I have to admit: this holiday didn’t suck. It didn’t suck at all, in fact.

Oh, non-sucking holidays are a gift. A GIFT, I tell you. And I have learned to appreciate them as such.

And as my friend and (once again! yay!) apartment-mate Betsy just said: “You have had a very New York few days.”

They included:

• Watching the fireworks over the Hudson River from an office in the New York Times Building. Great view. Great people. Great fun.
• Participating in my very first outdoor Roda (pronounced Hoda) in Columbus Circle. This is where we all sing and practice capoeira. I was nervous. But the crowd seemed to love watching it (with good reason–there are some amazing capoiestas in the group!)
• Salsa dancing to live music in Columbus Circle afterward. What? SO FUN. And then when a strange looking man tried to dance with me, one of my friends grabbed me and quickly told him that “we need to practice.” The funny part is that the friend is a girl. I am not sure what, exactly, we were practicing for, but whatever it is, I hope it calls for some pretty bad salsa dancing between girls. Cause we had that down. And then whenever the creeper would get close, she would just grab my hand, leaving us awkwardly holding hands for no apparent reason to onlookers. Hilarious.
• Eating dinner at the Shake Shack in Times Square. But I didn’t get a shake, which, upon reflection, was a bad move on my part.

So yes, it was a very New York Fourth of July and I have to say that I rather loved it.

I am smiling just thinking of it.

And tomorrow I get to go audition for a Broadway show–something else that is pretty New York, I guess.

Well, I probably did more than just one stupid thing, but what I am referring to now is the time I locked my keys in my car. I felt dumb and, on top of that, I had to ask for help from a couple of super nice guy friends who were only too enthusiastic to try out their lock-picking techniques on my ghetto-fabulous car.  I was newly single and the whole situation helped to highlight the fact that everything was different and now I was alone.

It was hard.

Fast forward to today.

When I got my car stuck in the snow. And to make matters worse, I was dropping off a little welcome back gift for friends who were traveling home from halfway across the world and didn’t exactly want to be entertaining once they finally arrived at their house. And I was stuck in their driveway. While they were due home soon. Awesome.

Again, I felt like an idiot. And again, it sort of highlighted my situation and I didn’t have anyone who I didn’t mind calling. Like, it was embarrassing and intrusive and I greatly disliked having to ask for help.

But I called a friend. He came and got me unstuck pretty quickly and then I was on my way, feeling badly about the whole thing and marveling over how things can change and do change and when did I become a jellyfish who has no say over where I end up? Probably today, cause I spent the time I was planning to be at the gym all stuck in the snow instead. There you have it: instant jelly-fish-ation.

But then I remembered some things. Feelings. They are temporary, for the most part. They are not always pictures of reality; they are more like dress up clothes that are actually optional. So I decided to have what Jase and I like to refer to as a little Matt Chat. I talked it out in my car. Yes, I articulated what I was feeling, and I decided to let those feelings go and then–though it wasn’t like the earth opened up and high-fived me or anything like that (which would be quite apocalyptic and terrifying, actually), I do think things were sort of better after that.

I guess what I am saying is that maybe that was a step in the right direction.

Another step would be to try not to park where the snow has already parked.

Oh, and also, I picked up a book. Literally. It’s been sitting on the kitchen counter forever–or at least a few days–and tonight I picked it up and started reading it while eating some dinner. It’s a book on recovery. I feel like I am recovering, so I figured it would say something that would relate. And man, does it ever. In the first few pages there were these affirmations that one is supposed to read and agree with, over and over again, as many times as it takes, and just the first three made me think that someone had written me a letter, starting with Dear Jessica and everything.

Cause, look:

• today I accept that the life I have known is over.
• I am entering a new and blessed phase of my time here.
• I accept pain as my teacher and problems as the key to a new existence for me.

(and I am pretty sure they’re not even being sarcastic; I mean, I love this book’s depth already, but I would say that the author’s voice isn’t exactly what one would call comedic)

Later tonight, my pop noticed that the book on recovery was all dog-eared and in an obvious state of hey! somebody’s reading me! and so he asked me if I think I am an addict.

“Maybe,” I said.

“What in the world are you addicted to?!” he asked.

Which is when my mom jumped in. “Love,” she said, not even as a question. “OH.MY.GOSH.” I replied, with all the angst and irritation of a teenager who was just informed is grounded and knows that if they can’t go out, Billy will just go out with someone else, so they really just can’t be grounded right now, see?

“I am not sure what I am addicted to, but I certainly wouldn’t mind recovering and just being, you know, healthy,” I said in a way that didn’t really invite more questions.

