Might as Well Laugh About It Now (5 page)

Okay, so I had to fake the wigs, too. I had the clerk box up whatever dark brown wig and blond wig were available for the least amount of money. I ran into the bookstore next door and grabbed a
Peanuts
book from the shelves and took it with me to my regular hairdresser.

As soon as I pushed open her salon door and saw her standing behind her chair with scissors and a comb, I called out, “Help! Can you help me???”

She very calmly opened up the two packages. The brunette hair looked like Joan Collins’s hair on
Dynasty
, and the blond hair looked like Charo, circa 1969. I pushed the “Charlie Brown” book in her direction. “I need Lucy and Sally. Is there a chance?”

“Give me an hour,” she said.

“I only have thirty minutes! I have a pot roast in the oven!”

“Okay,” she said, taking up the challenge. “You know, you don’t want to dry out those precooked roasts.” She winked at me.

I take it I wasn’t the first mom to throw polyester wigs at her like a maniac who needed a miracle.

I had to fake the wigs because I had also promised to be in the school auditorium thirty minutes before the play started to save seats for about fifteen extended family members.

As it turned out, by the time I got the wigs to the school dressing room, it was already thirty minutes before curtain time, and I still had to go home and get Rachael and the other kids.

I had to fake being able to save seats, too.

I looked at the people starting to enter the auditorium and saw a good friend of mine who was coming by herself to support my daughter in her school play. As soon as I saw her walking toward the door with her program in her hand, I shouted across the parking lot to her.

“Help! Can you help me???”

She turned, startled, and started jogging toward me, thinking I was in dire trouble.

“What is it?” she asked. “One of the kids? Are you ill?” Then she read my face. “You want me to save seats,” she said knowingly.

“See how well we know each other!” I said, delighted. “I need fifteen.”

“Okay,” she said. She very calmly took stock of what she was wearing. “I’ve got two socks, a belt, my purse, three tissues, my program, a jacket, and my sunglasses case that I can use to hold seats. I can lay my body across the other four.”

I take it I wasn’t the first mom to ask her like a maniac to strip down to mark out a territory.

When I walked back through the front door of my house, my kids were finishing up their pot roast dinner.

Rachael hugged me. “Mom, that was so good! Your best one ever!”

“Wait until you see how cute the wigs are,” I said to her.

I roused everyone from the table as I popped a baby carrot into my mouth to tide me over. “Hurry! Get in the car. The play starts in twenty minutes.”

My seat-saving friend in the school auditorium, who was almost down to her bra and Spanx, was relieved to see me after her hectic half hour of answering questions like “Excuse me! Is this gum wrapper saving this chair?”

When the extended family members entered the auditorium five minutes before the curtain, I was smiling and waving from the row of saved chairs. My children were happy from their favorite “homemade” meal, and the audience clapped when they saw how much Lucy’s hair looked like Lucy’s hair.

As a parent, it’s important for me to keep my promises. I can keep almost every promise as long as there are other busy women in this world—women who know what the demands of being a mom are like, who multitask as often as they breathe, who can see what’s needed and jump in, no explaining, no complaining. Busy women who I can count on to help me fake it when I can’t make it.

I’d Rather Play the Toilet

That’s right. Donny plays keyboards. Wayne plays guitar. I thought I had it bad playing the marimba, but my poor mom had to play the hot iron every day.

I was playing guitar onstage, finally! It’s what I always really wanted to do . . . when I was
twelve
. Not anymore. I was certain the huge projection screens looming behind me were capturing a close-up of my fingers on the strings. Or, more likely, I was being caught with my fingers
off
the strings. I can only play four chords semi-well: G, C, D, and A-minor, the only ones I had the chance to learn as “a minor.” Oh, and Dolly Parton had taught me once how to bar chords, when we shared a backstage area on the country music circuit in the mid-1980s. She had learned that technique so she could play guitar and also keep her beautiful long fingernails. Smart woman.

That’s the extent of my six-string virtuosity.

I couldn’t even turn sideways to hide my minimal playing skills without being caught on camera. My brothers thought it would be cool to film this concert from all directions: all 360 degrees. As men, they don’t realize that this idea is every woman’s worst nightmare. It’s like being trapped in a department store dressing room with magnifying mirrors covering every wall. When your image is on a twenty-five-foot megatron screen, one-half inch of arm flab can look like a sail in the America’s Cup.

We were in London, at a sold-out concert at the O2 arena. Twenty-five thousand fans had come to celebrate the Osmonds’ fiftieth anniversary in show business. (I haven’t been around quite that long yet. Donny has, though!)

A few weeks before, when we were rehearsing in Utah, I asked my brother Wayne for some quick pointers on the guitar because he actually does know how to play. He was also the main reason I didn’t get to play as a teenager.

