Anyway.

Today was an interesting, sunny day.

Lots of people out and about.

I mean, it is New York City. The place is jam-packed with people. That’s partly why I love it. Humans are fascinating, I think. Never boring. Especially not today.

First, there is the guy outside Penn Station. He comes out of nowhere and envelopes me in a huge hug. My sense of boundaries are pushed and prodded with that one, I have to admit. But he is nice enough. Says something about my smile and the angels. But then he mentions football, so I am confused. Maybe he is still high on the super bowl win or something, I don’t know.

Then, there is the guy in midtown, on seventh avenue. Looks to be somewhere in his fifties. A business man, dressed up and stuff.

He slowly walks up to me. “You are so exotic,” he tells me, making this Pennsylvania born and bred girl laugh a little. “I just love your sense of style, too,” he mentions, and I thank him. “You’re from here?” he asks, and I nod my head, not wanting to delve into where I’m from with him, so here suits me just fine. Sure, I’m from seventh avenue today. 

“Well,” he continues, “You probably want some young guy–with muscles and all that–but that’s overrated.”

I just listen.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asks, before saying, “If I give you my number and promise you that I will be the best white b*tch you’ve ever had, will you call me?”

Is this happening? I wonder and then realize he’s actually waiting for an answer.

Waiting for me to either accept or refute his offer to be the BEST WHITE B*TCH I’VE EVER HAD. I am not sure there’s any competition; I am not sure, in fact, that I’ve ever even had one, to be honest.

I quickly mumble something about how my *boyfriend* would not like that.

The guy leans in and lowers his voice, “But he wouldn’t have to know,” he tells me, like we two could share the best secret known to man.

Oh, what fun.

“That wouldn’t work for me,” I tell him. “I’m honest.”

He looks disappointed and starts to walk away, but before he does, he asks, “Your boyfriend–how old is he?

“Twenty-seven,” I say, pulling a number out of the air.

He shakes his head. “You shoulda been with a twenty-seven year old when you were in high school,” he mutters as he makes his exit.

I don’t think my parents would agree with that sentiment.

And that might have been the weirdest exchange I’ve had with a stranger to date. Or at least, it’s in the top three, I’d say.

Gosh, best white b*tch I’ve ever had. 

And I walked away, folks; just walked away.

THANK GOD.

The music stuff. That’s official. The advice on my love-life? Well, that’s a bonus.

And he’s not the only wonderful guy handing out advice to me lately.

“Are you working on any new songs, Jess?” my pop asks, nonchalantly.

“Yep.”

“Are they sad songs about heartache?” he says, still playing at nonchalance.

“Uh…I guess…kinda…”

“Well, you better find another guy to break your heart soon…I mean, that gives you quite a lot of material,” he says, laughing now. And I am, too, cause we joke about everything in my family. You have to. Otherwise you’d be crying too much, I think.

But I wouldn’t mind a guy who doesn’t break my heart, if it’s all the same to you. 

I visited Rosa’s today with some friends. Rosa’s is a wonderful little Italian restaurant around the corner from my parents’ house. It has the best barbecue chicken pizza I’ve ever had. I am a little obsessed with it. Seriously. My friend Christian gets a little frustrated with me about it, because, I have literally arrived back from Japan and he’s all, “Let’s get lunch! On me! I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go–ANYWHERE.”

I’m all, “Great. Rosa’s, then,” without missing a beat.

And he sighs. Because I think he is expecting me to say something a little fancier or a little less around the corner from where he works. every. day (of the week), or a little–well, not Rosa’s.

But, anyway, I have gained a reputation there for my taste in their pizza. So much so, that they haven’t bothered learning my name. No need, because they have their own for me. Something I realized when I was singing at a bar and the guys from Rosa’s happened to be there, too. They were like, “Barbecue Chicken? We had no idea you could sing like that!”

I was all, Barbecue Chicken? I had no idea you called me that! 

