This is Drew

I'm checking in with you on behalf of Jess. Remember when she said she would always choose a cardboard box with wireless over some fancy hotel room with a whole lotta nothing in terms of wireless?

Right.

Well she is currently looking for a good cardboard box In downtown Hartford. If you know of any with wireless, be a pal and let us know...

sweet

Today I got to eat dinner with two very old friends who I had not seen for quite literally years and years.

Wait. These friends are not very old themselves, they are just from way back when. Just so we're clear.

Anyway, they came to the show and made me as jumpy and nervous as a person who hasn't been doing A Chorus Line for a year already. But hey, that really works for Kristine, so I went with it. They were waiting for me at the stage door afterward, and the three of us beamed together. They said kind things, couldn't believe I was so tall, and we all hugged, respectively.

We sat down to dinner and talked. It was like a floodgate had opened; we patched together our histories, clueing each other into our pasts with our words, laughing and sighing as only women can do.

A few hours later, dinner and dessert having come and gone, a waiter politely approached the table. Stumbling over his words, hesitating to really say it, we finally translated his half-sentences and awkward smiles to mean that they needed our table for their latest rush of patrons.

I tried to explain to him that we literally hadn't seen each other in years--but well, it was the dinner rush and we had sat through the length of two dinners already. It was time to go.

But it had been lovely.

And this is one of the best parts of touring. Reconnecting with friends. It is nothing short of serendipitous.

welcome, spring

Sometimes you are walking along Georgetown's cobblestone streets and you just need to stretch your hamstrings. Like, badly.

And the typical bend-over-and-touch-your-toes stretch just won't do.

So, like this guy, you lay down, make sure your head is touching the dirty ground,

and stretch.

You get the job done, and you get it done well. And if somebody happens to snap a photo of you, you don't notice because you are so busy getting your stretch on.

Ah, the first day of spring. This magnolia tree did herself up right pretty for this commemorative occasion.
And the first day of spring was made exponentially better by one of my best friends, Christine, joining me. We strolled around Georgetown taking in the boutiques and picturesque buildings all shoved together in a row.
And if you are ever in Georgetown you really have to visit Georgetown Cupcake. Every time I have passed by this little shop, there has been a line out the door to the point where you have to commit to patiently waiting before you can even set foot inside of it.
But let me tell you, the cupcakes do not disappoint. At all. I had a chocolate peanut butter concoction which was a safe bet since I pretty much salivate at the mention of any combination of chocolate and peanut butter.

But I wasn't ready for this. The icing was peanut butter flavored and as light and airy as mousse, piled high atop the cupcake--which was just a little concave, enabling one to still be eating the icing while eating the cake.

Brilliant.

And the actual cupcake was moist and delicious with the fantastic surprise of a touch of fudge within. Really, I will always remember that cupcake very fondly.

Oh right--and Christine doesn't go many places these days without her entourage. Meet sweet Madeline. She's really good at waving and grinning. I mean, she puts all of the rest of us to shame in those categories.
In fact, while I was with her today, I just gave up even trying to compete. She had it under control so I resorted to simply not getting in the way of the expert as she did her cute waving and grinning thing.

And rounding out the entourage quite nicely is super fun and inquisitive Noelle.
She had a ton of questions for me--namely, where were Drew, Percy, and Tally? I tried to tell her that they were probably at that moment all sleeping in a bed in Delaware, but since she asked me the same thing again a few minutes later, I am not sure she quite understood.

She also asked what country we were in. With my geographical deficiencies, I totally understood where she was coming from with that one.

Luckily Christine was there to set both of us straight concerning where, exactly, we were.

Georgetown is a sweet place.
And I don't just mean the cupcakes.

ah, thanks for the photo...

Yes, I realize that I am not the woman, not the baby, not the seal, and not the man.

Oh, and I don't personally know the woman, the baby, the seal, or the man.

Though I'd kind of like to get to know the seal--he looks friendly enough.

So why is this picture on my blog, you might wonder?

Well I just wondered the same thing--not about my blog, but about my inbox, cause I just discovered it there, with this message:

Dear Madam,

As requested, please find attached your photo with a seal.

Enjoy your photo.

Kind Regards, Bianca Harwood

Um, thanks?

Needless to say I am going to have to let Miss Harwood know that I never requested a photo of myself with a seal.

But maybe I should, now that I know who to ask.

it isn't all good

I know a guy who had his heart broken. The girl who had promised to marry him changed her mind and he was left in shambles. That winter he stopped wearing a coat.

