bedhead.

So.

I don't have hair that I can braid.

I can't put it in a pony tail.

No way it's going into a bun.

There will be no romantic tendrils softly falling from the nape of my neck.

No curling it. Or straightening it, for that matter.

But.

When it comes to bedhead...

I totally take the cake.

If I do say so myself.

*These pics were taken right when I got up this morning, so please don't judge. Unless of course it's to compliment my bedheadedness.

and then it was monday

After finally boarding a delayed plane at the Providence Airport this afternoon, stopping for a three minute dash from gate to gate at BWI, and then boarding the plane to Pittsburgh just in time, the big question was--would our luggage make it?

So it was with some relief that I saw this.

Can you guess which one is mine?

And like a naive fool who simply trusts too much in spring and the warmth that should bring, I left my winter coat and other such wraps at home, discarding them in anticipation of days that look something like this.
Yeah, I realize we are in PA. And, although I grew up in this state, at dinner tonight I still asked my friend Brandon if Pittsburgh is on the water. Sometimes I need to just think a few seconds more before I actually let a question transfer from thought to words.

Or sometimes I just need to learn geography.

Anyway, I fully realize that there are no bordering oceans to this grand state, as pictured above, but still I dream of blue skies and days that call for nothing so much as tank tops and shorts. Maybe jeans--but just for their fashion, rather than their warmth.

And instead, I landed early this evening to a day that looked a lot closer to this.
Luckily the theater is literally right around the corner from our hotel. And if this weather persists, I can guarantee that I will be walking briskly. Maybe even running. Seriously, my coat is not warm.

But I don't care about coats or the lack thereof so much. I can deal with the cold, it won't last forever and layering is totally in. What is hard to deal with is this feeling of just totally, always, constantly, sometimes even hopelessly missing this guy. Even when I'm mad at him.
It's funny, he has a beard now. Well, an on-and-off one, at least. I am not altogether sure if he does have a beard at this exact moment or not, to be honest. He can basically not have a beard on Monday and have one by Tuesday if he so desires and that is absolutely a skill of which I will never be jealous.

But that's not the funny part.

What's funny is that the first time I ever laid eyes on him he definitely had a beard. And that was that. I didn't give him one more look--or thought--because in my mind, a guy should not have a beard unless he is forty or wants to appear forty or owns forty cats or is aspiring to have forty wives, Big Love style.

Just kidding about the cats and the wives.

Anyway.

My brother would talk him up to me, but I would not be able to get past that darned beard. I just wasn't so interested. Until...

I turned around in church one day and was surprised by this handsome young man, standing closer to me than I had anticipated. And I didn't mind the proximity one bit. I just stood and stared for a second, then two, then three; I stared at this newly clean-shaven guy in a crisp white button up shirt who was meeting my gaze with a kind of directness that I could appreciate.

Especially since it was coming from someone who had finally turned my head.

I simply said hi and he responded with that same stupidly short word that started something eternal, something that encompasses our lives.

So last night, I was writhing under the influence of a horrible headache and sent him this text at 3:50 am,

I miss you. My head hurts so bad that

it's making my stomach nauseous. I wish

we didn't feel so distant. Life feels kind of sad

now. I wish I had medicine. For everything.

The truth is that life feels better today. Much better. It usually does once you get past the 3:50-am-writhing-in-pain-missing-your-fave-someone-and-generally-just-doubting-your-life stage of the night. And thankfully, that stage doesn't come upon me often.

But when it does, I know that it will pass.

That it will give way to a clearheadedness not unlike clairvoyance. And though I might not see the evidence of what I hope for at the moment, my hope still grows, even strengthens, because every moment that passes without the evidence of what I hope for, brings me closer to it.

May it be so.

Oh, and p.s. I have since changed my stance on beards for men under forty; I no longer have a problem with them.

in which I try to stay present

It's funny, people are often under the impression that I am very busy.

I'm not; I'm just not around. Unless, of course, you happen to be in Providence right now. Or Pittsburgh tomorrow. Or Chicago for the next three weeks after that.

The truth is that, for five days out of the week I am really not so busy. Just one show a day is a sweet schedule. It's not very hard in the sense that you do it once and it's over. Everything you do during the show you can check off your mental checklist as done for the day.

And for those of us who like to get things done, it's a really nice feeling.

But then comes Saturday morning and I start to feel like I am standing at the bottom of a mountain, looking up. And up and up and up. I have four shows to do in the space of two days. No matter how hard I try, how well I do, I simply have to do the same thing over again in a few hours.

And that is a tough one. It's a a crazy dichotomy; one whole half of my work week is squished into just two days. Four shows are danced upon the same two tired feet; I take my foot and touch it to the back of my head during my monologue four times; I "learn" the one's combination (over and over again, at that) four times; I sing badly four times...You get the picture.

So it's really hard to stay fresh by, say, the last show. The redundancy of what you are doing gets to you by then. And it can drive you a little crazy.

