things.

I’m too busy musing over the choices I made in naming my own children.

Come muse with me, won’t you?

Proceed With Caution When Naming Your Kids.

Live it. Feel it. Deal with it. Today. On.

In The Powder Room.

photo credit: Amaury Henderick via photopin cc

photo credit: lens-flare.de via photopin cc

On Saturday evening, this was in front of my house.

Obviously, the 7-year old entrepreneur was at work.

But his mother was in a cranky mood due to this and that and whatever bee she’s had in her bonnet lately and scolded the junior Zuckerberg, saying things like “nobody’s going to pay a dollar for a mandarin orange” and “nobody’s going to put their money out on the street because someone else is going to take it” and “nobody wants them so clean that up now doyouhearmeyoungman?”

He wasn’t upset. Just looked at her blankly, as if to say “poor woman, why do you fret? I know what I’m doing.”

So she left it. Overnight, through Sunday morning and afternoon, when they went to church and the message, of course, was about faith, because isn’t it always always about faith?

And they came home to this.

And his face lit up with delight and satisfaction.

But not surprise.

“But faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Hebrews 11:1

I was excited when my 10-year old niece asked me to play Clue this past weekend, realizing that the last time I saw those nifty little murder weapons strewn across a stately mansion game board was probably during the Carter Administration.

But the minute we opened the box, I knew we weren’t in the ’70s anymore.

Have you seen what they’ve done to Clue??

Read my interview with the original characters, Colonel Mustard, Mrs. Peacock, Reverend Green, Mrs. White, Professor Plum and Miss Scarlet, and their sad experience with “ageism” today on In The Powder Room.

Get a CLUE, people.

photo credit: ArdailSmith via photopin cc

My very first acquaintance with the concept of sacrificial love came by way of food.

Pancakes, to be exact.

I was eight years old and my six-year old sister was making pancakes for our Dad. (Yes, on the stove. With full flames under the pan. This was the 70s, after all, when kids sat in the front seat of the car with no belt and rode every sort of brain-mangling bike and skateboard with no helmet.) She proudly set a full plate of pancakes down for him and stood back, quivering with anticipation. Dad cut into the steaming stack, and all the raw batter oozed out from the underdone middles. He stared at the gooey mess for just a few seconds, but I saw the fleeting thoughts in his eyes:

I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

But this is nauseating.

But she worked so hard.

But I think I might be sick.

But I just have to gut it out.

God help me.

And he dug in and ate the entire wet, oozy, undercooked-egg-toxic plate.

And my eight-year old mind said, “This is love.”

This is a very profound memory for me. But one of the reasons it’s so vivid and detailed is because I’ve seen that expression of culinary dismay since. Many times. As I’ve placed one of my “creations” in front of my husband.

Specifically, the Walnut-Lentil Loaf.

I know now that anything that comes in a “loaf” is suspect, but at that time it just seemed like an awesomely cheap and healthy alternative to meat “loaf”. And the cookbook assured me that it would be every bit as delicious and satisfying as a “loaf” from a cow, and we all know cookbooks never lie. So when I placed the lumpy, grayish-brownish-vomit-colored-ish mass in front of him, I still had high hopes. Until I saw that expression I knew so well.

I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

But this is nauseating.

But she worked so hard.

But I think I might be sick.

But I just have to gut it out.

God help me.

And that man, that brave man, tucked into that “loaf” just as if it were full-on mooing Bessie, chewing and chewing and chewing, even though the more he chewed, the more the evil “loaf” expanded in his mouth until he swallowed a great big cartoon swallow where you can actually see the lump going down the person’s throat.

And I thought, “This is love.”

And then I thought, “No, THIS is love.”

And I picked up the Walnut-Lentil Loaf and dumped it in the trash.

And felt the ghost of my father patting me on the back.

***************

 I hope you enjoyed my version of the blog hop “The Worst Meal I Ever Cooked and Served to Someone”. Now hop over to these other hilarious women and feel the nausea!

Peace, Love and Guacamole

Ann’s Rants

Midlife Mixtape

The Flying Chalupa

There is a place in my backyard where I like to go to pray.

Being a wise woman, I first look down to see if I’m about to sit in 1. poop 2. ants 3. thorns 4. mud 5. discarded beer bottles or chicken wing bones from one of our neighbor’s fling-my-leavings-in-joyful-abandon parties. If none of the above are present, I sit right on the ground, and there it is.

