Ann Imig's Blog, page 13

I am…Warrior Jogger!

I jog. Not run, definitely jog.

I don’t race. I don’t train for races. I don’t aspire to race. I jog regularly, slowly, and outside if at all possible for lots of good reasons mainly centered around my sanity.

I’ve jogged through blizzards and deluges and a tornado watch on Tuesday night. You know who jogs through a tornado watch? A mother desperate for time to herself, with a surprise 60-minute window very likely to become a 30 minute window when the soccer practice gets called halfway through due to lightening and tornado watches. Fellow worriers, next time I jog during a tornado watch, I’ll jog on my treadmill in the basement. I promise. This time I needed trees.

My jogging slightly sucks in summer. Especially this summer. Each and every jog this summer feels heavier and slower than the last. Heat dislikes my jogging. I keep adding more ugly accessories to tame it–baseball cap, headband, too-short shorts, water bottle strapped to hand–even for four miles.

I typically use my basement treadmill more in Wisconsin summers than in Wisconsin winters, but given the mild temperatures this summer, I continue choosing the outdoors where I can behold the familiar and ever-changing scenery. Yesterday I saw something new; a dad on a skateboard pushing a baby in a stroller. Yesterday I saw something old: men of all ages, figures, and square-feet of body-hair wearing nothing but shorts while jogging. Yesterday did not end up a chafing day, and for that I say hooray!

Honestly, though, I’ve spent most of each jog this summer fighting discouragement, thirst, and questions:

Why do I feel so heavy?

Could I possibly be getting even slower?

How can this still feel hard after years and years?

Then I pretend-conk my own head “I shoulda had a V-8 style” and remind myself to breathe and say YEAY breeze!  Yeay shady pass! Yeay still pretty wilty yellow flower faces! Cheer them on for loosing their heavy handed gauche youth and growing into their wise if sort of almost dead grace!

I picked up Pema Chodron again recently and she reminded me why I jog. She reminded me I am training my body and mind as a warrior, to sit with discomfort.

Jogging will get easier this fall. I’ll probably even have a few of those light-feeling easyish jogs and add back on that fifth and sixth mile I abandoned in the heat. Maybe. Regardless, I continue because of the warrior training–not for running marathons (or even jogging marathons) but for life marathons. This exercise of my body and my humility trains me for breathing through anxiety both good and bad. This jogging reminds me I can soldier on even if it isn’t my favorite and even if I feel less LIKE A BOSS and more LIKE A BLAHH.

You should see my jogger nerd get-up. Imagine if you will this tank top drenched in sweat, plodding along, possibly paired with a red sweatband around my forehead:

I run like a sweaty slow Jogger Warrior. I’m uncomfortable. Go ahead and pass me.

(Thanks again, Pema.)

 

Working from home with kids this summer! Getting worked over by kids at home this summer!

 

“eat some turkey too”

 

This frantic scrawl communication during my conference call, in response to children mime-eating cupcakes, then shrugging shoulders at me with questioning hands and innocent-tilting heads from my office doorway. Translation: “Cupcakes, s’il vous plait? Maman, for it’s way past 10:00 am! This fine morning has nearly bid us adieu sans frosting!!”

The “eat some turkey too” protein missive passed to their eager hands, I nod. I need at least twenty more minutes on this phone call.

Eyes widen. Earnest head bobs YES YES TURKEY WILL ROUND OUT THIS DIET TRES BIEN! Door closes. Feet scamper.

The day progresses. I see the post-it, remembering our agreement.

The turkey remains untouched. Cupcakes plus two of tonight’s plain hot dog buns have vanished.

Fait accompli.

Mending

This summer my eleven-year-old son learned to use a needle and thread. Grouped on a track at College For Kids with his first choices of Rocket Science and Physics, Recycled Textiles never held great allure for him. None of us realized he’d learn to hand-sew and surprise us with gifts–a denim jean purse for me, a wallet for his dad, and a pillow made from a Minecraft t-shirt for his younger brother.

The Minecraft throw pillow–once full of cushion-promise for even the weariest gamer–started loosing its seems. It sat for weeks, exposing its stuffing guts, reminding me of a man desperate to keep his sweatpants up after having lost the drawstring. Today, in a moment of clarity that I needed oxygen sunshine and quiet, rather than laptop, popcorn and stolen hunks of my kids’ cinnamon rolls, I sat on our front stoop to try and shore up the breech and restore a measure of dignity to our pillow friend.