Anyway, today I get a facebook message from Andre, who works at Rosa’s. It says: ‘Barbecue Chicken! Someone posted a video on my wall last week of a girl playing and rapping and singing on the subway–I thought it was great, but only just realized it was you, after you came into the shop today! Way to go, Barbecue Chicken!’

Oh man.

Barbecue Chicken.

I’m kind of honored.

And it could be worse.

My favorite pizza could be extra cheese.

The time goes so quickly; the stars shine with this polished brilliance, like the sky has no wish for any traveler to be turned away, and it burns every last lamp to prove it.

“It’s good to have you home,” my mom tells me.

And then she asks me if the clothes on the pool table are mine. “I don’t think so,” I reply, really hoping it’s so–since I don’t have enough space for the clothes I have that are already accounted for.

“Well, they must be,” she reasons. “The jeans are skinnier than my arms and the underwear is very small and strange.”

My mom has a way with words. 

And so I take the ‘very small and strange’ underwear she hands me; I find a place for the super skinny jeans and realize that I guess I did leave some clothes on the pool table, after all.

And, oh! Did I tell you how, the other night, I dreamt (not once, but TWICE!) that I sang on the Ellen Show?

Because I did.

And I don’t normally remember my dreams so viscerally, but this one, I do.

I was right about to walk onto that stage where the couch and the coffee table sit . And there is Ellen, looking adorable in her tailored trousers and cute button down shirt, when I hear this announcement:

AND THIS IS JESSICA LATSHAW. SHE GOES AROUND SINGING, “BABY, YOU AIN’T MY FRIEND.” SHE MUST BE VERY ISOLATED AND HAVE NO FRIENDS.

It sounded like the announcer felt sorry for me, and, honestly, I did, too, once I heard what he said.

But the good news is that I have many friends and don’t feel isolated at all. In fact, I love a little bit of alone time now and then–it’s akin to breathing–meaning, I find it absolutely necessary. And who knows? Maybe I will sing on the Ellen Show at some point. I mean, as my friend John says: miracles happen, so why not to me? That would certainly make my sister pretty excited. And, who am I kidding, it’d make me pretty excited, too.

Speaking of my sister, isn’t she beautiful?

Yes, I think so, too.

That happened today, in fact.

And what a dance it did.

It was so very beguiling, actually, that I left my apartment with bare legs underneath my dress. Which was a good idea for about five minutes. Then, I realized it was kind of still too cold for that kind of nonsense. Luckily, I had grabbed a pair of leggings and shoved them in my bag, anticipating this kind of wardrobe regret.

I was on my way to meet with a lawyer.

(yes, I am suing SO MANY PEOPLE; in fact, I stopped at McDonald’s on the way and intentionally burnt my tongue on their coffee. Cause I am smart and crafty. I am also totally joking. I am not suing a soul, promise; it’s music stuff. I am suing music. For being so awesome. I am still kidding. And still in this parenthetical statement. Until now)

But I was meeting with a lawyer, and I didn’t want to show up looking stupid in my short dress without anything on my legs. Plus: I was cold. So, there I was on 8th Ave, having just come up from the subway, and looking for a place to quickly put my leggings on under my dress.

I didn’t find anything that screamed, COME CHANGE HERE! NOBODY WILL SEE!, so I just decided to slip into those pants as fast as I could on the sidewalk. I am used to such things–quick changes and trying clothes on in the aisles of the Salvation Army, since it has no dressing rooms.

I get it done so fast. Nobody sees a thing. Nobody sees anything inappropriate, anyway. They might see a person putting on pants, but beyond that, it was an innocuous moment that ended with me much warmer and my legs much happier.

I need to get to 5th Avenue, so I ask the first guy I see which direction that is.

“Were you just…changing?” he asks, completely side-stepping my question.

“Uh…yeah, I guess I was,” I answer.

“Cause I just said to myself, ‘There’s a beautiful woman. Changing. On 8th Avenue,” he says, laughing a little.

“Um, thanks for calling me beautiful, and my legs were cold, and I didn’t really change, per se, just added a layer–but do you know which way 5th Avenue is?” I say, ending in my initial question, cause I still don’t know.

