a sigh of relief

       My feet are tingling right now. 

        And not in a good way.

        Why did I have to wear the heels? Well, for the first couple hours it was because frankly, it's my job--but the next three or four?

         That wasn't for a paycheck. 

         Nope. I wore the 4 inch heels to our opening night party here in Ft. Lauderdale for simple and utter fashion. The way they looked. And to be honest they are super cute. I mean, they make me tall as a tree, true, but come on--I'm talking black patent leather lace-up booties with stiletto heels, guys!

         Sweet.

         But not if you were to ask my feet.

         You know it's bad when you finally remove your shoes and you can actually feel your feet spreading to their appropriate width once again; the pinching having finally stopped and your bones giving a quiver of gratitude as they relish a little breathing room once again. Speaking of bones, and foot bones in particular--were you aware of the fact that each foot houses 26 bones? That's 52 in total (not even a calculator on that one, guys), meaning that your feet alone make up 25% of the total amount of bones in your body.  

         Whoa. Let's show some love to our hard-working feet. And yes, I realize that to our feet, love may very well be spelled F-L-A-T-S.

          As in not 4 inch stilettos.  

          Anyway.

          Believe it or not my feet are not the topic I set out to discuss this evening. Or morning, as the case may be. What I wanted to say is that I am relieved. 

          Wouldn't it be weird if I just ended the post right there? Without even telling you why I am relieved? Ha. Don't you worry; you know I cannot resist writing a little more if the topic calls for it. Or even if the topic doesn't call for it (since I know you were probably thinking that anyway:)). 

           I am relieved because our director and assistant director came to the show tonight. We all get into a bit of a tizzy when they come around. See, they aren't afraid to tell you if they think it is horrible. They've done it before. And simply put, it's their job to say so.  

          Plus, our director is what's called Kind of A Big Deal. He's a two-time tony award winner. So we all really want him to be pleased. 

          And at the opening night party after the show I was quite thrilled to hear our director whisper into my ear, You were quite excellent tonight. 

          Thank God.

          And that's not all. The assistant director, who is quite a dear by the way, told me--

          We were so happy with you tonight. We have rehearsals tomorrow--notes and stuff to go over--but we are going to skip right over sing. It was perfect, there's nothing to change. And the audience was eating you up.

         Thank God again.

          To know that they are pleased seriously makes my heart soar.  We all work so hard on that stage and to hear some feedback like this is exactly what I need to keep going.  Plus, let's be real--contracts are going to be offered again soon for the next six months and it's a really good sign for me to know that the creative team is happy.  

        Thank God one more time.  

         So there you go. That is why I am quite relieved.

i'm probably not going to go by way of tsunami. i know that now.

       I used to think, while growing up in rural Landenberg, PA, that there was a very real danger of a tidal wave wiping out not only me, but my family as well. I remember pumping my parents for information about them, both fearing and being in awe of that unstoppable wall of water that could come from somewhere deep in the middle of the ocean and level everything I held dear. 

      I was even fascinated by the word tsunami, picturing that t that, like the awful cliche about children, is seen and not heard. 

      I suppose the fact that I lived a good two hours drive to any shore did not give me the comfort it should have. I was in more danger of being run over by a cow than by getting water-logged by a tsunami, but there you go.  

      I used to think that NFL football players were not human. Like, literally another race. They were built differently, had boulders for shoulders, tree-trunk legs, and thick, corded necks. I didn't know about all their padding, I just thought that was what they looked like. What their species looked like.  

      I used to think I would be a veterinarian.

     That I would be a ballerina. 

     I thought I knew who I was going to marry twice before I even met Drew.  

      My point is that I am not always right. Not even close. But the thing that is so dangerous is this phenomena of feeling being reality. 

      Yikes.  

      So what's an emotional, sensitive, deeply-feeling person to do? Not feel?

      Not likely.

      But I can talk about it. Air out my heart, so to speak. Telling someone about my life, the way I see it, helps me to gain perspective. It somehow brings into balance that seemingly transient-at-best truth to feeling ratio.  