I rifled through the tired ziplock bag jumbled with hotel sewing kits, and happened upon the exact shade of royal blue, pre-threaded on a needle. Auspicious hand-sewing universe high-five! I knotted the new thread intertwined with my son’s original handiwork, and began to mend.

Metaphors and memories flooded me where fingers full of contraband cream cheese frosting languished mere moments before. I did not expect to find lessons in nine minutes of sewing, beyond the obvious Good things happen to those who stop chomping and internetzing on a beautiful summer day.

I thought of Grandma Jo darning my cheapo white socks that I didn’t think worthy of her effort.  She likely couldn’t abide by holes in socks, but I never figured her darning for an act of love and doting that maybe delighted her so many years after the last of her own boys’ socks disappeared from her home.

I remembered fetching my mom’s sewing basket for her, and the retractable tape measure inside. She taught me to thread a bobbin on the sewing machine I broke time and time again tapering my jeans in high school.

The miniature sewing projects my step-sister Amy and I enjoyed as girls came to mind, and how as the youngest child of four I delighted in her attention and perfectly straight stitching.

Mostly though, as I hemmed on our front stoop, I thought about how much I preferred this sewing circle of one over the toilet cleaning circle, the getting children to pick up their dirty socks in the living room circle, and especially the So help me God I have to feed them again tonight and we ate out last night circle. Regardless, I prioritized the pillow, while patting myself on the back for having becoming a superior person by learning to sew in the first place.

In theater school, the requirements for every acting student included mandatory technical theater credits and stage-hand hours. These requirements made us more well-rounded in stage craft, expanded our income-generating potential, and more importantly they served as diva-proofing. A leading lady and man should know what it means to render and cut patterns, iron and steam, wash dance belts and dress shields, place props, assist with costume changes, work a lightboard, build a set, etc…so he will a) not become an insufferable helpless wench, b) appreciate the incredible fortune of being surrounded by people with the sole purpose of making him or her look good, and c) know how to do something with their hands besides JAZZ them.

I’m glad my son learned to sew this summer, even if he had no desire to do so. Knowing how to remedy a  split-pants situation on the fly may prove useful. Also, when you grow up buying everything from a store or paying others to do the handwork of life, you can fall into diva-like behavior off stage, too. You’re more likely to act kindly as a customer if you’ve waited a table, worked a register, cleaned someone else’s toilet, whacked a weed, or checked the oil–plus you might end up learning a trade that serves your future in ways you can’t imagine. My friend Melissa took costume design as an acting requirement and it changed the course of her career.

As I sat working the needle and poking myself over and over instead of bothering with a thimble, I noticed slack in more places. Minecraft pillow friend will need plenty of reinforcements to survive for long. I considered how I view work–internal and external–as finite somehow, that if only I fix this loose end, satisfaction and serenity await. I found a moment of acceptance over the inevitability of bulging stuffing and frayed edges. I realized that I can reinforce my sweatpants when needed, and feel thankful that I possess the fortitude to participate. I felt a sudden luck for the holes as challenges that keep me inspired and engaged.

I tied-off the last (for now) stitch, and thought about how badly our country needs mending in terms of our violent and systemic racism problems. I considered how people working toward becoming effective allies can show up with hope and able hands and thread and thimbles–even and especially when things seem at their worst, as the fabric of our society seems to rend right down the middle as a result of white supremacist structures.  As our peers of color continue weaving threads, worn heavy and frayed by anxiety and grief that comes with seeing faces like yours and your beloveds in jail or killed, maybe we can avoid bemoaning our self-consciousness over crooked stitches or a lack of confidence in our sewing ability.

Our basting won’t undo the centuries of damage, but we can attend, watch others, and gently begin to find our place in the circle of repair. Instead of abandoning the effort and deeming the project too damaged and irreconcilable, we can celebrate the magnificence of this quilt that our sisters and brother artisans of color helped create and sustain. We can acknowledge the gaping holes, stains and blight our people have inflicted upon the tapestry of history, and our own part–even if unintentional–in profiting off of, co-opting, or coercing today’s material even as we endeavor to enrich it. Rather than throw up our hands in hopelessness or defensiveness, we can make our way to a frayed edge and begin to mend.

