Not infrequently, though, I'd wake myself up with some dreamland pronouncement. Once, I shouted, "He meant dirty in two ways." Another time, in a low growl, I whispered, "There's someone at the door" (an experience from which I have yet to recover). But by far, the best wake-up call I've ever given myself was the time I sat bolt upright in bed, my arms held out Frankenstein-style in front of me, and announced, "It's time for the Big Show!"
Sadly, the "No, no, no, no, nos" far outnumbered the "Big Shows." Even as I slept, I seemed to be running from some menace; facing an impossible obstacle; crouching in a dark corner and hoping the bad thing would pass. It's a painfully accurate metaphor for how I approached, um, EVERYTHING.
Take cooking -- For thirty-odd years, I've successfully avoided learning how to cook for fear of giving my family botulism, salmonella, typhoid fever, leptospirosis, toxoplasmosis, and/or Brainerd diarrhea. (Side note: The CDC website is amazingly comprehensive; don't read it before dinner.)
This worst-case-scenario approach to tackling the unknown, however, has often left me watching everyone else have fun while I mope on the sidelines. So, as 2014 dawned, I vowed to not only face fear but to land a totally sweet hi-ya karate chop to fear's big, dumb face.
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| Do the Running Man like no one is watching! |
As it turns out, auditioning for Listen to Your Mother DC felt an awful lot like popping fear in its busted-ass grill.
And do you know what happened when I crawled out of my hidey hole and faced up to fear? THE FEAR MULTIPLIED (not unlike a gremlin or e. coli).
I didn't expect to actually be cast in the show. The thought of reading in front of a live audience makes all 53 of my sphincters clench (go ahead, Google "How many sphincters in the human body").
I didn't know I'd end up meeting so many talented writers and performers. Ugh. Talent. I can't talk about poop in front of people with talent. People with talent probably have not idea what poop is, because people with talent do not poop (oddly, I could not verify this on the CDC website).
But even when I was fully puckered and struck dumb, I refused to quail. And it wasn't just because I was tired of feeling left out. There was this other nagging little issue: my kid.
Maybe Pork Chop will grow up thinking I'm a terrible cook with a scatological vocabulary; I'm okay with that. But I can't, I just cannot stomach the thought that he'll judge me to be a coward. Or, worse yet, that he will learn to be a coward because of me. "I learned it from watching you" doesn't only apply to the reefer, ya know.
So, tomorrow at 2 p.m., I'll be walking onto a stage with 13 other writers. I might sweat giant pit stains into my dress. I might wobble in my heels. I might need to tinkle. I will probably tinkle. But I'm going to read my story! And, yes, I will be selling out my son for cheap laughs in that story, but I am the mother, and that is my right! And fear might be lurking beside me while I'm at the podium, but I don't give a damn. I AM COOKING THIS METAPHORICAL CHICKEN, AND I AM MAKING EVERYONE EAT IT!
Just over 24 hours to go, folks. It's time for the Big Show.
And do you know what happened when I crawled out of my hidey hole and faced up to fear? THE FEAR MULTIPLIED (not unlike a gremlin or e. coli).
I didn't expect to actually be cast in the show. The thought of reading in front of a live audience makes all 53 of my sphincters clench (go ahead, Google "How many sphincters in the human body").
I didn't know I'd end up meeting so many talented writers and performers. Ugh. Talent. I can't talk about poop in front of people with talent. People with talent probably have not idea what poop is, because people with talent do not poop (oddly, I could not verify this on the CDC website).
But even when I was fully puckered and struck dumb, I refused to quail. And it wasn't just because I was tired of feeling left out. There was this other nagging little issue: my kid.
Maybe Pork Chop will grow up thinking I'm a terrible cook with a scatological vocabulary; I'm okay with that. But I can't, I just cannot stomach the thought that he'll judge me to be a coward. Or, worse yet, that he will learn to be a coward because of me. "I learned it from watching you" doesn't only apply to the reefer, ya know.
So, tomorrow at 2 p.m., I'll be walking onto a stage with 13 other writers. I might sweat giant pit stains into my dress. I might wobble in my heels. I might need to tinkle. I will probably tinkle. But I'm going to read my story! And, yes, I will be selling out my son for cheap laughs in that story, but I am the mother, and that is my right! And fear might be lurking beside me while I'm at the podium, but I don't give a damn. I AM COOKING THIS METAPHORICAL CHICKEN, AND I AM MAKING EVERYONE EAT IT!
Just over 24 hours to go, folks. It's time for the Big Show.
You will be great! Just show up and be you and you will be great.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Meagan -- the moral support was a huge boost. Truly. And it turns out, I did NOT tinkle in my Spanx. So I'm calling that a victory!
DeleteI LOVE THIS, Jessica :) And I am so proud that I will get to stand on the same stage with you. We will potentially poison people with metaphorical salmonella together, and I will gladly take the fall with you if falling must be taken (which it won't, because your piece is amazing).
ReplyDeleteThis cheer-leading message of encouragement should in no way imply that I am not nervous. I usually find "stage fright" to feel more like the nervous-excitement, adrenaline rush you get on a big roller coaster, but if I had BUILT the roller coaster, I would not be happily excited - I would vomit. Reading MY stuff out loud seems far scarier than if someone else had written it...So here's to showing up! See you TOMORROW!!!
All I will say in response to this is: GOOOOOAAAAAALLL! (And, also, you were amazing.)
DeleteI will post my CONGRATULATORY comment tomorrow evening .......after you have STOLEN THE SHOW!! Love you Jess. Aunt Judy
ReplyDeleteOK Jess! I was right.....you stole the show. You were truly brilliant. The entire audience was laughing hysterically. Your talent goes beyond writing, and I see more speaking in your future. The Rapisarda contingent thoroughly enjoyed the entire show and I know that all felt honored to share the deeply felt memories and emotions of all the speakers. Love you, Aunt Judy
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for coming out to the show and for laughing -- whether it was with me or at me, it doesn't even matter. I was so happy to have you there to cheer me on . . . while I talked about poop.
DeleteTHE CHICKEN WAS SCRUMPTIOUS! Luv ya, mean it. Sarah
ReplyDeleteIt's entirely possible that you may come down with a case of the trots, but I'm still glad you enjoyed the chicken.
DeleteYou were awesome! All day today, I was thinking about "suck it!" Thanks for sharing your humor, creativity and talent.
ReplyDeleteIf "suck it" is my literary legacy, then all the money spent on my MFA, all the hours spent hunched over the keyboard, all the late nights and early mornings spent writing and revising . . . would be TOTALLY WORTH IT! (Thank you so much. I am still kind of pinching myself that anyone would pay to listen to me talk about baby poop.)
DeleteJessica, you were amazing! Best story ever! I could picture your delivering it in front of 2,000 people on stage at BlogHer and around a picnic table on my back patio. Not to sound like a stalker, but I just loved your performance-- your writing, your word choice, your comedic timing. I could also relate to learning how to mother as a motherless daughter. Thanks for sharing your talents in such an awesome way! When the videos come out, hold on to your hat, or your poop sphere, or whatever, b/c I bet it will go viral!
ReplyDeleteI keep retyping this reply, because I am so flattered and I want to sound witty enough to live up to the flattery. Well, let me just say thank you. And that one of the most generous compliments I received after the show was an audience member who said my writing reminded me of yours. In profoundly unwitty news, I have been trying to work up the nerve to write a post about my own mom and about becoming a mom without her around. That post, however, will require wine. Vast quantities of wine.
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