Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
This is a five-show weekend. But, I have already done three, so only have two more to go...And then, blessed Monday! Who knew Mondays would one day be such a haven for me?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
It is really unfortunate how much time I spend being just plain uncomfortable in my profession. Because, I hate to be uncomfortable. I mean, I realize I am not alone in this feeling, but still, I try to live in comfort--as much as my sense of fashion and my job allow me. In my current show, I have to wear fishnet tights. You think, not so bad--all those little holes must be a nice natural cooling system, not unlike what Jess gets to enjoy on a daily basis in her house. Well, sure. Maybe. But, actually, the material is a little itchy, and very tight (thus, the word, tights, I suppose). I also have to dance--really dance--we're not talking about step-touching or a shimmy every once in a while; no, turns leaps, kicks, lunges, the whole shabang--in 3 inch heels. I know most of you have never done ballet, but ballet was not designed for 3 inch heels. Maybe if you have played basketball, you can imagine playing the game just as competitively as always, but with little poles stuck under your sneakers; maybe then you can understand how not natural it is to do a split in the air and land in heels. Maybe.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
It is super late--or early, depending on how you look at it. The sky is beginning to grow lighter and I am just going to bed. My dear friend, Dustin, came to see the show tonight and we ended up having lots to catch up on afterwards (thus, the late night). We bonded during our time in Korea, performing the American hit involving creative arts high school students, Fame! the Musical, and have been friends ever since. We would be quite the pair walking around Seoul; I am 5'8, and he is 6'8, so we stood out as two tall Americans. People would look at us in awe and sometimes even come up to us to practice their English and marvel at our heights. Dustin would sometimes gesture to both of us and say very seriously, Very famous American actors. The store-keeper, or waitress, or whoever happened to be there would nod their head seriously, look at us through wide eyes, and say Aaaaaaah. Aaaaaaaah, indeed.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Oh my goodness, today was so good. Jase and I had so much fun going to the Santa Monica Creek state park. It's the kind of place where you can look and look and still not see enough. And if the mountains, endless blue expanse of sky, rock formations that dwarf even the tallest among us (and jase and I were both there--so yeah, even we were dwarfed), and lakes were not enough, there was even the ruins of an old adobe to explore. Today was another hot one, and so when we stumbled upon Rock Lake, we just had to go in--clothes and all. We did take our shoes off, though. Oh, and guess who else had to go in? Just about the cutest puppies you could find--a little golden retriever who was fluffy with fur and had a chubby little snout, and also a tiny little black chihuahua and something (jase and I guessed rabbit...?) mix. Their names were Bambi and Baby, respectively. Their owners dipped them into the water, and then just left them to roam freely. They curled up and slept on a rock, warmed by the sun and completely oblivious to just how achingly cute they were. I went up to them and started petting them, and yes, pretending they were mine. A little boy walked up at that moment, and I moved over in deference to him (and because I wasn't sure he wasn't one of their owners). So I asked him, Are these little puppies yours? He quickly shook his head no, so I followed up with another question, Do you kinda wish they were? Then he smiled real big as he nodded his assent and I let him know I felt the exact same way about the situation. Even Jason, who is not an animal owner, or as he says, enslaver, admitted that they were adorable. I told him to get one, but he said that small dogs have weak hearts and aren't up to traveling as much as he and his family do. Well, that is very practical and very smart and very mature and blah blah blah, but those puppies were so cute and weak heart or not, would make just about any situation better, I think.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
I love Sunday nights. I love the anticipation of a day off--sometimes even more than the day off itself, if that makes any sense. I love staying up late and knowing that I do not have to work tomorrow at all. I mean, let's be honest, I stay up late every other night of the week also, but not with that sweet knowledge of a day to myself looming ahead.
So, I realize that those of you on the east coast have experienced your own heat wave recently, but I would bet that most of you have AC to temper it. Well, I am staying at a gorgeous house that was advertised as having a "natural cooling system." Now by natural, I think what the owner meant was something more like, if you keep the door open you just might get an occasional breeze fluttering through the house, thanks to the Santa Ana winds. Oh, and keep the doors open long enough and you will also get some bugs. Biting you. Riding those Santa Ana winds right onto your skin. So not only will you still be hot, you will now be itchy. I wonder why she didn't post that on Craig's List?
Saturday, June 21, 2008
As requested (thank you for the kind words, Les!), I am going to write a little bit about my time spent at the Vermont's open mic night this past Monday. First of all, let me say that it was certainly a more refined crowd than I had met at the Rainbow the previous week. Also, there was a piano already there, which saved me the trouble of lugging around Darby's keyboard (but thanks, darb, for letting me borrow it!). Again, Gabby played the role of my stage mom and was kind enough to go with me. Unfortunately, we got in a little late so I was pretty far down on the list to play.
