If Only Cher Had My Son

Cher can't do math. It's hard for her when people give her a phone number and they go too fast. Our house number has eight digits in it, I keep it written down on a piece of paper in my purse inside pocket so when I go to the post office to pick up my mail, I can give the clerk the first two numbers in the right order.

After 14 years, I still keep my best friend's phone number taped behind my kitchen wall calendar because I always dial 8-5-9 and it's 6-5-9.

Numbers strike terror in me.

+++

The first time I felt the prickle of a hot panic was in the first grade, with math. I had been able to do the problems along with the rest of the class until that morning, when there were smaller numbers sitting above bigger numbers. I stared at the white sheet and drew hash marks at the bottom of the page and tried to find a way to take seven things away from three things. The other kids in class finished and walked their sheets up to the teacher's wire basket while I tried to not scratch my stinging scalp wondering how this could be done.

I had to stay in and miss recess until I found out how to take a big piece out a little piece. I never did and the teacher wrote in red, “NEEDS TO PRACTICE HER SUBTRACTION.” I remember this because the letters were big enough to block out the two rows of four problems each.

One day I knew how to do math, the next day I didn't. Things had changed and I don't know how, but everyone in the class seemed to have been told about the shift from adding together, which I could do, to taking away, which I found out that thinking flipping the numbers would work, was wrong.

By the time we moved out of second grade and subtraction and into third grade and multiplication, I had grown too scared of numbers to understand what the teacher was saying, and the worry that I wouldn't understand blocked my brain from following along in the book. Too hard too hard too hard. Numbers didn't look the same way to me that they did to the other kids.

 

When it came to learning how to tell time, I felt the locked knee paralysis of not being able to decipher the code of numbers again. Everyone in class was able to answer the teacher's question about what the clock on the classroom wall read. I wasn't. My mother thought that having my own watch would help and so one day she came home with a paper bag from the department store. Inside was a square box with the gold letters TIMEX etched along the bottom. I felt a wide-eyed panic.

Please don't be a watch please don't be a watch. Of course, that's what it was. A neon orange patent leather band with Snoopy on the dial's face. Large psychedelic numbers swam in wavy shapes around Snoopy and they matched the near fainting I felt at what I knew would happen with a watch this hard to ignore. “What time is it, Alexandra?” Hell if I would ever know the answer to that question.

My mother made me wear the watch to school, she strapped it as tight as she could but when you're 56 pounds, and the watchband could circle a small cat, there's no way to keep a neon wrist undercover. When I got to the classroom, I tried to keep my sweater over my wrist but I forgot my head at recess and was leaning away while pulling at the step's metal railing and when I looked up, my eyes locked on nosy Jackie Peterson's face. I saw her mouth open with a flash of the devil when she lit on a flash of orange at the end of my arm. Since everyone knew I couldn't tell time, she screamed, “Alexandra! What time is it! You can't tell us because you don't know!”

After that, I would wear the watch to school but take it off and hide it in my pocket.

Bad at math, bad at numbers, and tens of stories more about the struggle in grade school, high school, college, when it came to work with numbers.

+++

I have three children, they have no fear of math and took to it with a love for patterns, completing puzzles, pride in working through problems and finding the answer. They know how much I am in awe of their minds and ability to learn things with a relaxed ease I know nothing about.

My children try to teach me, they explain things to me with a tenderness and patience that makes a lump in my throat. “See, mom, if you look at things this way, you'll recognize a pattern.” “I can't, you guys, I don't see it like that.” “Just try it, try to think of it a different way this time.”

There's a field trip I'll be chaperoning with my youngest son's seventh grade class soon. It's one of the last field trips I'll take with my children, the parents around here are heavily involved in kids and school and the chance that your name gets chosen is about every two years. My name was picked, I won the lottery. The class is going to a financial park. I have to arrive an hour early for training and learning the day's session of teaching basic accounting to my son's class.

My scalp is prickly. My mind is already stiffening up with the wall that doesn't allow numbers in.

“Auggie, I don't know how I'm going to do this field trip. I don't want to miss it, I won't get another chance to go, I know it. But it's a finance park, it's math.”

“I already have it figured out. I'm going to make sure I'm in your group and I'll stand right next to you. I'll answer the questions before you have to ask them. You don't have to worry. I'll be there.”

+++

My son brought some worksheets home today, he's working on a speed record with his Rubik's Cube. He explains how any pattern can be solved by understanding the steps needed to get there. I want to follow along, and I concentrate hard. But the squares look random to me. He walks me through the steps he's taking to get the cube's squares aligned. He's almost finished, all that's left is his favorite part--the satisfying last turn of solving the puzzle, when he turns to me with the cube.