Join me Sunday at Arcadia Books! Also, LTYM Video Release!! Lastly, Washington Post!!!

photo by Melissa Austin

DUCK AND COVER! I am coming at you on allllll of the platforms…

VIDEO: Big news! Listen To Your Mother released our 2015 videos, adding 450 new stories of motherhood to our LTYMShow YouTube channel! Now our archives houses nearly 1500 videos from five seasons of LTYM shows. You can watch videos from the 6th annual Madison show here, then skip hop and jump around by city, reader name, keyword, or topic!

Most enormous gigantic thanks to my business strategist and video producer Deb Rox plus online content manager Stephanie Precourt who’ve spent the past months submerged in video correspondence, downloading, editing, uploading, labeling, organizing, playlist-ing, and spreadsheet-ing in order to bring 38 cities worth of video to life!! Not to mention soooooo many thanks to the local director/producers, readers, our many, many amazing Local Sponsors and to our National Sponsors Luvs, and SheKnows Media #BlogHer15 —  we’ll see you in NEXT WEEK in NYC at the Open Mic!!

LIVE: More big news! Arcadia Books invited me to bring our Madison-area book contributors Alexandra Rosas, Jen Rubin, Brian Lavendel & Rebecca Anderson-Brown out to Spring Green this Sunday at 2 PM for a reading and signing!

ONLINE: EVEN MORE big news! The Washington Post’s On Parenting site published my essay about parenting hypocrisy and the possibility I might need to burn all of my yearbooks.

 

istock photo courtesy of Washington Post On Parenting

EXCLAMATION POINTS ALL AROUND. Thank you, again and again, for reading and supporting my work and Listen To Your Mother. What’s a story without an audience? A very awkward lonely monologue, and I had my fill of those in college theater. 

 

My Life in Hair: A One Act

From long to short, from head to toe, I present MY LIFE in HAIR, MY HAIRSTORY!

Scene 1: 1974; 6 pounds, 13 ounces OF HAIR

Scene 2: No More Tears – Half a bottle of conditioner, one small girl

Scene 3: Under the bubble dryer the acoustics are excellent!

Scene 4: Off With Her Braids, On With The Bowl – From Fraggle to Hamill

 

Scene 5: If You Perm it, They Will Laugh

Scene 6: Tales of a Fourth Grade Hairy Lou Retton

Scene 7: Wedges Are For Lettuce

Scene 8: Orange Is The New Blonde – When neither lemon nor Sun-In suffice (go for the strong stuff in your step-mom’s closet and let it sit for a couple of hours under a lamp. Results include humiliating conversations about self-esteem with Mr. Benson in homeroom).

Scene 9: Long and longer! How Growing a High School Hair Curtain Wins You and Crystal Gayle Friends and Admirers.

Scene 10: Flip it. Flip it Good – Excuse my glossy hair crest sweeping the pencil off your desk tray, Graham who sat behind me in geometry.

Scene 11: Parlez Vous BraidsFrancais? – Why does this French Braid make me look like an egg? When will the feeling return to my arms? How obvious is it that I’ve been crying over my freakish head in the girls room on a scale of 1 to 10?

Scene 12: The Bob Years – My loss of peripheral vision

photo by Suzanne Plunkett

Scene 13: Caeser is for Salad – How come Winona looks like a pixie and I look like a cotton swab?

Scene 14: Post-Baby Shag, Fruma Sarah DoRag – “Let’s experiment with headscarves! It looked okay in Fiddler!”

Scene 15: Banged – Those tricky bastards.

Scene 16: Follicle Chronicles – From Nair to Electrolysis to Laser and back to Hominid

Scene 17: Midlife Proves Long and Layered, so Too The Hair – It works. I’m exhausted. Whatever.

Scene 18: Ready, Set, (rain bonnet) GO! No muss, no fuss, get on the elder tour bus.

(HAIR) CURTAIN

***

Some of my other pals are hairblogging today:

The Flying Chalupa

Good Day, Regular People

Midlife Mixtape

Smacksy

Up Popped a Fox

Perfectly Dad

My earliest memories of Dad: I sit by his knee as he strums his guitar and slaps the baseboard So hoist up the John B sails, see how the main sail sets, send for the captain ashore, I want to go home… and You’ve never seen such a sight in your life, and the little ones chewed on the bones-o bones-o, the little ones chewed on the bones-o. He blasts a trumpet to wake us on our birthdays even though he doesn’t play the trumpet. His cheeks feel scratchy just like the dad’s face in Pat The Bunny.

Dad says: See you in the morning when the sun comes up and doooon’t beee scared and when you’re sad think of all the people that love you.