This was not a Florida winter where it might get a little less balmy around Christmas, either; this was an east coast, the North side of the country, it gets-cold-all-up-in-here winter.

The snow would be falling around us outside while he remained in jeans and his white tee. And we noticed.

Finally, when one of us gently asked him why he didn't wear his coat anymore, he said--

The cold makes me feel alive in a time when nothing else really does.

This made sense. We let the subject drop and didn't ever tell him to put on a coat. He was fighting through his own darkness, if the cold made him feel better, far be it from us to keep him from it. His close friends would walk with him outside, their bundled defenses against the cold in stark contrast to his thin white tee; but still, they wanted him to know they were close and though they weren't a part of his broken hearted club, per se, they were a part of his life.

Whatever that meant for him, whatever that meant for them.

A person very dear to my heart miscarried. This was a baby she wanted, a baby she already loved. One day she walked with me outside, near where she and her husband had buried the tiny babe.

We talked of the child, we called him by name.

And then we both just wept; there were simply no words. No platitudes to absolve the sadness, the very idea of it offensive. Again, I was not a part of her club, but I saw her there and and decided to stand right next to her.

I recently found out the sad news that one of my favorite people on this tour is not coming back to finish out the last six months with us. I was crushed. The possibility of him not finishing the next six months with us had never crossed my mind; we had talked about Japan and the wonder that would be. I just assumed it would happen. With all of us together.

He told me right before the show started and I cried. To me, it is a very sad thing. Later, when all of the others found out his news, too, a person came up to me and said,

I know why you were crying the other night, I talked to [name] too.

Oh, so you know he isn't coming back? Isn't that so sad? I asked.

She looked me right in the eye and said in a maddeningly pragmatic manner, It's the business. It's just how things work.

I got a little passionate and responded, I don't care. It sucks and I am emotionally upset and I will miss my friend. I said this slowly and deliberately, for some reason it was important that each word was clearly understood.

I could have used a kind word, something that told me that even if she wasn't necessarily upset by the news, she had seen me crying and wanted to let me know that my sadness made her sad.

It would have been nice. Much nicer than being talked out of it...

I guess my point is that sometimes we just need to sit next to each other in our pain. Wait together for the first streak of dawn to fight through the present darkness but, in the meantime, acknowledge that it's real. That it hurts. That our bruised hearts are validated. Sometimes we just need to walk quietly next to the friend who needs to feel the biting cold. We need to cry with the friend who will never know one of her babies--not here, anyway, not now.

I think that is basically what this proverb means--

Like one who takes away a garment on a cold day,

or is like vinegar poured on soda,

is one who sings songs to a heavy heart.

Because sometimes silence, or tears, or just plain agreement works much better than any kind of happy song we could try to sing.

Now maybe if you wanna sing the blues, or some sad ballad--well now, that's a different story...

every little step

Today our producer, John Breglio, gave us a private screening of the documentary film, Every Little Step.

Honestly, I didn't quite know what to expect. I know that they had been working on it for a while, starting with having cameras in the audition room, catching all the moments--good and bad--of the actors trying to get a spot on the line for the Broadway revival of A Chorus Line. They zeroed in especially on a few of them, making you really feel for them when they get the job. Or don't.

I especially did because I've been there--in both places.

And the thing is, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I was captivated the entire time. Not bored one second, and intrigued throughout.

The aspect of the documentary that I love is that the film gives the opportunity for all people from every walk of life to be a fly on the wall at a Broadway audition. I don't know that you can fully understand what kind of nerve it takes to walk into a small box of a room, stand in front of a table with 4 people, all of whose faces are arranged in mild disinterest sitting behind it, and just sing for your life. Convince them that even though they already saw ten women who are just as talented as you, there is something special about you.

And oh yeah, even though it is 10 am, will you please belt your face off?

And how about doing the jazz combination that you have already done twenty times today and that has made your quads feel more like quivering piles of meat than actual muscles that can keep you standing and lunging and then standing again--well, can you do that one more time?

And by one more time, of course they mean five.

Auditioning is just as much a part of my job as performing, and it is very very hard.

And the truth is that most of the time you get a resounding chorus of No's but that one Yes makes wading through all those No's absolutely and one hundred percent worth it.

This documentary also gives you a feel for the origin of A Chorus Line. It shows footage from the original show back in the 70's; you also hear the reels from the taping session in which the dancers share their lives--what eventually brought them to the stage, at times in a heartbreaking manner--that Michael Bennett did way back when. And there, you hear the fodder for all of the real life stories that now make up A Chorus Line, sometimes even word for word.