And then I proceeded to sing the song At Last by Etta James, in preparation for an audition that is coming up. You know, all about how this one person has come along and now your lonely days are over and life is like a song and their spell was cast on you and his smile, his smile, changed your life and ohmygosh, can we say codependent and hey! I’ve got a great book for you to read, Etta James, and ps I actually do think your song is pretty; it’s just, I don’t really believe in a knight in shining armor and there’s a difference between loneliness and solitude and today I accept that the life I have known is over and I am entering a new and blessed phase of my time here and also I accept pain as my teacher and problems as the key to a new existence for me and right now none of that really jives with your song.

So, there you go.

But I do agree that life is like a song, at least; I just didn’t specify which song it happens to be like.

I haven’t been lately, you know. Feeling better, I mean. What I have been feeling is just like the littlest victim that could. And what could I do? Fall prey to every sad and dark thought that came my way. Oh, and I was doing it so well, too. Really.

But then today it was like I remembered that I have choices. And the fact that I am autonomous; that, actually, I am choosing things every moment, whether I realize it or not. And the fact is, I have to think something. So I might as well choose some thoughts that ring of the truth and that fill me with hope, right?

Oh man, but it’s a battle. My brother Jase reminded me the other day that it’s always a battle between faith and fear and yes, it’s true. And I could wish for something easy every day of my life, but then the result of that might not be so valuable because we tend to hold precious what we work hard to gain.

And also: grace.

I don’t quite get what it is, but I sure like the word a whole lot. And I think it has something to do with the way I am so very alive and so very loved and haven’t done really anything to deserve this. I think it has something to do with the way I can make things and sing songs and help friends and I haven’t done anything to deserve that, either.

So between our ability to make good choices and God’s ability to give us things that we could never earn anyway, I am not sure what I can justifiably complain of right now.

I suppose I could list a few disappointments, but really? They don’t compare to the real and lasting things that are filling my heart up.

But I should go, I think. I have to teach pilates in five and a half hours and I need to go to sleep and wake up between now and then. Which is why I say good night and good morning and good good good because it is.

It really is.

Even when it feels like anything but, it is; dear god, help me to see this.

And collectively? We are recording music.

Oh man, I’m working hard; I’ll let you know how the pillow sounds with these particular microphones.

On to something else now. Like frogs. Particularly, how they get boiled
alive sometimes, not even realizing that the water they’re in have reached dangerous temperatures until it’s too late. I’ve always heard about that situation and wondered how the frog could be so oblivious. So out of touch with his reality.

But then suddenly I was the frog, and well, now I sort of understand. Because it wasn’t always like that, you know. It wasn’t always so hot and this-is-gonna-boil-me-alive-if-I-stay-any-longer.

But then again, was it?
I don’t really know if he ever loved me. In fact, when I’ve asked him about this, he’s said that he loved me “in the way he knew how.” I don’t know why he had to specify it like that. I know that he didn’t make those specifications with the person he gave himself to. I think “the way I knew how” must indicate something lesser; I think it must mean not very much or at least not the kind that is made of indestructible stuff.

I do know that it’s not the kind of love that is love; how can it be?

But the thing is, I tried my very best to love him. I did love him. And although I am tempted to call it a waste–and nauseated at the thought of it, even–I don’t know that you can ever call truly and wholly loving someone a waste. Love betters a heart. Even if it goes disregarded and scorned, I have to believe that where love has been, there is a sweeter sound and feel because of it.

But now.

Now I’m the frog who managed to jump out of that boiling pot just in the nick of time and I cannot believe how beautiful the world is now that I’m not dying from the inside. I can hardly believe how it feels to know there’s room for something good and real and true in my life.

And I’m not gonna be so hard on the poor frogs anymore. In fact, I’m gonna be getting therapy and I should find out where those frogs have their support groups.

Cause I could totally compare notes with them.

And I have often been told that I am missing out because of this. But when I ask what it is that I am missing out on, I am given a long list of things that I have tried and would rather not waste my precious time or taste buds on, thankyouverymuch.

Things like chili. Avocados. Tomatoes. Tiramisu. Coffee. Dark chocolate. Tea. Coke. Most chips that are colored orange. Salsa–though, I do enjoy that style of dancing. Taco Bell, yes the whole place. Clothes that match too well. Screamo bands (though I do dearly love some of those who do it…). Loreena McKennit (somebody who I will not mention used to listen to her all. the. time). Mashed potatoes. Arbitrary commenting on another’s appearance. And too-long fingernails.

And that’s just the short list; there is way more where that came from, believe me.