Dad sits in his office chair of his new house, writing on a yellow legal pad. I watch his pencil from the beanbag in the corner, thinking if I memorize the movements of the eraser I might teach myself grown-up handwriting. I hear the whir -clickity- click -ping of his electric typewriter and want to get my hands on the correction fluid. Dad lets me ride my Bigwheel through the living room of this house, and roller skate on the wood floors. Did he pick out the Sesame Street curtains in my bedroom, or did they come with the house? We pick mulberries from the tree over the front stoop and sometimes he plays handball on the sidewalk with our across the street neighbor Martin.

We’re at the park and he lifts me bench-press style up-up-up-up-up, down-down-down-down-down. I’m too old for this now, we realize as I sail over his head and tumble on the grass. We laugh, and know that was the last up-up-up/down-down-down. On this same trip to the zoo he says yes to cotton candy—but first he better taste it to make sure it isn’t poisonous. Same goes for half of every ice cream cone. He smiles huge and calls me Funny Face. I crack him up, by smushing my cheeks together or pulling the top of my nose way back and pretending to be a girl named Jodi from Waukesha.

In high school, Dad says yes to late curfews and my own phone line, and R-rated movies. He says yes to loaning me his car, sharing his double-mint gum on the dashboard and rarely to borrowing his sweaters.  Dad is handsome and lumbering, affectionate and reasonable. Fond of puns, bad jokes and Dave Barry, Dad reads the comics and never appears to tire of The Far Side page-a-day calendars I give him for his birthday year after year. He delights over fancy fruit-shaped marzipan or tubes of baking marzipan or even the gross pig-shaped marzipan given to him every Father’s Day.

Sometimes Dad Israeli dances through the living room like he did as a teenager growing up in Brooklyn to see if he can distract me from the TV. He fills the entire family room floor with his 6 foot plus frame–stretching before a run, tube socks pulled high to his knees. Dad’s sneezes scare the crap out of me.

Dad says: Please be quiet is nicer than shut-up and please don’t finish my sentences. I always finish his sentences.

Dad attends soccer games and recitals, ballets, performances and plays. He plunks out sheet music to Peter Pan with me when I get my first call-back. He consoles me when my nervous vibrato ruins Touch The Wind to the extent that I sound more like the elderly male cantor at temple instead of a future Broadway ingenue. He gently suggests that looking up to the sides of the balcony might help my stage-fright, but also shows the audience only the whites of my eyes. He gets such a kick out of my spouting early-American colloquialisms as Mrs. Gibbs in Our Town, that 25 years later he’ll still remark, apropos of nothing, Potato weather for sure!

He helps move me into my first college dorm. He allows me to feel as far away or as close to home as I like while at the university in our town. He hires my roommate who needs money, compensating her handsomely to bring in his mail at work when he travels. He also becomes the first investor in her business idea a decade later.

When I decide to pursue acting professionally he writes me a letter expressing his confidence in my abilities and decisions. Years later when I decide to leave a high-paying corporate job causing me misery—despite a husband in grad school and no idea of my next step—he deems my thinking sound, my actions thoughtful.

Dad says: I love you and I’m proud of you. That makes sense and I understand. I know you’re not asking, but I’m here. All I’m saying is don’t be shy if you need help.

 

Dad becomes Papa. He makes regular visits to our condo, where our toddler greets him at the door with PAPA PAPA PAPA! He plays patty cake and makes a pile out of their hands, moving one on top of the other faster and faster until neither can keep up with the hands or the laughter. He reads story after story, and tickles a tiny neck with Grandma Jo’s refrain Head of hair, forehead bare… chin-chopper chin-chopper chin-chopper.

Dad checks in every week. He says: Anyone up for pancakes this weekend? I know you’re all busy. Lunch later this week?

Dad loves his work as a labor arbitrator. He drives many miles for hearings, and hopes to continue deciding cases for many years to come. He loves walks and birds. He loves to stop by our house on weekend afternoons.  He’ll take some orange juice (no ice) if you have it, but only if it’s no trouble.

Dad is imperfect; he’s twice divorced, and he regularly sends me texts intended for his girlfriend. He went through a phase of pronouncing fajitas “fa-jay-tas” on purpose in Mexican restaurants, and if he starts a sentence Was (insert name) your classmate or your sister’s? he’s about to tell you about an obituary from the morning paper. He likes to know what our friend’s parents do for a living–and now what our friends do for a living.

