This Life in Writing

moving notice

2009-12-06T11:18:00.000-08:00

Thanks for stopping by, but I've moved to thislifeinwriting.com.

You can make the move with me if you'd like!

let me be the first to tell you

2009-12-05T02:56:00.001-08:00

Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, oh my goodness I am really excited about something, if you can't tell.

And how's that for a change of pace around these parts, huh?

Don't you worry though, I will be back to singing the blues in no time, but first I have to interrupt and tell you something that makes me so happy.

See, my brother and my friend Joe worked on a little pet project called thislifeinwriting.com. Yes, dot. com. As in, I am totally running with the big dogs now. Anyway, we started off with a wordpress layout called nona that made me kind of happy but not thrilled but then Jase told me to get sketching and writing the title with my own handwriting and then he scanned everything and then we changed things to blue and red and rearranged the sketches on top and went ooh! and ahh! respectively until bam! I was thrilled.

And I am still thrilled. I mean, there are a few more tweaks to do yet, but don't let that stop you from checking it out.

So go, go, go!

Go to thislifeinwriting.com and if you want to tell me that you like the balloon and that you enjoy the red flowers and boy oh boy isn't ollie a cutie then comment there, my friends. But if you don't have anything nice to say about it or anything else for that matter, then please refrain from commenting because have you read my blog lately? Life sucks enough without mean comments, you know what I mean?

But why are you still here...GO!

I've never fought a war, but...

2009-12-03T19:44:00.000-08:00

I think I might have post traumatic stress syndrome.

I mean, there are parts of me that have been around forever. Things that I am used to, that I even like now. Like the beauty mark in the middle of my forehead that causes random strangers to accuse me of playing with hindu tattoos. Or at least one random stranger, anyway. In a coffee shop. True story. But I am used to the fact that my eyes are brown, but green too when the sun shines in them just so. Or even that I hear myself referred to as skinny more often than anything else; that I can continue to use my own preference of slender as much as I can, slipping it into casual conversation in a clumsy attempt at subliminal messaging, but that won’t make my friend David stop saying that I am the skinniest person he’s ever met. And it won’t change the fact that I get no compassion when I complain about this to others either. Rather, they tell me that they’d love to be called skinny just once. And again, I am skinny. Not slender, but skinny, subliminal messaging and all.

But now I have a syndrome and I hate it.

Now when my phone rings or I get a text telling me to please call, I have a visceral reaction. My heart starts beating faster and faster, racing to I don’t know where, but it’s getting there way too soon. My breathing becomes shallow and I taste panic. It is not savory, it is not sweet; it is fear and it is pervasive. It starts in my mouth and eventually makes it down to my stomach so that there is no longer any room for food. And I become full and nauseous at once as all I know to do is wait for myself to waste away because nobody can live on fear for too long. Which is a little bit nice in the moment since it means that there is an end.

And an end to a very bad thing is actually a very good thing.

This morning, for instance, my brother called me before 9 am. And to a performer, that is early. Nobody calls me then, not even my mom. But he called and I was scared and if I am going to be honest, too scared to answer. So I didn’t. Whatever it was, I wanted to be blissfully ignorant for just a little bit longer. But then he texted and told me to call him. Shoot. No more sweet naivety. Instead, the panic. Instead, the heart beating hard enough to sustain a few hundred, rather than just one skinny (if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?) female.

And there it was, not even 9 in the morning and I was being reminded of my new syndrome. Nice. Perhaps, along with the simple task of answering a phone call from my brother, the sounds of my spoon against my cereal bowl will be just too much for me today also.

*oh, and on a completely different note, I was inspired by my brother who just added snow to his blog. So not to be outdone, I went out and got some for myself. Because of it being December and all. And because of my competitive nature and all. Hope the snowflakes don't annoy you guys too much...Unfortunately, mine look more like dandruff while my brother's look more like the beautiful romanticized snowflakes we all see on the victorian christmas cards we never do quite get around to mailing, but oh well. Merry Christmas anyway.

in which I talk about piles and hope you understand

2009-12-02T12:35:00.000-08:00

Close being the key word here.

Cause really, I am not doing fine. Friends, kind people who care, keep asking me if I am okay and the truth of the matter is that I am not okay.

But will I be?

Yes.

And something that makes me feel a little better along the way is solving problems.

Huh? you might wonder.

See, I get this feeling that there is this reserve of Stuff I Need to Make. And it's this pile that is sitting somewhere already, outside of the realm of time and small details like that; it's whole and it's beautiful and somehow my journey gives me the tools to take it from that pile into a tangible pile.

A song that I can play.

I picture that I can see.

Text that I can read.

A conversation that I can articulate.

And all the materials are in existence already. All the words are here, it's just a matter of finding the right combination of syntax. All the notes have been around and accessible since the birds first started singing about how morning makes them feel way back when, it's just a matter of arranging them into just the right story that reflects me.

So I get to work.

I arrange and I rearrange and I chisel away until there is something that I think I have successfully grabbed from the Stuff I Need to Make pile and placed it securely into the Stuff I Have Made pile.

And maybe when the former pile is gone and the latter pile is edited and recorded, it will be time to go home. Or maybe home will just be a bigger pile of Stuff I Need to Make and I will realize that the journey is never realized with an ending or a drop off or a period; that the straight line I thought I was walking was circular all the while and the way God has put eternity into our hearts means that there isn't a The End, but there is a great big Happily Ever After and after and after and after and we'll keep making our stories last in the things we tell each other and the tears we cry and the songs we sing when we'd forgotten we could cause all the while we are looking for somebody to tell us that it meant something, that it still means something, and that it's a good something.

Because it is.

presently blonde and sketching

2009-12-01T18:46:00.000-08:00

So I did it.

Or rather, Kasey the fabulous hair stylist did it.

Transformed my hair from brunette to reddish-orange to blonde.

And all the while I was sitting next to a kind lady who was also getting her hair done. She looked a little familiar maybe, but I didn't give it a second thought and was happy to listen to the lilt in her British accent as she marveled over the way my hair had gone from as dark as hers to well, this.

I even told her that her accent was so very pretty, still not knowing that I was sitting next to someone I'd heard before.

On the T.V.

A while ago.

Finally she tipped her stylist, who quickly said thank you, Tracy and then I knew. Tracy Allman, of the Tracy Allman show. The funny lady who launched the Simpsons. Oh, right.

Lately I have been spending a lot of time making things.

Songs, mostly.

But I also started drawing a little last night.

I was staring at this photo and started sketching and came up with this.
Me and Ollie in pencil and ink.

apparently santa's elves make wheel chairs too

2009-11-30T18:48:00.000-08:00

It's always strange when somebody steps out of character for a moment. As a kid, when I overheard my mom say she was really P.O.'d about something, it was like I'd heard an angel take God's name in vain, it was so shocking.

Because see, I knew what the 'P' in 'P.O.'d' stood for.

And just today, Santa Claus said something kind of strange.

Yeah, that's right, Santa Claus. Red furry suit. Long white beard. Jolly expression. Only it's odd when all of the sudden he drops that famously jolly expression in order to ask your sister, who is recently wheel-chair bound due to knee surgery from which she is recuperating, if her condition is permanent.

And yes, all of the Christmas music came to a screeching halt because that's a weird question anyway. Even if you aren't Santa. I mean, what if it was a permanent condition? What if she was our own version of Tiny Tim, doomed to forever hobble around on a leg that barely works? Or rather, be pushed by people like me who erroneously presume that when a bump is in the horizon, the best course of action is to push the wheelchair harder, making her almost fall out and brace her body against doing just that with nothing other than her bad leg?! And is it a good idea to bring it up in the middle of the mall? So what then? My sister bursts out in tears because she was once again reminded of her poor and unfortunate state by freaking Santa Claus, of all people?!

Luckily, though, her condition is not permanent.

And she let Santa know.

And then he continued in a most un-jolly voice, red hat pulled low over his brow, Well, you really should have a lighter chair than that for travel.

Ummmmm, okay.

Thanks?

I mean, I knew Santa was a lot of things. Able to be in all places at once on Christmas Eve. Able to shimmy down chimneys and other such impossible looking entrances. Able to manage a whole team of mythical creatures, one with a particularly bulbous and shiny red nose. But a wheel chair aficionado?

Honestly, I kind of like him better when he sticks to asking me what I want for Christmas.

goodness

2009-11-28T22:28:00.000-08:00

Soft little hand in mine. With grey hoods streaming behind us and shadows marching alongside us, we're gonna be okay.

Yep, we're gonna be just fine.

something to sing about

2009-11-27T21:40:00.000-08:00

Tonight we broke out the craft table and started coloring.
Christmas scenes. The manger. Evergreens and wreaths.

And now I am listening to Christmas music and instead of trying to wonder what it all means, I am just letting it happen.

The transformation that comes from believing in something greater than yourself.

The small inkling of hope that comes from seeing beauty in the ruins. Something familiar in the wild. I imagine that's what the British settlers must have felt when that first little baby, named Virginia Dare after the Virgin Queen, was introduced to Roanoke. It was probably no small relief when they saw with their eyes, felt with their hands those soft little baby fingers that gave evidence to the mysterious cycle of life that continued despite being so very far from home.

I remember as a teenager going to some crack houses in Philadelphia, handing out hot egg sandwiches to people who were skinnier and sadder than they should be. Everywhere I looked, the story was not good. All the clues--the boarded up windows, door frames that no longer bothered with an actual door, kids in ragged clothes that fit somebody at some point, but it sure wasn't them and it sure wasn't now--added up to a people who had given up hope.

Until I met him.

One guy, whose name escapes me all these years later, was different.

Not because he didn't quickly grab a sandwich or wasn't addicted to crack or worse. But because of two things that still stand out clearly to me now:

He looked me in the eyes. Like we were both people. Just people. Neither better or worse than the other. Maybe luckier, sure, but not better. And what's that saying? We're all on the same level before the cross. Well, that's true. And we are also all made up of DNA, of thoughts we learned to think from the way the world has reacted to us through the years, and a jumble of painful wounds and loving touches that make us who we are today.

And there was an air of transcendence about him also. I felt it when he opened his mouth and sang for me. He sang Amazing Grace and I couldn't help but believe it. All of it. I saw the wretchedness of his home, felt where he has been and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he needed somebody and was not about to turn grace, any grace, down.

And there he was, just singing. In the ugliest place in Philadelphia, it was beautiful. Like an alter not built from materials that can crumble with the passing of time, but made from a raw honesty and the desire to look up, up, up; past these old buildings and even the charity that would fleetingly last the afternoon, he sang and made life better.

And no, a song can't fill your stomach and no, a song can't pay your bills, but it sure can transcend you. It sure can remind you that there is something more to life than our own hollow desires and the way that we clumsily hurt each other.

And I guess that is why I am going to keep on singing.

Because I want to look up, up, up. Not in denial, necessarily, but in belief that there is still something to sing about.

Sorry for the deep thoughts (by Jack Handy). Maybe next time I listen to Christmas music I will write about silver bells and whether or not an angel or a star should top the tree.

Um, totally a star, by the way.

you can hold on

2009-11-26T23:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you hang on a rope swing. And when you look like a little boy, you don't mind so much.

Because at least you're hanging onto something.

And the fact that the rope is burning and your legs are shaking from the effort is just more evidence.

Of the fact that you're alive.

That you're a fighter.

And that you're scrappy.

Even when you don't quite feel like you are.

Even when you face opposition.
Who seems to think that they are bigger and badder than they really are.

Who would benefit greatly from a bath, a tender touch, and maybe a massage.

A massage? you wonder.

Yes, a massage. Because you think you've heard it all but then your hair stylist mentions that he knows a dog masseuse who makes $80 an hour and has at least three clients a day and doesn't that just beat all?

It beats most, at least.

And always, always there's a door up ahead.

It might be red because that's your favorite color or it might be less obvious than that but the point is that it's there.

It's a door that leads to better things and even though you have to eventually let go of that rope swing because nobody can live their life suspended in the air, you can hold onto hope.

And you will.

on the road to blonde

2009-11-25T21:33:00.000-08:00

I woke up today with one clear thought.

And lately I've been inundated with many many questions, so this divergence was a relief.

The thought?

Gonna go blonde.

And so I called up a nearby Aveda salon and asked when they could take me. One o'clock came quickly and I walked in with my dark hair.

You really wanna go blonde? the salon owner asked, With those eyes?

Yep, I said with determination, I need a change.

And more of a change than the five pounds I've lost in the last week.

Well I can't guarantee that you will walk out of here platinum blonde today, he told me, But we can start.

And I appreciate a straight shooter.

Four and a half hours and a few varying shades of red later, this is how I walked out.
And I like it.
But it's a two-part process. I am going back on Tuesday and we're gonna make this hair blonde, darn it.
But for now it's a change, and I'll take it.

The owner also told me that he was wrong about my eyes; apparently they work with lighter hair also, is what he indicated.

Yep, I see just fine no matter what color my hair is.

oh, dear

2009-11-25T10:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went on a walk and saw some deer. I kept getting closer and closer to them and unbelievably, they stayed put. But then my camera died before I could take a good close-up, so there you go. They had antlers and everything. I guess in this case everything entails legs, torsos, heads, necks, hooves, and tails.

I also saw this.
I was in the shadows. I am in the shadows, but somewhere the sun is shining. Sometimes that gives me hope and sometimes that just makes me feel worse. But that path...it leads to where the sun is shining. You can see that.

I can't see that.

But you can.

I also saw this. Unfortunately.
My sister-in-law couldn't find a matching pair of shoes for the walk and was forced to go as is. I can't help laughing when I see this. And the funniest part is that the shoes somehow make her jeans look terrible. Like mom jeans of the worst kind (no offense, moms). Like if you could see, there'd surely be pleats at the waist line. Maybe even an elasticized waist, if we're lucky.

But then I looked down and saw this.
And realized I didn't really have much room to talk.

So we laugh at each other and find some joy in this.

sweet

2009-11-23T21:42:00.000-08:00

I was at my parents' house the other day, feeling sad. Just laying in my old bedroom, wondering where the good had gone. And suddenly, well, some good came in and jumped right into bed with me.

A pure, slobbery, tongue-lolling faithful friend.

Not usually allowed in beds, he was pleased as punch to be in one with me.

And we lay there.

His great big furry bulk pressed up against my body. His whiskers tickling my cheeks. The steady rise and fall of his rib cage just calm and consistent, blessedly consistent right now. And I didn't feel better, but I felt alive. I felt like his fur was real, and that was nice. I could press my palms against his spine and know that I was real too. And when his tail wagged it was good. Pure, even. I didn't see a lot of reasons for it necessarily, but maybe his reason for wagging his tail was me.

And maybe that's enough.

And maybe I actually got him to wear a hat and stay still long enough to pose for a picture too.

finally weightless

2009-11-21T20:58:00.000-08:00

Peace.

But what about the experiences that would teach any sane person to be anxious?Sometimes it's hard to know what to do with it, and it feels crazy to not feel anxious. But then there's God and he messes up the equation and the sense life makes, I suppose. He talks about peace and it doesn't depend on everything being controllable or even appeasing to us; but rather it's dependent on Him. Existing. In the midst of everything. It doesn't make any sense, it really doesn't.

But anxiety.

It just wells up so big, drowning out every other feeling until all I want is to escape. But it's inside me so deep that I'd just as easily escape from my left lung or my brain; in short: it's seemingly and intricately woven into me. So what do I do? Other than try to fix the problem, which usually just results in a bigger mess because what human can be fixed by her own clumsy self? So I give it to God and in his mercy I forget about it for a little bit. I get lost in a song I am writing. Or a conversation with a friend. Or the show I am doing. Or the way my hip hurts when I lay on my left side. Or the pain of someone else I love. Or the innocence of the morning, how nothing has changed the day yet; nothing has let on to the fact that the sky which looks so friendly now could turn in a second and suddenly you find yourself dripping, drenched in a rain you never prepared for.

And then maybe the next time I think about it, the pain is not so fresh. Or maybe it is and then I try to give it to Him once again, all the while not quite even sure how you even know if it has truly been given to God. It's not exactly tangible. It's not exactly measurable. It's not like I have three eggs in my basket and I can hold each of them in my hand, feeling the weight and the shape, and then hand them off to Him three times over, happily looking down in my basket after the last transaction and seeing they are gone.

That my basket is empty, that I am finally weightless.

humor is as silver of a lining as any

2009-11-20T22:15:00.000-08:00

He tears me down on every side till I am gone;
he uproots my hope like a tree.

Job said it.

And he said it well.

And I draw comfort from those sad words, from a text that lets me know that deep sadness has been a part of our story since the first words were spoken; but it's not the end of Job's story.

And so maybe that means it's not the end of this story either.

And thank God for humor along the way. For the ridiculousness and utter comedy that is undeniable, that rises up and makes you laugh despite yourself.

Like what my pop said to me tonight. After staring at me quizzically for a few moments, of course. And when that happens, you never know quite what he is going to say. It might be the notion that we simply ask a friend of ours if we could borrow his wheelchair since my sister just got surgery on her knee and is not able to rip around on her own quite yet.

Um, pop? we all suggested. He might just need that wheelchair since he is, you know, paralyzed and all.

Or it could always just be a question.

Is this, he said, pointing to my hair, a mullet?

Laughing, my brother jumped to my defense right away and assured him that no, it is not in fact a mullet.

Though it's a little disturbing that he even had to ask at all.

I don't want to forget

2009-11-19T18:32:00.000-08:00

It's weird, I sort of already forgot about this. I mean, I know I haven't really. And I know it happened and all that, but I've barely given it any thought at all. Not until I looked at this picture, actually. And how strange it is to not be going back to some city sometime soon, for a soundcheck at four and the hope of a Whole Foods that is within a walkable distance.

In a book I recently read, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Don Miller talks about a guy he knows who keeps a notebook with him and writes down everything that he can remember. All the time. He wants to record his memories because otherwise he'd forget, he says, and I get that. Because although it might not be so bad to forget that time you waited at the DMV for an hour with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the security guards urging you to please stay in line! and then next! to the person who is unfortunately 50 paces in front of you, it could be sad to forget that time you first met your little niece exactly eleven years ago. And when you walked outside from the birth center to the car that night it looked like the stars had been polished and buffed to the point where God could see his face in them, the newness of that little girl in your life was so radiant.

And I guess that's why pictures are nice too.

They are memories in colors and stills.

Like, I hardly ever think about Japan. I mean, I do occasionally use the emoji app on my iphone, but that's about as much mental energy as I give to anything Japanese lately. Call me present minded, I guess.

But I look at this picture and suddenly I cannot deny that I've been there.
Walking in a bamboo forrest that dwarfed me.

I remember the way the light was barely lasting, the sun was setting and couldn't quite reach around the bend in the road anymore.

And no matter what it feels like sometimes, it's good to remember that there are some things that are true. It's good to write them down, to take pictures of the love you've shared and the places you've walked.

I've been to Japan.

I've swam with manatees.

But more than anything else, I love and I am loved and I have so many memories that can be given as conclusive evidence to support this theory.

But I'll still keep writing it down, because I don't want to forget.

bones

2009-11-18T00:30:00.000-08:00

I wrote this when I was going through it a while back. I like the word it because it's so vague. Even though it doesn't specify exactly what it was that I was going through, you can rest assured that I was certainly in the midst of it.

