Get the "F" Outta Here!

That's right... You know what word I'm talking about.

It's that four-letter word that makes you feel dirty; makes you feel like running and hiding, lest anyone see how uncomfortable it makes you. C'mon, now, spell it with me...

F - E - A - R!

Confession: I am terrified to read in public. I mean, part of the reason I write is so I don't have to talk to people. Don't get me wrong - I love people. I like to think I'm as much a "people person" as the next guy, and with Mr. Wright being "the next guy," I try to be a tough act to follow. That is, when I'm not actually doing an "act."

If you know me in real life, you know I'll talk your ear off. You know how tough it is to have a conversation with me, because I just won't. stop. talking. Maybe you've seen my theatrical efforts, watched me onstage playing a spinster (Crimes of the Heart), a courtesan (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum), or an ad executive (Twelve Angry Jurors; an adaptation of Twelve Angry Men). Maybe you've witnessed the spectacle that is my belly dancing effort (if so, my most sincere apologies).

The thing is, none of those compare to reading my work in public. I can have a one-on-one conversation with someone, even if it's more of my "one" than my companion's. I can put on a costume and become someone else. I can even comically shake my money maker with minimal humiliation, but doing literary readings makes my lunch wanna get up and dance... right up my esophagus and out my mouth.

It's just so... personal. Baring my soul to (what I hope will be) crowds of strangers adoring fans is a little -- well, soul-baring.

Do you have any tips on how to overcome stage fright? Or a secret fear of your own?

Let's get the "F" out of our lives, together!

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nettsu/4583111188/

Is This an Intervention?

I had twenty-five days in which to apply for a forty-five day special occasion permit from the Washington State Liquor Control Board. No problem.

Two days before the Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between) event, I didn't have a bartender. The morning of the event, I still didn't know if one of my acts was even going to show up. No... problem.

Twenty minutes before the show, my sound guy hadn't shown up yet, the fencing materials for the wine garden had gone mysteriously missing, one of the acts asked to combine her two performances, and gusting 98-degree winds threatened to cancel my sword dancer's act, since the looming hurricane would seriously impede her ability to balance a sword on her head. No... prob... lem?

We started exactly thirteen minutes late, but things rolled right along. Our first act, a trio of divalicious singers, wowed the crowd with their show tune extravaganza. Then, it was time to read my first piece, "The Curse of the Mothers." My mother, sadly, was unable to make the show but, I suggested, maybe it was for the best, since I didn't know how she'd feel about me sharing the family secret.

"I'M GONNA TELL HER!" came the heckler's cry. Thanks, Dad.

We had some singing. We had some reader's theater. We had Mommy-Muse Christy belly dancing. We had Mr. Wright reading "Frederick's of Halloween," from Gonzo Parenting's Text-osterone issue. We had roller dancing. I read "Good Fences Make Good Voyeurs."

So far, so good.

At some point, Riot Mama told me that her second piece was missing from her printouts. "No problem," I said. It had become my mantra. "You can read the piece I printed in the last issue of Gonzo Parenting." I handed her a copy of the zine.

I assume her first reading went well, but I can't be sure, since I was stripping in the public bathroom at the top of the hill, furiously tugging my belly dance costume over my sweat-soaked body. "I hope I wrote enough extra plugging and stalling into the emcee script," I whispered to my instructor/dance partner as we tied on our coin scarves and ran down the hill to the amphitheater, winded but ready to dance. For once, I didn't miss a single step or turn, but the heat was beginning to make me dizzy and the migraine that had started the day before was steadily increasing.

Hydrate. Electrolytes. Hydrate. Wine.

We had a reading by the other Mommy-Muse co-founder, Linda. Her mic died halfway through and had to be switched out. No problem. We had more reader's theater.

Mommy-Muse Christy read from The Belly Dance Prescription and belly danced some more. Riot Mama read her second (substitute) piece.

By this time, my head was really beginning to give me trouble. Some horrible, invisible, sadistic creature was tightening a tourniquet around my skull, and it didn't feel nice. Not one bit.

The sun was setting and it was finally cooling off. I pressed my head into the cool grass and watched the sword dancer miraculously keep the weapon balanced on her head...

As the emcee announced my third piece, I reluctantly pulled myself to my feet... and felt the vomit coming. I know this migraine symptom well; my least favorite of the "migraine attack" phase. I frantically began waving my hands at the emcee, wordlessly begging him to stall, and ran behind the boathouse to puke my innards up. N-uh-uh-uh-o p-p-p-pro-uh-uh-bleeeeghm!

Wiping my mouth, I took the stage and, somehow, shakily, read "Forget Gitmo." I was seriously beginning to wonder if I was going to make it through the rest of the show. My insides were churning, my head was preparing to implode, and I just wanted to go home, thank you very much.

