My Glamorous Life as a Rock Star’s Wife

Photo source

What’s the difference between a large pizza and a musician? 


A large pizza can feed a family of four.

It’s an old joke, and perhaps one even rooted in a bit of truth. We artsy types aren’t exactly celebrated for our ability to hold “straight” jobs. Still, Mr. Wright doesn’t completely fit the stereotype of Starving Musician—he has other skills that people actually pay him for, like selling real estate and lobbying politicians.

You wouldn’t know it by his last gig, though. I’m pretty sure he ran the gamut of stereotypical behaviors for musicians.

Always arrive late. The musician must always arrive late; so late, in fact, the people who hired him must be scratching their heads at 30 minutes before the curtain, wondering if he will actually show up. Mr. Wright met this challenge by making an eight-hour drive before showtime, and getting stuck in Labor Day weekend traffic.

Be disorganized. The musician must always leave an amp cord or microphone behind, causing the entire band to scramble and pray for miraculous provision before sound check. Mr. Wright is a drummer, so he doesn’t have an amplifier or cords, but he rose to the occasion by tossing every piece of his kit into the back of our Expedition, willy-nilly, and forgetting to pack spare equipment—a glaring oversight noticed mid-show, when his snare drum experienced a blowout.

Have an attitude of expectation. The musician must earnestly believe every person in his life is there to appreciate his talent and yearn to serve him. As Mr. Wright casually grabbed a glass of wine and chatted with his bandmates, Pockets and I were left to unpack the equipment. If you are the child or spouse of a musician, you may as well get used to being a roadie. The role is not optional.

Be broke. The musician must bum money off friends and relatives, because his gig money rarely pays his bar tab. Mr. Wright “borrowed” my last ten bucks cash, right before sending me off in a car with a gas gauge hanging a half-inch below “E.”

Be mysterious. The musician must have an air of mystery about him. People must wonder what creative beauty is churning in that brain of his. Mr. Wright actually failed on this count—at least as far as I’m concerned—but I’ve known him for more than ten minutes. 90% of the time he’s thinking about one thing, and the other 10% of the time, he’s thinking about food. Still, those dark sunglasses he wore probably fooled some of the audience.

That’s my man… over forty, father of seven, and still living his rock and roll dreams. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing Spandex onstage. Back off, ladies—I saw him first!

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

Naïveté at the Nativity - Revisited

This is one of my favorite holiday posts, because it demonstrates so perfectly the dynamics of my family. In fact, it may just become an annual post. Enjoy, and please feel free to share your holiday program mishaps... You know, so I don't feel so dysfunctional and whatnot.

My kids make up eighty percent of the children and youth in our church, so there’s little question that they will be cast in the Christmas production each year. The competition for roles is—what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yes… “nonexistent.” In fact, it’s not unusual for a single child to play two or thirteen different roles in each year’s program.

In 2006, a three-month-old Snugglebug made her stage debut as baby Jesus. During rehearsals, we’d placed her in the wooden manger (filled with shredded paper instead of hay, due to her asthma) several times so that she wouldn’t be startled by the sensation. There was some discussion of a song that would be sung during the manger scene, but we never ran the scene with the music. Our director said things like, “This is where everyone is gathered around baby Jesus in the manger. Is the baby in the manger? Okay. Now, there will be music here, so everyone will just be still and look at the baby, okay? Okay! When the music is over, the curtains will close, and the baby can come out of the manger.”

We actually didn’t hear the music until the performance. Mr. Wright and I were backstage, assisting with costume changes. There were many. Shepherds became angels who became sheep who became shepherds, and so on. Snugglebug was napping in her infant carrier, and I held out hope that she’d stay that way through her big scene. Naturally, just before her cue, she woke up, hungry and fussy.

A volley of urgent whispering took place behind the drawn curtain, with Princess (“Mary”) asking, “What do I do? She’s crying. I can’t take her out there while she’s crying,” and me thrusting a bottle into her hand and directing her to “wing it.”