So yeah, it's nice to be able to hide behind the word it.

Anyway, it's a little crazy, but who isn't sometimes? Who doesn't struggle with doubt, with unrest within themselves? And if you don't, please leave your URL cause I'd love to see proof of a perfect life somewhere out there.

But here you go:

I keep seeing myself taking my skin off. Just like you'd peel off your wet clothes, I take off all my skin, fold it up neatly, and tuck it away in a drawer. I don't leave my skin all over the floor; I put it away, just like my mom taught me.

And it's so easy, so simple. Because now I walk around, just bones all bleached white, knocking together like teeth chattering on a January day. And when he tells me he doesn't love me anymore, it makes sense.

'Of course he doesn't love her,' they all whisper, 'She's just a pile of bones, after all.'

(disclaimer: nobody had told me that, but I was feeling sad and that's what came out at the time)

And as I was fishing through old things I had written, my mind got caught on something else that talked about bones. Something sad, yes, but better.

And I'll take better.

This is from the Storybook people. And if you haven't heard of them, I think it's high time you embark on a google search with that name.

I remember we sat in the swing on the front porch & as the dusk came on us like a song, dark throated & sweet, he told me about the beginning when we had bones of light & hair that burned like the sun & I asked what happened then? & I felt him floating there in the soft dark & finally he said we forgot & I said I never would, but sometimes I do & I understand now why he put his arm around me & said nothing more.

So there you go, a theme of bones.

And I can feel the First Voice very close sometimes, wriggling for attention, making me want to crawl out of my skin. But then there are quiet, wouldn't-trade-this-for-the-world moments when I hear the Second Voice. The one that talks about the beginning. Of beautiful bones that burn like the sun. Of something glorious that is buried somewhere deep in humanity's collective consciousness and is ours for the taking.

Not easily, true.

But it's there.

It's clean and it's good and it's what made God paint the sky with stars rather than take the cheap route of fluorescents because Home Depot was having a sale. See the thing is, Home Depot is always having a sale and we're always meant for something better. Not cheap, not fast, but better. I know this; it's a whisper in my soul that tells me the story doesn't end on this minor note, that there's a victorious resolution and until then, he'll show me why the blue notes are so beautiful.

And like that Second Voice, I don't want to forget these things.

But sometimes I do and that's when God is right next to me, reminding me with an arm dropped on my shoulder. A push on a swing that feels too big and too lonely to ever get very far at all in this vast and daunting sky.

And in the meantime I will be keeping my skin on.

last dance

2009-11-16T02:16:00.000-08:00

Remember when I said that I wasn't feeling a thing?

Yeah well, about that.

I started feeling something.

A lot of something. And the closing show tonight was amazing. Emotional. Exhausting. Beautiful. Magical. So sad. And so good.

But before that, I had a moment with some of my favorite ladies in the show. They are kind and safe, funny and kindred spirits. They love their men, respectively, and know what it is to begin to hate the phone because no, it's not enough, it's never enough when it comes to sharing your life.

We had already finished our first show of the day and proceeded to share a cast dinner in the theater when I quietly stole away to the piano. After about a half hour or so I hear a gentle knock on the door, and they walk in. Three beautiful, tiny women. Seriously, they range from 5'1 to 5'3 on a good day and when we are all together I find our height differences so funny. They ask me if they are bothering me and of course I say no. They've yet to bother me, in fact. They tell me that they could hear the strains of my playing from the dressing room and felt like they needed to be with me on this last day listening to the music.

Mindy pipes up, Can you play that song? The one you wrote about us?

Sure, I say, hoping that I remember all the words and chords cause it's been a while.

I play and as I do, I start to feel it. This great sadness. This acceptance of our parting. This breaking up of such a sweet community. I play that song and then I play another and by the time I finish we are just crying and so we talk. We share and are real and it's like therapy only nobody needs to pay anybody and nobody gets kicked out after fifty minutes.

It's cathartic and broken and honest and I think we love each other maybe even a little more when we finally get up to ready ourselves for the last show.

The last show.

But first I take some time to be sentimental. I walk on the stage and gaze out. I go over to our quick change station and see all our headshots lined up and ready to be put in dance bags at the onset of the show.
They are just faces, black and white features on cardboard, but to me, they are so much more. The kind of bond you create with people you've lived, worked, laughed, and literally been with for over a year and a half is staggering. It gets to be a part of you without even realizing it and suddenly you leave and you wonder at the bereft feeling that is left; you feel the ghost pains, so to speak, of the missing part and you might as well get used to it, I guess. It's gonna hurt for a while. But it's a good hurt.

I don't think I'll miss the gold hat so much.
It's pretty heavy and you can pop yourself in the forehead pretty badly if you're not careful. But after you do it once, you learn to be careful. Believe me. I don't think I've done that since opening in Denver last April, actually.

But I will miss what it means to wear that gold hat. The fact that you're in a show. The great story of it, the transformation that happens when you step on that stage. A friend of mine who has a resume that would impress God always says something whenever she leaves a show: If I am lucky enough to do another show...And there's a humility in that that I like. True, she's so talented and beautiful and accomplished that come on, she's gonna do another show. But the truth is we don't ever know, not really. Which makes me grateful for the job when it happens.

And here I am, as Kristine for the last time.
At my station. Which no, is not the neatest on the block, but neatness has never won anyone a Tony or a Grammy or even an Emmy, for that matter.

Though I am looking forward to going home again. And keeping a home. Even keeping it neat. A girl can learn, right?

closing time

2009-11-15T01:05:00.000-08:00

Took me over a year and a half, but I finally bought a sweatshirt.

An A Chorus Line sweatshirt, that is.

There's nothing like an actual deadline to make you get something done. The whole time I have been on this tour I've been meaning to get a sweatshirt, but when the notice went up that Saturday, Nov. 14th would be the last possible day to buy merchandise, I got myself to the merch table.

Um, on Saturday, November 14th. You didn't think I got there earlier than absolutely necessary, did you?

And now I am wearing my show swag and trying to figure out what the closing of this show means. And honestly, I don't think I totally get it. I mean, my friend told me that as an actress, being employed gives her so much confidence and now she's really gonna miss that and I get it. Another friend has mentioned that this is a family of sorts and where else are such good friends literally a hotel room away? Or in my case, in your hotel room? And I get that too.

But it's weird, the last two times we've had cast change overs and people leaving, I cried on stage like I was reading for Mary Magdalene at the foot of the cross in Jesus Christ Superstar. And though I was probably perplexing the poor audience over just what, exactly, was so sad about Sing!, I still just couldn't. Get it. Together.

But these last few shows, I've felt quite literally nothing.

And my friends are crying all around me, on stage and in the dressing room, and I am feeling unbelievably emotionless.

Maybe even a little happy to get on with it already, if I were totally honest.

And now my roommate just told me, Oh my God, Jess, it's officially November 15th, closing day! And yes, we squealed together and yes, it's daunting, but I remain just fine. Maybe it's because this time I am finally going home; I am not being left behind and saying good-bye to friends. Well, I am saying good-bye to them, but it's different this time. The whole shebang is closing and we are all off to pursue our dreams, our lives, our relationships even further.

We're all off to light a fire under whatever it is we had to put on hold while gallivanting around the globe in leotards and jazz pants.

And somehow I see that this is a good thing. It's gotta be. I know it's what I want; I can't do this show forever, nor do I want to. There are so many other projects I want to tackle, so many other people I want to see on a more regular basis (hi, drew!).

So yeah, it's the end of the line.

The end of this line, at least.

And thank God it is.

But gosh, it's been one heck of an incredible journey.

And who knows? Maybe I will have to admit that in our closing performance I was all tears and mush and sniffles and you guys will be laughing as you read it cause you knew that would happen all along.

happy typo-ing

2009-11-13T23:19:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while there comes along a truly great typo that just makes life better. Maybe it's an extra letter here, a misspelled word there, but whatever the case, when a zinger makes an appearance, I appreciate it.

This said, I was ichatting my sister-in-law Darby the other day.

We were just conversing, trading sentences back and forth, when all of the sudden she mentioned the word fragment. Now words like fragment inevitably remind me of something my beloved father, affectionately known as pop, would say. Those of you who know him and love him as I do know that he regularly utilizes some of the more obscure words, dusting them off and displaying them proudly in conversation. For instance, he wrote me this sentence in a casual email just the other day:

Another interesting dysfunctional strand in the knotted up ball of psychic string.

See what I mean?

It's great and it's totally him.

So anyway, after Darby wrote something or other about a fragment I immediately replied with:

Btw, you sound like poop.

And proceeded to press enter before I realized what I had actually written. As soon as she wrote back, WHAT?!?! I realized my mistake and started laughing uproariously. So much so that my roommate looked at me funny and my rib started complaining from the jostling all at the same time.

But I couldn't help it; what a hilarious stroke of lucky typo-ing.

I wrote her right away that I had meant to say she sounds like POP, not POOP, putting her mind at ease because, as she soon wondered, what does poop sound like, anyway?

Actually, it's not the first time I called Pop poop. It is, however, the first time I have done it accidentally. I was a little girl when I had the initial revelation that pop's name was only one small letter away from poop. And that was it. I called him poop.

But just once.

Luckily, he has a good sense of humor and laughed it off, but he probably wouldn't have liked if I had made a habit of it.

Still, you sound like poop.

HA!

boxes!

2009-11-12T22:30:00.000-08:00

Boxes. Parcels. Packages.

Do those words incite the same kind of excitement in you as they do me?

And no, I am not talking Christmas here. Not yet, anyway.

But it's on parr with that, I'd say--the greatest of holidays.

It's time to go home.

To box up my stuff, tape it up tight, and mark it with my name and address.

To send it back to where it belongs and more importantly, where I belong.

And just looking at all this stuff makes me so happy.
Actually, I was rushing to finish boxing up my trunk during the Paul and Cassie scenes tonight. So there I was in my leotard and fishnets, knee deep in packaging supplies. And after getting all my stuff into five boxes, I was faced with the monumental task of carrying them to the company manager office, all the way on the other side of the theater. And then there was the added hassle of my rib and how I am not really supposed to be lifting much.

But that's when I got creative.

And found a dolly.

Perfect.
And so I rolled my boxes from one side of the theater to the next, making more than a few people laugh at me along the way.

I just love it when a plan comes together.

And if you know who said that, you get 5 points to be used at your discretion.

5 whole probably useless points, people. Now THINK.

new normal

2009-11-12T02:25:00.000-08:00

It's not every day you rediscover what home really is.

There are a few of us who are going home to husbands or very significant others and we affectionately call ourselves The First Wives' Club. And right now I am so tired and have been trying to figure out the grammatically correct placement of that apostrophe for so long that it has completely lost all meaning. So forgive me if it's not right.

It's not always about being right, I guess.

But anyway, we call ourselves that despite the fact that it doesn't make total sense. Like our husbands don't have second wives, so we are really the only wives, but we are trying to sound cute like the movie and the book and well, The Wives' Club just doesn't have the same ring to it.

But I was talking to one of the other members of this club and we were basically discussing our re-initiation into living at home. With our beloved husbands. And how we need to try to not just take over right away. I mean, they've been taking care of home for a while now, holding down the fort, so to speak, so it wouldn't be right for us to come in and all of the sudden take over.

Except I am sure there are a few things Drew would be more than happy to let me take over. Cleaning out the kitty litter comes to mind. As does cooking, cleaning, and grocery shopping. Oh, and laundry, too. I bet he could stand to allow me to have my way over any and all of the above. He shares like that.

But for over a year and a half now we've had no real sense of normalcy.

The time we've spent together has been him visiting me while I was working or me back at home with him working. It will be interesting to find our pace together. To do things like tell each other See you soon and not be referring to the same kind of time frame the Bible talks about when speaking of Jesus' return. I mean, if anybody can use the word soon loosely it's the Guy who's been alive literally forever. The Guy for whom a thousand years is a drop in the bucket. So I don't blame God for saying soon and maybe meaning in the next millennia or so; He's so old that it makes sense coming from Him.

But me? I'd like my use of the word soon to be well, actually soon. Like today. Like in the next few minutes or so, even.

Would you like me to use it in a sentence?

Sure thing.

Jessica is so excited because she gets to go home from tour soon.

Like in four days soon.

And I am excited to see what my new normal--our new normal--will look like.

lullaby

2009-11-11T01:21:00.000-08:00

There is a piano at this hotel.

It's funny, whenever I ask the person behind the front desk if I can play the hotel piano, their first response is usually just a flat-out no. And I let them say that. Because I am so nice. And because I have no control over them.

But then I smile. I act very kind. And I ask them one more time. Or ask when a good time to play their piano would be.

And most of the time, they respond with a why don't you play it right now?

And suddenly we are on the same team.

That happened tonight.

And settling down onto that bench, hearing the creak of the wood as I adjust to just the right spot, it's like coming home.

Actually, my piano bench at home has some leather on it. And when I was writing an essay for my Freshman Writing class at UArts, I mentioned something awkward like hearing the sound of the leather stretch as I sat down to play. My amazing teacher who opened my eyes to the importance of a thesis statement as well as the evils of passive voice, graded it and sent it back with a question. In red.

Do you always wear tight leather pants when you play the piano?

Point taken.

Specificity is invaluable, folks.

And no, I don't always wear tight leather pants when I play the piano.

Only sometimes.

Anyway, I played for a long time tonight. I wrote something, a song I guess, if it makes it that far. I really like the chorus, but have my reservations about the verses. So, we'll see. There's always more work to be done, isn't there? More things to make, which is good news. Something to fix your heart on, something to bring you hope.

But here is a lullaby I like to sing.

It brings me comfort. Makes me think of parents. Or God. But generally of being loved and cared for.

TMI

2009-11-09T21:03:00.000-08:00

There are certain things in life for which I have rules.

Almost unbreakable rules.

It's like a code.

But what I am specifically referring to here is bodily noises.

Now, please understand that this code is for me and me alone. I don't judge those who abide by a different code. I mean, I have a sweet friend whom I love dearly and she will unabashedly let one rip whenever she gets the urge and I will laugh with the best of them when she does.

But see, the day I try to do that? I'd probably end up crapping my pants or something. And undoubtedly would start crying about it. But would be laughing the day after.

I hope, anyway.

My point is, however, that I am not into private things being made public.

To the extreme.

Like when I was first seriously dating someone we would talk on the phone for literally hours at a time. Now somewhere into maybe our second hour of discussing our hopes and dreams I would start to feel like I had to go to the bathroom. Nothing serious, just number one, but still, I wouldn't utter a word to my boyfriend about it. I didn't want to even say the words I and bathroom in the same sentence, for fear that would gross him out. And because I was afraid he could hear it, I wouldn't sneakily try to go while still on the phone. And don't even think about making up some excuse to get off the phone so I could get myself some sweet relief; I was too honest to lie and too happy to sit there in a dark room talking to him.

So I would stay on the phone, sometimes for even another whole hour, just in silent agony while holding my bladder and happy to hear just one more childhood memory all the while.

Now fast forward to Drew.

We were on maybe our third date. And this was a big one. Easter at my house, with my whole family--all one hundred of us. Okay, so all 20 of us, but we make enough noise to be a hundred. We shared a bench at the dinner table. The piano bench, actually, since we had run out of dining room chairs at around person number 12. I wore my hair in braids circling my head, St. Lucia, American Girl doll style.

The night was a hit.

He stayed late, long after the food had been eaten and the last of the cars had driven away. And there we were, still talking, avoiding the clock and pretending it was earlier than it was.

Until he said something.

Something awful.

He started that conversation, the one in which the tone immediately lets you know that whatever is happening is about to end.

I should probably go, he said slowly, I mean, I know I am holding in so much gas that my stomach is hurting like crazy and you must be too.

And I was just horrified.

How could such a perfect night end in a few words about gas of all things?

Not romantic.

I barely knew what to say, so I mumbled something about how I was feeling okay but I am sorry that his stomach was hurting.

And when I closed the door after him that night I decided to put that sentence out of my mind for the time being. After all, there was so much good about him, I didn't want to let that one awkwardly spoken sentence define him.

But you better believe I've brought it up since.

And he still can't come up with the reason for why he thought that statement was a good idea.

awkward

2009-11-08T23:02:00.000-08:00

*Edited due to my offending some people with a joke I quoted. I apologize to those of you who read it and were offended*

Sometimes I wouldn't mind if our physical therapists were not exactly lookers.

Because now I have a rib injury.

I know, I know, it was so fun last time, I figured just once more before the tour was out. For old times' sake. And lucky for me, despite the fact that there really isn't much time left on this tour, I managed to squeeze it in. Never too busy for the things that are really important, I guess.

But the rib in question is in a sensitive area.

Ahem.

The kind of area that is not ever up for grabs. Or at least, since I've been touring solo and my husband is at home, not lately.

Ahem, ahem.

So I go in to see the physical therapist here this afternoon cause I'm not gonna lie, my rib is giving me a lot of pain during the show. I mean, a whole heck of a lot. And imagine my joy at seeing that he is young, like maybe 30. Fit. And oh shoot, are those big blue eyes, too? Great, just great.

But he's totally professional, of course. And we start talking about my rib and he is stretching me and asking if this hurts and if that hurts and then we are talking a little about the Eagles since I am wearing their tee and how poor McNabb broke his rib at the beginning of the season and everything is going well until he mentions that he is going to try taping it.

Like, now.

And it's not extremely awkward because he's a medical professional and I am a dancer and this is just what happens sometimes. But it's in a sensitive area, as I said, and well, let's just say the whole thing would have been less awkward for me if he was maybe the ripe old age of 80. And blind. Or better yet, a sweet grandmotherly figure.

Who just so happens to know a lot about the Eagles.

And the bass keeps running, running

2009-11-07T23:34:00.000-08:00

And running, running,

And running, running

And running, running,

And...

Cause see here at the Ramada we are basically adjoined to a funky club. And when walking into our hotel after the show, not only do we get to wade through all the girls in their stilettos, God bless, with their lack of any clothing that acknowledges the fact that it is winter and therefore cold, as well as the men who happily stand warmly next to them because fashion has been kind for once and doesn't dictate that they bare their shoulders or their legs, we also get to listen to their fat beats.

All night long.

And since the walls here are pretty thin, the party sounds like it's happening right next door. Oh wait, maybe that's because it is happening right next door.

So the thumping bass gets through loud and clear but you know what these paper thin walls are pretty good at keeping out?

The internet.

Yep, when it comes to the world wide web, suddenly the Ramada resembles the Secret Service and nothing, that's right nothing gets through on their watch. Which is why you need to be sneaky and wander the halls at night, much like a disgruntled ghost only you are very much alive, so I guess you are more just a disgruntled guest, but the point is you are pacing and watching those empty little bars at the top of your screen like you're looking for a heartbeat. You're waiting for them to fill, watching for them to darken, when finally bam! you're in business. So you sit down right there, right next to the ice machine on the fifth floor as it were, and smile and nod when people walk by, pretending that it's the most normal thing in the world for you to be there, sitting on the seventies shag carpet with the psychedelic shapes and really, the real question is: why aren't you?

So it's a good trade, I think. I mean, I get to listen to house music till the wee hours of the morning and hardly have a shot at SKYPING MY HUSBAND.

...Awesome...

Too bad this tour is closing in a week.

No actually, there are some things that I will miss. Um, the paycheck comes to mind but how about the people too? And then there's the whole I get to go to work and dress up and dance and sing and act and that's work thing.

