resolved

I am completely overwhelmed by my lack of effectiveness these days.

It seems that everything I touch turns to I don't know, nothing. Just nothing. Please hold while I take a phone call.

Might it be that I am constantly interrupted?

Not to say that the interruptions aren't important ones. People need me. All the time. I know I'm a wife and mother who has a job to do. I'm just sayin'.

But I am going to keep the little promise I made here yesterday.

I've decided I will commit to writing a little something here each day, weekdays. There, I've said it. You can hold me to it, and I hope you will.

I've claimed to be a writer since I was a little girl, but truthfully I suppose I'm more of a thinker. I think about writing all the time, and I'm one of those folks who believes she's done something if she thinks about it enough. Last night I went to bed early, in a huff, realizing that I've pretended to a writer for long enough. It's time to get to work.

Motivation came in part from my current read, the classic Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. (Thanks, Jen.) I stuck just the tip of my nose inside its covers and was snatched right in. It's so delicious. It's making me sigh and just want to cry. I want to be a real writer, like that, one who can turn a phrase without constantly turning to cliches like "turn a phrase." Sigh, sigh, sigh.

So here I am, working out the Catholic Writer title I've christened myself with. I'm ashamed to say I hardly deserve it. But I desire it, and I plan to get busy earning it.

Luke's word (he chose this title)

Last week I attended the Catholic Writers Conference Online, and as a result I've joined the Catholic Writers Guild.

You can click on the handy pic to your right to learn more about this group of faith- based writers.

So what makes a Catholic writer? I've been pondering the meaning of the vocation quite a bit lately. I've come to a few conclusions, but I simply keep coming back to the same fundamental fact.

I'm itching to tell you all about it, but right now there's a six-year-old boy coughing in my ear, begging to sit on my lap.

He needs me. He's reminding me that I'm a Catholic mother before I'm a Catholic writer, and the former needs no explanation to this audience.

For now I'll just say that a Catholic writer is both, all the time. I'm working on improving in both categories. I'll start by promising this to myself and you: a prayer and a word here each day.

I'll leave you with a word from Luke (my son, not the evangelist.) "I want to live for my whole life."

Don't we all? At least, shouldn't we want to live our whole lives, and live them well?

I'll be back tomorrow. Praying and writing, each day, becoming what I am.

all hail

Rachel gave me a copy of this Mary Englebreit print this week. It is just so "me" that I had to post it here.

This Queen Mother is a spicy, blonde, young grandma type with cute eyeglasses and bunny slippers. And that drink in her hand? Long Island Iced Tea, I say.

If you look closely (I had to look over the top of my glasses and lean in real close) you will notice she is sporting a magic wand and has what looks like a chocolate cupcake at the ready.

That's my kinda role model.

I aim to please

You didn't like the picture, so I changed it. Is this one better? I rather like it.

I didn't even send a card

Will you forgive me?

I let our anniversary pass with nary a mention, hardly a thought. There was no candy, no flowers, so sentimental words between us.

But I do love you.

And even so, I missed our blogoversary.

February 7 passed without a mention. Please forgive me.

It's been quite a year. Together we conquered our fears, tried new things, made new friends.

You made me a better person, I think.

A better writer. A more interesting friend.

Someone who is constantly distracted by the thought of how she'll write about this or that.

But anyway...I'm glad I'm here. It's been a good year. Here's to many more to come.

tummy tuck and tell!

I'm working on a writing project and I need help!

Visit my faith and fitness blog to find out more!

curtain call

So the curtain fell on Stepping Out for the final time last weekend. Can't say I'm sad about that.

It was a tough show. Usually I feel somewhat bittersweet at the end of a run, but this show was so draining that I was ready to let it fade away. I could spend hours discussing all the problems behind the scenes (oh wait, I've done that!) but I'll just say here that the drama backstage was more interesting, compelling and entertaining that what happened on stage.

My biggest complaint had to be with the script itself. When you audition for a show you're not familiar with, you are certainly taking a chance that it won't be that great - either that you won't personally care for the story or that it won't be all that well-written. Both were true in this case. I never grew to care much about any of the characters, including my own. That is not good. I wish there was at least one character I loved or loathed. No such luck.

But there's always an up side. I learn something about myself and others with every show I do, and this one came through in that regard. So rather than share all the ugliness that we endured in the wings, I'll let you in on the life lessons I've snared this time around.

