surprise

   So, I was just sitting at an elegant table while enjoying our opening night party (and all the free food that entails) here in Atlanta when this guy comes up to me and whispers into my ear, 

    I would have hired you...

   I know, sounds creepy, right? Which was my initial reaction, too--until I looked up and realized it was my good friend, Zaller, surprising me by coming to the show tonight.

   There was a time when we saw each other every day; we climbed a lot of stairs together--me climbing more stairs than he, since he was a principal and I was merely in the ensemble--he and I, along, with my sweet friend Betsy were known as the 'X's' and had a secret hand signal which we used to pass along the pertinent information that, tonight, it was definitely going to be a West Wing Night.

  The three of us even have these awesome matching bracelets, thanks to Bets and her talented, artisan dad.

   The first day we met him he was walking through the cast, trying to get to wherever it was he needed to go, I guess and said, Ah, principal coming through, guys...

   Well, we didn't know him so well then, certainly not well enough to know if he was joking or not, which led us to two conclusions:

• He is a jerk
• He makes jokes that aren't funny

   Turns out the first conclusion was absolutely not true while the latter conclusion was only true sometimes.

   However, most of the time he does make funny jokes.  

   Anyway, in the ten months I did the Will Rogers Follies (which is basically entirely performed on stairs, thus the earlier stairs reference) I got to know him; and while navigating through late night talks about who we think God is, our families, this crazy business, as well as falling in love with CJ, Toby, Charlie, President Bartlett, Sam, Donna, and Leo from the West Wing, we landed in something that I am happy to call friendship.

   

  Gosh it's been...I don't even know how long, maybe two years or so since last we saw each other. But one thing that I love about this business is you end up with friends just about everywhere--and most of the time you aren't even aware it is happening until you are crying and hugging and saying crazy things like you never would have been able to do all those kicks or sing the same stupid lyric day in and day out without so-and-so doing the very same thing right next to you.  

  Or at least, you are fairly sure that it would not have been so startlingly fun.

chicken, waffles, ipods, and my sister

   Today has been going on for a very long time. 

   Travel days tend to be that way.

   With a wake-up call at 6:15--after having gone to bed at 3:15--I was tired, true, but ready to go to Atlanta. And see my sister, Jenna, who is visiting for the week!

   We got to the airport and made our usual rounds of jokes and ambling conversations as we wore our oversized sunglasses indoors like rock stars and waited to check our over-the-alloted-weight-limit luggage.  

   And although the Delta terminal did not have a delicious breakfast sandwich to be found (they did have a sub-parr one which, unfortunately, I settled for), they did have this: 

  An ipod vending machine. Seriously. I mean, sure, I figured that Steve Jobs probably had a couple of these in his house, fishing them out with a few quarters for friends when they visit, but really? A vending machine full of ipods for us normal folk?

  How does that work? Do you say, Honey, I know you asked me to get you some cheez-its from the vending machine on my way back from the bathroom, but then I saw this new ipod nano and figured it would be just as good...?

  I thought it was pretty funny and I know a few people who would be really excited to say that they bought their particular ipod from a vending machine--my own dear Drew being one of them.

  Other than making a seemingly already grumpy couple even grumpier by asking them if I could um, have the window seat to which I was actually assigned, the flight was nice and smooth. 

  Nothing like my flight from Detroit, thank God.

   Actually, it was so smooth that I slept right through the whole thing. Even, horror of horrors, through the snack! It is so rare these days to actually fly something that serves you a snack that, upon finding out later that I slept right through it, I was quite irritated with myself.

  I am not the kind to turn down a complimentary snack, you know.

  Ahem.

  Oh, and when in the South be like the Southerners, right? 

  

  So in Atlanta's grand tradition me and Jenna accompanied some friends to Gladys Knights and Ron Winan's Chicken and Waffles.

  We ate what might even define comfort food and listened to some sweet soul music hanging in the air. We talked and laughed. Except of course for the part when our food first arrived and then just a nice, contented silence ensued as we happily dug in; this silence spoke volumes as to just how good the crispy fried chicken, the golden fluffy waffles, the sweet corn muffins all really were. 