Actually, it really is work. Hard, hard work.

Just ask my feet.

Or lately, my rib.

Or my husband who hasn't seen me for a while.

But anyway.

I'm gonna get to work with my guitar now, if you don't mind. I'm still trying to work on this strumming pattern that keeps proving to be trickier than I am. And then there's the time signature. I am pretty sure the chorus changes time signatures from the verse and I am also pretty sure Drew is going to inform me that I've broken some kind of rule when I get home.

I am such a rebel.

in this case, the good far outweighs the bad

2009-11-07T01:28:00.000-08:00

I've got good news and bad news.

Did you ever have anybody tell you that and immediately follow it with asking you which you'd like to hear first?

I've always been a let's hear the bad news first and get it out of the way kind of girl, myself.

So, the bad news:

I have re-injured my rib. The same one that my friend unwittingly cracked while slamming into me on a roller coaster over the summer. The same one that had healed so nicely. Maybe too nicely, cause I had forgotten it was even susceptible at all. I had also forgotten how badly a rib injury can hurt. How it kind of feels like I am suffering a minor heart attack, being that the rib in question is right over my heart. And how it seems to be connected to every kind of automatic movement your body does, to the point where getting up hurts. As does breathing. And any sharp motion at all.

Have I mentioned that I am in A Chorus Line and there are approximately 3,056 sharp movements in that show? Thought I would throw that in there. You know, just in case you were gonna tell me to stay away from sharp movements for a while. And getting up. And maybe try holding off on that whole pesky breathing thing for at least a day. Cause unfortunately, I've got to get up to do the sharp movements in the first place and breathe the whole time throughout. There's just no way around any of it, I am afraid.

But Jessica, you're all dying to know, How in the world did you re-injure your rib?

Well, how badly would you judge me if I said that it involved a completely harmless and athletic pole-dancing class? And I followed it up by saying that it did not involve one ogling man, one bit of stripping (well, I did roll up my pants at one point, but that hardly counts. Oh wait, I also took off my shoes, which is a form of stripping. Shoot.), nor did it involve anything that I would be embarrassed to do in front of my mom. In fact, I'd be proud to do it--she would have been oohing and aahing, seeing me swinging around that pole and climbing it like a monkey.

A really tall, (comparatively)hairless monkey who recently got her hair highlighted.

But the climbing part. That's when I slammed my poor, just healed rib into the pole and hurt it all over again. I didn't think it was that bad until the show tonight. And let me tell you, I started thinking it was that bad all over again. Not call-out-of-the-show bad. But bad enough to make my movement a little daintier than usual.

So there you go, that's the bad news.

The good news?

We're talking boxes around here, folks. Many, many boxes of all different shapes and sizes which will soon be packed with anything ranging from the child's Mickey Mouse tee my dear friend Kevin bought me in Disney World this past February to the pair of brown boots I thought I'd wear but have rarely done so to the small collection of sharks I have seemed to pick up on the road. Yes, that's right, these beloved boxes are going to be filled to the brim with the contents of my trunk which has been filled to the brim with the contents from my home since last April. LAST APRIL, cause that bears repeating. And capitalization. And how about getting some italics all up in here? LAST APRIL. And let's make it bold, too, just for kicks. LAST APRIL. Because that's how long I've been on the road, filling up that trunk. Since last april, 2008.

But now I am finally getting myself ready to go home. With boxes.

And that is some good news.

Aren't you glad I saved the best for last?

a few pics thrown your way

2009-11-06T02:26:00.000-08:00

I just found a strong spot of internet--three whole bars!--in the hallway, so I sat myself down and got to it. Around here you never know when the ichat window is just gonna roll right up and away and you are suddenly disconnected from the world wide web in less time than it takes to press save now.

But anyway.

I thought you might want to know that I fought the pole...
And the pole won.

Or at least left a mark.

For those of you who cannot tell, this image is the back of my leg, right above the knee.

Kind of pretty, huh? I am actually fascinated by bruises. The color, how tender they are, how they progress and then are suddenly gone. I think the way the body heals is truly miraculous and now I get to watch a little miracle every time I catch a view of the back of my right leg.

Lucky me.

But for those of you who may not be so enamored with bruises, I will leave you with a different parting image.

Vancouver.
Taken while walking with David over the bridge on the way to Whole Foods. It was a long walk, but totally worth it to see the sun setting over the harbor and to have our room now stocked with delicious food.

I cried when I was born and every day shows why

2009-11-05T01:44:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life is hard.

And you cry in your bed at night and you cry in the middle of the day for no apparent reason. At least not to anyone else. Or you are having a small dinner with friends and suddenly the topic turns to somebody who recently divorced and wow, relationships are so much harder than most ever imagined and oh well, another one bites the dust. And suddenly you are crying again. And in an effort to make some sense of you, your friend asks, Are your parents divorced? And you say no and you feel like a little idiot because you just don't make sense; you're just sad.

And you try to find some comfort by telling yourself that most things are senseless anyway.

But then there's the fact that you're crying. The proof, as it were, of just the opposite: that most things are actually jam packed with meaning, moving you to all sorts of emotion in direct correlation to it all. And the very fact that you are crying means that something indeed is very meaningful to you.

And then there's the times when you quickly post something on Facebook about an upcoming pole dancing class you are about to take for a friend's birthday party, and unwittingly offend people you love in the process. The truth is that the class was for a group of friends. It had nothing whatsoever to do with stripping, but had everything to do with the physical challenge, the gymnastics, the artistry and line of dancing in connection to a pole. And honestly, it was really fun. It makes for a strong feeling, holding onto that pole, spinning around like a fireman descending from up above. And then there's the fact that no matter how large unemployment looms, you're not about to go work at Fantasia. Like, ever. But there you go, you offended others with that status and sadly, that can't be taken back. And again with the meaning, but not what people might have thought you meant. And again with the tears.

And then there's the end of another day which honestly, you are just grateful to have gotten through. You hope for maybe some kind words in your inbox. You hope for some word from home. And you find kind words, true--but they are confrontational too. A part of life, yes, even a good part of life, but feeling especially heavy at this particular moment. Loving, indeed, but hard. Not easy. Not simple.

And you're done.

You're just done.

Good night, moon; good night world.

And you are struck with gratitude over the one simple quality that both snowflakes and days share: no two are ever alike.

And you think it again and again and you feel comforted by the fact that the morning comes swiftly and brings with it a freshness through no work of your own. It just happens; it's what God does with his time, it seems.

And so here's to a new day.

One with statuses that are more circumspectly written.

With more sensitivity to friends.

And with less mistakes, in general.

Grace is in order, I do believe.

nice. mostly.

2009-11-04T00:43:00.000-08:00

It's amazing how you feel when you come down from the mountains.

That sentence could mean so many different things, I realize, but what I am referring to is the wonderful fact that we are no longer singing and dancing in dry air and high altitudes.

Really, it actually makes a difference. I wasn't struggling to catch my breath during the finale tonight and it dawned on me: we are no longer in the mountains. Only I thought it with more excitement as I realized that it meant the show wouldn't be so hard anymore:

WE ARE NO LONGER IN THE MOUNTAINS!!!

So, this is nice.

You know what else is nice?

Thai food.

It seems that every time I go out to eat lately (which believe it or not, is not actually that often; I tend to eat many PB&J's, many bowls of cereal, and many bananas), it is for Thai food. And I don't mind at all. Tonight in Vancouver it was a place called Khai. And it served Thai food. I thought that was funny. But I didn't say anything. Because when Adam Sandler's character in the Wedding Singer starts to laugh over Glenn's last name, Gulia, and how that will effectively make Julia Julia Gulia, Glenn didn't seem to find the humor in it. So yeah, I didn't mention the whole Khai serving Thai food thing to the people who worked there.

But I love pad thai, especially. And it's really good because it always makes two whole meals for me. I eat half in the restaurant and then box it up and take it home and voila! I have dinner too.

And the last thing I will mention because it goes along with the theme of nice because it's honest and honesty is usually nice, is that the pan handlers here in Vancouver are super honest. I mean, you gotta give them props for that, at least.

Ian and I were walking home from the theater tonight and we passed a guy who said, Hey can you please give me some money so I can buy weed?

And I am sorry, but I laughed.

Out loud.

I totally LOL'd.

It took me by surprise, I guess. And no, I didn't give him money, but well, he didn't try to scam me with some story about his pregnant wife and how he just lost his job when the truth is he only ever had a girlfriend and that was back in high school and they only talked about marriage once and that was because he wanted to get into her pants but no, they never did marry and he could get a job, but why work when he could just as easily ask passersby for money so he could buy some weed?

And I appreciate the fact that I didn't have to wonder if he was telling me the truth.

Because that gets old.

And two things that were definitely not nice?

The two different times I saw two different men peeing on the side of the street.

GROSS.

And we've come so far. Humanity, that is. I mean, we have these little seats with holes in them now that you can totally do your business in. That's actually exactly what they are for. They even have doors so you don't have to make your business everybody else's business.

Just a thought. Or maybe a reminder.

the thing itself

2009-11-02T23:38:00.000-08:00

Lately sleep has been somewhat of a white rabbit for me. And I'm tired of chasing it. Heck, I'm even tired of laying down in a bed, waiting for that stupid little rabbit to stop it's incessant running.

Bottom line, I'm just plain tired.

It seems that I am no better at fighting off the demons now than when I was twelve years old.True, these demons have changed drastically over the years. I think I'd almost welcome one of the green, garish looking little fellows I'd imagined to be lurking just under the bed, or if not there than definitely in my closet, instead of what I am battling now. In comparison, the demons of my childhood look almost friendly.

Almost.

And then there's that other difference.

The one that had everything to do with just running up to my parents' bedroom, blanket trailing behind me like some kind of hobo's bridal train, and snuggling as close to my parents' bed as humanly possible. I'm talking feeling the box spring. Taking in the smell of their bed clothes, the smell of safety.

And if it wasn't there, it was most certainly ending up in the same room as one of my brother's, probably Jonathan. I'd let him think that I was the scared one, being the younger of us and the girl, but really, both of us were relieved to have the comfort of each other. The demons faded quickly once we glimpsed the shape of the other one, huddled on the floor of whichever room we'd park ourselves for the long night.

I like the simplicity of that.

The tangibleness of it.

I was alone, now I am not.

I was afraid, now I am not.

And yes, I know that I am not alone now, but Over the Rhine says it so well:

This is lonely, but never alone.

And yes, I know there is God who I can run to, but if he has a bed, I've yet to find it and I've certainly never mashed myself up against his box spring. I've never seen him huddled on the floor beside my bed, inexplicably drawing comfort from my presence while from his, I find the courage to face the night.

I guess sometimes I miss the physicality of running, truly running, away from what I fear and into a safe place. I miss things being as simple as moving away from the window that you're pretty sure you just glimpsed someone or something glimpsing you.

I love the metaphor, true; and I believe in it. I have to, really.

But I miss the thing itself sometimes.

a three hour tour

2009-11-01T01:33:00.000-07:00

So we had to wade through two whole shows today in order to put on the costumes that we had really been anticipating.

For me, it was Marianne of Gilligan's Island fame.

And Marianne wouldn't exactly be Marianne without the whole crew, now would she? But we decided to go with a twist, it being the holiday that is and all.

So we were Gilligan's Island, dead.

Like, we never made it off the island and here's how the story ended.

And here we are:

Gilligan (tragically drowned, trying to swim his way off that island).
Marianne (eventually succumbed to starvation; I guess the professor used the last coconut to fashion one of his famous radios that unbelievably worked but couldn't actually aid them in getting off the island).
Ginger, the movie star (substance abuse, folks.).
Mr. Howell (...eaten by a zombie and then became a zombie...and yikes).
Mrs. Howell (eaten alive by spiders).
The Professor (blown up by one of his own science experiments gone awry).
Skipper (not shown because we ate him--and this was before Marianne starved to death, of course).

Now don't you feel so sorry for us? Poor Mrs. Howell was beside herself all evening and could only manage to murmur over and over again, Beware of three hour tours...!

And I would have to concur.

But being dead didn't get us down too much.

I mean, we were still a pretty lively bunch.
And managed to have a great time.

Even if we waited an hour in the cold for a cab that never did show up and finally just hopped into the car of a total stranger who offered to drive us home for a fee of $15. We were so tired and freezing by that point that he probably could have offered us a ride home by way of a three hour tour and we still would have hopped in without a moment's hesitation.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

Oh, and in case you wondered, that skirt will promptly be going to one of my nieces because yes, I realize it is far too tiny to wear again. Once was enough, thank you.

happy halloween. or happy birthday. or choose treat.

2009-10-31T00:44:00.000-07:00

Um, happy halloween.

I passed this sad little pumpkin on my way to work tonight.
Poor little guy with a broken heart. A broken heart that, according to him, can't be fixed.

But I am going to say it can.

It just takes time, Little Pumpkin. Time, love, grace, and maybe you need to forgive someone--but we don't need to talk about that right now, if the pain is still too fresh. And judging from the size of the lightening bolt through the heart, I am going to say it is.

But you won't always feel this way, Little Pumpkin.

Oh, and do you know what else Halloween means?

Besides that no-brainer of a decision we have to make each time this year?

Really? Trick or treat? I get to choose? Cause I am pretty sure that most of the time, I don't. And I am also pretty sure that the tricks seem to be running rampant lately while the treats are a little less forthcoming so I am gonna do something crazy here and say TREAT, you moron.

Ahem.

Sorry about that.

Because Halloween means the birthday of someone who not only gave me his nose, but it would seem the keen sense of smell that accompanies a nose with that particular shape as well.

So, thank you for the nose.

And I really love smelling roses. And hate smelling body odor. And because of you, I get to smell each of those things very well indeed.

Wait. That makes it sound like my pop smells like either roses or body odor, when in fact I have never experienced him to smell like either. What I mean, is that I inherited my Legolas-like sense of smell from him.

Oh, and thank you for all the years of love, humor, weirdness, and fun.

You are the best, pop.

Happy Birthday.

And Happy Halloween to all the rest of you. May I just suggest that like me, you also choose treat when posed with the age old dilemma.

Cause it's kind of the only way to go, I think.

how great thou art

2009-10-30T14:57:00.000-07:00

Teach me a hymn, I entreated one day while we were driving in the car.

A hymn? Drew asked skeptically.

Yes, a hymn. I don't know any, you know.

And I didn't. Well, not unless you count Amazing Grace, which everybody knows anyway, so I don't.

See, I grew up in a church that sang songs more likely to be written by a guy sporting a pony tail and no shoes than anyone who had ever graduated with a masters degree in sacred music. And I love those simple songs we sang. All about hope, redemption, our need for a Savior, and who needs more than three or four chords in one song anyway?

But then I met Drew.

He grew up in a church with hymns. They sang them on Sunday mornings--and Wednesday nights, too, I'd imagine. They had books with notes written on the pages and people who read the notes with the text, singing harmonies because they were reading them and not just because they heard them somewhere in their head.

And it's not like I didn't know about hymns. I would hear them every once in a while and they would haunt me in a wonderful way. At funerals. At weddings. I even learned some in order to sing in my friend's Catholic wedding. And for me, discovering these old songs might be something like discovering your parent's old Beetles albums in the attic. This music that had been moving people for generations had finally reached me and I was entranced by the poetry of the text, glad to be another person to sing this song that had been so deeply worn in by many others before me.

So I started asking Drew to teach me some of those hymns. And though he was a little bewildered by my request at first, pretty soon he got into it too.

The first one he taught me was How Great Thou Art. The imagery in the lyrics is perfect. I loved the thought of connecting what we could see and hear with the wonder of who God is. It made creation personal. Like instead of just reading the newspaper, something that was for the masses, I was reading a letter, an encouraging letter that helped me believe. That helped me have hope.

And pretty soon we were both belting out that hymn in the car. He was holding the melody steady while patiently singing a certain section over and over again at my request so I could get my harmony just right.

And inside I felt a sense of wonder.

And lately, I have been playing this hymn over and over again. Sadly, I've had to trade the car for random closets and basements; Drew for my guitar. And I've also added some lyrics of my own, not because what they were wasn't perfect, but because it's how I am feeling right now, and so it helps.

(lyrics in bold are my own)

Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder

consider all the worlds thy hands have made

I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder

and then I know, my God, how great thou art

I see this world, and what a beautiful mess it is

and then I see the way you gently enter in

You take my heart, you hold all the million pieces

and then, my God, you make me whole again

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee

How great thou art, how great thou art

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee

How great thou art, how great thou art

I look for signs, for some kind of reassurance

and then I see the mountains in the distance

and I believe, I take creation's word for it

for everything I see speaks of a God who makes a difference

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee

How great thou art, how great thou art
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee
How great thou art, how great thou art...

dinner at 11

2009-10-29T23:47:00.000-07:00

All of you wonderful people who have homes and kitchens and front doors with real keys which you regularly use might not realize it, but goodness, staying in a home makes a difference.

A heck of a difference.

It's not that hotels don't have their charm. I certainly don't mind a good continental breakfast, especially if it holds the added lure of a waffle maker, one of the few things that might actually drag me out of bed during the part of day that is still classified as morning. But hotels can get old. The paper thin walls. The roommates that you hope don't snore. The maids that are constantly trying to barge in, though I realize that "barging in" is just part of their job description.

Anyway, this past week I have had the luxury of staying in a real, honest to goodness home here in Calgary. A friend's mom has been kind enough to open her house to a few of us, even offering us our own keys and bedrooms, respectively.

Wow.

So we had just a few people over for a real dinner last night.

John Legend was singing in the background and when he got tired Nickel Creek jumped right in; and all the while we were busy in the kitchen. My dear friend Ian, who is a master chef in his own right, had already prepared some spaghetti and delicious sauce the night before, and Emily had baked a cake while I had made some frosting. We also made sure we had everything we needed for salad, garlic bread, and of course, wine.

Well, I guess the only thing you need to make sure you have in order to have wine is wine--and actually, our guests supplied that.

But here we are. Stirring, icing, warming, buttering, pouring. Taking advantage of this beautiful kitchen, wearing no shoes and not thinking a thing about audiences or leotards or God I hope I get it.

It was dinner among friends.
With everyone chipping in.

And every beautiful cake needs a garnish, right?

So I might have taken a little spider from the halloween decorations currently gracing my dressing room.
He might have happily sat on top of our cake.

Our hummingbird cake.*

*no hummingbirds were harmed in the making of this cake.

And what a delicious three tiered beauty it turned out to be.
But more than anything else, the feeling of family, of community, was maybe the sweetest thing of the night.

you make everything alright

2009-10-28T02:08:00.000-07:00

So here's another song.

And yeah, that new-to-me green sweatshirt is something I have a hard time not wearing lately. I'm like that, you know. Get something new and I want to wear it again. And again and again. A couple weeks ago it was this blue and white plaid shirt that a friend gave to me--I literally wore it three days in a row, had to pack it to go to another city and so forgot about it, but then rediscovered it as I was unpacking and put it right back on again.

But not before I asked my roommates if they remembered this (as I held up my plaid shirt for them to see).

You mean the one you just wore last week for like days and days in a row? they asked.

I took that to mean that yeah, they remembered it.

Anyway, this song is called You Make Everything Alright.

