my mom: "The Truth Hurts"

The backseat of my mom's old car smelled like sour milk and soccer cleats for the better part of a decade. Ah, the mighty Ox. That's what we called her giant black suburban. The license plate was OX-48800. It's not like we had to reach very far for what became a classic nickname. That's the car my siblings and I all learned how to drive with — from learning to parallel park or how to get out of a fish tail situation on an icy morning, to getting in our first fender benders or breaking both the front and back windshields.

I'm thinking of her car now because I'm thinking about her. I'm thinking about her whole life, her life before me, before Larry, before Colleen, before Sean, before Timmy and before Kevin. I'm thinking of her before my dad, before she was a wife and a mother, before she was a nurse, when she was just a young woman, lost, like I am now. I wrote my first solo show, "Heart/s," last week and performed it Sunday night, and honestly, I could not have done it without her; she is such an integral part of me. And for those who saw the show, and for those that will come August 29th in Chicago, you can and will see how much so.

We talked on the phone the other week. It was during my lunch break from a gig I had at a production company in Santa Monica. I was driving to find a Mexican restaurant nearby the office. I'm shocked by the lack of solid burrito spots in Los Angeles. In Chicago there's a burrito restaurant on every damn corner, and they are all the best. Taco Burrito on Lincoln and Diversey, aka Los Tres Ponchos, is really the best, but they are all very good. Garcia's in Lincoln Square? Yeah, also the best. I mean, I could go on, but I have to stop. El Burrito, under the Addison redline? So good. Ok. I'm stopping. Not El Jardin. I'm not a fan of that spot (also in Wrigley — though I will say they do have a pretty stellar margarita).

Anyway, I called my little momsicle to talk because I miss her. I miss her all the time because I love her. Sometimes I feel like I don't know her though. I think a lot of people feel this about their parents. Last night in my Groundlings class one of my classmates did a character based on his father, and when asked what his father's point of view on life was, the student was in some ways at a loss. And when I reflected on how I might do Mary Sheila Marshall as a character (and she is a total character), I don't quite know what her point of view on life is either. If I had to say anything it would be, "Life is hard, things are hard, get over it because complaining doesn't make things better." A painful aphorism of hers is, "The truth hurts," which is a hard thing to hear when you just want an empathetic ear and someone to stroke your hair while not saying anything at all.

Whenever I ask her about her life she is vague, focuses on whatever she is doing at that moment and gives me a little rundown of what her plans are for that day. It's frustrating. It's frustrating to try and get to know someone I've known for almost three decades. She's shocked whenever I tell her I feel like I don't know her very well. I know her, her inclinations, the inflection of her voice, her catch phrases. I know her face, the roughness of her incredibly strong hands, the smoothness of her cheeks. I know what she looks like when she's just woken up, what she looks like when she's already sleeping, and when she's going from being happy to being sad. I know her — but so much of her is her history, so much of her is the past that makes up her present.

Can we ever know other people, truly? It's a widely believed notion that we can only be close to six people at a time. That makes sense. I only have six people in my car speed dial. Most family phone plans are limited to six. The big table at restaurants typically maxes at six, and then you have to add additional tables. As Marshall children, we know what it is to wait for the big table at any given restaurant, read: The Silo in Lake Bluff, Illinois, a Marshall family hot spot from 1990-2000.

There's something about that not being able to be close to many people — it's hard to spread the love to more than a select few. And I suppose, with six kids, a husband, parents, nine siblings of her own, and a slew of friends and acquaintances, Sheila Marshall has become an expert in loving others. She might be all over the place, but it's only because she wants to be everywhere at once, sharing in the lives of the people around her, and letting them know she does care deeply. She really does.

I hope to be more like her...minus her adages and the reality check no one asked for. (But, I suppose I've already inherited those things about her too.)