“Yeah, I’ll walk you in that direction,” he says, crossing the street with me and pointing me towards 5th Avenue.

He hesitates before he leaves, so I stop, too. “Look,” he says, “I gotta do this–” and he hands me his card. “I’m a fan of you now and I’d really like to have coffee sometime. Call me?”

I laugh as I walk towards 5th Avenue. I realize that I do really strange things sometimes, like (sort of ) change on 8th avenue. Someday I will be closer to normal, I promise. Oh, who am I kidding, no I won’t. Probably not ever.

Because it doesn’t exist.

He had told me that he played the organ and something about the vowel sounds in organ made me think of the word accordion, and so, when I ran into him a little bit later by happenstance, I asked, “Oh! is THAT your accordion, then?”

Looking at the black, rectangular speaker that he was rolling around via dolly, he quietly answered, “It’s actually a speaker.”

I know that. I KNOW that. I know the difference between a speaker and an accordion. Oh, man.

But, that’s not nearly as bad as last night, when I asked a sweet lady the question that I know nobody should ask. Not unless you actually SEE a baby crowning, do you assume a woman is pregnant.

But, what did I do last night? After I played at the Cake Shop, I met a couple who just missed my performance because a cab driver had gotten them lost (and they aren’t from the city). Often, I try to talk to people about themselves; I don’t like all the attention on me, so I will include their lives in the conversation. So I said, “Oh my gosh! And you’re pregnant?!”

“No…I just had a baby…”

What do you say then? JUST KIDDING? You can’t. I ran right on ahead to the congratulations part of the conversation, but still.

I KNOW NOT TO ASSUME THAT.

Just like I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SPEAKER AND AN ACCORDION.

Now to actually act like I know these things, I suppose.

Oh well, the good (and random) news is that my sheets are clean. And so are my clothes at the moment.

Tomorrow is one of those days that is a bit of a doozy. A good doozy, don’t get me wrong, but a doozy, nonetheless. I have a rehearsal for an industrial gig for TDBank from 6-10 pm (which I am in charge of! Hello, my name is Jessica and I hardly like to be in charge of anything. Except maybe decorating my family’s Christmas tree. And, okay, some baking projects)–and right after that, I have to run on over to Sleep No More’s Story Telling concert in which I am getting all fancified up for in a vintage dress, some fishnets, and heels (thanks for the kicks, Bets!). While there, I will sing some songs–one of them being an eminem song on the ukulele. Another one being Sweet Child of Mine on the uke. And then another in which I get to play the piano (thank goodness!) and am just singing some background vocals (thank goodness again!).

I am actually really excited for it. Collaborating with other musicians–super talented musicians–is like getting to share the wealth. Wealth being music, in this case.

Hopefully, during this doozy of a day I will not say anything extraordinarily ignorant, rude, or stupid.

Here’s hoping.

A very kind lady did my makeup for the pre-shows fashion event tonight. “I have googled you,” she told me, upon first meeting. “It does not look like you wear much makeup–are you comfortable with me doing your makeup?”

I assured her that I was.

And she got to work.

And then a very sweet Japanese man did my hair.

It was nice to sit back and let other people take care of me, actually. And this is what they did:

They also put me in a dress. Courage B is the designer. And they let me keep it. And I totally would have, too–had someone not stolen it. Which sucks, but what are you gonna do, right? I didn’t have that dress yesterday, so not having that dress tomorrow won’t be that different, anyway.

Here’ s a picture of me playing (in case you couldn’t figure that out). Oh man. I had to walk the catwalk to get to the stool and microphone to sing. People were so kind and cheering. Plus, I didn’t fall or even trip. Added bonus.

The mic situation was trying, though. They only had one and nothing to plug my uke into, so I had to somehow use one microphone for both my voice and my uke. I hunched over like some sort of creature to get my voice and uke as close together as possible for the mic to pic it up, and then I BELTED THE HECK OUTTA THOSE SONGS.

