look hon, I cleaned!

I am not home very much.

In fact, one of the last few times I was home for a visit one of our neighbors saw me and, in a surprised manner, announced, Oh--so you didn't move away, then!

Nope. Or at least not in a permanent, I'm-mad-at-Drew kind of way.

But since I am away so often as to make the neighbors assume that I just up and left for good, I don't get to help much in the way of domestic support.

Let's face it, as amazing as Skype is, you still can't use it to wash some dirty dishes in Delaware when you are, in fact, in Florida. Or California. Or Japan.

Maybe someday.

I mean at one point people thought walking on the moon and squeezing cheese out of a canister sounded preposterous also.

I am pretty sure that the human race has as of yet still not accomplished those two feats simultaneously, but we'll keep dreaming big. Besides, even both those things on their own is nothing short of incredible.

Especially the cheese. But I digress.

So while home I decided to give Drew a hand and clean up the kitchen. Now this was a true sacrifice on my part since Drew seems to eat salsa on about 99% of his meals. Oh, and I hate salsa. So pretty much every dish in the sink had some variation of salsa encrusted onto it.

Gross.

It literally turned my stomach.

But I started composing some lyrics in my head and got to work on the dishes, trying my best to ignore the salsa displayed before me in differing forms of decay. I soaked and scrubbed and rinsed and loaded. One final step to go, I grabbed the dish washing detergent, poured some in the appropriate area in the dishwasher, turned the knobs to smart wash--because really, who wants to wash in a way that isn't smart? why do they even have other options?--and slammed the door shut.

Happy to basically be finished my task, I went over to my piano and got lost in the world of song writing.

Until I happened to glance over my shoulder and see this.

Oops. Yeah, I guess I poured too much detergent.

The nice thing is that the floors are now pretty spic and span, too, and I wasn't even going to do the floors.

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

I got home and heard something different, something that reminded me of a nature store, something tinkling. Drew was so excited to show me...
Yes, it is one of those tacky fountains complete with stones and tiered, flowing water that costs about $15 on sale at Happy Harry's Drug Store. See, we might very well have two of the snobbiest cats in the world when it comes to their preferred drinking water. They like fresh, flowing water--specifically from a faucet.

They detest the water in their bowls and barely touch the stuff.

Like most parents, we ascribed to the when they get thirsty enough, they'll drink it theory, but Drew saw this fountain and knew the cats would love it.

He was right. Gone is their old-fashioned water bowl with the paw prints on the side and stale, stagnant water within. Now they are delighted to drink from their freshly pumped and free flowing fountain. And bat at the water after their thirst has been quenched. And who knows? Maybe even heat those stones up for a rejuvenating hot stone massage.

I wouldn't put it past them.

They. Are. Spoiled.

And speaking of our cats, one frequently gets stepped on and really, can you blame us?

Poor Taliesin even has stripes that look like the wood grain pattern. I guess it's good for that moment right before the pounce, though.

And the heated stones would come in handy after getting stepped on, too.

sunday and no heels to speak of

     Today I took a personal day.

     Why, you may wonder? Well, it's ah, personal.

     Actually, it's not so personal--but I do like the sound of a personal day. Like it's just a day that is devoted to one's personhood; that it's another step towards that illusive goal of well being.

     And, you don't really have to tell your boss why. That's nice too.

     But, I took it because Drew's probably descended from leprechauns or something since his birthday is St. Patrick's Day which means it is this Tuesday.  

     Why did I take it Sunday when his actual birthday is Tuesday? would be the next logical question, I realize. Well, to put it simply, I put in for a personal day on Tuesday but someone else in the show already had it so I settled for Sunday.

     The nice thing is that I got to surprise Drew by showing up last night. Even though I got the advice that I should never surprise anybody after sharing my plan with a certain someone who may or may not have been hurt in the past, I knew that Drew was safe to surprise.

   I knew the only female he could possibly be sharing our bed with was our black cat, Percy.

   And when I have, in fact, come home to find them sharing a bed in the past, it has not bothered me in the least...

   So last night I crept into our house, said my hello to our two kitties--which involved holding, petting, kissing, and mild squeezing--and I sat next to Drew and woke him up.

   This is no easy task, even when he isn't coming off a night when he has worked instead of slept with a full day of tasks following right into the day after. I gently shook him and watched as one eye slowly peaked open.

   It closed right back up, so I waited.

   Then both eyes popped open with a start as he said in a voice that sounded like it could use some exercise, YOU'RE HOME!

  And with that we were off to a good start.    

what are the odds?

