Telling Tales.

Feeling nervous is a terrible thing. Your stomach churns and in my case I develop a bright red, blotchy rash that spreads over my face, neck and chest resembling a bad sun burn. Fabulous. No playing cool, calm and collected here.

On Saturday I auditioned for The Listen to Your Mother San Francisco Show. I wrote a piece specifically for it. Actually I wrote two. One sad and one funny. The sad came easier and I thought it was better so it was my first choice. I'm known for funny though so the producers had asked if I had funny to share. Not feeling that my funny piece was funny enough I pulled something from my book (remember that? Still need a publisher....)
I thought I wasn't nervous. I don't mind speaking publicly (apart from the inevitable rash) and truth be told I quite like it.
So it hadn't really occurred to me to be nervous until twitter started chirping in my ear. My fellow auditioners were plenty nervous.

The power of suggestion should not be underestimated. The butterflies began to gather. I started to wonder if sharing my sad story was the right move. I haven't really written about my mother publicly - is now the right time? If people are expecting to laugh will my grief fall flat? I am reminded of the sometime anchor that is a name like mine. If I am sad or grumpy it's an instant pun. Should I stick with my schtick?

I don't want to. I have a story to tell. It feels ready to come out. This seems like the place. So why the nerves? Reading the other participants posts and tweets I see that there is a common difficulty in telling your story. Wondering how it will be heard. Wondering if being so vulnerable is a risk worth taking. It got me thinking that there must be a root cause for this commom anxiety.

Don't tell tales jumped into my mind. Actually it was more like "Don't tell tales!!" thundered at me by the adults in my past. Is that where the problem starts? The constant childhood assertion that we should not tell what is bursting to come out of us. Some perceived injustice or grievance that seems so important to share - squashed down in three words.

Well I'm an adult now dammit. I WILL tell my tale. So I did.
It was over in a flash. The two producers were friendly and encouraging but I couldn't tell you what they said. As I left I realized it had been a blur. I wondered how dancers do it. So much preparation for minutes of performance, followed by little feedback then a long wait. It had taken me longer to find a parking space than the entire audition process lasted.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. Do one thing each day that scares you. Well unless looking in the mirror first thing in the morning counts, I certainly don't make that mantra a daily habit, but perhaps I can have credit for doing one thing that really scares me once in a while.

Whether I make it into the show or not, I tried. It stirred up my pulse and got my head out of mommyville for a while.
Perhaps telling tales is not such a bad thing after all.

A Little Off Topic.

I met The President. When I say met - I was close enough to hear his voice without a microphone. Close enough to see the detail on his tie. Close enough to receive intense scrutiny by a secret service agent. It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life.

I was sent a flyer that he was coming to the Bay Area and you could buy tickets. I'm still not sure why. I am not a registered Democrat, I'm not even an American citizen. Either way - I was immediately intrigued. I looked at The Husband and we agreed that this was something we'd like to do. I applied. Easy. It was so easy in fact that immediately I paid (not a large amount of money) I thought that I had just been scammed. I turned to my trusty pal Google which reliably informed me that The President and The First Lady were indeed coming to California for a three day campaign fundraising spree.

Being the introspective kind I spend several days wondering why I had a low thrumming in my belly. Why was I so excited by this? I realized that in no small part I was having a 'Jenny from the block' moment. I grew up on, what you Americans endearingly call, a housing project. My family expectations were that I would leave high school with enough skills to get a steady job as a secretary or even at a bank. Only until I got married of course. So for little ole' me to be in the same room as arguably the most powerful man in the entire world felt like some kind of achievement. Of course I wasn't going because he personally invited me to recognize my achievements as say a mother, blogger, OT or just general all round fabulous person. I did pay for the experience but let's not nit pick.

Next came the most important question of all. What would I wear? I was heavily comforted by the fact that (my soon to be new pal) Michelle Obama likes to wear dresses from Target. The information we were sent recommended comfortable clothes. I remember thinking this odd. I now know they were planning for the fact that we would wait outside in an unbelievably long line and heels and a LBD would have made me miserable.

The day came and I found myself giddy. As a mom, I first had to juggle children and childcare but I did it all with an accelerated pulse. When The Husband and I were finally in the car, on our way, I was like a teenager in line to see Justin Bieber. The two hour, wrapped around the block line only dampened my enthusiasm a little. We enjoyed a floor show from some really random political activists. Each to their own and all that but there really were some obscure themes.

We finally cleared security and got inside. It was a random seating assignment and we were eight rows from the stage. I wasn't expecting a stage. I was sold a 'cocktail reception with The President.' It's all in the interpretation. There were cocktails for sale and The President was going to be there. My plan of dazzling him with some witty political banter evaporated. Also - no Michelle. It was all too exciting for me to care.

We listened to a few speeches from locals, one from a 49ers player and the Obama 2012 SF co-coordinator. Then Chris Cornell of Soundgarden came out. Now we had The Husbands attention. He sang a simple acoustic set including Black Hole Sun and then for Whitney - I will Always Love you.
It seemed random and unrelated but he was good and I did really feel it upped the 'money's worth' factor.

Then he was there, striding across the stage with that enigmatic smile of his. He spoke for 35 minutes. The first ten were pretty standard rally fare. Then a women came running down one of the aisles ranting about something - she was 'removed' within seconds and it seemed like it broke the ice. The speech that had been so carefully placed on the podium for him seemed forgotten. He started speaking from his heart. He talked about the promises he made on the campaign trail on 2008 and how people were disappointed he hadn't delivered. he talked humbly about the mistakes he had made, the things he had to learn and the realities of politics. The molasses involved in every step of the way. The burden of the financial recession which he didn't create but was expected to fix in five minutes. He reminded his wavering devotees that he had been very clear that change was going to be hard. He talked about what he would do with another four years. I found him to be genuine, humble, charismatic, funny, realistic and entirely captivating. When he came down and shook hands with people at the end I saw him listen intently despite the crush around him. I saw him smile with his whole being. He struck me as someone who's heart was in the right place, who's desire to do the right thing was his true motivation. I was impressed. Not to mention that he is devastatingly handsome.

