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.)

moms book club.

The women gathered around Mary Tristan's kitchen table. Each held a copy of their latest fictional conquest, Dance While They Watch, a stupid novel that should only be sold at grocery store checkouts, but which they purchased in bulk from Sam's Club because Sandy Robinson had a 10 percent off coupon. It was the sort of empty, garbage novel that people leave on airplanes, or in hostels.

"I just loved how the author really seemed to...connect...with her characters," swooned Dawn Blanchette, one of Mary's neighbors who just "could not wait to join this book club!" She was the sort of woman that wasn't used to waiting around for an invitation.

"I know," replied Mary. "So interesting how the author, what's her name..."

"Isabelle Lawrence," filled in Kit Jeffries, who everyone could tell would have preferred to read Katharine Graham's memoir Personal History, which told the real story of the first female publisher of the Washington Post. When she attempted to throw the book into the running, everyone said they just wanted to have something to escape to, so Kit dropped it, knowing they meant they didn't want to feel bad about not being more accomplished themselves.

"Right, yes," said Mary, "Isabelle just seemed to really be able to jump into the reality of the story." Kit thought it was weird that they now were calling the author by her first name as if she were there and part of their little club.

"I know," cooed Dawn. "It's so hard to believe that every writer, especially one like this, hasn't just lived the lives of her characters."

"I know," chimed in Mary again. "I wish I could live all of these crazy lives, but what can you do?"

Kit sat at the end of the table where Mary's husband normally sat at dinner. She looked up at Mary's remark and decided to rejoin the conversation. "You know, we can live crazy lives if we really want to."

"Please," giggled Dawn. "My idea of a crazy life is walking up the street to Mar's here holding a bottle of wine in a paper bag in one hand and this little ditty in the other," she said, pointing to Dance While They Watch.

"Well, what does the back of the book say?" asked Jane Levinson, veering back to the book. Jane, a beautiful brunette who lived in the next neighborhood over, was invited to the group after Mary's daughter Emily became fast friends with Krissy, Jane's daughter, during an after school year book meeting. She normally didn't read books like Dance While They Watch, but thought it might be a fun exercise in doing that which you don't want to do to fit in.

"Well," of course Dawn stepped in, having already flipped over the cover of the book. It was a taupe colored cover, the title printed in cursive burgundy, with a woman's body from the waste down, in a tango position, wrapped around a man's outstretched leg.

"It says, 'Isabelle Lawrence has been hailed by the Global World Book review as 'one of the world's most popular authors, with over 400 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include Night Crawls, Visions of Shelby, Under the Gate, Everybody's Guest, One Week Left to Live, Elephant No More, The Bells of Churches, Afternoon Magic, Royal Wigwam, Belly Up Veronica, Sitting Alone Thinking, and the popular trilogy A Father's Daughter, A Father's Wife, A Father's Adopted Granddaughter, and other highly acclaimed novels.'"

The five women each sipped from their wine glasses taking in just how many books Lawrence had penned. Even Kit was a little amazed at the sheer ability to write that many words, despite the clear formula Lawrence employed: wealthy female protagonist meets someone/anyone, there are notions of crime, suicide, jail and fraud — and drama ensues!

"Looks like we have some reading to do!" said Sandy. "Good thing they sell these at Sam's! I don't know what my husband would do if I bought all of these full price!"

"Mine would give me a stern talking to," said Dawn a little too seriously, but then laughing, mostly from the half bottle of wine she had somehow swallowed down over the last 20 minutes of chitchat.

"Hearing all those titles makes me want to write a book," said Kit, surprisingly self-conscious all of a sudden. "Of all the things that her characters do, you think she'd write a book about an author."

"Ugh, I hate that sort of self-involved stuff. That'd be like me writing a book about being a wife and mom and trying to pass it off as if it were something special," said Dawn.

"You don't think it's something special?" asked Mary, slightly miffed.

"No, it's not that," Dawn shot back softly, in that passive aggressive tone that makes being a suburban housewife worthy of the reality TV show franchise The Real Housewives of Fill-in-the-Blank-City.

"I think what Dawn's trying to say," poked in Jane, who had been mostly quiet, not knowing her place in the book club, as it was her first meeting, "She was trying to say that it's easy to make your life seem special on the page, but in reality everyones life is pretty..." 

"...boring," finished Kit. 

"Even if you are a wealthy writer or a lawyer or a trapeze artist or whatever," qualified Jane.

After a few more minutes of lightly discussing the book, which featured a scintillating scene where the protagonist, a buxom ballroom dancer from Asheville, North Carolina, runs away from home into the arms of her father's old business partner, and they begin to tango in the middle of the streets of North Carolina, the group's thoughts on Dance While They Watch fizzled. Everyone seemed to think that was a beautiful moment, except Kit who wondered at why Isabelle Lawrence didn't specify which city in all of the state they danced, let alone on which street.

"I think it's more metaphorical than that," reasoned Dawn with difficulty. Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"Sometimes you just dance through a whole state in a moment," added Mary.

"That's ridiculous," Kit responded.  

"Well, what I think is ridiculous is that this whole thing is gone," remarked Dawn, pointing to the empty bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio she'd drunk almost entirely alone.

After the women left Mary's home, she straightened her kitchen chair cushions, vacuumed the beige shag Pottery Barn rug in her front hall atrium, and took out the recycling. Her kids, Eric and Samantha came home later from a friends house and a soccer game respectively.

Mary asked them about their days, made them a dessert snack, which consisted of sliced up apples and caramel sauce. They said thank you, and left the table without clearing it. Neither of them asked how their mom's night was. 

Kit, Jane, Dawn and Sandy each had similar experiences once they too got home. Their next meeting is in a month. They're reading Captive and Captivate by Emily Daltessi.