See, it is not so very difficult for me to form my opinion, I think. Except lately I have been vacillating over mushrooms. Turns out they are not quite as terrible as I had thought for most of my life. In fact, I recently ordered a salad and, upon hearing that it regularly comes with mushrooms, I didn’t ask them to prepare it sans the mushrooms, for once. But then I proceeded to eat around every last one of the mushrooms, leaving them quietly neglected at the bottom of the dish. Go figure.

But all this to say, that I usually know what I don’t want.

Which brings me to a conversation I had with my friend Christian a bit ago. He called me up laughing, so excited to tell me about a recent exchange he had with one of the guys who works at a local pizza shop we often go to around here, Rosa’s. Except the last time, Christian went alone. And this guy remarked upon that fact and then asked,  So, what’s the story with that blond who’s usually here with you? Is she your sister?

When Christian told him I was a good friend, he proceeded to ask if I am single. At which point, Christian–honest guy that he is–had to say yes. Because I am, I guess. But then to scare him off (Christian informed me), he told him, But she very recently went through a divorce…

Um, thanks, Christian.

Because the guys at Rosa’s might have been the last people to know about my story, so I guess it was time.

But then Pizza Guy asked Christian to put in a good word for him.

And ugh. Cause the thing is, I know that I don’t want to date him. And yes, Pizza Guy might really be nice and hey! he knows how to make pizza (and on a side note, not just any pizza, either, but my very favorite kind of pizza in the whole world: their version of barbeque chicken pizza!), I know that I know that I know that I don’t want to date him.  And it’s not like it’s him, necessarily–it’s actually most people in the world.

Because I wouldn’t date most people.

And unfortunately, it got to the point where I found myself married to one of them–a person I wouldn’t date…So, that was a real problem, as you can well imagine. But back to Pizza Guy. How do you just say I wouldn’t date you? I suppose I could just say I am not dating anyone right now–but the truth has much more to do with the fact that no, I would not date him, super pizza-making abilities, and all. And I don’t anticipate it being a real problem or anything, but it is kind of annoying, because I really do enjoy their pizza and don’t want it to be awkward in there.

And how weird that I am once again in this kind of a situation, because well, it’s been a minute, to say the least.

When something is too cute for words, I set my jaw so that my chin sticks forward a little–successfully maneuvering an underbite–and then I bite down. I’m not sure why. But there are so many mysteries on this earth already, that I don’t think it’s gonna upset any kind of balance by just adding this one more to the pile.

Now, this happens almost exclusively with my nieces and nephews and adorable animals. And I am especially prone to biting my teeth around puppies. I’ve always loved animals–in fact, I used to want to grow up to be a vet. But then my parents forced me into ballet and apparently my feet point pretty well, so that was that. I wonder what would have happened if they had forced me into the FFA instead.

But I have a weakness for puppies. Dogs, too. Actually, people sometimes make fun of me because I tend to wave to dogs–or even say hello to them–when out and about, while unintentionally ignoring their human companions. I suppose that’s considered rude. But then, I suppose one should ask who we’re considering here–cause I bet the dogs don’t think it’s rude. Just saying.

But anyway.

When Shane and I were tuning on Mole street the other day, a very adorable thing happened. He opened his guitar case, grabbed his guitar, and in jumped one of the furriest and cutest little dogs I’d ever seen. We all started laughing and it was just one more thing that made Mole Street magical, I suppose.

And another good part of this story is that our friend Jimmy captured the moment with his camera. So you can see just how cute it really was. And you can see that even the puppy was pretty happy about being in that guitar case. And in fact, it looks like he’s about to shake Shane’s hand.

And if you want to bite your own teeth cause of that puppy’s cute factor, then I say go ahead.

And I just really like this one.

The brick, the cement, the pastel blue chalk, the text. It makes me smile. And no, I didn’t write it.

*photographs by Jimmy Simpson

And then you wonder how exactly an American is supposed to look, anyway. I mean, a true American should look a lot more like Pocahontas and a lot less like Dakota Fanning, right? If we’re talking originals, that is. And oh my, but I won’t even tell you how many typos I’ve already found, just in the past…counting…uh, six sentences.

But that’s okay because I love editing. Almost as much as I love italics. Which is not to be confused with Italians. Though I love them, too. Considering I am one and all. But seriously, I’m so into editing. And I don’t always remember what everything is called in terms of verbs and adjectives (okay, so action words and then the words that end in ‘ly,’ right?), but I do have this strange and unyielding recall of articles and what they are: a, an, and the. I don’t know why, but I just can’t forget articles. Maybe because there’s just three of them. Maybe because they are tiny words and don’t take up that much room in my brain, anyway.