  And here's a close up, in case you wondered. 
     How in the world did such a meal as chicken and waffles eaten simultaneously ever come about? Well, what I have heard is that it came about first with the jazz musicians who would gig late into the night or early into the morning, however you want to look at it.  

   When they finished, like most people after a shift of hard, honest work, they were hungry. And because of the time, they didn't know which was more appropriate--breakfast or dinner. So they simply settled on both.

  Chicken and waffles.

  

  And if you ever find yourself in Atlanta, you owe it to yourself to find out just how good a choice it really is.  

you really need me to explain it to you?

   This is just a short post...

    Getting up super early in the morning to get myself to Atlanta.

    Um, a really cold and snowy Atlanta, from what I hear.

    But while reading the few comments on broadway secrets in response to the postcard that I wrote about in this post, one of them made me start to laugh.

    It was in reference to me "singing" while playing Kristine--

   "When I saw the tour when it came near me, the people behind me were like, "She's terrible! How did she ever get cast in a MUSICAL?!"

   That is so funny to me; I guess I am really doing my job.

   And don't worry, the commenter was actually saying some very nice things--they simply couldn't believe some people in the audience  just didn't get it. 

   Maybe they think I lip-sync throughout the rest of the show or something! ;-)

better

   It's quite reassuring to stay in hotels that keep us connected with current events, nature, and pop culture. I mean, being on the road can be tough enough, so when a hotel goes the extra mile and keeps pertinent information accessible to us, it means the world.

   Which is why I was so psyched to see this here at the Towneplace Suites:

   Seeing that stapled and stenciled bulletin board complete with geometric shapes in primary colors not only brought me back to the 2nd grade, it also tempted me to just get rid of my mac altogether. I mean, really, who needs the Internet when I have that? 

   Since it was a gift from Drew, and so has some sentimental value, I suppose I will keep it--but probably just as a paper weight.

   At least while I stay here, anyway.  

------------------------------------------------------
   Yesterday I suddenly got inspired to go to the beach all by myself. 

   So I got in the car and drove. For me, the most difficult part of going to the beach has always been parking. Finding a space. Making sure you have quarters (which, let's face it, at the beach is basically worth their weight in gold). Trying to park close enough so, before you even glimpse the water, you aren't committing to a five mile hike while holding all your beach paraphernalia and maybe even contracting skin cancer since you had planned on applying your sunscreen after you put your towel and folding chair down on the soft white sand. 

   I did find a place to park, though could only scrounge up enough change to last an hour. 

   But really, an hour was all I needed.

   Crossing the street, I came upon this.

   One thing I love about the beach is the air of goodwill and trust that seems to rule. It's the one place in the world where nobody really locks anything. We each stake out our own little pile of sand, marking it with an exotic and brightly colored over-sized towel or two.  That is as good as any safe on the beach, I guess. We place our purses, our clothes, our keys that belong to expensive cars down on those towels and go our merry way into the surf without so much as a glance over our shoulders.   

   I have always done this and have never had any bad luck with it.  

    So I did it again. I will say, however, that I forgot a towel, so did feel a little weird about placing my stuff down without that. It felt less safe, somehow. I took a little extra precaution because of it and tightly bundled my keys to the rental car in my tank top that was on the ground.   

   At least the tank top was sort of like a beach towel in that it was bright and pink and uh, fabric. So there was that.  

   That oughta do it, I thought, and walked down to where the waves were breaking. 

   I walked and thought and prayed. I thought about the different people I love and prayed for good things to come into their lives. I thought about some of the messes I and others have made lately and hoped for a way out. 

  And sometimes, I just stopped and looked closely at the water swirling at my feet. 
  I saw how it was clear and green and made patterns that I could never have thought of in a million years.  These patterns were so intricate; they involved much larger things than me--things like the sunlight, the ocean, the innumerable amounts of sand; somehow these cosmic and epic things met together here, at my feet, and made a little picture that I could take in.  

 

  I think life is a lot like that. 

  Things that we cannot control--probably cannot even understand the magic and vastness of them--come together, interrupting our day for the better and leaving us with some beauty.  