Nestled into the manger with Princess holding the bottle for her, Snugglebug calmed down, and no one even brought up the anachronistic use of the plastic bottle that fed the infant savior. Then, the song started. It was “What Child is This?” With two verses down and just the slightest discontent stirrings from Snugglebug, I thought we were in the clear. I prepared for the curtain to close, planning to whisk her offstage before she let loose with any serious wailing, but the music went on. And on. There must be thirty-seven verses of “What Child is This?” that I have never heard.

Snugglebug began making the small whimpering sound I recognized as the prelude to full-volume, fist-clenching, rage-filled screaming. Mr. Wright heard it, too. We looked at each other. “What do we do?” we mouthed.

As luck would have it, I married a genius. Mr. Wright grabbed a pair of donkey ears from the pile of costume accessories, put them on, and entered the stage. What’s one more donkey, in a manger scene?

It did raise a few eyebrows when the large donkey stole the baby Jesus from the manger, but I’m sure the wisemen would have called in an Amber Alert if they truly thought there was cause for alarm.

This year, Curlytop and Snugglebug couldn’t wait for their cue to enter as angels and followed “Joseph” and “Mary” on the road to Jerusalem. “Oh, look!” a chuckling Joseph ad-libbed. “The Lord has sent guardian angels to watch over us on our journey. God is so good!”

The unscripted guardian angels appeared in several scenes, including the manger scene. When Snugglebug saw her Cabbage Patch doll resting in the wooden trough, she shouted, “That’s not baby Jesus!” over the playing of “Mary Did You Know?” With haste, our precious cherub yanked the doll from the manger and tossed it across the stage.

Taking note of the empty manger, Curlytop pulled off her wings and crawled inside. “I’m not baby Jesus,” she announced to those who may have been confused. “I’m not an angel now. I’m a little girl. I’m gonna use the baby Jesus bed, okay?”

In fact, the only scene Curlytop and Snugglebug didn’t participate in was the Choir of Angels scene they were cast in. Instead, they ran, screaming, down the aisles of the church. It’s tough raising divas.

Call me naïve. Call me an optimist. Call me out of touch with reality. The fact is, the church Christmas program only happens once a year. That means I have ample time to forget everything that went wrong with the previous year’s program, and get excited about the current year’s performance.

Merry Christmas, and may the Lord richly bless you in the coming year!

Woodinville Wine Country, Washington - Woodinville: Bottles, Books, And Babes

Woodinville Wine Country, Washington - Woodinville: Bottles, Books, And Babes

You like books, right? Since you're reading, I'm gonna guess you like me a little bit, too. I know you'll love my friends, Corbin Lewars and Monica Murphy LeMoine, when you meet them.

What? That's not enough to get you off the sofa on a Saturday afternoon? What if I threw in FREE WINE?

If you're in the greater Seattle metro area, be sure to swing by Edmonds Winery - in the Woodinville warehouse district - between 2:00 and 4:00 the afternoon of Saturday, August 14th for free wine tasting, readings from hot mama authors, and book signings.

(Click the image and link for more information!)

If You Read Naked, They Will Come

I may have mentioned, on occasion, I'm terrified of reading in public.

Someone suggested to me the old trick of imagining the audience naked in order to put me at ease. Have you SEEN my audiences? Sure, they're fine, handsome folks, but between people from my church and family members, I think it best not to imagine them, sans clothing.

Perhaps the trick is to arrive naked, myself. That way, the audience will be too distracted to notice how nervous I am.

That being said, I'll be you can't wait for my reading tomorrow at Odd Hours Books. Can you? It's Cindy Davis's tenth anniversary as the owner of Odd Hours. That's a really great accomplishment! I'll be there from 3-5:00pm to help her celebrate, and hope to sell a few books in the process. Check out the event flyer (click to enlarge):

If you're on Facebook, you can RSVP for the event here.

Hope to see you there!