Friday, June 20, 2008
When I was a little girl, I really hated having dry skin. Not so much because I was vain about it, or even embarrassed; I hated it because it meant after every bath, my mom would coat my body in a layer of slippery, slimy lotion. Ugh. I detested the feeling. I remember just waiting for her to leave the room so that I could run and grab the nearest towel and begin wiping myself down. I tried to remove all of that lotion, but it would be too late; a lot of it had already soaked in. Sometimes my mom would come back in and catch me doing this. She would stop me and tell me that my skin was very very thirsty and if I listened closely enough I could hear it saying, I'm thirsty! I'm thirsty! in a high-pitched little skin-like voice.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Last night our producer, John Breglio (yeah, the one who writes our paychecks every week), came to see the show. Again. It's his money that is funding our show, so you can only imagine how invested he is in it. So anyway, we were all very aware of his presence in the audience (center, 4th row, not that any one of us was looking, or anything--but if we had, we would have also noticed that he seemed to be holding a clipboard and taking notes...gulp). The very nice thing about the show was that we had some sort of dream audience. I mean, really--they LOVED us. And I can't help but admit that really makes us love them back (not unlike when you meet someone who just likes you so much and makes a big deal about you; I mean, you start to like them too, right? It's only natural).
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tonight I met a teenage girl outside the stage door. She wanted to have her picture taken with me. Without having to ask, I could tell that she was a dancer--a ballerina, to be specific. She had long, opaque-blonde hair surrounding a pale face, willowy limbs, and was overall very thin and anemic-looking. Yep, sounds about right--a ballerina. And when I looked at her, I saw a younger version of me. I saw the drive and hunger in her eyes to be something brilliant, something technical; something with feet that point for days and legs that lift to a height that isn't normal. I remember that feeling of standing at the ballet barre and as I turned sideways, almost disappearing. Because that is what a tiny, skinny ballerina does. I spent so many long moments looking at my reflection in those ever-present mirrors and just willing my butt to be absolutely flat. Because again, that is what a ballerina looks like. I loved that halfway emaciated look, I think, because it meant dancing beautifully. It meant being lifted effortlessly in a pas de deux, and floating over a stage that will never be the same because now, you have danced on it.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I looked a hot mess this morning. Let me tell you why. See, in our gorgeous house here in Los Angeles, I am sleeping in the living room--a room that I affectionately refer to as my bedroom. It does have a bed, and is a room (duh), so I think the term is very direct and quite perfect. Anyway, there is a huge, almost wall-size window that is directly opposite my bed. Also, my room is adjacent to the kitchen, which has glass doors leading to the outside patio as well as another wall-size window. These windows are beautiful and romantic most of the time. They fail to lose their poetry, however, at about 6:30 am, when the windows are spilling in the sun's blinding light and I am hating it--yes, at that time in the morning, I am a hater. Of light. Sorry. And don't even try with the spiritual metaphors, it's not that deep; I just want to sleep and the sunlight makes it difficult. One night, I thought that I could dim at least a little bit of the daily morning oasis in my bedroom by rolling out the sliding door that separates my room from the kitchen. Well, I rolled it out, and guess what? The whole thing was glass. Perfect, seemingly invisible glass that doesn't block out a darn thing. Again, so pretty...but who cares about pretty when sleep is at stake?
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I have had the pleasure of being raised by a father who loves me. True, he is unique, funny, and not always predictable, but he has always loved me. In honor of this day, I thought I would share a few memories...
- I was a small girl, only in first grade, with blonde hair that was mostly fastened in pig-tails or pony-tails. At this time, I was teased every day by a bully named Jeff. He sat across from me at our table. He made fun of my Fairfield -Variety-brand jellies that I so proudly wore. He said I wasn't smart because, at that time, I couldn't read very well. Anyway, my pop heard about this. He decided that the most direct route would be to handle it himself (yeah, I know--every principal's dream, right?). So, he waited for Jeff one day at recess. He walked right across the asphalt, right up to the jungle gym, right up to Jeff and said, Don't you ever say another mean word to my daughter, Jessica, again. You will not ever make fun of her again, do you understand? Well, Jeff understood. He was also very scared and reported the incident to his parents, who reported the incident to the principal. Shortly after, my pop was told he was not aloud on school property again--with the exception of dropping off and picking up his kids. Yeah, the Reverend Bruce Latshaw was banned from Wilmington Christian School. Kind of ironic. However, Jeff never made fun of me again. Thanks, Pop.
- I remember staying up late, me and Jonathan eagerly talking to pop about everything having to do with the spiritual realm. Of course, the topic kept getting around to demon stories; we would just beg and beg to be told about them. And then, we would get that delicious thrill of fear and excitement. And pop would always make sure to tell us that we have authority over them, because of Jesus. But we would still end up sleeping in my parents room that night, authority and Jesus and all.