More reading, more reading... My last piece, "I Hope Jesus has a Sense of Humor," was read so quickly and manically, I'm sure no one caught a word - which, considering the subject matter, might have been a good thing.

Mr. Wright finished with an awesome drum solo, Christy did closing comments, and it was finally, blessedly over! I sank back into the grass, closing my eyes. We'd pulled it off! People came! They enjoyed themselves! No one got booed off the stage! I didn't pass out!

My mental celebration was interrupted by a woman's voice. I cracked an eye open. There she was, standing over me, looking earnestly at me. I sat up.

"Hi," she said. "Great show! Listen, I coordinate resources for women in crisis. I wanted you to have my card..."

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/25802865@N08/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Bad Gratitude Monday (Even Though...)

1. Even though one of my acts canceled for the Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between) festival coming up on Saturday, I am grateful for the amazing women (and men) who are committed to making it a great show.

2. Even though the three-person belly dance that I'm performing in on Saturday has turned into a two-person dance, I am grateful for my instructor's amazing guidance and dedication in adapting it. We'll be phenomenal, I'm sure.

3. Even though my SUV is still in the shop, I am grateful that I have this car to use as a loaner:


Hot, huh? That's a Dodge Stealth, and the only reason I see for Mopar existing.


What are YOU grateful for?

Top photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/goldberg/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

The Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between) Tour in Chelan, Washington!

The talented mamas of Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between) (ME2Z) are heating things up in sunny Lake Chelan, Washington on August 1st! ME2Z is a literary and arts performance tour of moms, grandmas, and would-be moms whose mission is to celebrate motherhood and passionate creativity of women.

Pack up your beach blankets and festival chairs, because the mamas are bringing their “mamapalooza” to Chelan’s Riverwalk Park Pavilion. Presented by the Historic Downtown Chelan Association, the outdoor venue is free to the public and has plenty of lawn to lounge on while you take in the show.

This summer’s event will open with music by Two Wannabe Divas and One Real One, the “divalicious” trio comprised of CherylAnn Ellingson, Jeannie Kappple and Kathryn Castrodale, starting at 6:00 p.m.

From 7:00 to 10:00 p.m., enjoy readings by Corbin Lewars of Reality Mom Zine, Rosie Weagant Norton of Riot Mama, The Gonzo Mama’s Christina-Marie Wright, Christy Cuellar-Wentz of Mommy-Muse.com, and more.

Writer/actor/director Laura Leon Freeman will perform reader’s theater segments, and attendees will be treated to the indie folk rock stylings of Ilka Haley of Small Town Girl Productions.

Dance has been a staple of ME2Z performances since the group’s creation, and the Chelan tour will offer belly dance performances by Christy Cuellar-Wentz, Heartfelt Fitness belly dance students, and special sword-dancing and roller-dance segments by Laura Folsom of Heartfelt Fitness.

The Historic Downtown Chelan Association will provide a wine garden with wines from Hard Row to Hoe Vineyards and is planning for a fun mix of vendors during the event. More performers are being added to the program as confirmations roll in, so keep up to date by visiting MotherhoodEggtoZine.com.

For more information, call Christina-Marie at 509-670-8823 or email motherhood@motherhoodeggtozine.com.

Kind of Sexy, in that "I-Caught-a-Serial-Killer" Sort of Way

Somehow, Mr. Wright and I switched Palms today. To tell the truth, it's not a mysterious "somehow," but easily explained by a "someone" who raced out the door without actually looking at the device he plucked from the nightstand. Ahem.

I decided to make the best of it and swipe the drag queen video I promised you many days ago. Alas, the video is MIA.

It's not a total loss, though. Just look at the goodies I found on his MicroSD card:

Perhaps the most adorably goofy pic taken of Snugglebug, ever


Princess's graduation

The video of belly dancing on Earth Day: Watch as I lose my sense of direction and turn the wrong way; not once, but twice! I would be the peacock in the back. My beautiful 12 year-old daughter, Pepper, is in front of me. I made her choli (small cropped top worn in belly dance) the night before!


The Divine Miss Teri B and me, demonstrating the only thing our boobs turned out to be good for in a gay bar

In my search, I also located this dirty little secret:

Oh, I hear you. You're saying, "What's dirty about this picture? What's the secret?"

People, people... DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO THAT IS?!

Okay, on the left is Nathan Gorton. He's the Executive Officer of Snohomish County-Camano Association of REALTORS. You're right. His presence is, at a glance, neither secretive nor dirty. Actually, you can just forget Nathan is in the picture, for dirty secret purposes.

On the right is Mr. Wright. Again, not overtly dirty or secret-y.

In the middle... In the middle is Congressman Dave Reichert. He's the author of Chasing the Devil: My Twenty-Year Quest to Capture the Green River Killer.

He's my pretend boyfriend.