Not like my name: Jessica Sarah Elisabeth (with an ‘s,’ mind you; I find that terribly important!) Latshaw. That’s a doozy and takes up a ton of room, which is why I’ll forgive you if you forget it because you simply don’t wanna use up that much space in your brain for just one person’s name. It’s like making the executive decision to delete some of the musical theater albums from your itunes that you never listen to anyway. Sorry, Parade. It’s not personal; there just isn’t that much room on this skinny little macbook air of mine to begin with, so…yeah.

But I was talking about how life is never boring. And yes, grammar and the construction of sentences sure helps with that. For me, anyway. But so does the time when someone mentions a game in which everybody has to choose someone in the room to swap lives with, and your friend leans over and teasingly says: Pretty sure nobody would swap lives with you right now!

And wah-waaaaaah. Kinda sad, kinda true. And in the midst of our laughter, you know what I thought?

But I don’t want to swap lives with anybody else.

And it’s true, I don’t. Despite the sadder circumstances that keep me able to easily recognize the nice lady behind the desk at the Wilmington courthouse, and despite my heart that is proving to be more like a starfish in the way that it regenerates, mind you–not necessarily in the way that it can consume prey outside of its body–I still want to be me. I still want to live inside my head and think my thoughts and write my songs and live inside my body and keep bleaching out my hair and pointing my feet and relating with my family and texting my friends.

And it’s okay if nobody wants to swap with me, because I am a firm believer in living your life. Your own life. As a good friend of mine says, How bout I do me and you do you?

Oh, but here’s a tip: Don’t get that phrase mixed up at all. Because, just when you were kindly trying to give someone the kind of advice that affirms their individuality, you end up sounding like you’re a class A creeper, trying to proposition somebody. So maybe practice saying it once in your head before you say it for real.

You’re welcome.

And what else is so not boring?

Getting to sing songs for people at the World Cafe’s open mic.

And because someone I love dearly has told me that she sometimes scans my blog for *pictures, here are some for her.

And for those of you who mostly scan my blog for words, don’t worry, here are some for you. Ones that have nothing whatsoever to do with these pictures. Like the fact that I just realized tonight that Mad Libs is a play on words for Ad Libs. I thought it had something to do with the fact that it sounds like lips and we use our lips to speak…Yeah, I obviously never really thought it through.

Major duh.

And I think it’s funny that Shane has mentioned that he has blond hair–usually–but now that my hair is this color, he doesn’t know what color that makes his in comparison.

How bout we just stick with natural? As in, his is natural in comparison?

And what else?

While we were singing the chorus to one song–a chorus that happens to say the words, I love you–someone yelled back: I love you, too!

Aw, sweet.

Oh, and when we were doing the rap, people got up and actually started dancing. Ha. It was so fun. I happen to be a big fan of dancing, you know.

And I’m a fan of how life is never boring, which I’m pretty sure I’ve already mentioned.

*pictures by Dominic Ditanna

I think those colors do, anyway.

I don’t like it when things match too well. It bothers me. Something needs to disagree; something needs to tap out a rhythm to contrast all those elongated notes.

Somebody once chastised me for never matching; she said that I mismatched. And I was like, I know. I think she was trying to help me or something. Maybe make fun of me. But whatever it was, it only helped confirm to me that yes, purple and yellow go together just fine.

Because style is all about putting on the outside what you feel on the inside, right? And well, I never will feel the same way as that girl. I will never feel a bunch of cartoon snoopys on an emerald green v-neck tee and she will never feel ripped up high tops and yellow sweater leggings and the world will keep spinning it’s slow spin anyway.

Because the world doesn’t care so much, at least not enough to stop it’s perfectly suitable job of rotating, and I think that’s a good idea. We shouldn’t care enough to stop our jobs, either. About what everyone else is wearing, I mean.

You know when I was not so tall and not so blond I was a tomboy. Maybe it was the fact that my house was crowded with some of the best boys you’ll know, or maybe it was the fact that I have the kind of parents that care more about an open heart and an innocent mind than hair that is brushed and bangs that are cut evenly across your forehead.

But whatever the case, I liked to dress down.

I mean, real real down.

Specifically, these little cut-off sweat shorts that had a big strawberry stain on the seat of them from when I had the bright idea to sit down while picking strawberries one summer.

And I went to a church that was made up of mostly hippies who had traded in their joints for Jesus and then picked up a guitar to sing about him. And everybody dressed down there. Jeans were Sunday’s best. Really. Which was just fine with me.

But I remember one Sunday when a new little girl visited.