But he’s perfectly Dad, and he’s ours. I love him so.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

***

Listen To Your Mother loves dads! Check out some of our favorite dad stories in celebration of Father’s Day!!

You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Life-Saving Magical Turban, Annie

I grew up rapt with the musical Annie. Like hordes of other 1980’s girls in love with nasal voices and sunburst arms, I dedicated my single-digit life to becoming Annie. I had an Annie sheet cake for my 9th birthday. I tortured my family with Annie. Annie became a call and response, with me serenading IT’S A HARD A KNOCK LIFE, FOR US! while doing imaginary back-handsprings (I could do the part at the end where you stand up) and my older siblings answering SHUT UP SHUT UP DAD PLEASE MAKE HER SHUT.UP.

I sang Together At Last while unloading the dishwasher and Maybe while gazing out the backseat window of our Chevy Orphanage. I crooned Tomorrow at the pool for lifeguard President Roosevelt. I did not have a dog Sandy with whom to emote, and it turns out a cat will respond to Dumb Dog by putting its butt in your face and hissing until you release her from the glare of your punishing spotlight. The deformed tin Magic Kingdom wastepaper basket that your stepsister squeezed between her knees will stand in for Sandy in a pinch, however, because the show must go on.

Annie fever reached such heights, that if you hosted a Battle of The Belter Ballads between GenEx theater kids singing Tomorrow vs. today’s Frozen youth singing Let It Go, I think those with the larger lungs and ennui would likely prevail: TOMORROW TOMORROW I LOVE-UH-YAH TOMORROW (YOU COULD BE MY VERY LAST DAYYYYYYY).

Recently my family agreed to take a hiatus from action flicks to indulge me in an Annie movie-marathon. We viewed both the 1981 and 2014 films. We loved/tolerated both, differently. What struck me even more than the updates of the book, cast, and score in the new Annie, were the racial stereotypes in the 1980s version that shown “like the top of the Chrysler Building” to put it in vintage Miss Hannigan terms.

If ever there was a learning opportunity to examine the “magical negro” racist trope, look no further than the character Punjab, a magical powers-wielding supposedly Punjabi Indian (played by Geoffrey Holder--the late Tony Award winning Trinidadian-American actor) who serves his wealthy master/pet orphan while entertaining them with flights of fancy including telekinesis, shotput-twirl-bomb-throwing, and life-saving-by-helicopter/unraveled turban.  I lectured my kids about this  during I Think I’m Going To Like It Here happy hitch-kicking house-help dance breaks (including a karate-chopping dancing Asian servant!) and when I wasn’t busy deciphering if the Bolshevik bomb-throwing intruder to Daddy Warbuck’s estate was played by one of the “extras strolling while making Jewish noises as a pack of Orthodox” in the depression-era street scene opening. Don’t take my overly-long word for it–this one-minute sex-y sex-y “Punjab and La bomba” smash-up says it all:

While educating my kids, and snorting disgust over white supremacy as 1980s entertainment, I further enhanced my family’s viewing experience with my loud singing and compare/contrast. I might not remember your name, first-cousin of 41 years, but leapin’ lizards if I don’t know every lyric to that score. YOU GUYS YOU GUYS IN THE OLD VERSION THEY SAY MAKE HER DRINK A MICKY FINN AND THEY DON’T SAY THAT IN THE NEW ONE!!  BECAUSE BECAUSE [omg that’s a rape drug reference] WE LOVE YOU MISS HANNIGAN!

After shout-singing my children nearly to tears, they learned better. As soon as the xylophone sounded its first ping and any character showed an “I either need to vomit or express myself musically” face,  my eight-year-old learned to give me a stern look, point at me wide-eyed, and shake his head (much as I do to him, when he digs his nails into his brother’s forearm while fighting over the iPad).

The dancing and singing in the original impressed me even more than when I watched Annie as a kid. I go gaga over Carol Burnette, Bernadette Peters, Ann Reinking and Tim Curry. I don’t think I could begin to appreciate the talent of Aileen Quinn and the other orphans as a 9 year old because I so desperately wanted to live among them. In the new version, we all adored Jamie Foxx as Will Stacks and Quvenzhané Wallis as Annie, and especially appreciated that actors of color made the starring roles and filled the company instead of serving as offensive novelty acts.

Weeks later I hear my kids singing those irrepressible/infernal melodies, and some good conversations have ensued as well; “Why were all the orphans white?” and “Do you think Daddy Warbucks/Will Stacks will tell Annie her parents died?” and “Why do people in musicals burst into song about everything and for no reason?”