(Banner and bunny ears added to my nekkid self by GonzoJenny. You can thank her. Imagine the alternative! Well, actually, DON'T.)

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/

Upcoming Events and Appearances

View past events here.

Riverwalk Books

116 E. Woodin Ave.
Chelan, WA 98816

Saturday, April 13, 2013

1PM-4PM

 



 

New on My List of Cool Places

SweetRiver Bakery.

Deliciously funky, amazingly friendly management, excellent service and a wonderful menu. What's more, Mr. Wright's band, Waterdog, is performing at this very minute in the courtyard.

Also - and this is important - beer, wine, and superb coffee.

Near Pateros? Head on down!

Like I Said... Fame and Fortune

Maybe you thought I was exaggerating a wee bit when I said I was on the road to fame and fortune.

O, ye of little faith!

I've recently been published in Hip Mama #45. In fact, if you look closely, you'll see I made the cover ("Child Rearing Lessons from the Frat House")! Since Hip Mama was the original breakout indie mama zine, I've always wanted to be published within its prestigious pages, and now I've succeeded. I actually cried a little when my issue arrived and I saw I got a cover blurb.

You can buy it here.

I've also been included in the new Mamaphiles! This is #4, and it's called Raising Hell. In case you didn't know, Mamaphiles is a collaborative effort of the superstars of mama zinehood. Oh, yeah... they let some daddy zinesters in now. Anyway, believe me when I say it's a BIG DEAL and an honor to be included in the project.

I don't have any copies printed yet, so you can order it for now here or here.

When I get back from Japan, I'll have some printed up and you can purchase it through me.

As if ALL THAT weren't exciting enough, I'm going to be doing a reading in my beloved city of Chelan at the historic Ruby Theater on February 24th. The event will be put on by Write on the River, and it's FREE. Check out the deets!

So, yeah. I'm pretty much a rockstar these days. Somehow, I still remember to come back and write for you good people...



What good news or accomplishment has made you happy recently? Tell me all about it!

Naïveté at the Nativity

My kids make up eighty percent of the children and youth in our church, so there’s little question that they will be cast in the Christmas production each year. The competition for roles is—what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yes… “nonexistent.” In fact, it’s not unusual for a single child to play two or thirteen different roles in each year’s program.

In 2006, a three-month-old Snugglebug made her stage debut as baby Jesus. During rehearsals, we’d placed her in the wooden manger (filled with shredded paper instead of hay, due to her asthma) several times so that she wouldn’t be startled by the sensation. There was some discussion of a song that would be sung during the manger scene, but we never ran the scene with the music. Our director said things like, “This is where everyone is gathered around baby Jesus in the manger. Is the baby in the manger? Okay. Now, there will be music here, so everyone will just be still and look at the baby, okay? Okay! When the music is over, the curtains will close, and the baby can come out of the manger.”

We actually didn’t hear the music until the performance. Mr. Wright and I were backstage, assisting with costume changes. There were many. Shepherds became angels who became sheep who became shepherds, and so on. Snugglebug was napping in her infant carrier, and I held out hope that she’d stay that way through her big scene. Naturally, just before her cue, she woke up, hungry and fussy.

A volley of urgent whispering took place behind the drawn curtain, with Princess (“Mary”) asking, “What do I do? She’s crying. I can’t take her out there while she’s crying,” and me thrusting a bottle into her hand and directing her to “wing it.”

Nestled into the manger with Princess holding the bottle for her, Snugglebug calmed down, and no one even brought up the anachronistic use of the plastic bottle that fed the infant savior. Then, the song started. It was “What Child is This?” With two verses down and just the slightest discontent stirrings from Snugglebug, I thought we were in the clear. I prepared for the curtain to close, planning to whisk her offstage before she let loose with any serious wailing, but the music went on. And on. There must be thirty-seven verses of “What Child is This?” that I have never heard.