    Because here's the thing:  There are people who tell me the truth. Friends who tell me that yes, maybe I am being a little crazy. Or yes, that was hurtful. Or no, it probably wasn't intentional. Or hey--you don't sound like the person I know. Or let's pray. Or let me help you.  Or girl, it isn't just about you. 

      I recently watched Ted Haggard's interview on Oprah. You know, the evangelical pastor of a mega-church in Colorado who was accused of buying crystal meth as well as paying for the services of a male escort a few years back.  After some denial and much devastation both privately and publicly, he confessed to it.  

    Something that he told Oprah broke my heart, however. After asking him how long he had been experiencing homosexual thoughts, he answered, Pretty much my whole adult life. He continued to explain that he had in fact been honest when he was first starting in ministry with some of his peers, asking them for help, and their response?

     You need to busy yourself even more with the church. 

     I'm sorry. What? 

     How is that anything like the God I know who cares so deeply about the state of our hearts? Here was a man who was confused. He loved his wife dearly, was attracted to others--be it men or women, the point is he wanted to be faithful to his wife. And the advice he got is to simply forget about his heart. Don't deal with it. Go busy yourself.

    His friends missed the boat. And in so doing, caused lots of damage, I think.  I wonder if Mr. Haggard's feeling to truth ratio--his compulsion eventually dwarfing how he viewed the sanctity of his marriage vows--might have changed, had he had friends who listened to him. Prayed for him. Took an honest look at his heart with him. Talked to him seriously about what he wanted in life, and how his actions might just directly effect that.

    I think we can be afraid to talk so deeply. I know we are afraid of being judged. And sometimes it is easier to just pretend we are all fine.  But the truth is that we never are. Not now, not here.  

    I want to be an honest person, not shying away from the questions that might lead me to realize that I don't have the answer. Or the topics that might lead me to realize that even the best of us aren't perfect; even the brightest of us have dark moments.  

   I'd like to be the kind of person, who, in our collective fumbling towards righteousness, I hold out a hand to hold. Slow down a little if you'd rather just sit a spell.  

   I'd like to realize that we've all come from the same place, from a God who decided long ago to love us. In the darker places. In the lighter places. In our numbness. In our dog-like devotion. And also in our dog-like ability to get distracted by what might or might not be a squirrel in the woods.  He even kindly takes it seriously when we dejectedly make our way back, having only recently discovered the bitter truth that what we'd been running after for so long was only wind after all. 

  Maybe knowing this is what causes us to have compassion on each other because if we haven't been there yet, we just might be some day, and goodness knows we'd like a kind word as much as the next one.

   A kind word and honesty.  

   A reminder that the way we feel isn't everything; that measuring the heart against reality is a necessary endeavor.  

   God knows I need it. 

   And look at me now--staying for the next two weeks not ten minutes away from the shore here in Florida, and not one bit afraid that a tidal wave is on its way. 

  I'd say that's progress.

manatee part deux

    Remember my manatee excursion? Well, I wanted to show some more pictures from the event. Here are just three of the four brave souls who ventured out in Crystal Lake on a cold morning. Me, Kevin, and Mindy are huddling together, trying to procure warmth. Um, it didn't work so much. 

    I don't remember being much colder. Ever. Oh wait. Maybe while filming the "push-ups in the rain" scene in Annapolis; I don't remember how many times we did it, but it felt like a thousand. And in order for the rain to show up on camera, the rain machine had to produce such a heavy fall that it literally felt like we were under a waterfall. And it was at night, in November. Yeah, so maybe that was colder--but still, we are cold here.

   And just to give you an idea of how very big manatees are, just look at how that friendly creature dwarfs that larger-than-average sized man who is also a friendly creature, I assume.  So you can see why, at first, we were all a little afraid. Of the manatee, not the man. But we were impressed that he did not even feel the need to wear a wet suit.  Um--the man, not the manatee. 
  Although it is hard to differentiate me from Kevin and Dave--who both have short dark hair, as well--this is me. Hugging a manatee. He doesn't look too happy about it, but looks can be deceiving. 