“Here, mom, you do it. You'll never get to finish a Rubik's cube on your own so you do the final click.”

My heart heaves with the love he has for me, for his patience and his acceptance of who his mother is.

I'm bad at math, I'm as bad as Cher is in taking down a phone number. But I'm about to do one thing that Cher has never done. I reach over and accept the offering from my son, and I give the cube its final twist.

 

 

* * *

Auditioning For the First Time? Here's Some Real World Tips

DEEP BREATH. SMILE. You Are AWESOME.

 

Listen To Your Mother Milwaukee holds its 2016 show auditions this weekend and our production team nerves are sizzling and cracking right along with our soon to be heard auditionees.

Whether on the production side or the presenter side, we all want the same thing: to be and bring our best to our audition. And you know what can be a bothersome intruder during these times? Our jingly jangly nerves. The same ones that make our knees knock and our shoulders shiver. We can't help it, our excitement and palpable joy of connecting through our written work builds inside of us until we are ready to pop. Sometimes that comes out in a helium squeaky voice, tight and in a pitch you've never heard before. Whut? Other times we sound like Darth Vader after he's climbed a flight of stairs.

Me? I sound like I’m standing on a foot massager when I go outside of my comfort zone.

In the past few years, I’ve taken some classes on public speaking and have been fortunate to have worked one-on-one with successful onstage presenters. Of course, I’ve taken notes along the way, because I write everything down -- it's what I do.

Here’s what I have to share with you in the sincere hope that a few tricks of the public speaking trade will help to calm those Audition Nerves:

-Begin by reminding yourself that excitement is good. Though we may hear our shaky voice differently in our bone conduction heads, chances are your audience will hear it as joy, energy, enthusiasm!

-Practice and practice. Practice reading slowly and clearly so none of your words catch you by surprise. Mark your script so you feel confident where to pause, linger, or change up your voice. Do not rush through your words as if you’re apologizing for making anyone sit through what you’ve written. Believe me, we want to hear your stories, so give us every word, loud and clear, so we don’t mistake you for the pork council auctioneer (forgive me, I live in Wisconsin, pork is big here).

-Monotones make people stop listening. So talk to us the way you talk to your friends and family: like you’re ALIVE. Variety and with your voice riding up and down the scale of human emotion.

-Look up. Even if you don't want to! Plan ahead just that moment when you need to look up and connect with your audience. Mark it on your paper, then you don’t have to worry and fret about when when when will you get the guts to look away from the security blanket of black words on white. Underline the spot, it could be the punch line, it could be the setting of a scene. You only need to look up three times to make a connection, so plan the place to do it.

-Be loud enough. Tell that inner shy to shuttup. Push that fear, anxiety, doubt, Negative Nelly to the back and out of your way. (I mean, visualize the push, you know?) Be proud of what you are bringing to this audition and believe in your work. Passion and commitment calm nerves with a sense of purpose. A straight spine releases some courage, too (your mother was right).

-Roll your shoulders. Breathe. Roll your shoulders. Breathe. Roll your shoulders. Breathe. Use your commas and periods to catch some air, and exhale.

-Do the motorboat with your lips to loosen them. Right before you go on, say and hold aloud a few “OWWWWWWWWWWW” as if you just bumped your big toe into your grandma’s parlor piano.

-And, when we call your name to read, take two seconds to stand straight, chest out, hands on hips, in the Super Woman stance. Then, look up, smile and -

Go ahead ('cause you're amazing)
Find those hips (they're under there)
Do it  (gotta play to win)

See what I mean.

Now, go and dazzle ’em with your brilliance!

Break a leg and reach for your dreams! It's not right to deny the world the gifts you bring. If I hadn't made myself audition for Listen To Your Mother in Madison six years ago, I'd never have brought the show to Milwaukee and gone on to be part of the production team here. So, yeah... chew on that. But make it a confident chew. Because you're a force to be reckoned with.

Jen
Rochelle
Alexandra

Listen To Your Mother/Milwaukee

 

* * *

What About Listen To Your Mother Shows?

Six years ago, I auditioned for Listen To Your Mother Madison. I had never auditioned for anything before, and even the word 'audition' gave me a hollow feel in my stomach. But I knew that the open call to come tell your story about motherhood wouldn't leave my mind.

I had a story to tell. It wasn't about my mother, but it was about motherhood. I sat in front of the computer, fingers over the keyboard, and had to keep telling one side of my brain to let the other side of my brain write. Who was it, who thought, they could tell me I had to be experienced to tell my story? Where had they seen "professionals" only? It was up to me to believe I had something to share, to follow that instinct that led me to seek connection.