Which is why I try my hardest to stay present. Seriously, it is the only way to survive. If I go into the Saturday matinee thinking about all four shows looming over my head, I would be overwhelmed. Instead, I take it, quite literally, one step at a time.

First step, warm up for the show. No biggie. I've been doing this for years--stretching, doing some ballet barre, push-ups. I can do this; heck, it kind of even feels good. Then, yeah, make-up. I kind of like putting make-up on because it's like painting, or at least drawing. And I am not a painter, but I have, upon occasion, liked to draw. And when I get into costume at five before places, I am feeling ready to step onto that stage.

Because, that's the only thing being demanded of me imminently. Just walk on stage, nothing to it.

And so on and so forth. Do one thing at a time, throw myself into it, and the next thing seems to come of its own volition. And all the anticipation and anxiety melts away as I simply just do whatever it is I need to in the moment.

Which is also the way I try to live my life, rather than dreading whatever it is that's next. Or missing what is now simply because all I can think of is what is next.

But I will say I do cherish my Sunday nights and love the feeling that comes with a shiny brand new show-less Monday in the not too far future...

paint the rocks with happy endings

When we were in Portland Maine I saw this...
...and it haunted me. I was literally struck by that statement, held still by its finality.

The contrast of the white script against the aged rock stood out like a brand. And the fact that somebody obviously and carefully repaints those words every year--like how one tenderly plucks the weeds from a loved one's gravestone--made me think how much this Annie C. Maguire was loved. And missed.

Because of course I thought she was a girl.

I wondered how she came to be shipwrecked on Christmas Eve so long ago, alone on the moody seas. Could she man a ship by herself? Or was she simply rowing a small boat, trying to get home before Christmas?

Hoping to get to the bottom of the story, I researched it and found out that Annie C. Maguire was not, in fact, a woman.

But she was a she.

A ship, actually.

A nice tall ballasted ship with many sails like the one from the Goonies.

And I was relieved to read how on that Christmas long ago, many families and friends received good news:

The Annie C. Maguire was headed for Portland Harbor coming from Buenos Aires, Argentina, when it hit the rocks at Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth on December 24th, 1886. The lightkeeper, Joseph Strout and his family were able to get a line to the mortally wounded ship and bring safely ashore all of the people on the ship...

I love happy endings.

And I am never going to stop believing in them.

So let's keep painting the rocks in their honor.

Not every rock, though, because that could get old.

PDA

I went to the bank today. And because it was both payday and the lunch hour, I got to spend a good amount of time in a line made up of everybody else in Providence who also had the same great idea.

And it was in this line that I observed the interactions of others. Specifically, a couple directly in front of me. Now, without passing any judgements, let me just give you the facts.

• Fact: the man was probably sixty years old, had greasy grey hair slicked straight back revealing a tired, pockmarked forehead, was wider than he is taller, was wearing an oversized leather jacket that hung to his thighs, and gave an altogether slovenly appearance.
• Fact: the woman was somewhere in her thirties, had plain brown hair pulled straight back into a tight bun, pretty blue eyes set far back in her face, skin that has grown a little more slack with each passing year, was dressed in too-small capri sweatpants and a large sweatshirt and oh yeah, had no teeth.

So those were the facts, the hard cold facts. Doesn't matter so much what they looked like, true, but I did want you to have a visual.

Maybe it was the age difference, but I actually didn't assume they were together until well, she leaned in and started kissing him full on the mouth. And apparently that was just the beginning. Cause more often than I would have liked, they'd pause in their conversation and start communicating without words, if you know what I mean.

They were very into each other.

Trust me, I know.

Oh, and all of this was done in front of his grown up daughter. At least that's who I gathered she was from the repeated hugs from behind she gave him.

So with a toothless lady kissing him in front and a daughter hugging him from behind, they were quite a spectacle. Can you blame me for not being able to look away, really?

But don't get me wrong, it was awkward.

Which leads me to my question for all of you:

What do you think about PDA?

Cool? Not cool? Does it depend on where you are? In a corner of a club, while a phat beat is thumping--is it alright then? When you are at church, do you limit it to a sensible side-hug, no longer than 2 seconds, three maybe, but only if you haven't seen the person for a while? While waiting in line at a crowded bank, do you always have to steal some kisses, just like Ben Harper does?

Or as I learned today, does that become a little impromptu show that is best reserved for privacy?

I gotta be honest with you--I am not a huge fan of PDA, in general. I grew up with parents who love each other, sure, but we barely every saw that love displayed romantically.

For which we are very very grateful.

So, lay it on me. PDA: okay? or no way?

Or is there a beautiful balance to be found somewhere in the middle?

rainy thursday

The sun has been well hidden for the last few days.

I enjoy a good rainy day, I really do. It's when it becomes rainy days that I start feeling restless inside. A little down. A little bit like losing myself in a good book and finding myself in someone else's story.