   The other night, just following the very welcome and final black-out on stage, I am informed that I have visitors waiting for me at the stage door.

   Not being able to think of anybody I even know in DC, I am naturally curious.

   I get outside and find a very pleasant looking middle-aged husband and wife expectantly standing there. Still can't place them, but that does not rule out the possibility of them being related to me in some way.  The truth is that I do have relatives that I would not even recognize were I to pass them on the street. Sad, but true. 

   I smile at them and distractedly wonder if I should feign recognition.  

   Thankfully, I am not in limbo very long since the gentleman jumped right in.  

   Hi Jessica, I'm Bill--your last name is Latshaw, right?

   Yes, I respond, grateful that he isn't a 2nd cousin of some sort that I should know.  

   And you're from Pennsylvania? he continues.

   Yeah, I am, I agree again.

   And your father is the Reverend Latshaw? he asks, effectively hitting it out of the park with that one. 

   Yeah...he is!

   *cue violins and dramatic music as I am anticipating some sort of reunion here.

    This man, this Bill, that I am convinced I must know, asks me one more question, having laid out all the evidence carefully and methodically and now going in for the verdict.  

    And you're from Land...

    (Yes, I think, Yes I am...)

   ...sdowne--You're from Landsowne, PA?

   *cue the abrupt scratch and stop of the dramatic music as the violin strings are held still.

  

    Oh, I thought you were going to say Landenberg, because that's where I am from, not Landsdowne, I break it to him.

   Really? He says. So you are not the Jessica Latshaw whose father is a minister from Landsdowne, PA? She sings too...

   Sorry, no, it's not me, I assure him. But she may very well be related to me.

   And considering how little I know of some of my more distant relatives, that probably is true.

   But really, what are the odds?

a lot

   Last night the internet was down, so Ian and I each made a phone call to the front desk. After about the 4th or 5th ring, the call connected with a gravelly voice saying, Security.

  Oh--can you please connect me to the front desk? I asked, thinking I must have dialed the wrong number.

  Speaking, he answered, almost before I could get my request out.

  Oh. I guess that's one way to kill two birds with one stone.

  I told him our internet was down, hoping that since he was trained in both security and manning the front desk, this multi-faceted-tool of a man would know just what to do.

  I'll put in a request to maintenance and they can check on it tomorrow.

  Okay, I say, while thinking, So much for the multi-faceted-tool of a man getting things done around here.

  Or at least the things I want done.

  And so Ian and I were forced to simply talk last night, which wasn't so bad considering he is a very interesting individual with opinions on most matters. We did, however, agree that we would choose to live in a cardboard box with a fantastic internet connection over a fancy hotel with a single blue ethernet cable that does not even work.  

  Hopefully we will never actually be tested on this choice. 

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

  So yesterday was a day that had been looming in my mind for a while, since it was full of commitments. It started with actually waking up to an alarm, which is usually just reserved for matinee days or early flights. 

 * Now, for all of you so easily confused because I have mentioned manatees on this site before, please note that I said I wake up to an alarm on matinee days. Though, to be fair, your confusion could be warranted since the day I visited the manatees had me waking up to an alarm as well...

  But I went and taught a master class in the morning at Results Gym. It was filled mostly with men, which was surprising since the last one I taught was all women. 

  These people came from all different backgrounds; some had dance training, some had none but a ton of enthusiasm to make up for it. It was a joy to teach them, truly. 

  What was not a joy, was that since Fox news was taping the whole thing, I had to get wired into a mic. I was wearing my jazz pants that tend to be a little loose around the waist band which was exactly where they clipped the huge dinosaur of a mic pack onto me.  I kept being afraid that it would fall down, taking my pants--and therefore my dignity--with it and course the whole thing would be kindly documented by Fox news.  

  It didn't happen. I did end up holding it up--along with my pants--a lot, though, which probably looked pretty awkward but I assure you looked much much better than the alternative. 

 Fox news also interviewed me. At the onset of the interview I had to say my name, who I play in ACL, and what I was doing there. As soon as they started taping, of course my face started itching and so I reached up to scratch it...

  Um, apparently they don't want to interview people who look like they have horrible skin rashes.

  I don't know why.

  The Fox news lady was like, Ah, don't do that. And so they started again. Luckily I had only said about two sentences so it wasn't that much of an annoyance.

  But note to self: do not scratch anything when being interviewed on the news.  

  I think this is a good rule of thumb.   

   The rest of the interview went smoothly, and the master class was a joy. 