  He totally dug it. 
  Here we are, next to a baby. Isn't he so cute? 
   And seriously, they were out in droves that clear cold day. We were so lucky to catch them in such numbers--or so said Captain Jan. 

   Captain Jan loved us and we loved Captain Jan. By the end of the day, we were calling her CJ. Actually, we even gave her a shorter nickname than that, if you can believe it. We started calling her Seej (to spell it phonetically). 
    Okay, that's all.  Of the manatees, that is.

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

     Today was a long, full day. Started with a trip to church. The music was beautiful, I sat next to a beautiful brown little boy from Saudi Arabia with black bushy hair who reminded me of the boys from Slumdog Millionaire, and also listened to a great message.

     I wish I could have stayed longer, but I had a one o'clock matinee. Boo. However, Sundays are made much better around here because each one is, without fail, bagel sunday!!!

     Our stage manager is the best and gets us fresh, bakery bagels with every kind of schmear you can imagine. I'm a strawberry cream cheese girl myself, but there is something for everyone.  

   Oh and by the way, why is it that complete strangers think that it is a great idea to give you their email address and tell you to email them because they have an "article that you'd be sure to like"?

   I mean, I am pretty sure that a stranger can't be sure of anything I'd like. And I am positive I wouldn't like that stranger having access to my email address.  

    People can be so strange.

    Oh, and somebody stole the information for my debit/credit card. 

     Awesome. Made even more so by just all of the sudden being declined--embarrassingly declined--when trying to pay for a sandwich.  And having no idea why. And then feeling the stupid unction to explain how I really do have money in my account to a waitress I will most likely never see again. And who most likely doesn't care. As long as she gets her tip, of course.  

    So the reason I was declined is because my card was compromised--and thankfully, the bank discovered this before my funds were drained. 

   But now I have no cash flow.  Oh well, I will get another card soon.

   

   And tomorrow--on to Ft. Lauderdale. I am looking forward to it mightily as it is said to be very beautiful and I will have access to a car there and trust me, a car on tour is worth its weight in gold.  

  

the proper care and use of hair

         The other day I was backstage, ready to go. My hair was particularly...hard to think of the exact adjective to use...fluffy? textured? spiky? Sure, they all sort of work. Anyway, Ian walks up to me and the subject eventually gets around to my hair. After running his hands through it, he proceeds to say:

        Your hair feels really dirty.

        Oh, that's a shame since I just washed it before walking over here, I respond, not particularly distressed.

        You just washed it and it feels like that?! Ian remarks.

        Not seeing the problem that Ian apparently is shocked by, I simply say, Yep.

        He goes on, moving forward with his interrogation, Jessica. Something's not right. What kind of shampoo are you using?

       Starting to feel maybe a little embarrassed, but still not too terribly cause it's Ian and he's a true blue friend, I quietly admit, I've been using this little bottle of complimentary hotel shampoo. Um, maybe it doesn't work that well...But it is so easy to travel...

       He corrects my prior sentence with, Obviously, it doesn't work very well!  You are on a production contract; you can afford to buy some nice, brand name shampoo that actually cleans your poor hair. 

       I see your point, I say.  And that was that. Or so I thought.

       Fast forward to yesterday. Ian calls and says,

         Okay. So I just got myself some new shampoo and conditioner from the Aveda store but am not quite finished with what I already had. I am coming over, giving them to you, and I really really want you to use them.  After you lather with the shampoo, make sure that you follow up with the conditioner. Seriously, use them both. 

         Thank you, I say, both grateful for his generosity and convinced that he is going to give me a diagram of the proper lathering and rinsing of hair accoutrements along with the shampoo and conditioner.

         At this point, I wouldn't argue. 