But the nice thing about the rain is that it keeps me indoors. Specifically, inside the theater, playing the piano. At first I wasn't feeling it so much, barely even inspired enough to finish playing through one of the songs that I have already written. It's like I needed to say something new.

Because maybe nothing I had written before fit this particular rainy Thursday.

So I started searching through different chord progressions. And then I hit it. Yes, the C suspended to the A flat was just perfect. I finally knew what to say, knew what questions to ask. I might not get the answers now--or ever--but there is a peace in being able to articulate what it is I am even wondering.

What it is I am wanting.

There is almost nothing like the feeling of writing music. When a song goes from a single chord or a small thought and shapes into a life of its own with a body and a point and a bridge, I can feel like I am lucky enough to be included. But, it's also work. Like sitting there, pencil in hand, wondering what the heck it is that I am trying to freaking say work.

Wondering if I should change this chord. If the lyrics are interesting. If they're too vague. If it only makes sense to me. If any of this matters.

Like I said, work.

And when I first write a song, I am so close to the piece that I have almost no objectivity. Like a newborn child, I find it beautiful; it's newness to me is exciting, untested, the latest best thing. I think it was Billy Joel who said,

I love every one of my songs. Like children, some of them may grow up to be famous, and some not, but I love them all regardless.

I get that sentiment. But I certainly do like some of my songs better than others. Which brings me to the fact that one of my songs is going to be on some compilation cd produced by a company called Quickstar Productions. They sell it on Amazon and itunes, so that's cool.

And wouldn't you know it that they approached me about the song that I least like.

Figures.

But still, it's mine and I am proud of it. I just sort of wish I could re-record it or something.

But I can't, it's done, and that's that.

Anyway, I will let you know when the cd is available for purchase, in case any of you are interested in buying one.

What are some of your favorite rainy-day activities?

a year and counting

Happy Anniversary to me.

As of yesterday, I have now been doing A Chorus Line for a year.

A Year.

Who'd have thought?

I know with most careers, doing one job consecutively for a year does not seem like such a big deal--but, in this business it is. It's kind of like dog years to people years, I guess; Musical theater being the former and other jobs that don't involve leotards on a regular basis being the latter.

Last year at this time I was living on Broadway and Dyckman, in Manhattan. I basically lived off of yogurt, cereal, fruit snacks, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, toast, fried egg sandwiches, and Ben and Jerry's ice cream--all of which I found in the corner grocery store in Inwood. I couldn't get much more since I had to carry it the five or six blocks back to the apartment. Oh--I also lived off of plenty of water and water is heavy.

Which is why I may have been a little dehydrated--not wanting to carry as much as I probably should have.

I remember Drew spending the night with me before my rehearsals started at the New 42nd Street Studios; and especially the cold and scared feeling that gripped me as I forced myself to walk away from him and towards the subway in order to catch the A train express that next morning.

Our head of wardrobe had just contacted me to tell me to go to the shoemaker's before our first rehearsal. This scared me since, not only was I going to a new place to do a brand new thing--I now had to navigate through the city to squeeze in another new place before I got to the new place I had already been anticipating.

Turns out my sense of direction gets no better in a big city. I got lost, and rather than be late for my first day of work, I skipped the shoemaker altogether and booked it to 42nd street.

At which point I jumped into the elevator and, arriving at the right floor, ran around the corner straight into someone who looked oddly familiar...After almost knocking him over with all the grace and subtlety of a newborn colt, I stuck my hand out and said, Hi, I'm Jessica. To which he replied, I'm Mario.

Oh right. Mario Lopez. Of course he looked familiar; I had only spent hours and hours watching he, Zack, Screech, and the gang do their thing on Saved By the Bell.

Stupid, stupid.

I quickly told him it was nice to meet him and got out of there.

The first thing we had to do was fill out some forms while listening to our union rep drone on and on about 401 k's and percentages and other such mind-numbing topics. Yes, these things are important and I am grateful that they do, as of this past year, apply to me.

But they tend to bore the heck out of me.

And I tend to be very good at going somewhere else in my mind and missing the lecture completely.

Then we sat in a large circle (which included the whole creative team, our producer, the general manager, the press reps, the head of wardrobe, the company managers, the stage managers, etc.) and went around one at a time introducing ourselves as well as naming our roles.

I sat there counting the people until my turn, not being so good at listening to them since I was so darned nervous about what I was going to say.

I know, I know--I literally had to say all of two sentences: My name is Jessica Latshaw. I will be playing the role of Kristine.

But judging from the way my heart was wildly beating, you'd think that I had to give an inaugural speech. Or at least recite a little of what I had learned from the 401k speech I had not listened to. And if that were the case, it would have been even shorter than the aforementioned two sentences I was already preparing.

But I said my bit and it was fine. I think I may have even smiled as a bonus. I stared around the room, not knowing a soul, not knowing the people with whom I would build this show and ultimately become friends with.

Goodness, what a difference a year can make.