When Michael Bennett says to a small group of dancers in 1975, I want to know about your lives; I think we are all pretty interesting. I am not sure what will come of this, but whatever it is, it will be called A Chorus Line, I got chills.

Watching it made me so proud to be a part of this show. It's just plain exciting. It also made me feel truly grateful because honestly, there are other actresses who could play my role and play it well but somehow, I convinced them that I was special.

Wow.

So really--go see this. You'll love it, I think. It opens in L.A. and NYC on April 27th, but then will get released to all major theaters after that. It's a great piece of history as well as a glimpse into behind the scenes on Broadway.

Sort of like in Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood when Mr. Rogers would take you to the bowling alley to see what happens after the bowling ball rolls out of sight and the pins get knocked over--only way way better.

no snakes, thanks to St. Patty! and other thoughts

There is an awful lot of green here in DC.

I did my best to join in the festivities by wearing my white t-shirt that says in bold, green block letters:

Little Green Tee

Honestly, it wasn't very hard to do since it is one of my favorites and I basically wear it every week anyway.

Oh, I also made a big contribution to this day by marrying a man who was born on St. Patrick's Day. And he's Irish. Not like should-be-in-Billy-Elliot-right-now Irish or anything, but still, more Irish than any of us in the Latshaw clan.

I mean, we have the Italian thing down for sure, but we just aren't Irish. Nothing personal.

But I figured wearing my shirt, combined with marrying Drew makes me festive today.

So don't ever say I don't support...

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

As an actress, it can be very tempting to rely on the audience for feedback. And I don't mean hanging around the front of the theater directly after the show as the audience is pouring out, hoping to get recognized and applauded up close and personal--no, I mean gauging their response during the actual show.

Being painfully aware of their presence while you are the one in the spotlight.

Or wonderfully aware of it, as the case may be.

Hanging on their applause. Their laughter. Their silence.

I know we aren't supposed to go for the laughs. But let me tell you, making an audience laugh can give you such a high--so you can imagine how easy it is to get to the place where you do, in fact, go for the laugh.

Especially if you have found something that works. A certain way you say something, a certain look you make--well, if it works, then why not do it again? And if that works? Then maybe you have a bit...you know, some shtick that cracks people up, and that is gold.

But the thing is you cannot rely too heavily upon the audience's reaction. Because it changes. You might not change a single thing about your performance, but on Wednesday night you could get hoots and hollers and on Thursday night you get a big fat silence. Or you know, polite applause. Or something that never ceases to amaze me--just the person sound asleep in the front row where they can clearly be seen and clearly do not realize it. And if you are anywhere near me if I am one day sitting in the front row of a live performance (I don't care if it is the JCC putting on Fiddler on the Roof or if it's the opening of the latest Broadway show) and I happen to fall asleep, for the love of all that is good, wake me up.

Please.

But anyway, you could really go crazy deciding whether or not you are good enough by the audience's praise or lack thereof. And you might just end up changing your mind a lot.

Right, so it can all be quite confusing.

Which is why I try to take it all in stride...Um, try being the operative word.

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

And remember this post?

Well, I am a very curious person. It's in my nature to ask questions, to find out how people feel about something; what they think about this or that.

And when it is pertaining to me?

Come on.

Anyway, like I had previously mentioned, I replied to the person who had written a message that felt (to me, anyway) judgemental. Especially since there was no dialogue precipitating it, no hey how are you? to sort of let me speak my heart to her before she decided what kind of person I am.

I waited for a while and got nothing in response which frustrated me since, if she really wanted to help me find my way back to God, as she put it, then why wouldn't she show me she cared for me?

So, I sent her a short message:

Hey--I was just wondering if you had received my response to your message. I hadn't heard from you...Hope things are well for you and your family! --Jessica

And in what had to be close to about five minutes after the time I sent it, I received this:

Yes I did. We are very blessed. Hope all is well with you.

In my prayers, So-and-So

Oh.

So I guess she doesn't care to talk to me. And again, I got a little bit sad about it because if she had felt compelled by some sort of compassion to write to me in the first place wouldn't that same compassion make her a). rejoice that, whether she believes me or not, I do at least think I have a relationship with God? or b). want to keep talking to me so that she can shed some further light on me, or at the very least be friendly towards another soul?

I just really don't understand people sometimes.

But I guess that isn't necessarily my job.