A lot has changed from old and new Annie, but an eerily similar call and response resounds. Me: TOGETHER AT LAST! Them: STOP MOM STOP MOM, MAKE HER STOP, DAD!

 

 

Why I Look Ten Pounds Lighter

Recently, I saw my friend Araceli Esparza. She remarked “You look ten pounds lighter!”

My head immediately dropped to scan my body with curiosity.

“Noooo, silly. You are always flaca, I mean you look like a new person–relaxed.”

Araceli saw this:

Instead of, say, this…

 

THE WEIGHT OF TREMENDOUS BEAUTY

Araceli nailed it. Two weeks after LTYM 2015 ended, I did feel ten pounds lighter, and every ounce of it off my shoulders. Listen To Your Mother 2015 came with an enormous load of responsibility including the Weight of Tremendous Beauty.

What is the Weight of Tremendous Beauty? Ann, do you mean tremendous beauty as in Connie Sellecca?

The Weight of Tremendous Beauty means that all of LTYM’s success stems from the generosity and hard work of so many people–people I thank over and over and never enough. The Weight of Tremendous Beauty means I want to support everyone who supports me in ALL OF THE WAYS. Some of the ways include: responding promptly and intentionally to emails and phone calls, reading and sharing work, brainstorming, listening, and problem-solving with compassion, delivering by deadlines, strategizing and overseeing efficient project-management for the book and shows, making sure bills and people get paid, collecting and organizing lots of data to keep LTYM organized and moving forward, promoting LTYM’s book, events, sites, videos, fund-raising for causes, national sponsors, local sponsors, director/producer, casts, alumni, fans, audience, producing my own Madison show, attending LTYM shows in other cities, (I’ll stop now). Not to mention the fact that while so much of this project falls under my purview, with a massive grass roots project most of what happens day-to-day remains completely out of my control. That’s Connie Sellecca Tremendous Beauty plus Lisa Bonet Tremendous Beauty. Lest I deceive you into thinking one person could possibly manage this weight, five genius women helped me shoulder The Tremendous Beauty this season, plus a hundred local director/producers, plus the entire team at Putnam Books, plus my family, PLUS PLUS PLUS see what happens when I try to even explain this beautiful weight? Run-on sentences happen. And shoulder tension.

Another aspect of The Weight of Tremendous Beauty means the pressure to try and absorb all the incredible pinnacle life moments, as they happen so I can remain present and digest the ONCE IN A LIFETIME magic all around me. After a month straight of legendary apexes– from our NYC book launch to several TV appearances plus national media segments, a satellite radio tour, speaking and hosting a book event at Mom 2.0, Facilitating 38 LTYM shows, attending two LTYM shows, and hosting the Madison Mother’s Day LTYM show--my brain finally shut down the morning of our own 6th annual Madison show. My energy went kaput, like the barrel curling iron I still try to use from the late 90s; hot to the touch, zero curl.  I didn’t fret, as I had zero curl even for fretting. I left the Barrymore and got a cappuccino, as I observed my flattened self with curiosity, like huh–hope I don’t wah-wah-wah-wah [Charlie Brown teacher voice] my way through this show. I trusted my adrenaline to kick in, but what kicked-in turned out so much better. Service kicked in. My service to the Madison storytellers and to the function their stories serve our audience gave me a focused calm, and the buoyancy I needed to host our Madison show and give the readers the spotlight they deserved.

photo by Melissa Austin

The true beauty of LTYM comes from the storytellers– from the thousands of beating hearts and diverse voices involved in LTYM. Even more beautiful than Connie Sellecca plus Lisa Bonet plus Jim J Bullock as “Monroe” on Too Close For Comfort. I used to try and take in all the stories–all the videos–and it got to a point where I could no longer retain them. Now I realize, I don’t need to retain stories, or even witness them all. The Tremendous Beauty can resound without the weight, and instead with the service of setting these stories free into the air and into our audiences both live and online.

So the big push ended. We served and set The Tremendous Beauty free in 39 cities, in the book, and in the videos to be released this summer. We did it. We did it all and raised over 30,000 for local non-profits in the process. I can tell I’m aging, because the satisfaction of OVER and a job well done feels even sweeter to me than any of the epic life moments. It took a couple of weeks to decompress and wrap things-up, not to mention wade through all the piles of neglect that accrued in my inbox and homebox. But now? Right now,  I can breathe–with my body and not my shoulders. I have the calm and headspace to read books again, to write again, to reconnect with family and friends.