My parents invested the money we first made performing as children back into practical skills that we could use onstage. They hired great choreographers, voice teachers, and music arrangers. When it came to teaching us to play instruments, my parents devised a system that would be money-savvy and also simplify our daily calendars. They sent each of us to take lessons on a different instrument, and then we would come home and teach our instrument to everyone else. Wayne got to study guitar. Jay played drums. Alan learned the saxophone. Donny specialized in keyboards. My poor brother Merrill was responsible for learning to play the banjo. This did not score him points with teenage girls, whose only association with the banjo was
The Beverly Hillbillies
theme song. Merrill’s pain only increased when we toured Japan and learned that “banjo” sounded very close to “benjo,” the Japanese word for toilet. After that, every time he would practice his banjo, at least one of us felt compelled to stroll by and make a flushing sound.

I thought Merrill had it pretty bad, until it was my turn to learn an instrument. I chose the guitar. Guitars were the “it” instrument for girls. Joni Mitchell and Carly Simon had led the way in the sixties. Nancy Wil son of Heart made the guitar look like great fashion in the seventies. Even Betty, the blonde on
The Archies
cartoon series, could cook. When I told my mother that I wanted to play the guitar, she put her arm around my shoulders. “We already have a guitar player, which is Wayne. We need someone to play the marimba. And that can be you.”

For a moment or two, I thought Mother using the word “can” left the door open for discussion on the issue, until I saw the faraway look on her face. I knew she was visualizing the possibilities for our Vegas Christmastime show. She was imagining a marquee on the famous Las Vegas Strip that read:

MARIE OSMOND—PLAYS THE MARIMBA—COME HEAR
SLEIGH RIDE! NOT JUST TWO MALLETS, BUT FOUR!

There was no shortage of reasons I did
not
want to learn to play this cumbersome Latin American folk instrument.

For those of you who are not up to speed on your popular Latin American percussion, the marimba is in the idiophone family of instruments. Yes, idiophone. Not a good self-esteem builder for a young girl. How close to the word “idiot” can you get? And the siblings in the idiophone family are the xylophone and wood blocks (used for horse hoof sounds). We all know how often teenage girls like to impress boys by replicating the sound of a trotting Clydesdale. Please! A marimba was not cool. I would rather play the toilet like Merrill.

Despite all of my legitimate reasons why the marimba was not for me, my mother could not be swayed from her vision. Days later, I was standing next to a woman who played the best marimba in all of Las Vegas. She was the top teacher in the area and my mother, in her excitement, had signed me up for lessons with her. I was at an awkward age, and this was certainly an awkward instrument to have to learn.

At about the third lesson, while I was still in pain from the thought of playing anything onstage, let alone a huge log cabin on wheels, the teacher instructed me to put some “feeling” into my playing. I guess she meant some feeling other than embarrassment.

My mother watched me practice from a chair at the side of the room. She looked on intently and then I heard her whisper loudly: “More eyes, Marie. More eyes!” She always loved the silent movies with the ingénues and their expressive eyes. I tried to tell her that . . . since the invention of sound recording . . . all that eye batting was unnecessary and way over the top.

In this case, though, she had a point. I hadn’t looked up from the keys once because I was so worried that I might hit the wrong note. My mother wanted me to stop being concerned about individual notes and start to enjoy playing. I knew I would never live up to her expectations. I couldn’t even use the words “marimba” and “enjoy” in the same sentence.

My mother thought I would eventually grow to love the marimba. It never happened. I dreaded every lesson, struggled through every song, and used to hope that some heavy lighting fixture would “accidentally” fall from the stage ceiling and send my marimba into oblivion.

London’s O2 was only one stop on our twenty-five-date tour with the fiftieth-anniversary show. Hundreds of hours of technical planning, phone calls with venue owners, hiring of musicians and choreographers, creating light and sound designs, and scheduling with road managers had gone into the tour. Add to that list the countless hours coordinating all of us Osmonds for rehearsal time, along with the band and backup singers. It was a massive effort of love on everyone’s part.

I knew it was time to stop thinking about my fingers on the strings of the guitar and the giant screens behind me, and change my focus to connecting with the audience. After all, they didn’t buy a ticket expecting to see Joan Jett rock the house on a Gibson double cut-away. They had come to see my brothers and me. They had come to sing along to our many hits, to have a great time, and, in a very overwhelming way that we will never forget, share the love.

For fifty years, they have bought our records, attended our concerts, funded our star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, written to us, cheered us, and become our “family of fans.” As I looked out at their faces from the stage, many seemed to have mixed emotions about this concert. I believe they were the same emotions my brothers and I were experiencing. We had realized that this might be the very last tour in which all of us would appear together onstage. I say “might” because I almost never say “never.” I’ve learned that whenever I say “never,” something comes along to say: “Oh, yeah? Guess what!”