   Or maybe it isn't beautiful yet. Maybe it's an interruption that we never would have opted for, we never would have checked the yes had we been handed some grand, universal survey, but still--it makes a pattern that marks us. And for better or for worse, we are changed.

  But I can guarantee you that it will--eventually--be for better.  

  I gotta believe that.

  So here's to finding the patience that we need to make it to that place that we can honestly see is, in fact, better.  

  And because I am always on the quest for bigger calf muscles (yes, this is my version of a segue--sorry if it's a little abrupt), I ran every once in a while.  

   But see, I have been having this irritation with my knee (thank you, A Chorus Line and all of the deep lunges that entails) and despite all of the very sage advice I have gotten from well intentioned physical therapists (it is simply bruised from sleeping (not sure if they thought maybe I wrestle alligators in my sleep) and of course, my absolute favorite--I need to eat more hamburgers), the knee is still being pesky.

  All this to say, my running spurts were limited at best.  

  Hopefully walking at a quick rate on the sand will bulk up the calf muscle, as well.

  Um, I really love a good calf muscle.

   But, about the knee--there's good news. I saw another physical therapist today and he seemed to know what he was talking about. Seems like my I.T. band as well as some of my quad muscles have gotten good and tight and so isn't allowing the patella to work as it should.

  Or something like that.

  Long story short, I have to roll it out on this huge foam roller and it hurts a whole heckuva lot. I mean, really bad.  But I guess that just proves the latest P.T. guy right.  

  So I will be rolling and icing and looking forward to the better that is about to come to my knee.  

  Oh, and the only real way that a hamburger is going to help my knee is if I take a frozen patty and apply it directly to the sore area.

  Which I just might do, in a pinch.  

broadwaysecrets

   I don't know if you have ever heard of the blog, postsecret, but it's basically an online gallery of postcards in which an anonymous sender has divulged something never before shared.

   It's captivating. I read them every week; I simply cannot look away.

   I suppose a secret will do that to you. Especially if you happen to be a pretty curious individual like me. 

   Anyway.

   Drew emailed me this link tonight. It's from a blog that has the same idea as postsecret, except all of the secrets involve people on Broadway. 

   They are, of course, anonymous as well. 

   Apparently a friend of his from high school, Aimee Kislin, sent him the link, telling him that he might have a personal interest in #26.

    What is #26, you ask?

    This.

Jessica Latshaw, A Chorus Line National Tour

     Yeah, I was just as surprised as you.  Maybe even more so.  I have no way of knowing who made the postcard but I am grateful. How kind.  Hopefully before too long I will be playing a role in which I can really sang, if you know what I mean, but until then I remain indebted to this stranger's kindness.

    And singing terribly for a paycheck.

    And wishing my hair didn't look so crazy bad in that picture.

the door latch

       One of my favorite features that my hotel room boasts is the latch that keeps the door firmly closed even when someone has a key.  

       I wish all doors had this. 

      Every morning the maid tries to get in my room at the ungodly hour of 9 am. Every morning I ignore her knocks.  Figuring that I am not there, she eventually opens the door only to be rebuffed by the latch and foiled again. 

     I turn over in bed, relieved. And once again grateful for that latch.  

     See, I not only did not grow up with a latch, I didn't grow up with locked doors. 

    Like, at all. 

    My parents live on 21 acres of lush Pennsylvania land; the nearest town consists of a gas station and a candy shop. We were maybe in danger of a stray cat wandering onto our porch. Maybe. And usually our cats took care of it.  

    So accordingly, my parents did not lock the doors. I didn't even grow up with keys. At least, not for doors, anyway.   

    My friends sometimes make fun of me for how bad I am at unlocking doors. They shouldn't do this, though. It's like making fun of the Mungo Man for not knowing how to operate an iphone. He didn't grow up with one, so leave him alone. In fact, since he has been dead for quite some time now, you really shouldn't speak any ill of him at all.

   For shame. Making fun of the poor, dead Mungo Man like that.  

   But yes, I really like this latch. And since we didn't use keys while I was growing up, a latch would have come in handy. 