Sometimes people feel sad when the honeymoon ends and the service of life begins, but a day with a normal to-do list and the ability to feel more focused on my loved ones, colleagues, and their pursuits feels idyllic to me. Summer is almost here. The weight has lifted, the weight has FLOWN. The service of Tremendous Beauty continues.

***

Speaking of Araceli Esparza and servicing stories, she’s working on launching MAD LIT Madison’s Writing Center.

Madison locals, please join her for the second planning meeting on June 6th, 2015 from 11 AM – 1 PM at Pinney Library on Cottage Grove Road.

From MAD LIT:

History: This is our second meeting. We are united for our love of expression. Come and we

will more than gladly share minutes, and there is still tons of work and room to grow.

Why: We would like to see a center in Madison that creates a safe place for writing.This may

be a stable physical space or various spaces created but linked.

Radical Inclusion: We are a core of about 20 poets, writers, teachers, parents, and

community members who want to include every possible kind of user. People of color,

LGBTQIA, gender variant, other abled, people who live life radically, book makers, paper

makers, people who never thought of writing, students who want to know how to write,

readers who want to connect with authors, readers who want to explore writing, children who

want to write, children and parents who want to write. Artists and nonartists,

and everyone inbetween. If you have a new word please feel free to add right here:

__________________________________________.

Sunday in The Park With Nancy

A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat

Over twenty times in the past three days interviewers asked me questions like:

Do you listen to your mother?

What’s the best advice your mother ever gave you?

Is your mother still with us?

Do you think your mom had any influence on your creating Listen To Your Mother?

Describe your mom in one word.

Considering the seven years I’ve written a mom blog and the five years I’ve invested in a massive motherhood storytelling project, I share relatively little about my own mom.

To start:

I listen carefully to my mom. Then I often veer off along my merry way– promptly forgetting whatever wisdom she imparted. In a few weeks time this traffic circle typically leads me back to her with an anecdote I think I’ve heard from someone else, that I can hardly wait to bestow upon her. You know that problem I had? You’ll never guess what worked! She can guess exactly what worked, because she was the one who suggested it in the first place.

Advice from my mom:

Once in a while eat an ice cream cone for lunch.

Change your shoes a few times a day.

Change your sheets every week.

Change your martini olives for vermouth-soaked mini onions. Try it.

My mom not only remains with us, but she swims in frigid Lake Superior at every opportunity, relishes journeys to far away and exotic locations, and drives her convertible with the top down on the interstate, with a/c or heat on high depending on the season.

Mom  zip-lined in Costa Rica last year. She not only works out with a personal trainer, she has taught him to love martinis as I, too, love martinis. However scotch is the gift you should bring her when you pay her a visit, especially in times of hardship or triumph or okay, actually, scotch is always welcome in my mom’s home.

My mom has dedicated her entire career to listening to people’s stories. She still practices clinical social work, and my older sister is a  CEO social worker, and I was an actress and a sales executive futilely biding my time until yes I got that Master’s in Social Work, too. Our double-helix mandate states “massive hair and desire to work socially.”

I have fond childhood memories of my mom making me strawberries and whipped cream for my birthday, visiting her at the clinic where she practiced therapy, eating lemon Cokes and cherry blintzes at Ella’s Deli when it still existed on State Street. I remember riding in the bike seat attached to her bike, going BUMP over curbs, and how as a teenager she let me borrow her expensive blouses and cardigan sweaters. She let me dress however I liked in high school so long as she didn’t have to see stains or holes in socks.

Really, though, the best part of my relationship with my mom started when I became an adult. The love changed and a friendship began and grew into something big and important in a way I have trouble describing or quantifying.

You know if you’ve ever seen Georges Seurat or another Pointillist–the closer you get the less you can articulate–the images become dots and lines and you lose the overall picture. Trying to write my mom’s presence in my life reminds me of beholding the original A Sunday On La Grand Jatte  –expansive and priceless and sunny, simple from afar yet complex to the point of confounding as you draw near. The work itself reminds me of her – light and shade, playfulness and restraint, conviviality and solitude, intimacy and privacy, with an overall euphoria for a Sunday in the park with dogs and babies, water and boats. The painting, like my mom, is at once lovely and lively and possesses flamboyance, secrets and wildness, too–a pet monkey on a leash, a tank-top wearing dude smoking a pipe. Wildflowers. When I was a girl my mom told me that once in a while I could call her Nancy.