Though maybe that's hyperbole because nobody ever does, you know. Make everything alright. There are some people who come close but even they hurt you sometimes. Still, it's nice to escape into songs about perfection. Because every once in a while, there are moments--glimpses--of just that. And you close your eyes and tell yourself that this, this is finally a really good scene in your story. And you try to build a little house right there because you don't ever want to move from that spot. But eventually the fluidity of life catches up with you; one day you go home to that house you worked so hard to build upon that one perfect moment and see that there is an eviction sign and the people who lived there with you have already taken their things and gone.

And now it's your turn to go too.

And hopefully you'll see them in the next perfect moment.

And you'll try to not to be too surprised to see them in those painful moments too.

Because they'll probably be present in both kinds.

Because it takes all moments to make your story.

But this, this is a sweet song--a happy song.

one cigarette

2009-10-28T00:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight I was backstage signing posters for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids when my friend Joey told me I had to read something. I made some dumb joke in response and he reiterated that I really had to read it.

Okay, I will, I said nonchalantly, most of my energy going to making that large J followed by a lot of squiggles and the even larger L followed by yet more squiggles. Yes, my signature needs work. But it's not work I like to do, not when there are 100+ posters a pop yet again staring me in the face.

But Joey was not taking no for an answer, Now. You need to read it now.

Well I'm busy doing something for people with AIDS, what are you doing? After informing me that he had already signed those posters and done his part, I decided to humor him and read what had gotten his attention.

I present: fan mail.

Well not exactly fan mail, I guess.

Okay, not even close.

Here goes...

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a 29 year old female who loves attending your Broadway through Canada productions. I was appalled to smell cigarette smoke during "A Chorus Line" during the Saturday, October 17 show in the afternoon. There were comments coming from one of the actresses during the show saying she needed a smoke break, but then she didn't leave the stage so I figured that was it, and it was just part of her character. But then a while later she lit up on the stage.

In today's world of anti-smoking campaigns and the fight against cancer, I was surprised that she didn't just "act-out" the smoking, but that she actually "smoked" a real cigarette. The part that disturbed me the most was that we were sitting in the 4th row of the mezzanine and we could actually smell the cigarette smoke a few minutes later.

I realize that it's one cigarette and no, one cigarette isn't going to kill me, but the point is that we should be allowed to attend these performances in a smoke-free environment, right?

Then they had the nerve after the show to ask us to donate money to some of their charities--one of them being for cancer.

When my friends and colleagues asked me how I liked "A Chorus Line" I didn't tell them about the actors, dancing, or singing. I told them about how I was at the NAC and I could not believe that I had smelled cigarette smoke during the show.

So there it is. Yowza. I can maybe see where she is coming from, and I don't know--perhaps somebody she loved passed away from lung cancer, making any smell of smoke instantly give her a visceral reaction that encompasses all.

Or maybe she just doesn't get the idea of story.

Of characters that make that story come to life.

Or of the fact that we are depicting a story that involves dancers in the seventies and let me tell you, a lot of them smoked. In fact, a lot of them did a lot more than smoke and the fact that one lone cigarette (which is herbal, by the way, and if anyone cares at all) made it into a scene is pretty tame in comparison to what could be there.

Not that I am saying that cigarettes are cool or good for you or that I am buying them for my nieces and nephews for Christmas. No, I actually hate the smell too. But this cigarette is a part of Sheila's story. She's a stressed out, jaded, aging dancer who's talking about the business and how precarious it is. She lights up. Because it's part of her character. It's what Sheila would do.

Therefore the actress who plays Sheila does it.

See, story--any good story--is not just about perfection or always making the right choices or how one day you baked a cake and then walked your dog, though those are two perfectly lovely things to do and if you ever want to bake a cake for me and then invite me to walk your dog, I am totally in. But story involves conflict. It's creating scenes that are memorable. Sheila lighting up during the alternative scene--actively portraying her need to de-stress in what is supposed to be the great conflict or climax of A Chorus Line--makes sense. And obviously, it's memorable since it's the freaking only thing this young lady even mentioned to anyone who asked her about the show: that cigarette.

Even the Bible is totally offensive in some places. Because it tells a story of humans and let's face it, we mess up. A lot. But, it's memorable. It's not tame-not at all--but it sticks, because the stories talk about everything, the good and the bad, making it authentic. It tells about the screwing up and the grace that comes afterward.

And well, the cigarette? It's a part of the story that we are telling every night.

And no, the point of the cigarette is not that we think everyone should smoke because shriveled lungs are so cool; the point of the cigarette is to show that Sheila, like all of the rest of us, is scared. Worried about the future. Wondering where the next job, the next paycheck will come from.

And honestly, simply talking about it is something, yes; but there's power in showing it.

And come on, ONE cigarette at the very end of the show made her forget about the hilarity that is SING?!?!

Okay, just joking.

But seriously, a lot of other good stuff goes on during that two hours; I have a hard time believing it was all trumped by that cigarette. It must have been the fact that it was herbal--those things pack a punch.

calgary goodness

2009-10-26T20:54:00.000-07:00

Today was a doozy.

But a good doozy.

I think the dooziness was mostly due to only having slept about two hours last night. So when my alarm clock greeted me at 6:45 this morning I wasn't exactly enthralled with fact that my day had already begun. Well, except for the fact that this particular day was taking me far from Saskatoon and so in that sense, it couldn't start soon enough.

The airport was made a little brighter by the fact that I got some Tim Horton's hot chocolate, which is some of the best around, in my opinion. And the sad news is that I am hardly ever around Timmy Ho Ho's (which is what we affectionately call it), so I try to take advantage of the fine establishment while here in Canada.

But a few hours later when I landed in Calgary, that hot chocolate was long gone. I was hungry, exhausted, and cold. I was a total doozy. A personified doozy. Still, a good meal and a walk around this lovely town did me wonders. See, I am staying at a friend's mom's house in the Kensington part of Calgary and it is absolutely magical. Adorable. Artsy. Full of consignment shops.

Which is where I scored this sweatshirt.

$18 worth of warmth and verdant stripes. Not to mention a big old collar. Yes.

And then, shoved onto the lowest shelf at my feet, a bit of robin's egg blue caught my eye.
Another find. This time something Kenneth Cole had made. And for $30 I walked out of the store with it, thanking Mr. Cole for his use of blue and yellow and the way it so easily carries a wallet and lip gloss and one elementary school picture of a tow-headed Drew that I keep with me at all times.

But it's kind of weird when people ask me if I have any pictures of my husband and I hesitantly pull out this wallet sized photo of a first grader.

I make sure to tell them that he's grown up since then.

Cause, gross.

And sorry to end on a downer, but one of my strings on my guitar broke tonight and I am so bummed. Seriously, that thing brings me so much joy right now and it feels like a friend just suddenly left. I don't know how to restring a guitar and at this point I don't even know where a music store is to buy some strings.

I know, google search, blah blah blah, but still.

What a beating.

sometimes I run out of things to say

2009-10-25T23:52:00.000-07:00

I am pretty sure that a guitar is maybe my best purchase I have ever made. This includes the recent maternity unitard that actually isn't a maternity unitard that I acquired from Lululemon. And this also includes the shirt I just bought at a thrift store that was so perfect for my Halloween costume that I decided to overlook the fact that it is a maternity XL, pretty much the largest women's shirt I could find, and will simply jerry-rig it to make it work, Tim Gun style.

But the shoes to go with it.

They might not be able to be made to work, sorry to say.

They are a little too tight in the toes and I am just past the point in my career of being a woman where I want to sacrifice foot comfort for vanity. Even costume vanity.

Good thing they were $3.99.

But back to the guitar.

Bear in mind that I am not a guitarist. Not really. I am a pianist who bought a guitar seven or so weeks ago so I could write in my room.

Or in a stairwell.

But I wouldn't mind being a guitarist at some point. It's a beautiful instrument with all those hard curves and the strings and the sound of them sliding between chord changes.

Anyway, this is a song I recently wrote...I don't have a title yet, and it's probably still a work in progress, but here you go anyway. Oh, and (spoiler alert!) I especially like the part at the end when the security guard walks through...

p.t.

2009-10-25T01:42:00.001-07:00

Our physical therapist watched the show tonight.

And the thing about your physical therapist watching the show is that you're all of the sudden seeing your body the way he does. You can no longer just stand and bevel. Now you have to give a slight arch to your back in order to stabilize those pesky hips that keep wanting to go out of alignment.

And remember when a kick was just a kick? Yeah, that was nice. Now, you're pointedly aware of the way your quad takes over what your hip flexor should be doing, causing the quad to get too tight and your knee to stop tracking correctly and shoot! what did the physical therapist say about always rolling out my I.T. band? Did I do that today...?!

But standing. I mean, standing should be fine. I've been doing it since I was what--a year old? That's a lot of practice. Oh, except that my right hip is too far forward, except for that. So even when I am standing during the show, I am left to wonder if my therapist is analyzing my hip, mentally tsk-tsking as, with the same ability to see minute discrepancies from far distances that is reserved for an eagle, a dance captain, and your mom, he notices that once again I am not standing as I should.

Though goodness knows I try.

And goodness knows I love physical therapy.

That is, I love it when they aren't telling me that I need to eat more hamburgers or that, upon a cursory glance, I probably have a stress fracture and other encouraging diagnoses of that nature.

And honestly, at the end of the day what I usually want is a good, deep tissue massage. So you can understand my disappointment when, after walking in and laying down on the table hoping for some hands-on treatment, they simply show me some leg lifts to do. Or yet again another lunge. A LUNGE? Really? The same one I did in jazz class in 5th grade is the secret to my feeling better and you have a college degree in order to tell me this?

Or how about the ones that Just. Keep. Talking. And sometimes they are even so into whatever it is they are saying that they STOP MOVING THEIR HANDS ON WHATEVER SPOT THAT HURTS LIKE THE DICKENS, pausing for effect when the only real effect it has is 10 seconds less of pain relief.

And then there was the physical therapist who, after showing me a few stretches and exercises, told me that I still had five minutes left of my session and suggested that I take advantage of the roller that was in the corner.

Oh, that roller? The one that is just like the four rollers that our company already provides for us, making it so I am totally free to use one of them on my own time?

Thanks.

This is why I loved the one physical therapy session I had in Japan. The guy could barely speak any English. Score. His room was so small, there was only room for himself, a massage table, and unfortunately nothing else, leaving the rollers out of the equation. Score. And he massaged me nice and deep for a full half hour. Score. And his diagnosis? I need more massages.

SO SCORE.

And I'll totally work on that.

28 shows

2009-10-24T00:56:00.000-07:00

I have 28 shows left of A Chorus Line.

Even as I type this, it's hard to really comprehend. Already, there are some misty eyes in the cast as I look around the stage during the show. If the last few times we've had closing performances for cast members are any indication, I will probably cry like a baby at this final closing.

But then again, this time I am more than ready to go home.

Maybe that will make a difference.

Maybe.

But on the other hand, as much as we all talk about what a small world this business really is, how we're gonna see each other in New York, attend each other's openings and all that, this is never going to happen again.

This group of special people. Traveling together. Working together. Laughing together. Commiserating over how ridiculous an eleven 0'clock matinee really is and come on, Equity, we don't even get overtime for this breakfast show? Crying together. Divulging to each other that things aren't good, that life has recently become the kind of story over which you shake your head, you wonder how the heroine is ever gonna pull through, and yet you all pull on your gold hats and sequined tights and you smile for the audience and you sell it anyway. Again and again, you sell it and find some reprieve as you get lost in a different story on stage every day.

There is a bond that forms slowly, gradually, and after a while you realize that you love these people. After all the early morning bus calls to get to the airport God only knows much earlier than ever need be; the three weeks spent in Detroit that you managed to make fun despite it all; the notes, endless notes; the first wives club in which we all desperately miss our husbands, respectively; and please let's not forget Japan because that happened--after all this, something has happened and it's left a mark.

A good mark.

I will always love A Chorus Line.

But part of the reason that I don't want to re-sign this time is that I don't want to try to build all that with a new group of people. I don't want to look around and see the same costumes on the wrong people. I don't want to start over. I'm good. It's time to move on.

And I have 28 more shows to keep getting used to the idea of truly moving on. Another show. More gigs. Trading in The Alliance and creating a better, stronger alliance with my Drew.

It's time.

But that doesn't mean I won't cry like a baby when the time really does come, you know.

But until then, 28 shows, folks. 28 shows.

yep, this is what I thought was worth mentioning.

2009-10-23T00:55:00.000-07:00

I am tired.

It's late.

And I might have just spent all of my creativity on the guitar during the past few hours.

But there are a couple of things worth mentioning right now. One is that I think security check points at airports should also be equipped with something to neutralize overly strong perfume. Because who wants to be trapped in a small compartment thousands of feet above land with the latest knock-off to whatever fragrance Fergie is currently marketing? And really who believes that any of these people--Britney, Jessica Simps (as P!nk would say), J.Lo--has much to do with the actual creation of their perfumes anyway? Doesn't that involve scientists in white lab coats who know something about formulas and the way these scents mix with those scents?

So, along with throwing away your bottle of water, making sure any liquid, gels, or other such substances are no more than three ounces and also stored securely in a plastic bag that somehow keeps everyone on the plane safe from those terrifying three ounce bottles, there should be a chamber of sorts for those who think, Only thing on my agenda today is a flight to Saskatoon--since this perfume bottle is just above 3 oz. I'll pour the WHOLE THING on my head and make sure not a drop is confiscated at security.

But little did they know about the newest anti-terrorist policy enacted in 2009. The Perfume Neutralizer. Maybe it's a powder, maybe it's a hose they walk through just like you did when you were a kid and it was August and your parents didn't have a pool either because weren't the dogs and cats and woods and stream enough? You seriously think you need a pool, too? When I was young a piece of bread was my dessert and I played racquet ball with my dog for entertainment and now you want a pool?!?!

And just for the record mom and pop, the dogs and cats and woods and streams were totally enough. And thank you.

But whatever the actual method the Perfume Neutralizer employs, everybody breathes easily in the plane because of it.

Couldn't it just be an addendum to the Clean Air Act? Wouldn't that be a good kind of pork barrel spending?

Oh, and one more thing worth mentioning.

Canada is absolutely lovely but it's dry as a bone here. And not just any bone, either. A bone that has been left out in the sun for weeks and even the marrow has dried up. Really, how do our lovely Northern neighbors even manage to keep skin over their dry bones? I put lotion on and the next moment, it's like it never happened at all and the only reason I know for sure that it has is because my tube of Aveeno is now almost empty.

But you wouldn't know it from my skin.

I need some moisture all up in here, folks.

Tonight I used some heavy-duty stuff provided by a friend and I am hoping it will put a dent in this dryness.

We shall see.

One last thing, promise.

We weren't sure what kind of audience we would have tonight here in rural Saskatoon, but they blew us away. They were wonderfully and appropriately vocal and right there with us from the first moment the lights came up to our final kick line.

So there you go, Saskatoon delivers.

jazz hands

2009-10-21T22:00:00.000-07:00

If in fact everything we do on this earth acts like some kind of metaphysical boomerang and eventually returns to us, then somewhere along the way I did something right.

Because nobody sat next to me on today's flight.

That's right. No grumpy man to ask, do you mind? No commentary from the peanut gallery, remarking, "Boy, you sure do get comfortable!" after I have finally extricated myself from the pretzel-like position into which I had twisted my legs; and better yet, no fake smile in response. No inquisitive well-meaning person who, upon finding out why exactly I am going to Saskatoon in the first place, wants to know everything about this business, even the most insulting question: Do you get paid?

This isn't the peace corp, people.

Believe it or not, when we sign up to leave our homes and loved ones, we sort of expect a paycheck in return. And though we sing What I Did For Love every night, and sing it well, that doesn't preclude the fact that love isn't going to pay your mortgage. You can't send your credit card bills back with a kiss mark and a check for zero dollars. And though yes, we love this, we love it a lot more when it pays.

So here I am, allowing myself a good honest sprawl between two (count them: one, two!) chairs on this fine aircraft from Air Canada Jazz.

And no, that's not me being cute because I happen to like that style of dancing and don't even get me started on the music. That's really what it's called. Air Canada JAZZ. I was half hoping they'd bedazzle me with some jazz hands when I boarded the plane, but I suppose they have to save their fingers for beverage preparation and closing overhead compartments and um, the actual act of flying this plane. And I don't blame them.

But something else about jazz hands.

I dated a guy named John who was a fabulous musician. Actually, every guy I have ever dated has been a fabulous musician. All two of them. Well, three if you count the time I wasn't allowed to really date unless it was this one sweet guy who my parents' more than approved of, and so let me date him. But he was a fabulous musician too. Which wasn't my point--so let's get back on track here.

While I was dating John, my brother had written a musical. He cast it and rented a theater and directed it and everything. We were all gung-ho about it because honestly, it was great. Much better than a lot of crap poor actors are forced to learn and sell to audiences world wide. Now, I had always wanted to be in a musical, and though my brother knew this, what he needed more than one more person moonlighting on the stage was a pianist to accompany the show.

So I swallowed my disappointment, watched all my friends and siblings perform, and accompanied them with (mostly) a good attitude. I do have to say, though, that one total perk to being the maestro was the clothes. I didn't get it in my contract or anything like that, but upon finding out that I needed something respectable to wear for the performances, my mom sure did run to urban outfitters and buy me at least three black, adorable outfits.

Cha-ching.

Now who wishes they weren't in the spotlight, enjoying the accolades of the audience, but were instead seated at the piano, wearing an adorable new outfit? That's what I thought.

Anyway, there was this one song in the score that was all crazy and jazzy and have I mentioned before how I don't really read music so well? I play by ear mostly, can totally navigate through written chords, but will be reduced to plucking painfully slow if you put sheet music in front of me. So yeah, don't ask me to accompany you for an audition anytime soon. But, in order for me to help remember the feel for this one song, and because of the fact that the chords weren't as straight forward as they appeared, I wrote in big lettering on the top of the page,

JAZZ HANDS

and then proceeded to draw two sets of hands, fingers outstretched in a way that would make Corky Sinclair proud, in that classic jazz hand way.

This was my own score, so I never thought anyone would see my little reminder and didn't give it another thought other than to well, be reminded of the song's jazziness when I flipped to that particular page and saw the hands.

Until my boyfriend John came to the dress rehearsal.

John, piano genius, who sat right next to me and offered to turn pages.

And then when he saw those jazz hands...well, he laughed. And laughed some more. And wouldn't stop making jazz hands of his own. I guess he figured I could use some more reminders or something. Maybe my C's weren't sounding diminished enough or my blue notes weren't the exact right shade of blue.

He sort of made it up to me, though, when he sent me a card and compared me to a jazz chord. Nobody had ever done that before and I thought that if I were going to be anything other than me, a jazz chord would maybe be perfect. It was a sweet compliment and he didn't even mention those jazz hands in that card once.

Though we both knew he could have.

what it looks like

2009-10-19T23:31:00.000-07:00

Today looked like this. At least, a part of it did.

The mall didn't, though. That looked more like this awesome unitard that I bought on sale at Lululemon. Hanging on the rack, I could have sworn it was a maternity unitard. But after being convinced that it wasn't (because really, how many pregnant women have you seen willingly parade around in a unitard? But then I thought maybe that was why it was on sale, you know?), and told by a sales lady that it looks much better on, I decided to try it for myself.

