I didn’t tell my mom about the audition. I was afraid she would disapprove, so I figured that if she didn’t know that tawdry jokes were spewing from my sinful mouth, she couldn’t say no! Oh, this logical move perfectly showcases my 20-something maturity, a sophistication that has been fostered by many an episode of Beverley Hills, 90210. In a high school debate on passing out condoms in public school I quoted Donna Martin waxing philosophic on how passing out condoms is just like teaching children to swim which doesn’t make any sense now nor did it then, but it was either that or closing my rebuttal with, “DONNA MARTIN GRADUATES!”
But back to my mother. She only knows about this blog only because other people have brought it to her attention. She doesn’t really understand what the internet is; only that she doesn’t want it to be a medium in which I shame our family. Again. I’ve tried to help her grasp the very meta concept of storytelling to complete strangers but this is the same woman who asked me if the Seattle Mariners were going to play the Seattle Seahawks because we all know how common it is for completely different sports leagues within the *same* city to battle it out.
Sometime during my first second trimester, my mother left me a long ranty voicemail berating me for having a blog, because this tiny corner of the internet which she has still never seen SHAMED her. SHAMED! I’m sure she was really pissed at something else, like Golden Girls showing at 7:00 instead of 7:30 and since no one else was there to hear her seething rage, my voicemail box collected her wrath.
So I had been very cautious about the audition, telling her that I couldn’t spend quality time with her on Saturday (read: drive her to JCPENNEY) because I had an “appointment.” And since I wasn’t invited for a call-back, she didn’t need to know.
Then my sister-in-law asked, “So Mona, how did that comedy thing go?”
And very quickly, I said it was great. That I had performed my bit in front of about 60 people. That people laughed. That I wasn’t asked to return.
And my mother perked up as if I had just said, “At our house you can watch a channel that has both Gunsmoke *and* Bonanza!”
She was smiling. “Oh, what did you say?”
I didn’t tell her about the cell phone ass or the burn victim bomb, but instead, offered her a joke about how she bagged up my thong underwear because she claimed I would be cold and I replied that um, that’s not all I wear.
And I had completely forgotten how much my mother loves it when I imitate her, especially since I have perfected her pitch and tone which is mainly in a high E over C. (She probably won’t find it funny that I can forge her signature, too.)
And my mother laughed and laughed. I don’t know what I loved more about that moment, realizing how silly I had been to worry that I didn’t have my mother’s support or how I sounded when I was pushed to use a voice that was all my own.