I love to know how things work. I like to see behind the scenes. The 'real' side to every story. To that end the Secret Service men fascinated me. They were without doubt incredibly intimidating. I was left in no doubt that any one of them could take me down with their pinky finger. They talked into their sleeves - just like in the movies. Their eyes bored holes into you making you instantly fear that perhaps you had an AK47 in your back pocket by mistake. I watched them frisk those who got close enough to hug Obama while they were hugging. I feel confident the huggers didn't even notice it happening. I have never before seen the solid bulk of six foot four muscle wriggle into the gap between two humans with such grace and ease and authority. It was like a very carefully choreographed ballet with wrestlers in suits.

Then it was over and we were bustled out into the still closed San Francisco streets. It was an entirely fantastic experience. One I will never forget. Bucket List worthy. AND they let me bring a camera......

Real Women and Real writing.

This is why I love blogging -I came across THIS and it's so good I just have to share it with you. Enjoy!

Be My Valentine.

I remember the agony of high school on Valentine's day. You could put a Valentine in a box at school and at some point during the day the Sixth Year kids would come round and deliver them. The agony of wondering if I would get one and if so who it would be from. The crushing certainty that the 'it' girls would get at least four apiece. Several years were spent pretending I didn't care with all the other cardless in the room. Then one year the biggest envelope in the basket was for me - it was a moment of excruciating embarrassment and immeasurable triumph. All previous years pain erased by that bright pink envelope. It is only now that I see how disturbing the whole scenario was.

So, the grade school approach of one for everyone in the class soothes me. Knowing that the girls will have several years before the soul scaring ritual of waiting and hoping starts - is comforting. The comfort makes me uncomfortable.
This holiday likely causes more sadness, sorrow and loneliness than any other - a huge part of me wants no part of it.
The Husband and I opted out a long time ago. We don't make dinner reservations because we found restaurants inflating their prices for this day. We make our cards and share little homemade or edible treats. We keep it simple and we make it about love. Love for our family, friends, our neighbors, the school bus driver, the crossing guard - we make it a day of expressing our love for our 'village'. It's nice. I have a happy glow. I want to turn the tide.
It shouldn't be exclusive. Sure feel free to celebrate with your sweetie but let's not do it to the exclusion of all others. Stop by an elderly neighbor today and bring a muffin or some chocolate. Tell the post man you appreciate him. Wave a car out. I think you'll get a smile in return.

Smile sweetly when your eight year old tells you at 7.05am that she was supposed to bring a treat for a party at school today.
(No mention of that while we made 24 Valentines over the last few days.) Feel the glow when you manage to pull off providing 24 treats by the 7.30 am departure for the school bus. One animal cracker each totally counts.

I have about four years left to bring this whole Valentine's thing back into scale. Join me?

The Scarlet Letter

Being the source of an illness out break at school is the fastest ticket to social exile there is. In our defense it's unfair to 100% pin it on us - it could have come from anyone.

The Three year old came down with Fifths Disease (you should hear dramatic sounding music in your head about now) or as it's also known - Slap Cheek (switch your soundtrack to a clown car horn.) Her first mistake was to start developing symptoms while at school. By spiking a high temperature and asking to lie down, she managed to draw maximum attention to herself.
As I wasn't able to pick her up early - everyone got to see her in all her plague ridden glory. If there had been a bell ringing it would have been less conspicuous. The vomiting didn't help I'm sure. No chance of sending her for the rest of that week. Sigh.

We dutifully trekked to the doctor. Nothing I enjoy more than paying an expensive insurance co-pay to hear it's a virus that requires nothing more than rest and ibuprofen. Not to mention being no further than two inches from mummy for the next three days. The one valuable thing learned at the Doctor's office - we shouldn't be in touch with pregnant women - especially in the first trimester.

Here's where the difficulty comes in. How do you handle that? A sign, a t-shirt? Ring the aforementioned bell and shout "unsafe for pregnant women" loudly? Since the incubation is up to 21 days, The Husband, The Eight year old and myself are all potential bio hazards at this point. Do I send out a notice to everyone at the eight year old's school? Should the husband stay home from work? Should I shop alone at the market at 10pm only? The three year old got it somewhere so should I just accept that it's a very common virus (Fifth in the world as it happens) and it can't be that infectious?

Sending the info out to the three year olds class was a given - they were definitely exposed. The response was mixed. Now at the risk of sounding like an experienced (some might say pious) second time mom - those newer moms are a panicky bunch.
We don't have Cholera. It's a very common (did I mention Fifth most common?) childhood virus. Pre-schools are the petri dish of childhood. You attend - you'll get sick. Some say it's a good thing, developing immunity and all that. Some (perhaps less medically qualified but wise all the same people) say it's just a giant pain in the derriere. Either way - it comes with the territory.

Our first day back, I definitely observed a wide berth approach from some parents. The not so subtle (think Spanish Inquisition) style 'conversation' at drop off. The studious observation of the Three year old for signs and symptoms. Pregnant momma's that's a whole different thing - I was fully happy for them to give me a Hazmat suit. I am well aware of the those in glass houses principal but let's face it - this didn't stop me giving stink eye to the mom of the kid with the runny nose.