And she was over the moon right.

It's organic cotton, pre-shrunk twice (and this over achiever likes the sound of that!), and just as comfortable as it is attractive.

And totally not going to be seen on a baby shower gift table any time soon.

Also, since auditions are going to be on the agenda for me very soon, I like to have something new and snazzy to wear to them.

Today also looked like this.

Like yellow leaves to match my yellow scarf to match my yellow Betsy Johnson socks that my dear friend Betsy Adkins Johnson gave me. And I know, it's cute that their names are sort of matching. Just like my yellow scarf and those leaves.

And my yellow socks. Ah, Betsy Johnson socks, in case you forgot already.

And then another part of my day, my life actually, looks like this.
Like my favorite pair of high tops EVER on their very last legs. See the sad holes? And where the little silver circle things have come lose and climbed up the shoelaces? This makes me so sad. I am looking for their replacements, but feel deep in my heart that they are irreplaceable. The shape. The checkers. The purple swoosh. The grey and white...other parts. I love them so much and they've literally walked with me around the world and back.

I found a pair of purple sneaks with light blue accents today that could be contenders, but they just aren't the same. The lady at the store assured me that they would break in and become soft too, but you know how it is with new sneakers. They make you feel like you have one toe too many, like your ankles are two sizes too large, like the soles are so immovable you can no longer roll through your feet and are reduced to walking like a platypus, just slapping those feet from heel to toe onto the floor in order to get anywhere at all.

Ugh.

What's a girl to do?

bitter;better

2009-10-19T01:15:00.001-07:00

I've been writing a lot of music lately.

I don't know if any of it is really good, but it helps me and doesn't hurt anybody, so I will keep doing it.

Somebody said once that, after experiencing pain, you either get better or you get bitter. I really want to choose the former. And I also like to think that I have that choice, that we all do. It's nothing so tangible as typing these words onto blogger, but in a way, we write our stories. We don't write what the supporting characters in our stories do or say, as much as God knows I'd like to sometimes, but we do write the main character's story.

We write ourselves.

I have also been thinking a lot about the difference between reacting and acting. Like how the former is subjective to what is going on around us--read: not in our control. Which ultimately means that, since our choices are in direct correlation to somebody else's choices, we are not in control of our own choices. Which leads to us doing things we never thought we'd do before. Not everybody ends up in the kind of extreme situations we hear about on the news by happenstance. Somewhere along the way they decide to give up their autonomy, to be like a wave tossed by the sea and when the sea turns angry, they turn too.

But then there is acting.

Choosing how I will act, what I will say, who I will love, and where I will be no matter what anybody around me does. It's not exactly natural, I think. It's easy to simply put back into the universe what has come my way. But what if the things that have come my way aren't good? Do I then become like them and return the favor?

No, that leads to bitterness.

Not betterness.

And that's not a word.

But all this to say, I am really trying to deal with pain--any kind of pain--in a healthy way. To talk to trusted people. Write music. Pray. Read good, beautiful books. Walk thirteen miles in the wee hours of the morning without any ID or phone. Okay, so the jury is still out on whether or not that last one is healthy, but...Isn't that at least exercise? Which most doctors would say was healthy, right?

But music.

It helps me a lot. And when all I really want to do is walk into a wall as hard as I can, it's nice to be able to pick up a guitar and sing instead. It's healthy. It's better.

What helps you?

stairwells aren't private but they are isolated

2009-10-17T23:26:00.000-07:00

Thank God for hackles and the way they raise.

Because mine were put to use tonight.

At least, they were if I actually have hackles. Or is it just dogs that have hackles? Well, whatever--something told me that a quick exit was in order, be it intuition, common sense, or just the fact that I was outnumbered in a stairwell with two foreign men who admittedly had had too much to drink and wanted me to sing for them like a trained monkey and yes, I realize monkeys cannot sing but just go with me on the simile, okay?

Thanks.

Oh, but the moments leading up to the hackles...Between shows today I had some inspiration on the piano and I wrote maybe two thirds of a song which I am excited about. I also discovered a big difference between the ushers in the states and the ushers in Canada: Canadian ushers are young and good looking and could totally be mistaken for models on their way to a shoot. Not quite as good as being mistaken for a cabin crew on a plane, which is what we got mistaken for the other day, but hey--you can't win them all, Canada; you can't win them all. But enough about the ushers who look like models and oh yeah, don't even have to pay for their health care, poor things.

And back to the song.

So after the show tonight, and then after watching a movie with friends, and then after eating some old gingersnaps and even older popcorn, I happily stole away to my stairwell, guitar in hand, ready to work on that song.

And I was doing just that, feeling the groove, getting good and acquainted with the melody and lyrics, when I suddenly heard a door open below me. I stopped strumming and singing and heard an accented man's voice call up, Please don't stop; you sound so great...

Um, okay. Thanks! I yelled back and hoped he would go away so I could keep working.

I started playing again, only to hear the same thing, or a derivation of it, in a few minutes. This time I did not even stop. But he climbed the stairs and peeked up at me. Great, I thought, Now we have made eye contact and all I want is to get away alone and play.

Again, he told me how good it sounds as if I didn't get that he thought that after the first couple times he said it, and leaves.

But as luck would have it, he came back up those stairs just a few moments later, this time with gifts! Oh joy. He offered me a beer and I said no thanks and I was hoping that was that. But it wasn't that because then he came back with a friend. A friend whose birthday it was, apparently. A friend who had drank too much, or at least that is what they informed me.

They came up those stairs, the one man telling the other, See, didn't I tell you I would show you where to find some great music? And they were just standing two feet from me, telling me to please don't stop on their account and that they don't have a radio and all they want to do is listen to me play because I sound so good.

And that was nice of them to say, but at that point it was me in a stairwell with two foreign men who were drunk. The fact that one was having a birthday was irrelevant. People have friends to make birthdays special; that wasn't my job. Everything within me was telling me to leave five minutes ago.

So I did.

Well, not five minutes ago, not having perfected the science of time travel and all, but I left hastily. And awkwardly. I even banged my guitar as I stood up, making quite a ruckus as I told them that I really needed to go check on my friends (who were doing just fine in our room, laying in their respective beds and watching TV or on their computers, I was sure). I even managed to yell out Happy Birthday! right before the door slammed behind me because even though it wasn't my job to make his birthday happy, I still wanted it to be happy.

And when I got back to our room and told my friends about the ordeal they all informed me that they would have gladly taken the beer. But that might be the difference--or at least one of them, anyway--between men and women. A guy will gladly take a beer offered from a strange man in a stairwell at 2 am in the morning and simultaneously thank his lucky stars for his good fortune and rekindle his faith in the altruism of mankind.

A girl just shouldn't take that beer. Not in the stairwell. Not at 2am. Not with two strange men. Her hackles will raise and she should just get the heck out of dodge.

blue note

2009-10-16T23:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when the boys are all home too, I take my guitar and steal away to a nearby stairwell. I make sure to go armed with my airplane neck pillow to sit on because that floor gets harder with every minute that ticks by and always, I make sure to bring something on which I can record lyrics, be it IPhone or journal or my big Book Of Songs.

And tonight, I discovered a new chord.

When I told this to Drew he quickly asked me if I had maybe finally found that elusive H#. Hahahahahahaha, what a smarty pants. So I guess I should specify that I discovered an old chord that is new to me.

There's a note in the chord that is surprising to the ear. It's not exactly congruent and I like it better because of it. And it's also not a trick; it's unexpected, but truly does create something beautiful. Harmonious, even. And I played this chord over and over again because maybe, just maybe, I was hoping that I could get a clue from it.

Maybe that surprising note hints at the grand mystery of life.

Like the part when nothing sounds the way I thought it would; and the melody of the song isn't one that I want to hear, let alone commit to memory and recite day after day. But then it turns out to be maddeningly catchy and soon after that, the maddening part goes away a little bit and is replaced by a peace.

A catchy, flies-in-the-face-of-how-I-should-feel peace.

Or maybe just a resignation.

But whatever it is, there is the hope that it could lead to a beautiful sound. A harmony that soars. And somewhere among these notes that one would would never think to get along, they form a chord.

A beautiful, out of the blue chord.

And a girl in Canada discovers it for herself one night while sitting on a pillow that was always intended to be wrapped around a neck and she feels better for it.

Or something like that.

it looks like fall, it feels like winter, and I am random.

2009-10-15T21:49:00.000-07:00

It's funny, it looks like autumn, the leaves are all lit up like christmas morning and all that, but it's about 20 or so degrees outside.

But I guess, technically, it is still fall.

At least in the sense that the canal is not yet frozen over.
Word on the street is that once it does freeze, everybody skates their way to work.

I wouldn't mind living in that world. I am thinking it looks something like Candy Land. You know, the part towards the end with the snowy queen princess lady. And you'll skate right past the Peppermint Stick Forrest and right on over the Gum Drop Mountains and you'll be the first to reach the Candy Land Castle and you'll win. You'll win at life, just like that. And maybe Ottawa throws in some extra large candy cane pillars for good measure and a hint of color. Canada already has free health care, so a few pieces of candy thrown into the mix for their citizen's enjoyment wouldn't surprise me one bit.

And I am enthralled by the antics of the little black squirrels I see here.

I followed this guy for a while, trying to get a good shot of him. He finally obliged, nut in his mouth and everything.

And contrary to what this picture portrays, this squirrel is not some sort of terrifying demon squirrel.
Well, at least as far as I know. He seemed quite normal.

Except for the red eyes, of course.

But his head didn't do a full rotation, nor did he levitate or vomit all over the park. At least not during the few minutes I followed him around.

And it has occurred to me that a massage might be in order. I have been under some stress lately, and apparently I carry my stress just fine in my shoulders and neck. Because when my friend Amos simply put his hands on my shoulders all parts of me started melting in gratitude. And then he started kneading and it was heaven as he moved my muscles around and then he started pressing and it was hell as he targeted the particularly painful spots.

And then we started chatting and I did a terrible thing. Because right when he asked if we could go on a date at some point, I turned my back to him to say good night to my friends at another table. So it sounded something like this:

(boldly and enthusiastically in tone) Maybe we could go on a (at this point he sees me turn my back, and so his words fade into just a whisper and I barely even hear the word) date sometime...

Luckily my brain did that instant replay thing that allows you to quickly process what just happened a second ago, and I turned right back to him as quickly as any torso has turned since God decided to give torsos the ability to turn and, amid peals of laughter, told him that I would love to go on a date with him and I was so sorry that I turned my back at that most vulnerable of moments.

He understood.

And we laughed.

But don't worry, the date would be far from romantic.

And my roommate must be watching youtube because only a few moments ago I could hear the yip yip yip yip yip yip from those alien puppets from Sesame Street, but that quickly turned into some eighties pop ballad and now?

Single Ladies.

Of course.

today i ate ice cream in canada

2009-10-13T20:34:00.000-07:00

I just finished putting the toilet seat back down where it belongs which is about right since I live with three boys at the moment.

Three great boys.

And these three great boys are currently out drinking beer and doing other such manly things, leaving the place to me. So other than righting the toilet seat, what do I do? Only exactly what I want. And I don't mind this at all.

So.

I had ice cream tonight.

Not news worthy, you think? How is this relevant, you might wonder? What does it have to do with boys, or toilet seats, or...Actually yes, let's move on to ice cream because anything, anything is better than toilet seats.

I agree. Which is why I mentioned the ice cream.

But see, this is something. The fact that I ate ice cream, I mean. Since I've been feeling sad I haven't been able to eat anything tasty. Anything as good as dessert. It's a weird thing I have. I guess I associate ice cream and other such treats with celebrations or something, feeling good, so when I feel like I don't have much to celebrate that's the first thing to go.

But tonight, Brandon ordered ice cream and not just any ice cream either. I mean, if he had ordered something having to do with cherries or maybe even something dumb and don't-even-bother like sorbet, than I totally wouldn't have even paused. But he ordered it just the way I like it.

Vanilla ice cream. Peanut butter sauce. Reese's Pieces cups.

And that gave me pause.

So there I was, thinking about it and wondering why I couldn't just have some too. It's not like eating ice cream meant that I was declaring to the whole world that everything was exactly how I wanted it and please, God, don't bother to change a thing cause I am fine, really, just freaking fine.

Maybe eating ice cream could just be more like...I don't know, eating ice cream. With lots of peanut butter involved. So that's what I did. And I didn't go crazy like finish it or anything--I mean, come on, I'm not about to start waving poms-poms in the air as a cheerleader for the state of my life right now, either--but still, I ate some.

And it was good.

Moving on.

To this CASTLE THAT IS DOWN THE STREET FROM ME.
Really, who says that? Other than Queen Elizabeth, I mean. And she doesn't even have to mention the down the street part, since she gets to wake up and enjoy her scones and tea under some pretty hefty turrets, pinnacles, and towers every morning. But now I can say, You want to meet at the mall? Sure. No problem. Let me just walk past the castle real quick and I'll see you in a jiff. Just like that.

And then there's this building in which Parliament holds their sessions.

Because Ottawa is totally the capitol of Canada.

And I actually didn't even have to google that one.

True story.

And I saw this bit of sunlight gracing the top of this tree and felt better.
Not about anything in particular, exactly, but better.

And the good news is that sometimes that happens. Sometimes you just feel better.

And some more good news is that I love Canada. Love it. It is clean, the air is crisp, the leaves are ablaze with color, and I am walking by castles daily. Other than the small nuisance of not having the use of my cell phone, what's not to love about this place?

a long post in which I say a lot, but there are pictures for those of you who might not like to read so much

2009-10-11T22:15:00.000-07:00

This is me and JR. And let me tell you what I like about JR. When most of us would start sweating (or itching if you happen to be me and instead of having the normal reaction to heat by sweating, you just start itching and yes, it's as fun as it sounds)--but when most of us are sweating because we have to call our Production Stage Manager and tell him that we are not going to be in the show that night; and though we have spent all the night before awake, composing a long diatribe of why we simply cannot perform, be it the ankle that was sprained, the hamstring that was pulled, the hip flexor that was strained, the throat that is sore, the high note that is just not there, or some sort of perfect storm that is a dreaded combination of all of the above, we still manage to feel like we are going into a battle lacking proper ammunition and what if he doesn't believe me? or what if he makes me feel so guilty that I do the show anyway and then develop nodes and my whole career is shot--all because when I called my stage manager to call out I ended up calling in because of the guilt?!?!

But not JR.

He doesn't have the time for such rigmarole.

And though he doesn't call out very often, when he does, he simply calls our stage manager and says four simple words.

Guilt free.

Excuse free.

Must be nice.

The words, you wonder?

I ain't coming in.

And there you go, easy-peesy, get her done. And I am pretty sure he's not sweating or itching but simply drawing a bath and looking forward to whatever book he's reading that night.

Like I said, must be nice.

---------------------------------

Now, I bet you think that the cast of A Chorus Line spends all our time at opening night parties and blah blah blah.

This is just not true.

Sometimes we go to birthday parties too.

And tonight there was a fun one with a MadMen theme and we were all encouraged to dress the part.

I like our color scheme, too. We make a nice palette.

And here I am with Ian.
Now let me be a little bit honest and tell you that I am going through a hard time right now. Being totally honest would be telling you that I crapped my pants in first grade, and not knowing what else to do, just walked around in my dirty, crappy pants. I then tried to pretend I didn't crap my pants by waving my hand back and forth in front of my nose as if to say P. U!!! and looking around for the offender along with all of my other classmates standing in line with me, coming back in from recess. My teacher, Mrs. Smith, eventually sniffed me out and no amount of avid and desperate hand waving in front of my nose could convince her sense of smell otherwise. She knew it was me and I knew it was me and that was that.

My punishment was a trip to the school's clothes closet which is a nice way of saying Ugly Old Clothes We Keep Around And Force the Kids Who Crap Their Pants To Wear.

It was Wilmington Christian School's own version of the Scarlet Letter.

And the fact that the particular pair of pants I was handed from the clothes closet were not only too short for my long skinny legs, but also the fly was busted and wouldn't zip(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), made it that much brighter and more noticeable of a scarlet letter, so thanks, WCS. Thanks a lot.

That would be total honesty, and I think that story is enough of that for tonight, don't you?

So I will simply be a little bit honest and say that I am going through a hard time.

A busted, stupid walk-around-with-crap-in-your-pants-and-not-even-that-could-compare hard time.

And my friends--well, they know it. Cause I've been a little bit honest with them, too, and told them.

And tonight, during the alternative scene in which we are all so worried for poor Paul who fell during the tap combination and oh no! is that the end of his career? and because we think that, we then start to think oh no! what would we do if we couldn't dance?

And the mood is generally introspective and sad and we all wonder how long our careers will be and how, exactly, one measures success anyway and since you might not be able to measure it so easily--at least not in the way you can measure one cup of milk when you are baking biscuits--then will we know success when we see it?

And sometimes people cry during this scene and sometimes Ian and I make faces at each other.

Yes, I just said that.

Oops, now you know.

But tonight, as I was expecting maybe a silly face as I looked across the stage in Ian's general direction, I saw something that surprised me.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

And all thoughts of silly faces were put to rest.

For the time being.

And then after the show we were talking and I asked him why he got so sad during the alternative scene, what he was thinking and all that. Cause no, it couldn't possibly be that the guy was acting!!! Okay, it could, because he is good and talented like that, but this time it wasn't.

He looked at me and said, I thought about you. I thought about how you are going through a really hard time and that makes me sad. That made me cry tonight.

And suddenly I was at once humbled and lifted up in a way that those who feel poignantly loved can understand.

And I like the part of the story when friends reach out to me with love and compassion. It does make things better.

Kind of.

strider vs. the aurochs

2009-10-09T21:53:00.000-07:00

My parents have a mythical beast.

His name is Strider and I really don't think he belongs here.

At least not in the way that refrigerators, computers, and laundry shoots do.

See, once I read a book called The Song of Albion and in it this ancient creature who no longer exists in our world, an aurochs, had wandered from its world through a hole in a cairn into England. And the reason I say this is that Strider kind of reminds me of an aurochs.

Not that I've seen one, but still.

Only an aurochs probably wouldn't sit in my lap in a car.
An aurochs probably understands that he is not a lap dog.
And an aurochs probably doesn't have such a nice goofy, tongue-just-lolling smile.
Or such kissable, whiskery cheeks.
So no, I've never been squished by an aurochs, but I've totally been squished by Strider and I would venture to say that the two probably don't differ all that much.

story

2009-10-08T21:03:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I spent three whole hours all by myself at Borders.

Okay, so not quite by myself. I parked myself at the apex of a small triangle of overstuffed chairs and the three of us were only too happy to politely ignore each other in shared communal silence.

I read a book. A whole book. Well I skimmed some of it, but got into the anecdotes that described how Brenda would often accuse her husband of simply lazing away the evening in his favorite chair in front of the tv and not investing in the family. But once she started changing her prose to "I am so grateful that you work so hard every day for our family and are such a good provider. I can see that all that hard work makes you tired at the end of the day. What do you think about scheduling some family time together in the evening when you feel up to it?" her husband started responding to the praise and actually initiating family time.

And what do you know, but Brenda and her husband were much happier.

I'm guessing the kids were, too, though nobody mentioned them.

I get into those kinds of stories, and yeah it was a book on marriage. How to be a good wife. Or how to be a better wife, since I'd venture to say that I am not half bad right now. Though I guess I am not the one who makes that decision.