1. You can really, really like to do something, do it often, and still be really bad at it.
2. Tap dancing is harder than it looks.
3. People always know when you are talking about them behind their backs.
4. Audiences know when cast members are not getting along.
5. Some folks are just plain mean.
6. Most people do not appreciate it when you try to improve things - especially if your actions draw attention to the fact that they are not doing their job.
7. Everything to be printed should be proofread by several people.
8. I tend to judge people by their appearances, even though I will swear I don't.
9. I need praise, I thrive on applause, and I'm much more vain than most people who know me realize.
10. I simply want to be in charge of everything. If everyone else were as perfect as I am, all would well.

Right....

We had elections for our theater's Board of Directors. We have a new president who has lots of interesting ideas, and it seems a new era is underway. It's exciting, but more than a little intimidating. Will I perform again? Of course. (See #9 above.) But in the meantime I'm enjoying working behind the scenes to make this company successful, and to (hopefully) ensure that our upcoming productions go more smoothly than this one did.

So I'm lined up to costume our next show (the dark and edgy Cabaret) and I'm hoping to kick up a publicity committee. Keeps me off the streets, I suppose. I guess the theater's not a bad place for me. I can play and pretend, wear a mask. I can learn to tap dance and sing in harmony and maybe even keep my mouth shut when I should.

Those of us who love the theater can't always explain why. What I've learned so far, from the first time I stood in the dark wings, waiting for an entrance, to the last time I took a curtain call, is this: the theater is my teacher. And the lessons I learn are certainly worth the price of admission.

who knew?

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parmesan encrusted tilapia

...adorned with fresh lemon, accompanied by spicy sauteed spinach and brown rice.

That was last night.

Tonight's dinner featured homemade handcrafted turkey burgers with american cheese with a side of sauteed spinach and fresh grape tomatoes.

Both meals were made for a busy mom during a busy week by her 17-year-old son. If your child did something even half as amazing as this, I need to know about it!

happy birthday to my Daddy

The way he tells it, his dad had to shovel a path for the midwife on that January morning in 1921. While the snow fell, his mother labored with him, and on that same day her mother gave birth to his aunt.

The youngest of four, not counting the two baby boys who had died before he came along, my father was born into a poor Slovak family in the hills of Pennsylvania. His father had immigrated from Europe just a few years earlier. When my grandfather married Anna, she was only 15, and by the time she was 25 she had her last baby, my dad.

His father worked hard in those hills, carving out coal from the dark earth. His back was marked, his lungs scarred, his spirit squelched. Not wanting a similar fate, my father left the mines for the Europe of World War II. Hitler apparently seemed a less daunting foe than those black caverns.

When he returned from the war, he had no intention of spending his life in the mines. His father had died while he was gone. His mother and sisters were going to Michigan. He soon followed, to take up residence in an apartment attached to the back of a home in Dearborn. That house belonged to my maternal grandmother. It was there that he met Joan, my mom.

They married in 1960 after a long courtship. Even though Dad had only an eighth grade education, he had a good job at General Motors Clark Street plant, where Cadillacs rolled off the assembly line in a steady stream. He was a union man: he gave an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, and when he came home each night, he worked hard around our home. He didn't expect much, just dinner on the table promptly at five.

Since he had to drop out of school at such an early age, he valued education greatly. Nothing pleased him more than seeing my brother and me graduate from college. It was something that he never dreamed for himself, but was thrilled to be able to provide for us.

Dad worked hard all his life, paying his bills, supporting his family, not seeking glory or honor. He had his struggles, his personal battles. He was not, of course, perfect. There were times when I think I hated him, and there were plenty of times I feared him. But he was strong, and loyal, and honest. I have never, to this day, heard him say a profane word. And each night of his life, he has knelt by his bed to pray. That's some kind of man.

We've never been the kind of family to share lots of hugs and "I love yous." I can still remember the first time my dad said those words to me on the phone. I had just given birth to my youngest daughter, and I was in the hospital recovering. I was 40 years old.

Now each and every time I speak to him on the phone he ends the call with the words: "Love you." I wonder if he realizes how much that means... It proves to me that it is never, ever too late to love.

Today my father turned 88. We joined together for dinner at Old Country Buffet, sharing chicken and macaroni and cheese, too much dessert, and many laughs. Dad doesn't usually smile for pictures, never has, but I captured a few smiles tonight. It was good to be together. As I snapped pictures I felt wise: I know I will treasure them.