         And now my hair is slippery-soft and clean once again. My scalp is refreshed. My head smells like a lovely apothecary. And all thanks to Ian. Though, really, I wasn't going to use that hotel shampoo forever...

strange as life

    I am a big fan of real life. Let me rephrase that--I am a big fan of any life, anywhere and the narrative that shapes it. Sure, I love a good fictional yarn. Harry Potter, Narnia, Anne of Green Gables--these are stories that I love, stories that I find reflections of my own life in them, somehow.

   Not necessarily dementors (thank goodness for that!), White Witches (another sigh of relief), and Gilbert Bythe (now I wouldn't have minded having him around before I met Drew). But I see familiarity in the battle between Good and Evil, the hope that maybe one person can change the world for the better, and the desire to know and be known by another human who is a walking paradox of strength and weakness, humor and despair, just like myself.

   Yes, I love fiction. But there's something about real life, told by the person who experienced it, that strikes a chord within me. It's like the rubber-necking phenomena; no matter what it looks like, you just can't stop staring. Maybe that's part of the reason reality tv is such a hit. People are forever curious. We want to know who's marrying who, who's breaking up, who made it, who's a little person in a big world.

   Um, does anybody else watch that show?

   Truly, life is always interesting. I don't care if you live in Podunk, Kentucky or if you are sleeping soundly in a nicely sound-proofed Upper West Side penthouse; you have embarrassing habits, or an  embarrassing aunt (but this certainly does not pertain to any of my nine nieces and nephews). You fell in love or wanted to. You are scared of the dark or maybe of clowns. You believe that you are descended from aliens. You once thought that you were going to have a worm farm (don't laugh, I know a couple who thought this; know them very well, in fact). You hope that you are right, you hope that you are wrong. You were cheated on. You are broken. You have never been better. You are an endlessly interesting story that twists and turns and never does get told twice.

  It's the human experience that I find so darned interesting, I guess.   

  Which is probably why I enjoy reading so many books and blogs and articles told from the 1st person perspective. And this is probably why my friends make fun of me for engaging in conversation with so many strangers. And this might even be why Drew gets so embarrassed when I eaves drop on people's conversations in grocery store lines.  

   I mean, if they really didn't want me to hear, they could lower their voices. Or text.   

   Anyway, I do read a lot blogs. And my good friend John Carroll (who's gonna love that I finally mention him here again, since he has informed me that he mostly scans my posts for his name anyway:)) recently told me to read Carrie Fisher's blog. Yes. The same Carrie Fisher who played Princess Leia in Starwars.  She's a very good writer and the nice thing about that is that she does not have to wear a tiny gold bikini while chained to an overgrown slug (no offense, Jaba) while writing.  

   The thing that might not be so nice about writing is that she does not get to kiss Han Solo while doing it.  So maybe it's a toss up. 

  Anyway, I was reading her blog and came across this gem and had to share:

    "My grandmother's mother, Maxie Harmon, began having children in her late teens and continued to procreate until she had her last child at 49, which the doctor informed her was a tumor--and when that growth was born, they called him, of course, Tumor--making him my mother's Uncle Tumor, who was and remains younger than his niece. "

  Uncle Tumor?! You can't make this stuff up, people. 

rides rides rides!

   I am tired, but happy.  

   Today I went to Universal Studios here in Florida with two of my friends, Jordan and Dave.  And here's another really nice thing--I didn't get in on my dime. I didn't get in on anybody's dime.

   And no, I didn't sneak in either. Like I could sleep at night if I did. 

    As previously mentioned, I met my brother Josh at the Universal City Walk this past Tuesday night for a late dinner. We enjoyed shrimp from Bubba Gump Shrimp and particularly connected with the waiter.  So much so that he offered to drop off four passes to the park for me at the theater.

    Well great. Not intrusive since it didn't involve me giving him any personal information or even seeing him again.  It was a win-win situation.

    But still, I took his promise with a grain of salt. Which is to say, I didn't actually invite anybody to go with me until I saw the tickets. Not trying to be cynical, just being practical. 

    To my delight, the waiter did indeed drop off the passes. Wow. Kindness from strangers never ceases to impress upon me the challenge to pay it forward. As often as I can.  And with that, we were off to the park this morning. 