But no, I didn't buy that book.

I did, however, buy Donald Miller's (Blue Like Jazz) new book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. I'd already read the first 30 pages online, because I LOVE this guy's writing that much, and not buying the book, hardback or no, really wasn't even an option for me.

Let me tell you, it was a good decision.

It's cutting into my David Sedaris reading, true, but I will get back to you, David; I will, my word is good. Especially if you keep writing about Helen who lives on the floor above you and curses like a sailor and gives you sewing machines just to spite the guy who lives above her who actually wants a sewing machine. Cause these stories that narrate the human experience keep bringing me back for more.

But back to Donald Miller. Now he's writing all about story, what makes a good story and what doesn't; why a movie in which a man really wants a volvo and finally, right before the credits role, drives off the used car lot with a volvo doesn't actually make for the kind of story that moves you so much.

And Don talks about how he goes to this conference in Hollywood and a famous man lectures about the arc, essence, and structure of story for thirty-six hours, leaving Don and his friend with this:

"A character who wants something and overcomes conflict to get it is the basic structure of a good story."

And I am still just under the first 60 pages, but already he has mentioned how we can choose to live a good story. That everybody has a story, but they all vary drastically. And that the ultimate theme of our story really is under our control.

And this, already, has brought me hope.

Here's to another 200 pages of more good stuff.

and this is why I take a shower

2009-10-06T22:25:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I didn't take many showers. You might think this is gross, but I will tell you it was medicinal. See, I was the lucky girl born with super dry and itchy skin and bathing just made it worse. So the doctor told my mom not to worry about it too much. To skip bath days every once in a while. Or every once in a lot.

And so I did.

I specifically remember at one point thinking, It's been two weeks since I've bathed. Huh.

And then I probably went to find a cat to play with or a frog to catch or an underground fort to hang out in because I wasn't bothered by it so much.

And even as an adult, I don't shower as much as some. I've been known to skip a day or two. Luckily, I am not a stinky person and hardly ever sweat a drop so it's not like it's a big problem.

But lately--well, lately, I've been living for the shower.

And I like it super hot.

Burn off your skin hot.

Tingling on your scalp hot.

I like the feeling of the water running over me, my mascara melting away, my hair, which can sometimes go every which way, just sticking together, finally united and off my forehead, off my face; I like the tiny space I find myself in, the way that I am totally in control of my environment, the locked door I am behind; I like the steam billowing around me, the acoustics giving my voice reverb, the thick soap suds hiding me; I like it so much right now that I think it's a kind of strange therapy. There isn't much talking, nobody asks me soul-searching questions, but there's plenty of singing and thinking and heat and a feeling of clean that pervades.

Which is why I took two today.

the deeper magic

2009-10-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

Lately I've had this one phrase running through my mind. And no, it has nothing to do with the recent travesties committed against me at the Philadelphia Airport.

It has a lot to do with love; everything to do with love.

And it's a question, though not my question.

I am not going to pretend I am someone I am not; someone perfect or holy or even kind all the time (cause remember when I didn't even want to tell that man on the airplane, God bless you? yeah.)But I will say that I do think that God is real, that he cares about what goes on here, and more specifically, about our hearts.

And just lately I think he's been dropping this question in my mind, At what point does love run out?

And then actually wanting me to answer. And the thing about God is that he's really patient; I mean he's like a billion years old or something and he's never gonna die, he's got the time to wait for an answer.

And well, if love doesn't run out the first time somebody runs you over, leaving you gasping for breath at the pain and limping down a long road you didn't even know existed, does it run out the second time it happens?

I am going to say no.

And if it doesn't run out the first time, then it doesn't run out at all. Or at least it doesn't have to. The same kind of powerful forgiveness that took away your limp after your first wound is still here. Somehow. It's just as powerful. Somehow. It's an ever-present miracle and it's in high demand because to the same degree that we need it to heal us, we need it to heal those we hurt.

It's like the deeper magic.

You know, from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis.

Oh, you weren't raised on this story? Ok, let me explain a little.

There's this witch. A white witch, which doesn't make the fact that she is a witch any better. She's nasty, keeping the fair land of Narnia in winter, but never ever Christmas, which is just plain mean. Anyway, this one kid, Edmund, turns out to be a traitor against her, giving her power over him, according to the law of the land. So the White Witch declares: "That human creature is mine. His life is forfeit to me. His blood is my property."

But then this big beautiful lion, this perfect creature, Aslan, gives his life in Edmund's stead. And that act of pure love sparks something in motion that the simple law could never do. It brings life and freedom. It brings springtime to the land. It speaks of something else. Something better than the natural law, and here, after Aslan comes back to life, he explains it:

"...Though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who has committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward.”

I desperately love the idea of death, that natural progression to all things on this earth, working backward.

It's sounds a lot like forgiveness to me. Like how when we're hurt, we want to lash back out. It's natural, it feels right. It's our right as the injured one.

And love at that moment feels all kinds of wrong and backward.

But maybe, just maybe it's the deeper magic. Maybe I can look further back than that which is obvious to all of us, to me.

Because I don't think that love runs out. Ever. At least that is the kind of world I want to live in. The kind of world where the deeper magic is at work and springtime breaks through the seemingly never ending winter.

Yes, there is pain. Yes, we are wronged, unjustly attacked, and must grieve over our losses. And yes, it doesn't look like that will change any time soon.

But I want to look beyond that and see the deeper magic. I want to discover a love that doesn't run out. Which is so much easier to write than to live, but here's to trying.

Here's to trying.

oh, flying.

2009-10-04T20:43:00.000-07:00

I know why they won't let you check in for your flight. You're late! You. Are. Late...!!!

Said the man standing behind me while waiting at the Northwest counter. I looked into his light blue eyes and couldn't decide what was more annoying, the shade of his crystalline eyes or the jovial tone he used to inform me that I was late. And that's why I couldn't check in. Isn't that just hilarious?!?!

Bear in mind, I had not slept at all the night before. Not one wink. And sleep deprivation is a form of torture in some countries, you know. If sleep deprivation alone is a form of torture, then imagine what you get when you combine that with the Philadelphia Airport.

Saddam Hussein himself might not have been able to derive something so devilishly awful for his worst offenders.

And I am an artist, not a Green Beret or Navy Seal or whatever it is that you become after lots and lots of training in which the art of learning to survive torture is acquired.

Which is why I looked right into that man's annoyingly light blue eyes and asked him how exactly he thought that was going to help right now. Seriously, I said, I realize I am late. I KNOW this. How does it help to hear you tell me that? HOW?

He kept smiling and didn't even seem to blink, which would have been a nice reprieve from those eyes.

And I noticed he didn't have an answer.

Ma'am, the lady in blue who was mostly talking to another lady in blue stopped to address me. You're gonna have to put that, and she indicated to my small purse slung over my shoulder, into that, and she indicated to my book bag.

Why? I asked, having never before been told to do this at security. And believe me, I fly a lot. I sort of have my system down.

Because you're only allowed two carry-ons, she said, pointedly looking at the polka dot roller bag I was holding onto.

I understand that, and I always throw my little purse into my book bag when I board the plane, but it's where I keep my ID and my money, so I keep it on hand where I can see it until then, I explained.

You're only allowed two carry-ons, she reiterated.

On the plane. Not in the airport, I thought.

I told her again that I will definitely consolidate before I board, but right now I liked to keep my purse with all my important documents handy.

She wouldn't back down. So I informed her that I will take my purse back out as soon as I walk past her. This made her angry.

I can't imagine why.

She then told all of the people in blue what I had said, and kept repeating how she couldn't believe I had said that to her face.

I made a show of putting the purse in my backpack. I slowly walked past her for about ten paces. And then I took my purse back out and slung it over my shoulder right where it belonged.

Maybe not my finest moment, but remember, I have not been trained in how to withstand the sleep-deprivation crazies.

Which is why I was maybe a little crazy on this particular travel day.

Do you mind? Said the man in a snooty tone who sat next to me. We were both in the Emergency Exit Row. We'd both sworn to opening the door in the unlikely even that something should happen to the plane. We were practically in the foxhole together. But I'm pretty sure the other soldier in the foxhole doesn't say Do you mind?

Huh? I asked.

Your foot was close to me, he said, the snooty factor of his tone still reading at dangerously high levels.

I made sure my foot was not beyond the small square that I had paid roughly $300 for. But that was it. I didn't move it any further in beyond those boundaries, because yes, I did mind.

I minded his tone.

It was snooty.

And I minded the fact that I was exhausted and one would think that 300 dollars would be enough to ensure a somewhat comfortable seat on a plane but no, you can find exactly one thousand different positions and fool yourself exactly one thousand different times into thinking that finally, THIS is comfortable, but then the next second you will feel that crick in your neck or your knees will ache or your back will be too bent or not bent enough and in the middle of all that the man next to you will say DO YOU MIND?

And you will wonder if he regularly drives old black fancy cars and asks others Pardon me, but do you have some grey poupon? because really, who even says Do you mind? anymore?

So I sat there with my foot right at that unseen line that starts at the arm rest and asked him if that was okay.

I guess, he said, noncommittally.

And then about an hour into the flight, the man sneezed and presented me with a choice: Do I say God bless you like I would normally? Or do I ask him Do you mind? Okay, not really about saying Do you mind? I wouldn't really say that. I know how much it hurts.

But to be completely honest, I didn't want to say God bless you to him. And now you know that a lot of the time, I am not nice. But I just didn't want to say it. Still, I did. I said it. And he even said thank you. And then I thought that it was maybe our own little version of reconciliation and decided to leave it at that.

But still. Do you mind, indeed.

wedding, fall style.

2009-10-03T18:00:00.000-07:00

The Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina.

Not too shabby.

I'd get married there.

My friends Todd and Betsy did get married there today, in fact.

And it looked just like this. Blackberry Inn Road (and yes, of course we had to ask if Iphone Road is the next turn. hilarious, I know. Fine, you had to be there.) is wedged right between green mountains and sits underneath a blue sky that doesn't grow old. No matter how many times you look, no matter how many skies you've seen, no matter how much you think you know what the color blue looks like; that you got it when you were in kindergarten and studying that color wheel, but no, here you are on some mountains celebrating this miraculous kind of love that once again found two people on this earth, and you are taken by surprise by good old blue once again.

Startled by it, even.

You got me, blue. I thought I knew all about you, but you surprised me today with the sky. Good to know that these kinds of things still happen. Good surprises. I hope they never stop.

The reception was draped in oranges and browns, accented with mums and pumpkins and was an altogether perfect shrine to a fall celebration considering that it took place inside the most beautiful barn around.
Open and airy. Rustic, wooden, and chandaliered. And you can stop clutching your pearls now. I turned chandelier into an adjective and it appears we all survived, so moving on.

Betsy had a great big dreamy pile of flowers for us and told us to have at it. Make your own bouquet. As if we were all as good as she is at making things. The good thing was that every last flower and berry in the pile was perfectly beautiful, so short of--I don't know, accidently cutting off the flowers and leaving the stems instead or something blundering like that, you really couldn't go wrong. It was actually a fun project and wrapping the ribbon as the final touch felt a little like preparing a tourniquet which was super fun and maybe that sounds weird and maybe that means I missed my true calling as a nurse but it's true.

Or maybe it just means I shouldn't be so analytical: I just like wrapping ribbons on bouquets. Period.

And the bouquet didn't turn out so bad.

Although I am sure there is much more of a science of it than what I did which was basically pick the ones I liked and clump them together. I am also sure that all those serious florists with their color charts and flower formulas and measured sunlight are shaking their heads over me from somewhere buried deep in their sterile labs.

Me and Betsy.
Isn't she a perfect bride?

And it was the first time I had to give a speech at a wedding. Wait, that's not true. I gave a speech at my own wedding--a toast to my pop--but it was sort of spontaneous and it wasn't the maid of honor speech which seems to carry more weight because everybody expects it.

I had written out something long and probably verbose and was definitely in need of an editor the other night, thinking I would just read it because then I'd know I was saying the exact thing I wanted to say. But then today I just scrapped that idea, choosing to speak from my heart instead. Plus, I figured holding my Iphone and reading from it could be a little tacky.

The funny thing is I wasn't nervous at all. I don't know why this is; I usually get nervous or at least feel something when speaking in front of large groups, but I just felt calm. Maybe it was because I had a clear objective which made it easy: communicate love for Betsy. I like that objective.

And here are the sweet, happy couple ready to go on their way.
Mr. and Mrs.; Husband and Wife. Isn't that something?

good things. in three words.

2009-10-01T21:39:00.000-07:00

Two days off.

Three pretty leaves.

Looks like Asheville.

Famous for fall.

Where I'm going.

He's going too.

For a wedding.

Betsy and Todd's.

Sounds real nice.

beyonce clown. youtube it.

2009-09-28T20:31:00.000-07:00

I never manage to get enough sleep the night before a travel day.

And I always manage to spend way too much time at airports on travel days.

And then I always seem to get hotels charging me TRIPLE THE AMOUNT I SHOULD PAY when I check out.

Okay, so maybe that only happened today.

I have been warned about using such strong language like always and never. Instead I should use more feeling words like, I feel like hotels sometimes charge me TRIPLE THE AMOUNT I SHOULD PAY.

Because they do.

Or they did today, anyway.

Or as my friend Anthony would say when referring to some sort of nefarious behavior, They tried it.

But, would you like to know what was making the cast of A Chorus Line laugh through this travel day? Would you like to know why we were walking through the airport, dancing badly and humming Single Ladies?

Of course you would.

We were inspired by her.

I hope she's gotten over her headache by now.

And thrown away that freakish mask.

And you need to watch it at least twice.

And then dance badly while humming Single Ladies through your nearby airport.

why this sunday was pretty good

2009-09-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

Today was a pretty good day.

I woke up kind of late. Something to do with late conversations about cereal, I am sure.

But then I got myself to the theater. I had planned on taking the warm-up class that our veneered choreographer gives when she is in town, but I didn't quite leave my hotel in time. Oops.

Something to do with getting up late because of late conversations about cereal.

But I already mentioned that.

So I warmed myself up on stage, which is what I do most of the time anyway. And aside from being afraid that I was about to get a migraine after I stared at the lights a little too long and started seeing spots because of it (the warm-up act for my migraines is what doctors call an aura. I see spots and have blurred vision and it fills me with dread because once the aura comes, I know what is coming next. And if you've ever suffered a migraine, than you know what I'm talking about, though I sincerely hope for your sake that you don't.), I got warm and all that.

Oh yeah, and I didn't get a migraine. Turns out those bright lights on the stage make you see spots and it doesn't always mean you're gonna have to find somebody to please remove your head in just a little while. You'll know when because I will be squirming and writhing and moaning, thank you. So I was relieved that this wasn't the case.

And then I did a show. And honestly? I've done so many now that it's hard to remember one itty bitty matinee* on a Sunday.

*notice I said MATINEE, as in afternoon performance and not, MANATEE, as in large and lovable sea creature that I swam with in Florida. Though I will still probably get at least one comment that says they thought I was confessing I had DONE a MANATEE and ewwwwwww and isn't that funny?! And here I go proving my brother Jason, who once told the world wide web that I often write about manatees on my blog, right yet again by mentioning manatees.

I cannot win.

And if you did think that I said MANATEE instead of MATINEE and happen to think it's funny, well I agree: it is funny.

Moving on.

So I did the show and it went well and I don't think I made any mistakes, so that's good. I even managed to make some people laugh, which is even better than just not making mistakes, if I do say so myself.

But if you sang really badly in front of thousands of people while wearing a leotard you could probably make them laugh too.

Oh, and another part of the day that made it good was that the Eagles won.

Go Green.

But after I woke up kind of late and after I got out of my hotel room late and missed the warm-up class and after I was afraid I was getting a migraine but I was really just underneath some bright lights and after I did a show in which I don't think I made any mistakes and managed to make some people laugh in the process and after the Eagles won--well, after all that, something great happened.

It looked like this.

And oh my goodness it was so good. If I used expletives I might be tempted to insert one there, just as an accent, just to let you know that Memphis doesn't joke around when it comes to home cooked meals.

In large platters.

And many different colors.

And lots and lots of butter, I'd bet.

It's a tradition here at the Orpheum Theater for the ushers and friends of the theater to cook and bake their best from their own respective kitchens and then feed us a feast to end all feasts.

I mean, just look at it.
The only problem was that we had to do another show after this southern feast, so you know, I had to content myself with just one plate.

One packed plate.

Of food stacked right on top of each other.

Cause I had decided on just one plate.

And the pecan pie was heavenly. Just crumbled goodness on a fork.

Oh, and the sweet potatoes even rivaled my sister-in-law, Rebekah's. Sorry Rebekah, but it's true. I didn't say they were better, mind you; I merely asserted the fact that they were contenders. But I think we can all agree that there is room in this great big world for two different plates of out-if-this-world delicious sweet potatoes.

And Memphis and Maryland are far enough apart from each other to let bygones be bygones, I'd say.

And another great part about this meal?

They gave each of us a to-go box and let us have at it.

So I got to take this
home.

And ate it after the second show, because believe it or not, after that first feast my stomach managed to get hungry all over again.

Yep, a pretty good day.

sugar smacks and boner

2009-09-27T01:02:00.000-07:00

Tonight Ian, Brandon, and I were staying up too late talking, just blatantly ignoring the fact that we had two shows today, survived the mayhem of Beale street afterward, and have another two shows tomorrow.

But sandwiched somewhere between discussions of bacon flavored ice cream (I know, it horrified me as well), family members (don't worry, they don't horrify me), how my brother almost accidentally killed my pop with a tractor (we're grateful it didn't happen, too), and whether or not an article of clothing I was wearing was magenta or pink (it was pink, I was so right), the topic of cereal came up.

Remember Cookie Crunch? one of us said. And the soggies? another chimed in.

Then we just started naming them, one by one, the cereals that made our sleepovers, our birthdays, our Saturday mornings.

Cap'N Crunch! Oh no, Peanut Butter Crunch! Fruity Pebbles! At that one we all paused and said Mmmmmmmm...Coco Puffs! We all agreed that was especially tasty because of the added bonus of it turning your milk to chocolate milk.

And then Brandon asked, What about the one with the frog?

I have to admit we were stumped for a few moments. But just a few, cause then we very quickly remembered Sugar Smacks.

And then we all looked at each other, because, no that just can't be right.

I mean, think about it.

A cereal, the way by which a parent is supposed to start off his beloved kid's day right, begins the title with the word SUGAR?

Cavity-producing, addictive, bouncing off the walls, gives you a high only to drop you right down again, sugar?!?!

Risky.

But that's not even the worst. Not by a long shot.

Let's evaluate the word smack, shall we? Because it's a euphemism for drugs. And not just pot, either. Hard drugs. Devastating drugs.

And when I did a quick google search, this is what I saw:

smack - 25 definitions - [Heroin]. Most frequently used in the 60s.

It's a term from the 60s, folks; meaning, you can't even say that the word wasn't used in that way yet.

Because it was, it was!

So I gotta wonder what, exactly, good old Kellog's was thinking with this one.

Sugar Smacks. Really.

And now that I am on the subject of weird names from back in the day, why, oh why was that one kid's name Boner on Growing Pains?

And did Boner ever enjoy some Sugar Smacks, I wonder?