- I remember pop eating his own delicious concoction of powdered-sugar-donut-cereal. Yep, you heard right. He would take powdered donuts, break them into pieces, put them into a bowl, and pour milk over them. Then he would proceed to eat the milk-soaked donuts with a spoon. I grew up thinking this was a normal snack. It wasn't till I started going over to friend's houses that I realized my pop was the only one who did this.
- I remember gathering around the piano at Christmastime. We had just put the tree up, the smell of hot chocolate is wafting through the air, and we start to sing carols. I am playing, while the rest of the family is singing. And boy, does pop sing. He weaves throughout melody and harmony, depending on his mood. It is so much fun.
- I remember playing Truth and Dare as a family in our beach house. We all think it is hysterical when pop chooses the dare over the truth. Cause now he has to stick his head outside the window and produce a blood-curdling scream. We lose ourselves to laughter as we listen to him do this; we can only hope that there are many neighbors outside to hear him too.
- My pop at parties is a sight to behold. My family thinks it's so funny because he always acts like he is not a social butterfly, like he would rather be reading his Bible or something. But the truth of the matter is that when he walks into a party he is generally the loudest person there and has a smile for everyone. He draws people into conversation and laughter comes very easily to him. So, pop, nobody believes you that you don't love parties. Sorry.
- I remember going on long drives, either to somewhere or on our way home. Pop is driving and mom is sitting in the front seat right beside him. And they are talking. Truly, deeply talking. They are interested in each other's thoughts and opinions and are captured by their thread of conversation. So often you see couples who have been married for a while run out of things to say; they lose interest in each other, as if they have heard it all before. Not so with my pop and mom. They discuss everything--from matters of the heart, to practical day-to-day things. I am grateful that they showed me that--it's something to shoot for.
- A friend from my church, Jacob, is simply entering into a time of worship. He lifts his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender to God. Pop walks by at this time, and what does he do? He gives Jacob a high-5 with both hands. Enough said.
Sometimes, being a girl is difficult. Especially when you find yourself in the minority with three older brothers--three very outspoken, very curious older brothers. Yes, I have a younger sister, for whom I am very grateful, but let's face it--I had to blaze the trail of womanly adolescence in my house.
Friday, June 13, 2008
After the show tonight, some friends and I went to a dueling piano bar. Now, I generally enjoy piano bars because I love to watch people play the piano. Oh, also I can sometimes be uncomfortable or feel a bit awkward at a bar because it is too loud to talk and I am not much of a drinker, but a piano bar--now there you have something to do (remember? watch someone play the piano...). Most of the ones I have been to are pretty chill and acoustic. They play songs like Fire and Rain by James Taylor and Son of a Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield. Sure, they can get a little rowdy because, let's face it, it's a bar--but for the most part, it's fun music that everybody can sing along to.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tonight, I had a headache throughout the show. And afterwards (and now, if anyone cares to know). It wasn't the torment of a migraine, thank God, but it was enough to keep me wanting to take my brain out of my head and pinch it (what? that doesn't sound comforting to you?). I didn't do that, though--that probably would have been distracting to the audience, not to mention the fact that it could have killed me. And that would have been sad. So anyway, I am stuck with this headache. Advil and some generic brand called No-pain, or something that sounded like a very good idea at the time, hasn't seemed to help much. My head is just determined to ache, I guess.
So enough about Perez, already, right?
Sunday, June 8, 2008
I am feeling sensitive today. Overly so, I would say. I think I miss home; I miss people who know me really well and make it so that I don't have to try--I can just be. Poor Drew, I wasn't too nice to him on the phone earlier and he doesn't deserve a grumpy wife. I am feeling easily irritated by others, and getting hurt too easily. For instance, a good friend of mine in the cast was talking with me when a girl sidled up to him mid-conversation (our conversation, by the way). She obviously had something to say (to him), and so he pointedly looked at me and said, Sorry, it's secret time. Ouch. It was just a stupid little thing, that if pressed, I am sure he would have said he was joking. I mean, really not a big deal...Right? But, I felt that little pang deep inside that reminds me I am always, irrevocably human. That I cannot escape the awful fact that others have the power to hurt me--sometimes knowingly, sometimes not--but still, they hold too much power, in my opinion. And sometimes I really hate it. Because they go trotting on merrily, reveling in their secrets and loving their lives, and I am left feeling hurt and then feeling stupid and embarrassed that I even cared enough for them to hurt me in the first place. Oh, the joy of having a sensitive heart, and though this may be sexist to say, being a girl. Ok, let's take the sexist-factor out of it, and for the purpose of being specific, say being this girl.