   Particularly because our house was right next to the church that my parents pastor. And because it was so close, I think some parishioners just thought of it as an extension of the church. Not a home that might just host some people who wanted some semblance of privacy--nope, nothing like that.

  As a little girl I got really good really fast at hiding in my own home. I knew all the quick spots to dart when I first heard a knock at the door. Many times that knock would only precede the sound of the screen door opening and then the dreaded sound of a voice--usually one of my parents' counselees--yelling for one or both of my parents, asking if they are home, asking if they minded if who-ever-it-was-this-time just came on in.  

   Wish they had asked me. I did mind.

  And then a lot of times they would just walk right in. And I would be hiding behind the staircase. Or in my room. Or in the bathroom. Or around the hallway, just hoping that they didn't venture further into the house and--horror of horrors!-catch me cowering there, hiding from well, them. 

   Gosh, a latch would have been nice. 

  One time I remember a man from our church had come to the door and I ran quick as I could to the safety of my bedroom. He knocked. I hid. He knocked. I hid. And we continued in this holding pattern of what was perhaps the most boring and uneventful battle that was ever waged for quite some time. 

  The knocking stopped, I realized with the sense of relief that comes after having bested someone. I outlasted his knocking. Phew. But then...I felt a shadow, something was obstructing my view of the sun...

  And with a sinking feeling, I realized that I was not the winner of this repartee after all. For there the man stood, outside of my window, after having peered through all of the windows from our kitchen until my room and finally landed at mine.

  And I just sat there, looking guilty as sin.  

   I stood up from my crouch with as much dignity as I could muster and graciously motioned for him to walk around, that I would meet him at the front door. I would at least wave my white flag with the respect of having fought my hardest. 

  I would take it like a woman; I would meet him at the front door, on my terms. 

  I tried to pretend like I hadn't heard his tenacious knocks, but I think he knew. My bedroom was not very far from the front door, let's be honest. There was no music playing that would have drowned it out, no loud conversation, no distractions that could act as my alibi.  

  I was found out, plain and simple. My only comfort is that at least I wasn't an adult and so maybe he attributed my overt act of ignoring him to my youth. But I still don't think that what I did was wrong, necessarily; it was a method of survival in the midst of some loiterers who had suspiciously shoddy boundaries. 

  Which is probably why they were in counseling in the first place. 

  Which is probably why they came looking for my pop who had probably forgotten about the appointment...And finding me hiding from them might not have helped whatever had driven them to get counseling in the first place...

  Now that I think about it, that latch wouldn't have helped that particular situation. But I sure do like it. Especially in the morning, when it comes to keeping out the maid.  

sir...SIR?!?!

  Does the fact that I ate a salad for lunch balance out the fact that I ate about a hundred desserts for dinner?  

   No? 

   It doesn't work that way? 

   Oh. okay. 

    So, the other night I was doing my job. I know, I know--a medal is in order. But we were doing the portion of the show called the Ones in which we basically go over the same piece of choreography while singing that famous song, One, singular sensation... in repetition.  

    Pause for a moment while I tell you a piece of pertinent information. One of my good friends thinks it is quite hilarious to pretend that I am actually a boy. Hahahahahahahahahaha, right? Yes, I have very short hair. What a novel idea to call me a boy. Anyway, he gets quite a kick out of it while I tolerate it, at best.  Now back to the story.

   We get to the section of the Ones when Zach instructs all of the girls to line up and perform that same piece of choreography--this is quite appropriately called the girls' chorus.  I line up next to all of the other girls in the show, as I do every night, and start to dance while my friend chimes in from behind me, Oh...I'm sorry, but I am pretty sure this is the girls' chorus...

    I ignore him and continue dancing and singing. 

    What does he do? He gets louder, leans forward as to get a little closer to me and yells in mock concern, Excuse me, sir? SIR! This is not the boys' chorus--THIS IS THE GIRLS' CHORUS!!!!

     This whole little scene was played out upstage of me which is a fancy way of saying behind me while I was facing the unsuspecting audience. And let me say that I have never flipped anyone the bird before but boy, this was one time--I think the first, actually--when I really really wanted to to put my hand behind my back and do just that. 

     I didn't, but...

     Well, but for the grace of God, there go I...