These are the things we ponder late at night, you guys.

Don't judge. That's not nice.

some good things have happened in memphis

2009-09-25T23:05:00.000-07:00

This.

Was.

Just.

Amazing.

Sun Records, here in downtown Memphis, a mile away from my hotel.

And it is responsible for the music that we have today. This is where 18 year old Elvis Presley walked in off the street and spent four dollars to make a record for his mother's birthday.

Or so he said.

Turns out it was springtime and Mrs. Presley's birthday wasn't till fall, but that is what the young charmer told the secretary in order to get in her good graces and gee, did it work. It worked so well in fact, that she laid that little country song aside for Sam Phillips, the owner, to listen to, hoping to give the young man a break. A young man who would spend his hard earned money on recording a song for his momma's birthday.

Awwwwwwww.

And here's the kicker: I listened to that song today. The first recording Elvis ever made. And boy did he have some warbly vibrato and no it didn't impress Sam Phillips one bit, much to the chagrin of his secretary. It was country in a time when the blues were hot.

But still, I heard it.

And don't you worry about young Elvis. He did just fine. Because a year later he went back into that recording studio, sang song after song at Mr. Phillips' insistence, but nothing was working. It wasn't until Sam Phillips told Elvis, the bassist, and guitarist to take a break at midnight, leaving them to their own devices that some magic finally appeared. Elvis started singing a song he had heard, That's All Right, just joking around really, and the musicians started playing along. Sam Phillips heard it in the booth and knew they'd found what they were looking for.

The hottest radio station in Memphis, Red, Hot, and Blue, played it soon after and something intractable started. 49 people called in requesting that song by the unknown Elvis, and the DJ played it fourteen times in just three hours.

So yeah, like I said, Elvis did just fine.

And remember that scene from the Johnny Cash movie, Walk the Line? He's doing his salesman thing when he happens to spot a recording studio, and walks in just like that?

Yep, here it is.
I was so excited. Such history. Such dreams realized.

And then there were so many more. B. B. King, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Carl Perkins, to name a few.

And how about those Irish boys who can't stop making beautiful albums?
They came here to record three songs for Rattle and Hum. And on that wall is the 12 track they used.
They knew that whatever happened within these walls was something they wanted to be a part of.

Smart guys.
And Sun Studio remains the only recording studio that is a national monument in the country. It gives tours through the day, but is still a working studio at night. The most recent artist to record here was John Mellencamp. And this place still has the same white tiles that soundproofed the room back when Elvis Presley stopped in for a visit, after being signed with RCA Records. Sam Phillips called in Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Carl Perkins too. And what do they do?

An impromptu jam session, of course.

And what does the always-thinking Sam Phillips do?

Press record, of course.

You can buy it, too, aptly called the Million Dollar Quartet.

And here I am, standing on the X that Elvis stood, grabbing that same mic that he grabbed.
Just, wow.

conversations in Memphis

2009-09-24T23:31:00.000-07:00

Today I was at the front desk of my hotel, about to ask for a voucher to go to the gym that is actually bigger than a breadbox unlike the hotel's gym, when the clerk beat me to the punch.

Do you sing? he asked.

Huh? I said, not really following, though I guess the question was pretty clear.

Do. You. Sing? he repeated, slower this time.

Uh...yeah...I said hesitantly, still not sure where he was going.

Well then, why do you lie about it? he queried with a smile.

And this time a BLANK STARE is all he got from me in response.

So he started to sing.

Badly, I might add.

Until finally, it dawned on me.

And yes, after a year and a half you'd think I would be a little faster on the uptake, but what can I say? I was on my way to the gym, whoever I would be playing later that night was a million miles away from my mind.

So finally, I matched his smile and asked him if he saw the show last night.

You betcha! he said, laughing now. And it was terrific, you were just great! And after some thanks on my part and with the voucher in hand, I was on my way to the gym.

Smiling the whole time.

But if I had a dollar for every time somebody has asked me if I can sing over the past year and a half...Let's just say that I might actually own a Betsy Johnson dress.

Instead of, you know, searching for them on ebay every once in a while.

And one more anecdote.

Yesterday my friend Brandon and I were sharing the elevator with a few of the maids from the hotel. They asked us if we were in the show in town and we said yes. They asked us which show, we answered appropriately.

Which is when one of them, the larger of the two, started doing a fantastic kick line for one. Just jumping up and down in that elevator, the stripes of her uniform blurring with her motion. The elevator was jumping a little too, as if to not be left out in this spontaneous dance in honor of A Chorus Line.

And we all laughed.

And then the dancing maid asked, Can I come o'er there an try out?

Silence for a moment.

I said, Well...and looked to Brandon for help.

Articulate, I know.

He then repeated my Well...and added with quite a serious tone, They are holding auditions in New York City in October...

Which is when Large Dancing Maid threw back her head and burst out into a beautiful bubbling laughter that just could have started that elevator jumping again, had it lasted long enough.

Chile, I was jes joking! I cain't be in no musical on the stage!!!

And then that powerful laughter started again, and this time we couldn't help but join in too.

goals, or not.

2009-09-23T23:28:00.000-07:00

Lately I have been possessed with this desire to learn to sew.

But I just read in a magazine that "people who tell others their newest goals too soon often end up not doing them. It is better to start working on the goal, and after having done it consistently, talk about it."

Okay.

So I am not going to tell you that it's a goal of mine and you may or may not someday see a picture on this blog of a pillow that I made.

And I am not wondering if my mom might lend me her sewing machine.

And actually making a pillow may or may not be a goal of mine.

I guess I'll just keep it to myself for now.

So instead, let's talk Christmas.

Too soon?

Okay, we'll table that. Even though I have been listening to some Christmas music. But it was really just one song, an original song from Over the Rhine's Christmas album, and it doesn't even sound very Christmasy at all, more wintry and encouraging, so don't get all we haven't even had Halloween yet, let ALONE Thanksgiving!!! on me, okay?

Cause wintry and encouraging music is approved for listening all year round in my book.

But fine, let's talk...2009.

Cause it's already September of this year. And almost the end, at that. I know, I know, where did the time go? I know that I spent a lot of it doing step, kick, kick, step, kick, touch and if that means nothing to you, than maybe you should see A Chorus Line. Or just follow those verbs verbatim and see what you get, cause that could be pretty funny.

Maybe as funny as the time my brother Jase bragged to me and (his girlfriend at the time but is now his wife) Darby that he could definitely kick this little good smelling decoration that was hanging from my parents' kitchen ceiling.

Okay, Jase, let's see it, we encouraged him, only too thrilled to sit back and watch his bravado meet its match in the form of EXTREMELY TIGHT HAMSTRINGS.

And now I'm gonna brag and say that I was right. He lunged in preparation, his eye on that prize hanging from the ceiling, so perfectly kickable, right?

Well, no.

His leg flew up in the air with all the speed of a ticketer at the beach once your car has been parked just one minute past the time you've paid for and what about grace, Bethany Beach, what about grace?!?! But it was the leg still on the ground that failed him.

Or maybe it was his sock, that slippery sock that never stood a chance against the hardwood floor.

Because his socked foot slipped out from underneath him right as his hamstring alerted his airborne leg that it had gone as far as it could, really, and with a great and glorious crash the poor guy fell backwards.

And no, Darby and I didn't laugh.

At least not until we made sure he was still alive, that is.

And no, he didn't ever kick that little decorative thing that was hanging from my parents' kitchen ceiling.

But I think what he did end up doing might have been even better. At least for us.

But, 2009.

Can you believe it's September? The kind of September that's almost October, albeit?

And speaking of goals, or uh, not speaking of goals, rather, are there any goals that you'd like to accomplish before this year goes by?

Other than the sewing thing, which I am so not mentioning here, as per the instructions of that magazine, I also want to book another project. One that doesn't involve something that sounds a lot like A Shmorus Shline.

Not that I am not grateful.

But it's time for a new job, and that makes me pretty excited.

So that's a goal of mine.

Okay, your turn.

back on the road and a shoulder clap gone dreadfully wrong

2009-09-22T23:09:00.001-07:00

So I'm back.

And it's really okay.

Better than okay, actually, if how I felt on stage tonight is any indication.

It was a blur of bright lights, too-red EXIT signs, the glare of all the many people who watch us with their glasses on, and the already prevalent ache in my feet--but beyond that...this sense of well-being.

Of being at the right party.

And not even needing to be the guest of honor, per se; just happy to be there at all.

Which was reassuring.

Sometimes when you leave it, even for just two weeks, it's hard to know exactly how it will greet you when you get back.

Or how you will greet it, is maybe more to the point.

And I think there was a mutual feeling of rightness between me and the show tonight. And I think it can last for these next 8 weeks too.

Because yes, touring is meeting new people. It is shiny Memphis neon signs that yell at you about their BBQ, their live music, and their bowling as you walk by. It is getting up really early in order to get to a city in which you will be sleeping pretty late during your stay. It is doing whatever it is that you want to do before that magic hour that's hardly ever before 7 o'clock pm. It is stealing away back to your hotel while your friends go out, because though you love your friends, carving out the space for music and writing and journaling--things that are best done alone--is non-negotiable. It is lots of opening nights, which means lots of opening night parties, which means justifying that dress you just bought cause look, you have something to wear it to now. A lot of somethings. It is not just having to dance and sing and act 8 times a week for an audience that is kind enough to watch and listen, it is getting to dance and sing and act 8 times a week for an audience that is kind enough to watch and listen. It is remembering that five thousand people auditioned in New York for this show and somehow you got a golden ticket.

But it is not home.

It is not Drew.

And it is not meant to last forever.

Which is why 8 more weeks is just fine with me.

And here's a word to the wise. Whenever you are talking to somebody, please just look them in the eyes. Is that too much to ask? Unless you have proof of an imminent alien invasion in the very spot in which you are having a conversation and have further proof that the alien will be appearing to the right or the left of the person with whom you are having the conversation, hovering and shifting its weight back and forth all creepily like that alien from M. Night Shamalan's Signs, then look at them, darnit.

Because you know what might happen if you don't?

I'll tell you because I know, wish to God that I didn't.

You might be just getting your 'ready to wrap up this convo' tone of voice in gear, and then as if to finally put it to rest, initiate a final parting gesture, the shoulder clap that I am pretty sure men learn to do right after they are taught the one-armed side hug. You intend to clap the shoulder, but since you aren't freaking really looking at the other person, you instead sort of awkwardly clap one of the main parts that is covered by the bikini top, if you know what I mean.

And you both pretend it didn't happen, but gosh it did.

So, please look while you're talking.

And definitely look during any and all attempted shoulder claps.

Because I would sure enough appreciate it.

that's what I hear in these sounds

2009-09-20T03:34:00.000-07:00

It's his footsteps that reach me.

The sounds of stairs, begrudgingly giving way underneath. With a creak, announcing him.

And even though he's walking away, there's still the sound of him, and I love those loud stairs for that.

But then the big door swings open and closes with a hollow thud and that's that. The ensuing silence proving the point that he's actually gone. Until he starts up that motor, and his old jeep backs up, working too hard to just get out of the neighborhood.

And although that quiet is quite clearly broken, it brings no comfort.

Only isolation.

Like a woman noisily giving you the silent treatment.

She's banging on various kitchen sundries, making a point to carry overly loud saccharin conversations with everybody else when she's not humming that tune made famous in high school, and you finally put down your book. You wonder what it was you ever did to make her ignore you so hard.

And that's how it sounds when he leaves; I like the sound of him coming home much better and at least there's a cat at my feet and one at my side.

*inspired in part by when he left early this morning...and a song called The Chain, by Ingrid Michaelson:

So glide away and so be healed and promise not to promise anymore

and if you come around again then i will take, then i will take the chain from off the door

counter culture shock

2009-09-19T19:42:00.000-07:00

My family pretty much talks about everything.

It's true.

There aren't many secrets here.

A few, I am sure, but I guess I wouldn't really know cause well, they are secrets and I'll let them keep. What choice do I have in the matter, anyway?

But what I find strange is the prospect of not talking about something.

What's even stranger is not talking at all.

It's funny, I used to think it would be very romantic to marry somebody from a different country. I especially loved british accents. Drop an h and what can I say, I was a goner.

But then I fell in love with maybe the next best thing, somebody from New England, which was good enough for me.

And then I realized how much hard work it takes to maintain and grow a relationship.

Not start one, mind you; that sort of takes off on its own once you decide you like the look of his blue eyes and the sound of his voice and that he's just enough taller than you are. The fact that he wears berkenstocks can totally be dealt with later.

But maybe I am just speaking for myself.

The thing about a close relationship, one in which two people are meshing into one, is that it's not exactly natural. Not really. There's a lot of you that can loudly protest the meshing. At least it can be that way for me.

And in just one instance, when you are sitting around the dinner table with his kind family and nobody is saying a word; you are about to burst inside with all of the amounts of conversations you want to start but hey, maybe these people like to eat in silence, a concept you've cannot quite grasp--in that one instance, you suddenly find yourself in culture shock.

Even though you married an American.

Even though you both speak English.

Even though you both love the same God.

And then later, when you and his family are all eating eggs.

Eggs unlike you've ever seen before and you ask what makes them different and can hardly believe it when they nonchalantly tell you that they were just zapped in the microwave (!!!) and you want to put down the fork but you don't because this is their normal but all of the sudden you have a very strong feeling that you are not in kansas anymore.

And those are just the little things.

There are others.

Boy, are there others.

Like how to celebrate Christmas. What birthday's look like. How one of you is comfortable with silence while the other is afraid that maybe it means you aren't connecting like you should. Like there's some sort of Great Measuring Stick for Couple's Connectedness and one more minute of this silence is surely going to put us in That Bad Area.

You know, the one that belongs to the couples who go out to eat and spend their time in dreaded silence with only the welcome interruptions of the waiter spouting off the specials and the occasional scrape of fork against knife because they ran out of things to say a long time ago.

Eek.

And then today I read something in a magazine that made me think even more. It was in the letters to the editor section and was in response to an article about how churches are preaching about sex in marriage from the pulpit now.

The woman was incensed and all how dare they intrude and it's none of their business and I don't even feel comfortable talking about sex with my husband, let alone the clergy! and her tirade made me realize a few things:

we need to talk about things. maybe even everything. maybe not all of it now, but in time. especially if we want the kind of fulfilling intimacy that a marriage promises.

and

she probably doesn't have the best sex-life.

and finally

I probably shouldn't be thinking of her sex life. and I definitely shouldn't be judging it. sorry, lady from the letters to the editor section.

I am glad that the church is talking about sex and marriage and relationships. I think we all should be. Not all the time or anything crazy like that. I mean we have to save time for discussing how ridiculous Michael Scott is and really, Stanley? An affair? Come on; so not a good idea.

And I am grateful for somebody who will let me talk. And will, in his time, talk to me. Here's to continuing to talk. Even through the culture shock that still appears from time to time. Even as we're not quite sure what the solution is. Or how, exactly, Christmas morning should proceed.

Or when, hypothetically speaking, one of us hides the other's berkenstocks.

Ahem.

Have any of you ever experienced any culture shock in your relationships? How have you dealt with it? I'd like to know.

this one's for you, babe

2009-09-18T20:06:00.000-07:00

I've got this husband.

And when I got him, I also got a lot more musical instruments just strewn about.
Which is fine with me, by the way.

And our feet all seem to get along, which is a bonus.
They even get along with paws.

One of our favorite things to do is to write music together.

And then play it for other people.

I'm good at coming up with songs; he's good at making my songs better.

He's good at putting chords together I would never think of; I'm good at throwing words on top of those chords, strung together by a melody.

And something else we've made, too--a solution, of sorts.

One we came up with a long time ago.

It's necessary when you combine someone like me, whose inner monologue jumps ahead to any potential dialogue, trying desperately to avoid anything that could possibly make myself or anybody else feel awkward with someone like him, who loves, laughs, and speaks freely.

So.

If one or the other of us does not like what the other is doing or saying, we pinch their elbow. Discreetly.

Like a ninja.

Only we can wear normal clothes.

And leave the throwing stars at home.

Now I just came across a picture I had made sure to get but then promptly forgotten about. The picture is funny because Drew happens to think the phrase is pretty darn funny. And yes, uses it from time to time.
So here you go, Drew; this is for you.

And look, I am not even pinching your elbow.

But I am wondering if you've ever been to Maine with a can of pink spray paint in hand.

leftovers

2009-09-17T22:10:00.000-07:00

I really don't love them.

And here's why.
Inevitably, we forget about them.

Inevitably, we end up growing Frankenstein's monster in flora form.
I know, gross.

When I finally unearthed it under its innocuous looking facade of saran wrap, I could hardly believe what we had been growing under our own roof.

A lot of people grow flowers.

Herbs, even.

Some even grow chickens and goats.

We grow mold, I guess.

Big, billowy piles of mold that can deceptively look like cotton candy.

But not anymore.

At least not until one of us gets the next bright idea of stashing away those leftovers in the very back of the fridge.

Like I said, gross.

the girl and her piano.

2009-09-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you a story.

It's my story so I might as well tell you that the protagonist is gonna be me.

And the antagonist...well, you'll find out soon, but he would probably disagree that I am, in fact, the protagonist.

There was a girl who had a piano that she loved very much. It was dark cherry wood and had all the white keys and black keys it should. There were a few tiny little chips in the otherwise perfect veneer from when she had gotten very into whatever she was playing, banging on that perfect amount of black and white keys so hard that the knickknacks her mom had placed on top of the piano in an effort to be decorative fell down, hitting those keys with an accompanying discordant crash and leaving their marks.

And with each examined chip, the girl learned her lesson well: don't put knickknacks on the piano or if you do, don't play so hard.

But despite those little chips, the girl still loved her piano. And it was a very sad day when another one of the girl's loves, a boy this time, took her away from that piano, moving her into an apartment with white walls and not much soul. The hand-me-down couch with all the striped cushions and chips in the wood that the girl and boy acquired helped to give the place character, sure, but it still didn't have anything near as loved as that piano in it.

Except maybe the boy.

When he wasn't working and was actually in the apartment, that is.

Now the girl would still make the trip to her piano, though. Faithfully. And she didn't even mind so much that she was always the one doing all the visiting; she understood that the piano had all those keys, the very perfect amount of keys, in fact, and couldn't move so well because of them.

But still she dreamed of having her piano nearby, a few steps away. She liked to have all those keys close for her to find just the right way to say the songs that came to her at odd hours of the day or night.

A year passed.

The girl and the piano remained the same, visiting when they could and never growing tired of each other.

And then the boy had some good news.

A house was in store. With lots of walls that could be painted whatever color the girl chose. Or re-chose as the case may be. And the couch would come of course, all it's stripes would fit right in with the bright walls the girl was already planning. And best of all, the piano could come live with the girl in the house.

This made the girl very very happy.

And finally, the boy did it.

On an afternoon that could have blended into many another afternoon we've all spent, something grand made it stand out: the boy and a lot of his friends moved the piano into the house and sat its cherry wood behind right down against the yellow wall behind it. And excitedly, joyously, the girl began to play.

It was maybe 2 pm, not late by any standard at all.

And the girl kept playing, every once in a while trading off so that the boy could play, but making sure to stay nearby and listen to all those keys, just the right amount of keys, sing.

When suddenly, there was a sharp rap at the door. One might even say an angry rap, if raps had feelings. The girl and the boy jumped to, opened the door, and were met by the Heavily Bearded Fellow From Next Door.