Some women have a thing for Sean Connery. Not me. My older-man crushing is all targeted at the Congressman. He is my only celebrity crush; kind of sexy in that "I-caught-a-serial-killer" kind of way.

A couple of years ago, I stalked him at the Capitol and introduced myself. When I saw him a year later at the Seattle First Citizen's Award banquet, he pretended to remember me, and I let him.

So here's the dirty secret: Mr. Wright went to Washington, D.C. to meet with Senator Cantwell this past week, and while he was there, he stopped in to see my pretend boyfriend, even though I wasn't with him!

Isn't that sort of like cheating on me with my pretend boyfriend?

I've Got a Bad Gratitude (I Hate Mondays)

Monday Monday, can't trust that day,
Monday Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way...
Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be
Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave, and not take me?

Every other day, every other day,
Every other day of the week is fine, yeah
But whenever Monday comes, but whenever Monday comes
You can find me cryin' all of the time...


Does anyone like Mondays? Seriously? "It's Monday... YEAH, BABY! I've waited all weekend for this!" Does anyone actually say that?

I'm going to make the best of it. I am going to be grateful today, even if it kills me. My Monday Gratitude list:

1. I have until Friday before I have to put on stage makeup again. This is a good thing, because I am seriously allergic to Max Factor's wonderful contribution to theater arts. You may not have heard, but I have the most sensitive skin in the known universe. (Thanks, Elaine, for the pic, which I shamelessly stole from LipstickDaily.com!)
   
2. BELLY DANCE! Mondays are belly dance days, and I missed last week's class because of tech rehearsal. I can't wait to go to class tonight, shimmy and undulate!
3. Coffee! I can drink coffee again for a few days! I've been off the java juice all weekend because of my show... caffeine is not so good for the voice.

What are YOU grateful for today?

So, You Think You Can Belly Dance?

As the new year begins, I am more determined than ever to attend my weekly belly dance classes. I’m not delusional. I know I’m not getting any better. The thing is, I am way more competitive and stubborn than I am devoted, and one of my fellow mamas is preparing to shake her hips for all the world to see. Well, all of the 206 area code, anyway.

Christy Cuellar-Wentz (Mommy-Muse.com) is not only a talented author and counselor, but also a fearless belly dancer. When Christy, Corbin Lewars (RealityMomZine.blogspot.com), Monica LeMoine (ExhaleZine.com) and I founded the literary performance group Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between), Christy offered to belly dance at our January 24th premiere in Seattle, “to keep the energy up.” When she found out I’d been taking classes, she invited me to perform a dance, as well.

I planned to keep my own energy up through the afternoon and evening performances with a series of triple-shot soy lattes from Starbucks, but Christy’s offer left me feeling a little wimpy. I routinely whine and complain my way through my beginners’ belly dance class, and I’m nowhere near ready to go public.

I’ve heard belly dance is a great way for mothers to reclaim their bodies after new motherhood; that it helps women see themselves as sensual, creative creatures; and that it can help improve body image. Sadly, none of those benefits apply to me.

I have no interest in reclaiming this body, with its Mississippi Delta stretch marks and loose skin that will never, ever shrink back to its proper place. It’s a pathetic sight, watching my four-count shimmy last exactly twelve counts by the time everything stops jiggling. As for the Chest Lifts… let’s just say that, absent an extended vacation from gravity, my chest is not going to lift in any meaningful way anytime soon.

Anyone who has actually seen my attempts at belly dance would ever, ever describe the activity as sensual. Admittedly, there is a great deal of creative movement involved on my part the day after class, when basic activities like sitting and walking are elevated to new heights of pain as every muscle in my body throbs.

My husband imagines that my belly dancing looks something like the graceful, fluid art that takes place on the instructional videos I’ve been collecting. He is disappointed that I won’t perform my new “talent” for him. Obviously, this is a man who did not witness my high school cheerleading career. It will be a very sad day for him when he comes home early and sees me trying to emulate Snake Arms while teetering in Egyptian Basic pose, looking like a stroke victim. There is absolutely no grace in the left half of my body.

I’m resolving to continue, though. Even though I have yet to gain an elementary level of coordination, I’m gleaning positive results. For an hour each week, I get to be a woman, alongside other women. In that hour, there is no family to tend to, nothing on the stove, and no crying babies. I can focus on something that is exclusively, indulgently, just for me. The bonus is that I’ve dropped a pants size since starting a few months ago.

As added incentive, I’ve purchased a silver-white gown for an upcoming event. Although at the time of ordering I was unfamiliar with the color “silver-white,” I now understand it to be the color of masochism, as it reflects light off every bump and lump on my tummy and thighs, grotesquely magnifying them to science fiction proportions.

So look out, Christy! Come this time next year, I’ll be ready to take you up on your offer to belly dance in public. As a preventative measure, I’d like to bar any neurologists from attending my performance, lest my art be medically mistaken for seizure.