    And oh my goodness, it was a blast. Serious fun, people. The mummy ride was awesome. Spidey saved my life. The hulk gave me quite a scare with all the loops and spins and twists and turns. Oh, and the Jurassic Park ride was fun...until our boat took an unexpected turn into the Carnivore Paddocks. 

   The same Carnivore Paddocks that, while waiting to board our boat, we had been guaranteed 

we would not traverse. We knew right away that something wasn't right. We did get a little wet escaping from the dinos, but since we weren't eaten and were alive we didn't mind so much.  

    

    And that's how we acted through the whole park. We took it very seriously and cracked each other up in the meantime. We were maybe the biggest kids there. I love going to amusement parks with people bent on a good time; in my experience, when you expect something good, that is generally what happens. 

   So thanks to Dave the Waiter, today was such a fun time.

  

arts and crafts

     Love is in the air. And I am not just talking about romantic love--not just the eros that many dream of--no, I mean the substance that makes one heart touch another. And it is here for everybody. 

      It's evident, if you just look for it. It's a kind word. A smile. A door held open, though you're at least six steps away. 

      It's a warm meal that you actually eat sitting down. A piece of music. A shared laugh at nobody's expense and everyone's benefit.  

      And to me, it's always always a card. There are other ways to show that you love me, sure (and much to Drew's relief--not being the greatest lover of cards himself!), but some words, a picture--all within the neat and orderly confines of a square--these things make me smile.  

      *And now allow me a tangent, thankyouverymuch*

     It's funny, most wedding invitations are rectangular, but it was utterly important to me that ours were square. I. Love. Squares. I like the symmetry, I guess.  I could forgo the ice sculptures and the swans, yes, but square invitations were a must. 

     Anyway, we found the perfect ones--the parchment was thick and looked a little old and textured, which added to the magic. We made them into invitations, literally, and I took all 200 of them to the post office, stamped and ready to go. 

     Or not, as the case may be.

     I guess mailing a perfectly square envelope is much more difficult than it would be to mail the more common relative, the rectangular envelope. Which is why, I suppose, most people just don't even bother. I was sent back home armed with two more stamps with which to decorate my already stamped square envelopes.    

     

     Which is what I did.

     

     Oh, and lest you think that I was the only one adamant about the details of our wedding, let me just say that for a period of time Drew fought for couches being the predominant seating at our reception. Bottom line, he was sick of being uncomfortable during receptions and wanted to ensure the comfort of our guests by providing them plush couches into which they could sink during our first dance and the others to follow. Seriously, guys--couches for two hundred people!  

     Let's just say that I got my squares and Drew did not get his couches. Sorry, babe. 

      Anyway, back to cards. I actually don't know which I enjoy more--crafting and/or buying them for others, or receiving them. So in honor of this great holiday that is upon us, I decided to get out my arts and crafts and get busy. 

      All for love. 

      

      All for a great cast and crew that I am happy to work with. 

      

      See, I bought some chocolates for them already, but I wanted a nice, big old-fashioned card to go along with it.

      So I started cutting, not sure what I would do with all the strips.

   I knew which colors I wanted--I usually pick the brightest, anyway--and I am always a sucker for anything patchwork. I know, the squares again. Can't get enough of them. In fact, someday Drew and I are going to have a beautiful patchwork quilt for our bed. And, um, two hundred couches. A girl can dream, right?

 

   So I decided to go all patchwork.

   And then added some doilies (what's a valentine's day card without doilies?!), and a ton of letters that I unfortunately had to tape to the patchwork. I was really hurting for some glue, but the tape worked in the end. Just not as smoothly as the glue would have. But really--who cares? Certainly not you, dear reader, so I will stop about the glue vs. tape. But really, I would recommend glue. Sorry, I really will stop now. 

   And voila! I ended up with this.

     All cut, stapled, arranged, and painstakingly taped while watching Twilight.

     Arts and crafts make me happy. Probably embarrassingly so, actually. 

     

     And now I have to wait a whole two days to bring my candy and card to the theater...!