And he was not happy, though it was hard to really see him behind his beard. He started in by saying, That piano is very loud. Which is a tough thing to answer, it neither being a compliment or an insult. And then--

He asked them to stop playing.

He did. Like it was an option for the girl or something. Like it wasn't just like asking that dog to please stop having such a black nose or that cat to please stop saying meow.

The girl tried to explain to The Heavily Bearded Fellow From Next Door that she was a piano player and that she would be playing her piano. She acquiesced a bit by suggesting that she just play quieter, but other than that, they were at a standstill.

And since then?

The HBFFND (can I just call him that, please?) has taken to simply banging on their shared wall (the house being a townhouse, you know) in an effort to let the girl know that he is not happy that she is playing her piano.

Even though she tried to explain to him on that first day he showed up at her door at around 2pm in the afternoon that she was a piano player and therefore would be playing her piano .

And just tonight the girl was feeling inspired while playing all those keys and heard that dreaded thump! on the wall. The yellow wall that sits right behind the cherry red piano. And she quieted down, just like she said she would back on that first afternoon, at around 2pm.

But no, she didn't stop playing.

And no, she won't.

something large is napping

2009-09-15T18:45:00.000-07:00

That was a phrase that surfaced in a game my family played at the beach this past summer. It cracked us up then and it still makes me smile to think about.

It also makes me think of this.
But in this case I should say somethings large are napping, I suppose.
Letting go of the world for a moment. Finding solace in sleep.
Forgetting about your argyle collar, your Armani glasses, and just cuddling up tight.
Letting the silence become a lullaby, the couch a vessel that takes you on a journey, a brief respite.
So go on then, slip into your
and we'll be here when you're ready to wake up.

Happy to see you.

But until then, something large is napping.

happy birthday, jonathan

2009-09-14T22:29:00.000-07:00

My mom always called us her twins, even though we aren't.

But still, we are the closest in age out of the family, were always close to the same height growing up, and have the same brown eyes, though his are darker like our Italian mom's while mine are more like our pop's British side of things.

We were always going through the same stage of life. Running away from the surf together at the beach, terrified that a wave would jump out at us and swallow us whole. Taking turns on our pop's back as we fought those waves together, putting on a brave face even when the truth was evident in our vise-like grip around our pop's poor neck.

Same Sunday school class; and later, the same youth group.

Same engulfing fear of the night, leading us to sleep in each other's rooms, respectively, long after all our friends were sleeping soundly in their own beds.

Tentatively starting to date, but um, he dated girls and I dated boys and all the while we were wondering when that oh-so-elusive one would show up.

We were even both in The Nutcracker Suite one year, though I have a strong suspicion that he was in it for the girls whereas I actually was in it for the ballet.

We spent so much time together, see, that people sensed that there was something between us. The thing is, they didn't always get exactly what that something was.

Like when we both did a mission's trip with Youth With A Mission, as teenagers. He had gotten his leg all scraped up in a soccer accident, his wound was infected and his body was feverish. Because of that, he had to just stay in the men's ward for a few days. Not allowed to go out, not allowed to do much of anything, though he wasn't up to it anyway, I imagine.

So I would take my breaks and go visit him.

Talk to him.

Make sure he had what he needed.

Most of the time it would be just the two of us, since everyone else was busy serving the world.

Finally one of our leaders approached me and with kindness in his voice told me that he didn't think my behavior was appropriate.

What do you mean? I asked, secretly shocked since I had made a career out of avoiding inappropriate behavior thus far.

It's not right, he explained, the two of you spending so much time alone with nobody around to chaperone.

And then it dawned on me.

And then his insinuation made me throw up a little in my mouth.

But, I said, he's my brother.

And that was that. The leader was embarrassed for assuming we were up to no good and I was given cart blanche visits to the men's ward.

Because he is my brother.

And I am so glad he is.

Always.

Happy birthday, Jonathan.

closets in the air and i believe.

2009-09-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we need to make our own way in this world.

I get that.

But some things are just unavoidable. A part of life. Like accumulating paper. Lots and lots of paper. You'd think that somebody somewhere thought that trees grew on, well trees, with the amount of papers that are sent to our house every day. Coupons. Newspapers that are actually just more coupons, in case I didn't see that bulging packet of coupons that is sitting right beside it in the mailbox. Bills. Letters from dentists, for crying out loud, welcoming us to the neighborhood three years after we moved here. I mean, if I didn't feel welcomed by now, I am not sure how much a letter from a dentist is going to do the trick.

But in case you can't tell, I really hate all the wasteful papers that are sent my way. Just to be brought into my house. Just to fill up my trash can. Just to cause me to take out the trash and put in a new garbage bag once again. Just for those papers that were at first in front of my house in my mailbox to end up behind my house in my dumpster.

Couldn't the mailman save us all a lot of trouble by simply depositing those papers directly into the dumpster?

Anyway.

I hate excessive papers but I simply have to deal with it.

Because I can't just be like Drew, who one day says to me, I hate drawers, and the next day eliminates a lot of them from his life.

First of all, I had no idea the man I married had such a detest for something as harmless and helpful as drawers, of all things. But well, it takes all kinds, I guess and really, who am I to judge? He allows me my hatred of many many foods and drinks, so I suppose he is allowed to hate drawers.

Second of all, at least he can do something about it.

Like go to Lowes, pick up some antique chain and iron hooks, and then go hang a dowel from them after drilling it all into ceiling like this.
And of course, making sure that your newly acquired Japanese ninja sword from your lovely, intelligent, and hilarious wife is sitting next to your new hanging closet.

So there you go, Drew hates drawers and so made a closet in the sky. Or at least in the upper part of our bedroom.

And I present you the first piece of artwork in our room.
It makes me excited.

All of our artwork has gone to basically every other room in the house. Because other people see those rooms a lot more than our own bedroom, sadly ours is the room that has gone the most neglected.

But no more.

And we have plans for more, too.

Once the drill recharges and it isn't too late to drill, that is.

Oh, and a card that is presently in our house.

I agree with it.

And would like to add to it.

I believe:

in my ability to change.

because I used to never eat green peppers, but now I do and that counts for something. I did it just today, in fact, proving once again that I can change. And maybe someday change will be harder than just sticking a little old green pepper into my mouth, chewing, and swallowing, but well, that leads me to my second point...

in God's ability to change me.

because I know a guy who was a lot like all of us in that he just assumed that he would live forever or at least a very long time and got bogged down in all of the trivial things that don't matter so much, like what kind of shoes you are wearing and who is kissing who in the 12th grade. But then he found out that he was sick. Really sick, with something that most people think of as a stigma that leaves them saying no thank you and keeping their distance which only makes these people who are already sick also feel alone. But my friend--well now he is living life fully with no large or small moments lost on him, and he is radiant with a kind of joy that only the truly grateful among us experience. It's beautiful, he's beautiful and his sickness is not the point of his life.

So there you go.

What are you believing today?

what a man, what a man, what a mighty fine man

2009-09-13T18:48:00.000-07:00

Some men might balk at holding a princess umbrella over their heads.

One that declares you Gentle as a True Princess.

And even though pink is often declared the new black, they might opt for an umbrella that is the old black, the standard black, you know, just black.

But not Drew.

Cool as a cucumber under a pink princess umbrella.

And dry too, thanks to that pink princess umbrella.
And apparently very very happy to be under that pink princess umbrella.

candles and boots and coats and football can only mean one thing

2009-09-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

The air has gotten cooler, haven't you noticed?

And I'm ready.

For the fall.

I think most of us are, in our own way.

Drew has welcomed this new season by watching football whole-heartedly. And even now that exciting and canned theme music with way too much treble is blaring from our speakers as the Titans and the Steelers compete for a win.

And me?

Well, I got some candles today.
Pumpkin spice and apple pie.

Enough said.

And I opened up this gorgeous and hand-made wedding invitation from my dear friend Betsy.
I should also say hand-sewn. Cause she's amazing like that. And she's a beautiful autumn bride. Perfect.

And I've dusted off my boots, debating wearing a pair tomorrow.
I also perused my latest Urban Outfitters catalogue, dreaming of owning a pair of their boots.

Perhaps someday.

Although I know exactly where my dream boots are. Spanish leather. Black. Sold at Barney's. And not in my closet.

Perhaps someday.

And I've also started getting excited about my coats again.
The different textures. The colors.

And even Drew purchased a cable-knit sweater yesterday, in honor of fall.

Are your thoughts turning towards fall quite yet?

black and white and food downstairs

2009-09-10T07:19:00.001-07:00

Yep, that's right, a new bloggety design.

It was past time cause that green was even beginning to annoy me.

And I happen to be a big fan of green.

In the Great Change of '09 I lost a few widgets and gadgets that I am currently trying to track down and get back, but other than that, I am pleased with this new design of black and white (and read all over. Get it? It's a blog, so you read it, like that old joke about the newspaper,What's black and white and read all over? only you say it instead of read it, so you think they're referring to a color rather than an act. That's the clever part. Oh, am I getting way too in depth for this tired old joke? Sorry).

But as to the missing widgets and gadgets, I've asked some of the best internet people I know about those. A brother and a friend. Oh, but they are two different people. I guess one is my brother and my friend, but the other is not my brother cause she's a girl and a Hornbuckle, so not my brother, see? But a friend.

Anyway.

After only sleeping a measly five hours or so on Tuesday night, I made up for it smashingly by sleeping fourteen hours last night.

It's a good thing that I finally woke up or else people might have wondered if I had gone and met my Maker.

Ah, people being Drew and the cats, considering they are the only ones around this morning. But still.

Although it wouldn't have been the first time to have met him, my Maker, that is; I've met him already, and honestly, I am in no rush to leave this earth. Not because he isn't awesome or anything like that, though. Maybe it's all the green, cause I do love green as I said before, and there happens to be a ton of green things here.

And maybe it's the people too.

Okay, definitely it's the people.

People like my mom, who make sure that my kitchen looks like this,

stocked with all sorts of delicious and American food, so that I don't have to go to bed hungry.

You know, they don't have pretzels in Japan.

Okay, they sort of do, but they aren't the same. And the same goes for Ritz crackers, too, if you were wondering.

And I was craving some pretzels like crazy. For a month. And now they are downstairs in our kitchen, just a stairs descent away, and this makes me feel so happy.

It's amazing how much comfort a well-stocked kitchen can provide.

Just to let you know

2009-09-09T10:22:00.000-07:00

I will not be blogging as frequently for a stretch here. My sweet Drew has some time off work, as do I right now, and I am gonna jump on this and let some other things go as I focus on being home with him.

And other things totally means my blog. But so as not to make this dear blog feel singled out, it also may or may not mean going to the gym.

We'll see.

Please enjoy yourselves and I'll try not to forget how to write or use a treadmill in the meantime.

daylight

2009-09-08T19:07:00.000-07:00

I traveled a lot yesterday.

Monday went on forever, it seemed; In fact, it was about 13 hours longer than it should have been.

But when it comes to enduring however many hours it takes to get home, who's counting, really?

Not me.

Besides, those hours will happen no matter what. Might as well be spending them getting somewhere good. What's two bus trips, two flights, two movies, many meals, and multiple games of solitaire--one of which I actually won?

Not much.

Except for when I won, then it was a lot.

And it's been nice to hear Drew play my guitar; he makes it sing with a voice I had yet to hear.

It was nice walking my mom's doggies with her early in the day.

Heck, it was even sort of nice waking up at 5:30 am, since I was waking in my own bed to a still gray morning in which the sun was slowly rising, casting dawn upon us all like a spell. Like a beautiful spell that fills the world with light, and I am no exception so I'll happily stand in place besides the rest of creation and wait to be filled with a new expectation for the day.

Wait to be filled with the dawn.

Thank God there is one every day.

time

2009-09-06T04:26:00.000-07:00

It's funny how time works. The way it just keeps going, moving along whether you want it to or not. I am actually pretty fascinated by it...I think back to when I started this job and it feels like a life time ago.

Walking into that big studio in Times Square.

Feeling like it was the first day of school, only my mom wasn't right next to me this time.

And yet at the same time, it is almost unfathomable that two birthdays have passed since I started this job.

Time works that way, doesn't it? Infinite, yet fleeting. Encompassing but can't come fast enough.

What brought this to mind is a picture I found the other night. Sometimes I like to go through my photos when I can't sleep or when I am missing home.

And one stood out to me.

I remember it perfectly, like it was yesterday.

Drew and I were walking on the pier in Chicago, clouds were billowed high over us, and we came upon a sign. It had arrows pointing different directions and the amount of miles to whatever big city was that way.

And yeah, Tokyo stood out.

Cause it was this place that I was going, but it still didn't seem real. At that moment, with Drew in Chicago, it was as real as the children we would have someday, the end of this tour, or even Christmas when it's only June.

It was the not yet.

And all of the moments that had to transpire until I left for Tokyo were daunting; all of the shows to do stateside, the meals to eat, nights to sleep through, weeks home to spend...But somehow all of those moments pile up and eventually tip the scale, making the line between the future and the present blur and suddenly what you thought was just a speck in the distance is staring you right in the face.

And you are saying good-bye and trying to be brave and wondering how that lump in your throat never seems to go down, not even with age, not even with it being the thirtieth time you're having to leave.

And now my trip to Japan has happened. Just like that. And yes, it was amazing...I actually think the question How is Japan? is a little hilarious. I mean, there is just so much to it. Do I mention the smells, how the air in even the 7-11 hangs heavy with the odor of fish? How I awake to purplish grey mountains outside my window? How people are crying in the audience every show; how they video us leaving the stage door and seem honored to shake our hands? How I got to play my music here in Tokyo and one of the emails I received afterward mentioned that my music was very friendly, among other things? Do I talk about the noodles, noodles, and more noodles? How the monkey wrapped himself around my leg, like I was a freaking tree? How I am now used to not being able to read one single thing in the subway? How I am physically in Japan, on the other side of the world, but well, there's this whole part of me, my imagination, I guess, that's back in America, that's in a small house with a man and two cats?

Or do I just smile and say Japan is amazing?

Cause it is.

And it's also a lot.

And how strange that here I was back in April, standing in Chicago while pointing towards Tokyo, a place I had never before been,

and now I have worked here for a month.

And now I get to go back home. And time is behind all of it.

Well, time and God, I suppose.

And guess what?

I never did figure out how to get to this theater here in Hyogo on my own.

And I am really okay with that.

fun with sticks

2009-09-05T06:59:00.000-07:00

I remember once my sister-in-law remarked upon how funny it was that her kids had accumulated so many toys over the years.

Because really, Rebekah said, they end up playing with a string more than anything else.

A string.

And who knows where it had even come from. Certainly not Toys R Us.

Apparently, her kids had been into playing doggie and used that string as the leash. Sounds like fun to me. But my point is, put a little creativity into the mix, and voila! you end up having a good time.

Take the other night, for example.

And since I've been in Japan for the last month, I use the term the other night very loosely.

Drew and I were at my brother and sister-in-law's house and, in what is becoming something of a tradition for us, Drew brought out the stick.

A stick that you simply attach to your chin, while standing in a clear space. We even put some pillows in the corners to try to minimize any potential damage to people or furniture.
At first, it doesn't seem all that interesting. At least not for the spectators.
You are simply spinning with this stick on your chin, looking up at the ceiling, counting to 30 rotations.

But then once those 30 turns have been completed, the fun begins.

The object is to throw the stick on the ground and simply jump over it.

Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Wrong.

Maybe the hardest thing you'll ever do. And 9 out of 10 people don't end up accomplishing it.

But they sure do end up like this.
The next rainy day, you should try it.

If you've exhausted your game of doggie, that is. Or lost your string, whichever comes first.

And tonight, we had a big closing party, since we finish out our Japan leg of the tour tomorrow. Part of it was in honor of our dear Production Stage Manager, Ray, who is leaving us after Japan in order to go do Dream Girls.

A moment of silence please, because this makes me very very sad.

But another part of it was to honor us, which was so very kind.

They gave each one of us an authentic Japanese traveling bag with our names embroidered on it. They even had Japanese characters underneath our American names, which is just so special.
They tried to pick out a pattern according to each of our characters in the show, and I gotta say I think they got it spot on with these polka dots.

Oh, and the meaning of the three Japanese words for my name?

Ground. Design. Deer.

Love all three; I think it suits me just fine.

Much better than my friend Amos' whose name means:

Love. Burning love. Vinegar.

Ha! Vinegar!!!

Can hardly believe that my time here is coming to a close...OR THAT MY FIRST SHOW TOMORROW IS AT 11 am!!!!

What?

Yes, 11am. Ouch. That is eeeaaaarrrrllllyyy.

Better get to bed...

osaka

2009-09-04T07:05:00.000-07:00

The Tempozan Harbor Village Ferris Wheel.

It may or may not be the world's largest ferris wheel.

But it is definitely in Osaka.

See, before you buy a ticket there is a sign espousing that it is the world's largest.

But then after you've bought the ticket, and upon entry, another sign says it is one of the world's largest.

Whatever, it's big. And I can see it from my hotel window all the way out here in Amagasaki.

It also forecasts the weather; the night before, depending upon the color that the ferris wheel is, you know whether or not the coming day will dawn clear or not.

Pretty cool, huh? Who needs the weather channel anyway?

And tonight Liza and I visited the Osaka Aquarium Kaiyukan.
And yes, I totally had to google that to remember it's name.

And here's what I learned: an aquarium is an aquarium is an aquarium.

Don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed it. I love animals, and always appreciate getting to see them. But, aside from the Japanese announcements as well as all the Japanese signs, I wouldn't have known it from any one of our aquariums in the states.

At one point, however, one of the staff members walked through, blaring out announcements over a loudspeaker. Both Liza and I desperately hoped that she wasn't announcing a break-out from the shark tank or that the building was suddenly on fire because, well, we couldn't understand a word she was saying.

We simply continued to stroll on by in blind faith that the announcement was not pertinent to us. Blissful ignorance at it's best, folks.

I will say that the sea otters were just adorable.
You can just make out his little head, with me getting as close to him as the glass would allow. But not getting to touch the fuzzy little dude was sad.

See, I am a very tactile person. It's how I learn and, for the most part, understand the world. Whenever I am learning something new, I have to physically do it myself. It won't work if you just try to tell me what to do; it goes in one ear and out the other.

Which is why I am so bad at listening to directions. But you guys already know about that.

Anyway, it's hard for me to see something I really love and not touch it, if that makes sense. While shopping, I find myself touching most things that are yellow. I have to hug and pet my parents' dogs. I am driven to squeeze my cats. In love, of course.

Anyway, the hard thing about an aquarium is that you just can't pet the animals. And if I were to have some sort of allowance to pet one animal in the aquarium, it would totally be the sea otters.

I just don't know how to go about getting that allowance...If anyone knows, I am all ears.

And I love some of the English translations I happen by. This one was from Osaka today. A hair salon...Er, actually...

...a hair make.

Yep, that's about right.

And I can only imagine the crazy things I would end up saying if I ever took it upon myself to try to master the complex and beautiful Japanese language; I am sure I'd say a lot funnier things than hair make.

Or good ruck!

Which is what the policeman yelled to us after explaining how to get to the Hanshin subway line to us.

And as it turns out, we did have good ruck.

Cause we found our way home in a jiff.