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

   Then I went to play a benefit concert for Habitat for Humanity and it was such a special time.  The man who hosted it is the owner of Results Gym here in DC and his house is amazing.

   Seriously.

   You walk in on this glass floor that makes one question whether they should be walking there at all, but since there is no other way in, you continue with trepidation. There is a koi pond underneath the glass with a waterfall as a backsplash. There is a heated pool on one of his many outdoor porches and an old fashioned elevator, complete with a super-hero costume inside, to lift the guests who don't feel like taking the stairs.  

  I don't think I have ever been inside a house like that before. 

  Oh, and there was a gorgeous grand piano in the spacious living room, which is what I got to play.

  And let me tell you, I certainly didn't mind it at all.

   Clyde, another cast member who writes music, and I were both asked to play two of our original songs. He went first on his guitar, and I went next on the piano. The audience was so attentive---they were poised and listening like we were telling them a secret that they didn't want to miss.  

  It was a fantastic experience; the only thing that made me sad is that we had to leave as soon as we played since we needed to get to the theater for work.  The bright side of that, however, was that a police escort had been arranged to take us to the stage door, so as to make sure we wouldn't get stuck in DC traffic.

  He had his lights flashing, we were going through red lights, and cars were moving out of our way--all to get some actors to the National Theater on time.

  It was fantastic, and a little bit funny, I must say. 

self portait

    I just realized that my computer has a camera...I am not gonna lie, I just spent the last half hour snapping pictures.

    Of myself. 

   By myself. 

   In a hotel room in DC...Pitiful, I know. Or maybe vain. 

  

   Probably both.  

   Anyway.

  Here I am, thinking very deeply. I am probably pondering the meaning of life, or trying to recall that Shakespeare sonnet I memorized years ago... 

  That is if I had memorized a Shakespeare sonnet years ago. Or ever.  

   And this is Broadway cheese, plain and simple, minus a gold hat and tails. Big smiles like this remind me of how, as a little girl, my pop always called me Wrinkle Nose when my face would split in a big grin. 
   There are some contenders that would say my pop called my sister Jenna Wrinkle Nose, but I maintain it started with me and became a repeat performance by the time my sister came along. 

   And the next--missing Drew? A little shy? A little bashful recalling how the last time we were together I broke out into tears because McDonald's had just stopped selling breakfast and McGriddles are some of my favorite guilty pleasures in the world.  

  

  Apparently they only serve breakfast till 11 on the weekends. And lucky for me it was a Tuesday. So I settled for chicken strips at 10:45 in the morning. 

  A little later, when I was halfway into those dry chicken strips, Drew asked me why I felt the need to lean over him and ask the drive-thru lady why they didn't serve breakfast until 11. He wondered, very appropriately (though I didn't see that at the time), what good could come of that. 

   My response? Tears. I was crying and there were little pieces of chicken flying out of my mouth and Drew earned a lot of credit by not laughing. Or being grossed out. Or telling me to grow up.

  I think the tears really came because I was sad to have to leave again. But eating chicken strips when I had enthusiastically prepared myself for a McGriddle was a huge disappointment.

  And here is the What the heck?! Am I really eating chicken strips for breakfast?! face. 

  Yeah, not cool.

    And then later on in the day, when I sent Drew a text, saying I was sorry for being such a wreck... 

   He just said, no problem. I miss you already.

   And this makes me glad, warm, content. 

  

    But McDonald's really should serve breakfast till 11 all the time. 

    Who has the time or wherewithal to keep track of whether or not it is the weekend?

the curtain

     Doing the same thing over and over again can lead you to be absurdly excited over the smallest variances. I am so grateful for my job, don't get me wrong, but when something happens differently from my expectations it can be most welcome.

   Not when it compromises the integrity of the show, mind you. 

   Never then.

   But let me give you an example of what I am talking about.

   A moving curtain. 

  Allow me to explain. While playing Detroit, things were...tough, to put it lightly. I had returned from a beautiful vacation in Southern California and instead of just going back to work (which, let's be honest, can be hard enough), I faced being back at work in the frozen and depressed area of the world that we kindly just call Detroit (instead of The-Frozen-And-Depressed-Area-Of-The-World, which might be kind of rude, considering the negative connotations that title could have on the people who actually do live there, let alone who try to entice others to actually visit them there).

     It was opening night and as I was standing on the line I happened to glance over to the right. To my utmost surprise, I saw that one of the wings was moving, seemingly of its own accord, back and forth, back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock. I kept on thinking it would stop, but to my delight, it did not. So whenever an actor on my right was featured, I was so happy since it meant that I could gaze at that moving curtain while making it seem like I was watching the onstage activity, you know, appropriately and all that. 