I kept working on my audition piece, and I made an appointment to try for the Madison show. I drove 90 minutes and held my pages of written story before the Listen To Your Mother production team. Brave enough for my voice not to shake but not yet brave enough to look up from my papers.

But on that overcast February morning, I was there, I had shown up with belief in myself enough to audition, and that moment of empowerment clicked something on in me. My life was switched to a different track. It didn't matter to me if I made the cast, the real change that occurred was in how I began to think of myself that morning at auditions.

Since then, I have become a live storyteller, a writer, a blogger, a humorist, published author, columnist, public radio essayist, and now, a co-producer of Listen To Your Mother Milwaukee.

All because of that day in auditions, when I listened to the voice inside me that pushed me to share my story and seek that connection.

You, too, can answer that call and listen to the advice of my mother, "Never tell yourself you can't."
-----------
Our LTYM shows are now in 41 cities, and they are transforming: not just for the reader, but for the audience, too. We find ourselves in each other's stories, and we show up for each other, by witnessing in this share. Find a show near you, audition for a show near you. Give this a listen, and then, write down your Listen To Your Mother Story.

Here's some footage of me getting passionate, geeky, fire in my eyes, about the Listen To Your Mother Show process:

http://www.tmj4.com/shows/the-morning-blend/listen-to-your-mother-2016-show-auditions

* * *

Happy Coffee-Drinking to You

Once upon a time, a person told me I was going to ruin my blood pressure and de-line my stomach with my coffee-drinkin' ways. So she soul-searched my eyes and roughed up my inner psyche, to find the truth of my life-embrace of coffee. She heard me out, then she pulled a glass jar of Sanka out of her purse. "Just try it."

I stared at the orange-lidded jar.

 I tried it, this happened.

[read the rest of the story on Scary Mommy]

* * *

Why I'm Voting Keith Richards for President

Needing a birth certificate from the US of A to run for President has become unnecessary. We've seen that. Toss out that picky detail and let's start casting our votes for some real American leadership.

Keith effin' Richards.

Picture this: a 67-year-old-takin'-on-double-pistol packin' crazed (or determined, depends on perspective) dude who’s standing right in front of you, set to kill you, and you commence to beating them, with your cane.

That’s what America is looking for. We had it before, with the scenario above featuring Andrew "Old Hickory" Jackson. And if we vote Keith Richards, we can have it again.

If  Keith Richards were President, you know he'd be "Old Hickory” all over again. Andrew Jackson was born on the Ides of March, and the 6 foot 2 inches 140 lbs Jackson lived an I don’t give a shit about it life beginning at age 12, when he joined a local militia and quickly became a prisoner of war for the British. When ordered to polish a British General’s boots, he told the requesting officer that he’d shine his boots the day the officer got to know a donkey biblically. The Brit General slashed an X with his sword on the baby Jackson’s face, and Jackson again issued the invitation, in case it wasn't heard the first time, “Go to your beast, sir.”

Go.To.Your.Beast. Zazzle, give me that Tshirt now.

His mother and father were both dead by age 14, and being an orphan meant he was dirt poor–and yet he grew up to be el presidente. He taught himself country lawyerin’ Matlock style, and thus began his political career.

The very first assassination attempt on a U.S. President was against Jackson, when an unemployed painter aimed a pistol at Jackson and misfired. Jackson whipped out his hickory cane and proceeded to beat the poor idiot of a man about the head so severely that members of congress had to pull Jackson off.

No gentrified country leader, Andrew “The Mob” Jackson organized a group of pirates to defend New Orleans. The British attackers totally freaked at finding pirates on dry land and ran yelping away with their tails between their legs. He was in over 103 duels in his life, the most famous one for once shooting a man who looked at his wife, Rachel. Oh, and Rachel? Yah, well, he married her while she was still married to another man.

He held his Presidential ball–which worked out to be a Presidential brawl because he invited the entire nation–on the lawn of the White House; while he went and stayed in a hotel with his wife. The White House was trashed inside and out, and Jackson was nowhere in sight.

Jackson was the only President to leave office with the country in the black and the entire national debt paid off, by strong-arming other countries into paying back every cent they had ever borrowed from the United States.

Like I said, squirt a dollop of white frosty Cool Whip on Keith Richards’ head, and you don’t even have to squint to know what you’ve got.

Old Hickory Richards himself.

There's still time to register and vote. Don't make me send you to your beast now.
------------------

Photo credit: From Wikimedia Commons, the free media repository

Photo credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Gorupdebesanez

* * *