Dad still talks about the things he loves: Mozart; the slopes of the Austrian Alps; praying the rosary; growing cucumbers in his garden; playing the lottery; baby girls. I have not always understood him, and I've often been impatient with him. But today I feel extraordinarily blessed to have known him.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Love you!

not on my shopping list

And I thought I needed to go on a diet!

It turns out I just need to stretch the waistband on my favorite jeans with this handy device. Which leaves me thinking....wouldn't it just be simpler to spend that $29.95 on a new pair of pants?

three left feet

I've metioned several times lately that I'm involved in a show, so here it is, The Theater Post.

My love for the theater began when I was in the second grade. That's when I wrote, produced, directed and starred in my first play. I can't remember the name of it, but I do recall that it featured the Easter Bunny and a serious dilemna: the price of eggs had risen to $2 a dozen, and EB and friend Peter were in big trouble. (FYI, back in 1972, the price of twelve eggs was only 53 cents, so this was dramatic.)

In the sixth grade I co-wrote, produced and directed, with my good friend Corrine Meadows, the classic production "Famous Americans of Our Nation's Past." It was 1976 after all, so a bicentenial tribute was in order. It was historically inaccurate (we had President Jefferson telling Lewis and Clark to take their teddy bears with them) but it was fun. I was hooked.

I didn't hit the stage again until high school, when I landed the role of Aunt Eller in Oklahoma!. It was a challenging role, but I was well-suited to it, even though I (of course) wanted the role of the cute, flitatious Ado Annie, the gal who couldn't say no. (What 16 year old girl in her right mind would choose the role of an old lady rather than a fun chick who loved the boys?)

Our director, like all of his kind, was evil, and I'm not exaggerating. He expected a flawless performance from a bunch of kids, and amazingly, he almost got it. It was a tramatic, exhilarating, exhausting, invigorating experience. I hated the director but loved what he got from me.

It took many years for me to return to the stage, but when my eldest daughter expressed an interest in the theater we got involved in our local community group. Now I'm on the board, have done costumes and performed in musicals, dramas and comedies. Our current production involves tap dancing.

As "Maxine" in Stepping Out I'm a 40-something gal who used to dance quite well. Now I'm in a tap class once a week, running a boutique and raising a step-son.

It's the hardest show I've ever been a part of, and that's not because I've never tapped danced before. (Although that's true, too.) All productions have their share of backstage drama, and this one is no exception. In fact, I keep thinking that if the audience knew what we've been doing at rehearsals, they'd want to buy tickets.

I find that every show I'm involved in brings with it a unique lesson. I learn about people; I learn about myself. This show, of course, is no exception. Not everything I've discovered has been positive, particularly about myself.

I feel like I'm dancing with not two, but three left feet. Oh, I've managed to learn how to tap dance quite well, actually, it's not that. It's just that I've found I'm unable to let go, to let others manage details, to not take charge. It's much more complicated than I'm letting on, and I'll spare you the details. But I'll say this: it's been a rough time. But am I regretting it? Never.

From the time I painted on a pink lipstick nose back when I was seven, I've loved the theater. I love the excitement, the wonder, the challenge. I love being myself and being someone quite different. I've loved and hated scripts, questioned directors and been in awe of them. There is nothing quite like that moment before an entrance is made...nothing quite like standing backstage, in the black, straining for a cue, hitting it spot on, feeling the lights on your face, getting the line just right, your heart beating so hard you feel it might burst. There's nothing like opening night, the jitters, the fear, the adrenelin; there's nothing like closing night, either, knowing that the art you've worked so hard to create will soon be just an echo on an empty stage.

There's nothing like a curtain call. There's nothing like applause.

So for the next few days I'll endure tech week, and on Friday I'll stand backstage and wonder why in the world I'm doing this. And then I'll remember how I love it, and how I really believe that there is value in sharing our talents through the theater.

Good theater can inspire, enlighten and educate, as well as entertain. I'm not sure if this show will do any of those things, but I know one thing. I'm going to enjoy myself, and I'm going to do it, because I can. For now, I think that's reason enough.

If you live in my neighborhood and want an entertaining, cheap night out, check out our site. (We are also doing a fund-raiser for our local crisis pregancy center, The Lennon Center, at all performances. Pretty cool, huh?)