Remember when I put on my big girl pants and auditioned for Listen To Your Mother NYC? When I blathered on and on, my tongue swelled and pits pitted? While sitting there sweating and talking, I met some wicked nice people, who didn’t want to Tanya Harding me, but instead were supportive and friendly. Real friendly, not fake friendly. I can tell the difference.
I talk too much. It’s what I do when I get nervous. Inside thoughts become outside thoughts and escape my brain and make a run for the mouth before I can stop them. It’s the reason I started to blog which lead me to Ann Imig‘s brainchild LTYM, where I proceeded to talk and not shut up the entire 20 minutes before my turn to go behind that closed, mysterious door.
I met and immediately loved young Modern Mom on the bench across from me, and chit chatted with the impressive Jersey mom with really good hair, fancy boots and a goddamn PhD who I myself wanted to Tanya Harding when she got up and KISSED THE JUDGE hello. Really? Kisses? They’re friends? I’m so fucked here in auditionland.
I’m won’t be invited to this party. That much clear by my bold yet measly blog and small tribe on Twitter. I need to go home right now. Except rather attractive husband was enjoying the parade of Broadway bound hotties walking in and out every Alice in Wonderland door on the 16th floor of this very important auditioning studio where moms like me have no business of being. He showed no intention of leaving.
So I stayed and read and it was exhilarating and then I returned to my life of kids and college and soccer and standardized testing and teenagers and period parties and car dealers.
Except I got a call. From Varda, the impressive judge who fancy mom kissed.
I got in. Me. This one right here.
I fooled enough people I was LTYM worthy, or perhaps they’re brains were glazed over with awesomesauce from previous performers.
Or perhaps someone lost a bet. That would totally suck.
Or may this is a flashback to when Kid3 at the snooty age of 4 invited Curtis from preschool over for a playdate (appropriate term in pre-school only), insisting every friggin’ day that Curtis come over today, and when can Curtis come over, and is today Curtis day?, and can Curtis come for a playover now, and is it today the day when Curtis is coming over.
I finally caved, invited Curtis over. She ran to the door squealing, swung it open with the force of, shall we say Tanya Harding, took one look at him, and announced,
Then slammed the door and went back upstairs to sulk.
She had wanted Colton to come over. Not Curtis.
Fingers crossed, double crossed – triple crossed – I’m Colton.