Snugglebug began making the small whimpering sound I recognized as the prelude to full-volume, fist-clenching, rage-filled screaming. Mr. Wright heard it, too. We looked at each other. “What do we do?” we mouthed.

As luck would have it, I married a genius. Mr. Wright grabbed a pair of donkey ears from the pile of costume accessories, put them on, and entered the stage. What’s one more donkey, in a manger scene?

It did raise a few eyebrows when the large donkey stole the baby Jesus from the manger, but I’m sure the wisemen would have called in an Amber Alert if they truly thought there was cause for alarm.

This year, Curlytop and Snugglebug couldn’t wait for their cue to enter as angels and followed “Joseph” and “Mary” on the road to Jerusalem. “Oh, look!” a chuckling Joseph ad-libbed. “The Lord has sent guardian angels to watch over us on our journey. God is so good!”

The unscripted guardian angels appeared in several scenes, including the manger scene. When Snugglebug saw her Cabbage Patch doll resting in the wooden trough, she shouted, “That’s not baby Jesus!” over the playing of “Mary Did You Know?” With haste, our precious cherub yanked the doll from the manger and tossed it across the stage.

Taking note of the empty manger, Curlytop pulled off her wings and crawled inside. “I’m not baby Jesus,” she announced to those who may have been confused. “I’m not an angel now. I’m a little girl. I’m gonna use the baby Jesus bed, okay?”

In fact, the only scene Curlytop and Snugglebug didn’t participate in was the Choir of Angels scene they were cast in. Instead, they ran, screaming, down the aisles of the church. It’s tough raising divas.

Call me naïve. Call me an optimist. Call me out of touch with reality. The fact is, the church Christmas program only happens once a year. That means I have ample time to forget everything that went wrong with the previous year’s program, and get excited about the current year’s performance.

Merry Christmas, and may the Lord richly bless you in the coming year!

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.

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?

Confidential to Crimes of the Heart Attendees

Should you find yourself in Chelan's Performing Arts Center, and should you find yourself taking in a performance of Crimes of the Heart, and should you find yourself witnessing a scene in which Lenny and Babe are laughing maniacally in a sleep-deprived hysteria...

...just know that laughing like that, night after night, is tough. Really tough.

We employ some extraordinary visual images to inspire such fits of outrageous laughter.

Buy me a few drinks after the show tonight, and I'll spill the beans... It's bad. Very bad...

EAT YOUR "HEART" OUT!

Did you make it to opening night of Chelan Valley Players' newest production, Crimes of the Heart?



If not, you don't know what you're missing! The play, written by Beth Henley, is 48 hours in the life of the Magrath sisters, Lenny, Meg and Babe.

Lenny's just turned thirty, although no one but her snooty cousin, Chick, has bothered to remember... She's bemoaning her lack of a husband and inability to have children. To make matters worse, her beloved horse has just been struck dead. By lightning. (Exciting side note: The role of Lenny is played by your beloved Gonzo Mama!)


And then, there are her sisters...

Meg has recently abandoned her singing career in Hollywood due to some... stress-related problems (isn't that what all the celebrities call it these days?). She's come home to Hazelhurst, Mississippi (where's she bound to run into her old flame, Doc Porter) to help out with the whole situation about Babe...

Oh, Babe. Sweet little Babe. Babe's just shot her husband in the stomach, and it looks like she may be heading on off to jail...

This black comedy will have you eating your "Heart" out, I promise!

We have five more shows:

• Tonight (April 25th) at 8:00 p.m.
• Sunday, April 26th at 2:00 p.m.
• Friday, May 1st at 8:00 p.m.
• Saturday, May 2nd at 8:00 p.m.
• Sunday, May 3rd at 2:00 p.m.

Can't make it to beautiful Lake Chelan? I understand. You can still watch the teaser and give it a Digg or a Stumble. Share it on your Facebook page, Tweet it... Enjoy and share!

Sometimes, I'm the One Who Sucks

When I auditioned for Crimes of the Heart, I sort of secretly hoped I wouldn't get cast.