I’m told my mom and I share similar gestures. We share an emotional sensitivity, a shameful ignorance with regard to geography, and a wee tendency toward absent-mindedness. Neither of us can tolerate friction in our relationships. As two trained therapists, we know a healthy relationship needs to tolerate a degree of friction, but that doesn’t stop our insane doppler radar, constantly analyzing the barometric pressure–eyes scanning, sighs measured, jaw tension appraised. Is everything okay?  Are you hungry? Let me take your pet monkey for a few hours.

Oh, and describe my mom in one word? Beloved.

Happy Mother’s Day, Nancy.

All my love,

Ann Maxine

 

***

Madison folks! Please Join us tomorrow– Mother’s Day Sunday– at 3PM at The Barrymore for our 6th annual LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER: Madison. Motherhood stories on stage and for sale in our new book! The Madison Youth Choir won’t leave a dry eye, and all for a good cause. 10% of ticket proceeds benefit Simpson Street Free Press, and we will be fundraising for them at the show.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY FROM ME AND LTYM–OMG– ON ABCNEWS.COM!!

 Do you have Mother’s Day or motherhood words to share? Link up with us tomorrow, on Mother’s Day, at listentoyourmothershow.com.

I looked up the meaning of Ann because there isn’t enough going on with a new book and 38 shows.

I know you are so busy, but have you googled the meaning of your name? Look what I found for “Ann!” Talk about uncanny.

I mean it’s close, but for the skeptics out there–I’m an Ann who knows how to spell “mouths.”

***

Other things I’ve kept busy with when not haranguing you with unwarranted life-coaching:

1. You guys the book launch–well, it is so much more than a book and it was so much more than a launch. I wrote all about it here, and you can see gorgeous photos by Anna Palmer of Jennifer Lee Photography.

photo by Anna Palmer for Jennifer Lee Photography

2. This weekend begins our 2015 LTYM Show season!! Between the book (which is garnering raves from the likes of Cosmopolitan, Elle, Family Circle, Good Housekeeping, Kirkus, Library Journal, Parents, Real Simple, and here’s an especially lovely recent review from bookreporter.com) and 38 LTYM shows across the country, I’m pretty much handing you your Mother’s Day gifts. LTYM book, LTYM tix, done and DONE.

Find show ticket info for all cities here, and please join me on Mother’s Day Sunday 5/10 at 3PM for our 6th annual Madison show.

3.  Next week I’m heading to Mom 2.0 Summit in Scottsdale, where I’ll be speaking, hosting an LTYM Book reading/signing, and walking the red carpet as a nominee in two categories at the Iris Awards (eeeep)!

For attendees, please join me:

8:00 PM Thursday 4/30 LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER Book Reading & Book Signing (Salon D)

Mom 2.0 and Listen To Your Mother (national storytelling series and video-sharing company), are both born of creative online women and share many talented friends in common. Come meet contributors from the just-released LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER: What She Said Then, What We’re Saying Now from Putnam Books, Irreverent, thought-provoking, hilarious, and edgy: a collection of personal stories celebrating motherhood, featuring #1 New York Times bestselling authors Jenny Lawson and Jennifer Weiner, and many other notable writers. Hear readings from LTYM Founder Ann Imig and contributors including Wendi Aarons, Vikki Reich, Amy Wilson, Taya Dunn Johnson, Nancy Davis Kho & Lisa Page Rosenberg. Books will be available for sale and signing.

10:45 AM Friday 5/1 Consciously Incorporating Diversity Into Your Life, Work, Worldview (Salon F)

While we assume most communities and organizations desire a diverse membership, many are lacking the tools/knowledge in how to make progress toward that goal. Many of us need more experience even talking about diversity and inclusion–not to mention knowing what the difference is between an “open door” invitation and a meaningful invitation that makes people feel truly welcome. We’ll talk about key ways to look at, open up and possibly rethink consious inclusion.

Ann Imig, Vikki Reich, Taya Dunn Johnson, Ana Flores, Sheila Dowd

6:45 – 8:00 Iris Awards (Ritz-Carlton Phoenix) .

Wish me good hair! If I see you, please hug me and let’s agree not even try to remember each others’ names, but rather the impact we have on one another (which hopefully doesn’t include too much sweat given the 100 degree forecast). Or meet me on the dance floor, after the awards. I’ll be the one enthusiastically mouthing the wrong lyrics while shimmying.