First page of the flying archive.

jazz hands

Posted by jessica on Oct 22, 2009 with No Comments
in Funny Stuff, Loved Ones, Thoughts and Feelings
as , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

If in fact everything we do on this earth acts like some kind of metaphysical boomerang and eventually returns to us, then somewhere along the way I did something right.

Because nobody sat next to me on today’s flight.
That’s right. No grumpy man to ask, do you mind? No commentary from the peanut gallery, remarking, “Boy, you sure do get comfortable!” after I have finally extricated myself from the pretzel-like position into which I had twisted my legs; and better yet, no fake smile in response. No inquisitive well-meaning person who, upon finding out why exactly I am going to Saskatoon in the first place, wants to know everything about this business, even the most insulting question: Do you get paid?
This isn’t the peace corp, people.
Believe it or not, when we sign up to leave our homes and loved ones, we sort of expect a paycheck in return. And though we sing What I Did For Love every night, and sing it well, that doesn’t preclude the fact that love isn’t going to pay your mortgage. You can’t send your credit card bills back with a kiss mark and a check for zero dollars. And though yes, we love this, we love it a lot more when it pays.
So here I am, allowing myself a good honest sprawl between two (count them: one, two!) chairs on this fine aircraft from Air Canada Jazz.
And no, that’s not me being cute because I happen to like that style of dancing and don’t even get me started on the music. That’s really what it’s called. Air Canada JAZZ. I was half hoping they’d bedazzle me with some jazz hands when I boarded the plane, but I suppose they have to save their fingers for beverage preparation and closing overhead compartments and um, the actual act of flying this plane. And I don’t blame them.
But something else about jazz hands.
I dated a guy named John who was a fabulous musician. Actually, every guy I have ever dated has been a fabulous musician. All two of them. Well, three if you count the time I wasn’t allowed to really date unless it was this one sweet guy who my parents’ more than approved of, and so let me date him. But he was a fabulous musician too. Which wasn’t my point–so let’s get back on track here.
While I was dating John, my brother had written a musical. He cast it and rented a theater and directed it and everything. We were all gung-ho about it because honestly, it was great. Much better than a lot of crap poor actors are forced to learn and sell to audiences world wide. Now, I had always wanted to be in a musical, and though my brother knew this, what he needed more than one more person moonlighting on the stage was a pianist to accompany the show.
So I swallowed my disappointment, watched all my friends and siblings perform, and accompanied them with (mostly) a good attitude. I do have to say, though, that one total perk to being the maestro was the clothes. I didn’t get it in my contract or anything like that, but upon finding out that I needed something respectable to wear for the performances, my mom sure did run to urban outfitters and buy me at least three black, adorable outfits.
Cha-ching.
Now who wishes they weren’t in the spotlight, enjoying the accolades of the audience, but were instead seated at the piano, wearing an adorable new outfit? That’s what I thought.
Anyway, there was this one song in the score that was all crazy and jazzy and have I mentioned before how I don’t really read music so well? I play by ear mostly, can totally navigate through written chords, but will be reduced to plucking painfully slow if you put sheet music in front of me. So yeah, don’t ask me to accompany you for an audition anytime soon. But, in order for me to help remember the feel for this one song, and because of the fact that the chords weren’t as straight forward as they appeared, I wrote in big lettering on the top of the page,
JAZZ HANDS
and then proceeded to draw two sets of hands, fingers outstretched in a way that would make Corky Sinclair proud, in that classic jazz hand way.
This was my own score, so I never thought anyone would see my little reminder and didn’t give it another thought other than to well, be reminded of the song’s jazziness when I flipped to that particular page and saw the hands.
Until my boyfriend John came to the dress rehearsal.
John, piano genius, who sat right next to me and offered to turn pages.
And then when he saw those jazz hands…well, he laughed. And laughed some more. And wouldn’t stop making jazz hands of his own. I guess he figured I could use some more reminders or something. Maybe my C’s weren’t sounding diminished enough or my blue notes weren’t the exact right shade of blue.
He sort of made it up to me, though, when he sent me a card and compared me to a jazz chord. Nobody had ever done that before and I thought that if I were going to be anything other than me, a jazz chord would maybe be perfect. It was a sweet compliment and he didn’t even mention those jazz hands in that card once.
Though we both knew he could have.

Lots of typos on this one cause I’m blogging from my phone…

Posted by jessica on Jun 17, 2009 with No Comments
in Uncategorized
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I am ridiculous.

And before you try to tell me why I’m not, let me just tell you why I am.

See, I keep my stage makeup and life makeup together, without really much of a distinction. All of it is tossed en masse into a pink zippered makeup case in which the cover sports two ladies freshening up in front of a mirror with the words Ready to Rock written in bold cursive underneath.

My sister has told me more than once that the bag is ugly and should be replaced. The thing is, my friend got it for me the first time I ever did a musical. It was A Chorus Line, ironically enough, and because she played Val the first half of the run an I played val the second half, she said we were those two cool girls who are putting their makeup on, so obviously ready to rock.

So, I haven’t been able to actually get rid of it, but I have managed to now leave it completely behind twice in one seven day span.

That’s right, twice.

Last Tuesday I was coming back from vacation and left that pink bag in my bedroom. Poor Drew had to run to the fedex before five and overnight it to me. And I couldn’t believe how silly I’d been.

And this Tuesday? Oh, I only left it in columbus Ohio and then proceeded to fly to Minneapolis. Lucky for me, Drew was still in Columbus
since he had a later flight than me and could once again run over to a fedex and overnight it to me.

And he never said one word of recrimination, either.

That’s some major points. Major.

But this was topped by arriving at baggage claim only to wait for 45 minutes while trying to be happy for everyone else as they grabbed their precious bags and went merrily on their way. Finally that bin came down the conveyor belt–you know, the one you never want to see because it displays the words LAST BAG in bright and maddening letters?

I walked over to the claim desk and they said something hopeful like, “Is your bag black with white polka dots?” I eagerly gave my assent
and the woman told me to follow her to a back room where I, no joke, found my bag amidst puppies and birds.

PUPPIES AND BIRDS!!!!

I can only assume my bag had learned to growl or cluck and so had been taken to be one of them. When I correctly identified it as mine (while others around me were claiming their Fidos and their homing pidgeons respectively, mind you), an airline employee lifted the bag and started resolutley away. I politely told him the bag was mine. He walked. I got louder. He still walked. I finally sort of yelled that the bag was
MINE!!!!!!!!!! And he gave me the benefit of a glance as he set my bag down on the now empty and inanimate conveyor belt. It was a waste of his energy since I had been right there the whole time, but who knows? Maybe it’s a rule that nobody can pick up a bag at an airport until
it has touched a conveyor belt.

And perhaps it’s especially true of a bag that is thought to be an animal.

They never did find the second bag, but it was back at the hotel once I got home tonight, so it wasn’t a huge deal.

And my friend took pity on the fact that the dress I was planning on wearing to the opening night party here was who knows where in the
continental US since it was packed in my missing bag and so let me borrow her Betsy Johnson dress.

Score!

And now I must leave you at that since I am really really tired and please be mindful of the fact that I blogger this post on my iPhone and please forgive the typos and this run-on sentence.