And she wasn’t wearing jeans and she sure as heck wasn’t wearing cutoff sweat shorts with a strawberry stain on the bum. From the looks of her frilly and lacy dress, I didn’t think she’d ever once even picked a strawberry, least of all sat down on one.

And I remember thinking that this new girl probably only comes to church to show off her dresses. And I still remember the ugliness of that thought, how it cast a shadow in my mind like suddenly where I was thinking was on the opposite side of the mountain from the sun.

And that girl came back in her dresses and there I was in my t-shirts, so aware of our differences.

Until one day she invited me to spend the night at her house. And it’s interesting how getting to know someone makes it so that the fact that they wear dresses on Sunday or even bikinis on Monday becomes inconsequential.

In fact, I had a blast with this girl. And we ended up playing with all her clothes–all her pretty clothes–and she even let me borrow some. Suddenly I couldn’t feel so judgmental, I guess. Not when I was wearing them.

And this kind of lesson keeps repeating, too.

The way that we are all more alike than not. The way that I fall in love with people over and over again; and as I do, our differences become both less and more important.

Less important because Oh, sure–we love different people; our respective relationships look different from the outside, but here’s a big theme of love anyway. So let’s talk about that. Let’s talk about the details it’s ripped and mended into our lives. Let’s talk about how it’s the greatest risk you took and dear God, somebody tell me a happily ever after right about now. You can? Then please, come sit down next to me…And you–you can’t? Well, neither can I. So please, come sit down next to me…

And also more important because See how yellow and purple go together? See how the contrast makes my eyes so happy, so interested? See how the world isn’t all a mountain, isn’t all a sea, isn’t all your house, though we all have our preferences still?  See how it’s people who hurt us and people who heal us–and generally speaking, they are not the same people who do both, though sometimes I suppose that works out–but God, we need each other and not just the people who wear the same old ratty t-shirts as us come Sunday morning, either. We need the people who wear dresses to come stand next to us, even when we’re wearing our cutoff sweat shorts.

I guess my point is that we need each other.

And I like purple and yellow together just like God likes all kinds of people mixed up together and then he says, Okay now…Go!

All this to say that purple and yellow really do go together just fine.

Hi friend…Can you be trusted?

And after smiling at the fact that none of my real friends would send me an email with that as the subject–I mean, certainly not now, anyway–it reminded me of something that my brother Jason and I had discussed a little while ago.

We’d like it if the dangerous people in the world, the ones who will hurt you and count you as dispensable, would have to wear something in order to kindly give the rest of us a heads up.

We specified that they wear a bright orange t-shirt.

But that could be negotiated, I suppose.

And you know that song, And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love…? Well, we could sing something similar, something like:

And we’ll know they aren’t safe by their orange shirts, their orange shirts…

I think that’s a great plan, actually.

There’s just one problem.

See, in the end, we’d all have to wear those orange t-shirts. Because the fact of the matter is that all of us hurt each other. And though some would definitely be awarded brighter orange t-shirts than others (in fact, I could hand some out personally, if you’d like), we’re still all lumped together as being imperfect. Beautiful, yes. But dangerous, definitely.

So this presents some kind of problem for me.

I’ve never had an issue with trusting people before. I generally believe what people tell me, take it at face value. I’d like to live in a world where that is possible. Believing people, I mean. I’d like to live in a world where promises are words that are binding, made of stronger stuff than the precious medals we pay so much for.

But I don’t.

And if I didn’t believe that before, I’ve learned the hard way. Somebody once told me that I can never really understand others’ pain because my life has been so perfect but I can tell you for a fact that if that were even remotely true before (though I am not convinced it was), that has definitely been taken care of.

Don’t you worry, I’ve got it now.

I think I’m starting to comprehend what this whole pain phenomena is all about. Is there a union to join? Some kind of card-carrying club I can be a part of? Sign me up. Heck, most nights are free anyway–I’ll go to your meetings and I’ll sell your cookies or whatever to raise the funds.

Because I totally and enthusiastically get it now.

But this lesson–I don’t want it to be the final say. I’ve been in contact with some people who have, for me, worn the brightest colored orange t-shirt that they make, but I’d still like some other lessons to crowd out this one.

I’d like to trust. God knows, that’s the truth.

But I’m scared. God knows, that’s the truth too.

So which will win out? Fear or trust? That’s up to me, I guess.

But in the meantime I am going to try to wear any color shirt but an orange one, metaphorically speaking. I’m also gonna leave a pretty wide berth between me and those who are wearing those bright orange tees.

It’s not personal. I just don’t really like the orange t-shirt look anymore and really, after what I’ve been through, can you blame me?