Here’s me and my wonderful, completely lovely friend Jes.

One of the best parts of the night was that two of my dear friends came with me.

And here is me and beautiful Bets.

Oh! Also, I had an awesome rehearsal in Brooklyn today with some AMAZING musicians I am collaborating with for the Sleep No More show on Monday. I feel so lucky to play my ukulele with these guys. Their groove and vibe is just plain dreamy. In a musical sense of the word. Plus they have a HUGE STUFFED LION in their apartment, just chilling. And they call him Aslan. Um, what’s not to love about that situation?

I met a kind Italian man who spoke to me for a while tonight. Considering the music was thumpin’ and his accent was pronounced, I did a lot of smiling and nodded without totally understanding what it was, exactly, I was smiling and nodding about, unfortunately. But, there were two things that stand out from that conversation:

1). I kept thinking that maybe my Italian grandfather (who passed away before I arrived on the scene, but worked in 30 Rock as the senior VP of RCA) sounded a bit like this guy, and the thought warmed my heart.

and

2). At one point I noticed liquid pouring down the side of his pants. I was really afraid that I was witnessing him peeing during our conversation…Until, with some relief, I realized that he was just holding his bottle of beer upside down. Thank goodness that’s what it was.

I don’t understand what it is that makes strangers talk to me, but it happens all the time. Just now, when I was about to walk down to the subway, a man blurts out to me, “My wife hates me.”

I stop; those are powerful words, after all.

“I doubt that,” I say. But now that I think about it, I shouldn’t doubt that statement. Many husbands and wives end up hating each other. Love fades so easily. It’s the perfectly healthy, stout little frog that jumped into my very messy closet when I was a little girl. Poor thing had no chance in that maze of clothes with no food or water. I found a sad pile of little frog bones much, much later.

We wonder why, after we’ve hopped blindly into a dark closet–away from any and all nourishment–we find our relationships no longer in tact. Not that I’m an expert. If I’m an expert at anything, it’s finding the frog skeleton. Someday I’d like to find the healthy little frog; someday I’d like to say LOOK! I KEPT HIM ALIVE! And then live happily ever after. I’ll even do the dishes. Well, when I remember. But I probably won’t mow the lawn and I definitely won’t watch tv every night. Sorry, there are just some things I will not do.

The details of our lives are so good at keeping things in perspective, huh? So many people–mostly those who I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting in real life–tell me to please “keep it real.” And maybe these people don’t realize that I am the girl who walks around with a large chunk of cheese in her bag. Sure, it’s because I met friends at Whole Foods for dinner, and, seeing the cheese on sale for $2.79, simply had to buy that along with dinner and then stick it in my bag for the rest of the night–but, the fact remains: cheese. In my bag. All night long. Sexy, I know.

I guess what I am saying is that if ever started to think too highly of myself walking around in my super cool earmuffs that make my ears all squishy and warm, then all I need to do it glance into my canvas bag and see a large and orange hunk of cheese. I mean, I don’t think the glamorous women of the world carry around cheese. I might be wrong. Perhaps Madonna, cheese in hand, would say otherwise.

Also, this: every night I go to sleep wearing a retainer in my mouth.

So, I guess my point is that I have found a dead frog in my closet. Both for real AND metaphorically speaking. I walk around with cheese in my bag. I sleep with a retainer. If those things don’t keep it real, then God help us all.

And I have been toting it one-handed all the while. Never knowing it could be any different. Never realizing that life was only one tiny revelation away from being SO. MUCH. BETTER.

Because, see, I go to Sam Ash today. I had to do a gig tonight and was prepared to bring all my instruments. Well, all two of them, anyway. But, I need to buy a stand for my keyboard, and get to talking to the salesman. “How in the world do you guys tote everything around on the subway?” I ask.

“I have a car,” he admits.

Must be nice. 

“But you have a Nord, you say?” he asks, and I confirm.

“Yeah, I got a dolly to roll it around,” I add.

“Why don’t you use the straps?” he says.

“The straps?” I repeat.