It sounds awful, I know, but I really have a lot going on. I kept thinking about the seven kids who needed help with homework, rides to and from therapy appointments, a mama to cook dinner for them and make sure they got their teeth brushed at bedtime. I stressed over the rehearsal schedule, my column deadlines, publication dates for my magazine, Library Board meetings, Friends of the Library meetings... It was all too much.

When I got the call from our amazing director, asking me to take the part of Lenny, I called Mr. Wright... in tears. "How can I take this part? Who will feed the kids? How will I ever find time to learn my lines?" I wailed.

"It will be fine," he soothed. "I can cook, you know... and I'll help you learn your lines. I'll run lines with you. Take the part!"

Mr. Wright and I both have a history in theater. He knows as well as I do the commitment involved in a show, and yet he was reassuring me, encouraging me to return to the stage. Feeling better, I accepted the role.

After the first couple of read-throughs, I was serious about learning my lines. I brought my script home after rehearsal and handed it to him. "I'm ready. Run lines with me," I insisted. Ever supportive, an exhausted Mr. Wright took the book, opened it, began reading (to my delight, with different voices for each character), and... promptly fell asleep halfway through the first scene.

It wasn't an isolated incident. As it turns out, Beth Henley's script is the answer to any sort of insomnia problem my husband may have had. It never failed. He'd open the book, and within the first five pages, would fall dead asleep in an inexplicable fit of narcolepsy. As a result, I learned my first five lines really, really well... The others? Not so much.

It was frustrating, to say the least. With ten days until opening night, after a particularly horrid rehearsal that had me dropping lines throughout the show like proverbial hot potatoes, I called Mr. Wright on the way home from rehearsal. "You've failed me," I announced. "I don't know my lines, and I'm pretty sure it's your fault. You said you'd help me, but you don't! You fall asleep every time I need to run lines, and..." On and on it went, for the entire twenty minute drive home.

As I pulled into the driveway, my much-berated husband met me with a hug. "I'm sorry. I will help you run lines tonight. I've made a whole pot of coffee, and I'll drink the whole thing if that's what it takes to stay awake and help you." He put his arm around me and walked me into the house. "I'm serious. I'll stay up with you for as long as it takes. Now, where's your script?"

Backstage at the Performing Arts Center, of course. Oops.

Last night was particularly grueling - the first night of Hell Week. Again, I arrived home from rehearsal in a state of irritation at forgotten lines. Miraculously, I remembered to bring my script home. "I've been waiting for you to get home, so I could help you run lines," Mr. Wright offered.

He was good. He was so good! He ran every single scene with me, right up until...

Crimes of the Heart - I've Committed a Few

The Gonzo Mama has come out of retirement, after twelve years offstage.

The last theater production I was in was A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, back when I had only one kid. My remarkably similar-looking best friend and I played the Geminae twins. We didn't have any lines, but it's been suggested that we stole the show.

Cue LL Cool J lyrics: "Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years..." I have been here for years, dramatic as always. I just haven't had an official audience, outside my poor husband and kiddos.

The Mama is co-starring in the upcoming Chelan Valley Players production of Crimes of the Heart, written by Beth Henley. I'm playing Lenny, the eldest Magrath sister, a spinster at the ripe old age of thirty and barren, to boot. (One can only dream.)

If'n yer 'round Chelan, Washington's parts, ya'll outta come on down an' see the show!

We open Friday, April 24th, and run through Sunday, May 3rd. The show runs Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00 p.m. and Sunday matinees are at 2:00 p.m.

You won't want to miss wonderful scenes like these:

The Magrath sisters reminisce over the family photo album:


"How could you tell about my boyfriend from the lonely hearts club?!"


"You have no respect for other people's property! You just take what you want... you just TAKE it!"


"You get out of my house! GET OUT!" (Yes, that tent I am wearing is actually, truly, my costume...)


Seeing me in the costume alone is worth the price of admission.

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.