    That curtain moved with some sort of magic. It made me smile; it made me happy in an inexplicable way.  I told one of my friends in the cast about its brilliance and so he, too, started looking at the mysteriously moving curtain whenever he could. It became our secret, and accordingly, we gave each other knowing and covert glances because of it.  

   And the curtain kept moving throughout our shows there. We often talked about how that curtain was getting us through the shows despite the small houses and the deafeningly quiet response of the audience members who actually managed to afford a ticket, bless their hearts.  It moved side to side and somehow managed to move our hearts to buoyancy; call me crazy, but it's true.

  Until one day when we were at places.  In horror, my friend showed me the ugly clamp that bound that curtain to one place, that made what once was moving now so terribly dull and still.

  Just like every other curtain in our lives.

  We were so sad, we didn't know what to do. At any moment we were going to be called onto stage without the comfort of our curtain shifting its weight back and forth, moving like it was a thing alive. 

   Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

  

   My friend grabbed the clamp and removed it from the curtain entirely. He gave our curtain-friend a small push since it had been a captive for who knows how many hours and might need the go ahead to do its thing.  We hoped for the best and walked out onto the dark stage, ready to hear Zach yell again! right before the lights clue the audience in about us.

  And yes, when we looked to our right the curtain was moving. Just like it should. We both breathed a huge sigh of relief and knew that once again, all was right in our little world. 

  And we still don't know exactly what made that curtain move like it did, but we didn't need to. 

   We just loved the fact that it did.

a penny for your thoughts

   I am thinking so many things right now, thinking like it's my job and I get commission with each new thought.

   I wish I did.

   I am thinking of the comfort I find in the weight of Drew right beside me; the way that he, being heavier than me, causes a compression in the mattress that rolls me in toward him. Closer. And I am grateful for any thing that brings us closer.  When you're spending most nights on level and lonely mattresses, you learn not to be so picky. You learn to roll with it, ah, literally. 

  I am thinking of the quick pounce and sudden weight of a fat cat that just landed beside me on the bed. I love how cats seem to materialize from nowhere. I love how God gave them springs for legs.  

  I am thinking how today, I just barely got to glimpse some of my dearest friends, dearest family. I suppose I should be grateful to have seen them at all, but truly it wasn't enough. 

  I am thinking how performing a musical in a large theater is so very different from playing your own songs in a bar. The former makes me happy to tell somebody else's story, happy to be just a cog in a wheel that is much larger than me. It's especially nice when things don't feel so good within; when I am overwhelmed. Insecure. When I have forgotten that love is much more than a nice ideal, that it isn't really just nice at all--that it is a force, an impetus, a word that clues us in to the mystery of God not being able to look away from us despite our mess, a choice He made long ago when it came to us, when it came to our worth, because, what's that saying?

   God don't make no junk. 

   Although, I am pretty sure Drew might disagree. He might say that junk has a couple of different meanings and that yes, God certainly did make junk and that he is certainly glad for it. And if Drew was meaning what I might think he was meaning then I would say yes, I agree.  

   Ahem.

   But as I was saying, when I don't feel so great about life in general it's a welcome reprieve to just slip into Kristine Urich's story, do some steps without thinking so much, sing a harmony that is now second nature.  It's fun to go head over heels into her quirks, her idiosyncrasies, her life that is wrapped up in about two hours and five minutes.

   Not that I am counting.

  Not most nights, anyway.  

  But playing my own music, well that's just different. It's close to home, intimate, revealing. There is still a level of showmanship, sure; the pressure to entertain, absolutely, but you are coming from a much more base level. It's not so choreographed, which is nice for a change.

  And in a bar, you aren't just performing for the masses. People are close, you can see their faces, hear them talking, see what it is they just got with their sampler plate.  Instead of just a sea of faceless audience members, you are now playing for Joe who recently retired from the navy, got a bomber jacket and a pension he now trades for his pints because of it. You are singing for a couple on their first date; he thought a bar with live music was just the place; if the conversation was lulling they could simply listen for a while and try again at a quieter song. Anyway, you see these stories playing out before you and they become a part of the night, a part of what is happening right now and you're happy to score their stories with your music.  

  I really love playing my music for people. I really love musical theater... 

  I really want to do both. 

  One of the guys who worked at the East End told me, Listen, A Chorus Line sounds great and all--but you've got to do your own thing.  

  From his mouth to God's ears.

  Not that I don't love my job, because believe me--I really really do.