A sliver of sunshine that hits this spot in the sweetest, purest fashion. Whatever sun lights up the rest of our miniscule yard tends to be diffuse and ordinary. Not in my sliver. It is bright but not blinding, angular but not harsh, exacting and yet forgiving. And it only appears when the rest of the surrounding area is in shadow, which I suppose aids in its superb clarity.

If you don’t mind hangin’ with my metaphor, my sliver is like hope. Slight, distant, perfect and best seen when all else is dimmed.

I’ve tried to write about the events of this past week, both personal and national. But words fail when it comes to Boston and Martin Richard and the failed gun safety legislation. Words embarrass when I attempt to say anything about my recent inner struggles with my own character and weaknesses. And so all I can write about is hope.

If you don’t mind hangin’ with my visual metaphor, my sliver is like this.

No, not a stream of hope and light coming from darkness.

Only a stream of iPad photo technology coming from my son’s nostrils.

That something so ridiculous could make me guffaw in the middle of my sadness, gives me hope.

And then, this.

My resident dog/alien, without a care in the world, basking in a sliver of sunshine.

And this:

That red sliver is a burn on my chest. I got it because I was ironing my shirt. While it was on my body.

And why, you might ask, does such obvious idiocy give me hope? Because God gave me the ability to laugh at myself and I really appreciate it. I appreciate Him knowing how often, how very very often, I would need that gift.

And lastly, this.

That’s a shot of me filming a segment for Kids In The House, a brand-new parenting website. They asked me to talk about two things: using humor in parenting, and using scripture in parenting. It was like a dream come true, being able to talk about my two loves and knowing that I might be able to help, inspire and comfort others with the comfort I’ve been given. In a fairly dim week, it gave me a sliver of hope.

“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall. But those who hope in God will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” Isaiah 40:3-31

Many thanks to Leanna Greene (and Jessica, Suzanne, Andrea and all the fine ladies) of Kids In The House, for giving me a mini-vacation in sunny Los Angeles and letting me share my convictions onscreen. I look forward to seeing the finished cut in a few weeks and I hope you didn’t have to digitally remove that hair hanging in my eyes. xo

Well, you know I never like to leave you with too much sadness. After yesterday’s post and all your kind words, I had to give you something in return. So, here.

You’re welcome!

So if you’re a woman or a dog lover (this may be too much for my male readers, but if you’re particularly evolved, knock yourself out), head over to In The Powder Room where I’m Rethinking Thongs today.

My son has trouble falling asleep.

Every night I watch him rolling around his top bunk, banging his feet against the wall, humming, talking to his stuffed animals, singing, annoying his sister by throwing items down at her in the bottom bunk.

Every night I try to calm him like a good calm Mom should, but it’s hard to concentrate on my calming techniques when I’m even more annoyed than the little girl who just had a dirty sock land on her face.

Tonight I decided I would teach him to breathe. Not the involuntary sort, which he seems to do quite well being that he’s still alive, but the deep, calming, purposeful breathing that I learned in some random yoga/Pilates/vocal training/therapy session.

I quickly learned that it’s not that easy to teach a kid to breathe in slowly for five counts and breathe out for ten counts. So I decided to demonstrate. I told him to count slowly to five while I breathed in.

“Onnnnnnnnne.”

“Twoooooooooooooooooooooo.”

“Threeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

“Fourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—”

And the little punk would not put the “v” sound on the “five”.

But I’m so stubborn that I kept breathing in, trying to make it to the end, my lungs expanded to blimp proportions, my eyes bugging out, determined to win, determined to BREATHE CALMLY IF IT KILLED ME.

Until I couldn’t do it anymore and we both collapsed in hysterical laughter. And the tears that ran down my face felt good, refreshing, different. Different than the others. Because I’ve cried more in this past week than I have in a long, long time.

Just breathe.

There are things happening, painful things, things that I can’t write about yet. They are life things, things that challenge me to my core. They make me feel weak. They make me know that I am weak, in so many ways.

Everyone is a breath, even those who seem secure. Psalm 39:5

And so I pray, and breathe, and try to make my breath my prayer and my prayer my breath and I try to imagine God breathing with me.

And the thought calms me enough to sleep.