“The straps,” he repeats, this time.

“Uh…there are only tiny straps–and I do use them–I grip ‘em with one hand…”

“No, the back pack straps. YOU DO HAVE A NORD, RIGHT?”

“Yeah, a Nord,” I agree.

“And you have the Nord case–the red one?”

I nod.

“Then, use the back pack straps. Wear it on your back. Free your hands.”

“I’ve never seen those straps…” I say, but this time with a little less conviction.

“GIRL,” the salesman says slowly and directly, like he’s speaking to a monkey who is just learning his commands, “UNZIP THE ZIPPERS ON THE BACK. PULL OUT THOSE STRAPS. WEAR. YOUR. NORD. ON. YOUR. BACK.”

I say thank you and decide to try just that when I get back to my apartment. But I don’t expect it to necessarily happen. It’s the heart that is well-acquainted with disappointment that learns to keep things in check; to not rely on much until it’s tangible, you know. Don’t need no backpack strap-less gig bag breaking my heart. Not on an otherwise lovely Monday.

And, wonders of wonders, it works! It feels like magic, unzipping those hidden (well, previously to my eyes, anyway) zippers and pulling out those back pack straps. I strap the thing onto my back and walk proudly around the apartment, showing Betsy how much better my life has gotten in just the last sixty seconds.

You guys, I feel so bamf walking around the city with my keyboard strapped to my back. I mean, to be completely honest, it does get a little heavy after a while, and, not used to having my keys, my uke, and the stand on me in the subway, I did accidentally hit someone with the uke (“YOU GOT MY EYE!” a guy yelled. I felt horrible. But then he told me he was okay. And then I felt better)–but still, I can haul all my stuff all by myself and if that’s not the definition of a strong woman, then I don’t know what is.

And just think–what other revelations are just around the corner, waiting to make life better?

Now, if only my keyboard stand could be folded into ear muffs or something; life would be just about perfect.

FINALLY.

I really need to take up a very tiny instrument. One that fits into my pocket, preferably. One that doesn’t make me look like this at the train station:

Cause right now I am lugging around: a keyboard, a ukulele, a suitcase, a purse, and a canvas tote bag. I think I will become the world’s best triangle player. And it may not get me a viral video, but it sure as heck will allow me to move with ease and freedom.

I’m not really complaining.

Okay, maybe just a little bit.

I need a very strong friend who has nothing to do and really loves to carry instruments. Anyone? ANYONE?

…

That’s what I thought.

Actually, when I am carrying something really heavy and wishing that my brothers or a boyfriend or someone like that (ha! I am not sure who someone like a brother or a boyfriend would be, but, sure, send ‘em my way, I guess!) was around–I think to myself, You are very strong, Jess; you CAN do this. Cause you are very strong. All them push-ups and ballet classes paid off…NOW. 

Sounds ridiculous, I know, but it helps. Positivity. Faith. Belief in oneself. Thoughts that help buoy the soul. All that stuff matters. Especially when one has inadvertently become the human pack horse. Wait, stop. If Imma be a horse, Imma be a unicorn, if you don’t mind. So, ahem, that means I have inadvertently turned into the human pack unicorn, thankyouverymuch.

A pack unicorn. Magical, yet practical. I like it.

Anyway, my train is pulling right up into Penn Station in a few minutes, I think. And this girl has got to get her stuff together. Luckily, NY is the last stop. Meaning, I have some time to get off the train. Not like when I’m going to Wilmington and the train barely pauses to let you jump onto the platform before it’s already chugging along to Baltimore like it’s the white rabbit who is late! late! for a very important date!

Train, why you gotta be all hurried? Haven’t you heard the Beach Boys say we’ll get there faster if we take it slow?

Maybe trains don’t listen to the Beach Boys.

Actually, to be perfectly frank, I don’t either.

Trains probably listen to the pop group: Train.

Which is something I don’t do, either.

Okay, why am I still writing? The train is slowing down. I gotta load up and tell myself that I am very strong in a few minutes, it seems.