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.

I got a Facebook message from a guy I
met at an open mic in the Village a few
weeks ago. “I’m hosting an open mic in Brooklyn,” he wrote. “Will you come and play? There’s no piano, but we sure can mic a ukulele like nobody’s business.”

So, first I hung out with my friend Leao for a bit. He reinforced that nobody–NOBODY!–I meet on the subway or the street–or anywhere, for that matter–wants to be my friend.

“They all want more,” he said.
“You don’t, ” I pointed out.

And I thought it was a pretty darn good point, actually.

Then I took capoeira and got all sweaty. Something that always amazes me when it happens. My poor, overheated body so rarely sweats, that when it does, I feel like it’s deserving of a treat. You know, reinforcing good behavior and all that.

So, I got a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. And what a great treat that was. Honestly, all I ever want lately is grilled cheese and tomato soup. It’s like my body has a grilled cheese and tomato soup deficiency or something, I crave it so much.

And then I jumped on the train to Brooklyn to go play some uke and rap and sing. When I got there, Chris, the host, greeted me with his uncle. “I hear you’re fantastic at the ukulele!” the uncle said to me. Which made me laugh. Because, really, I can strum some chords, and that’s about the extent of it. There are some things I am fantastic at doing. I’m
pretty good at bargain hunting. I think my family would say that I’m a good daughter and a good sister. I’m not bad at being disciplined, as a general rule. And I can write some songs. But playing the uke is not something at which I’m fantastic. Not yet, anyway.

Then Chris tells me that I’m the featured artist. Oh. That I can play as much as I’d like. Oh, again. The place is small, so really, we just share the night. He and his friend play. Then I go. I basically play all my songs that I know on the uke. Then someone has the grand idea that we all play together. Which was amazing. Cause soon, we’re singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. And Let it Be. And Landslide. And Respect. It was magical.

My friend Jes was kind enough to come, too. And she brought a friend of hers. It was the sort of good night that makes me so happy to be in New York City.

Anyway, tonight was a long anticipated date with her. We talked for a very long time. We have a unique ability to be extremely honest with each other. Part of this is because we have both lived through some pretty similar and extreme heartache in our young lives, respectively. I mean, we just don’t have a lot of time for bull. Not anymore. We both kind of feel like survivors, I guess. Though, really, we’re all survivors, in some respect; life is a beautiful mess. Nobody can avoid either the beauty or the mess forever, I think.

But tonight as we were saying good-bye, she hugged me and said quite frankly, “I’ve been meaning to tell you all night that you look different. Happy. Strong and comfortable in your own skin. You look better than I’ve ever seen you–and it’s just really good to see.”

Her words resonated as I thought about what she said. “And you know what?” I replied. “I haven’t been rescued by a guy. I mean, there have been guys who have been so kind and present–but there’s not one guy in my life right now. And I am doing well.”

“I remember you telling me how that’s what you wanted–to be okay on your own, not running into a relationship because you don’t know who you are without some guy telling you–and you said that, what, back in the winter, I think,” she reminded me.

And it dawned on me: progress.

This is not to congratulate myself at all. God knows, I can be a real mess. I mean, in a lot of ways. I can’t keep an organized closet to save my life, it seems (luckily, that has not been put to the test). Plus, I am an intensely feeling and emotional individual–and all those emotions can lead me down roads that are not exactly rational. Also, I tend to get crushes on guys too easily and I have a weakness for pretty dresses, lotion, and solitaire.

But, despite all that–still: progress.

And I think it’s important to note when we’ve moved a little in what might look like the right direction. And pray God that it keeps happening.

Despite the weakness for pretty dresses, lotion, and solitaire (gasp).

People said very kind things afterwards.

People are so kind.

Some people, anyway.

Then a big group of us went to a vegan place. I tasted some desserts that didn’t taste vegan. It was kind of amazing. A few more people met us there, so I sang some songs for them outside of the restaurant.

That’s when Carrington was walking by, heard me, and asked me for my number.

“I’m in the music business,” he told me.

Sure, I thought.

But I gave him my number anyway.

“What a perfect way to get a girl’s number!” said the guy next to me, watching the whole thing. “All I need to do is say I’m in the music business.”

Then another friend mentioned Carrington. “I guess he does music at his university or something,” I said.

“No, Jess–he said he works for Universal.”

“What? I thought he said he works at his university.”

“I heard Universal.”

Carrington texted tonight and said he would call tomorrow. We’ll see. And now I’m curious as to where, exactly, Carrington works. His university? Or Universal? Pretty big difference between the two. And I have learned that people like to talk. A lot. Maybe they mean well; maybe they totally mean to come through. But a lot of times, they don’t.

Anyway.

Tonight was lovely.

Out of tune piano and all.

There’s really not much else I’d rather be doing than singing my songs for people.

And tasting vegan desserts that don’t taste vegan.

Okay, so I can think of a few things I’d rather be doing than that last one, I guess.

Like singing my songs, for instance.

Oh–and last thing. I took a cab home. The cab driver got terribly lost. Not just once, but twice. The first time, I suggested he turn off his meter, since he was lost and all. He didn’t. The second time, I told him to turn off his meter.

“It’s not my fault that I’m new and am not familiar with the Bronx,” he told me.

“Sure, that’s fne. But you’re a New York City cab driver. You should know the city and I should not pay more because you don’t,” I replied.

And then he got angry. Said it was my fault. Said I could get out “right here, right now!”

“Okay, I’ll get out, but I’m not paying you anything.”

“You can pay me $10,” he answered.

“For dropping me off in the middle of nowhere in the Bronx at 2:30 in the morning? No. I am not paying you.”

Which is when he angrily pulled over and told me to get out.

I kind of thought it was hilarious that I got into a fight with my cabbie. You guys, I hardly get into fights with anyone. I also felt proud of myself for sticking to my guns. And then I realized that I really had no idea where I was, it was late, and there was nary a cab driver to be found.

But a car service beeped at me.

I got in.

He gave me a discount–”because you’re pretty,” he told me.

He also asked me why I don’t have a baby yet.

“I need a man first,” I told him. “I’m looking for a really good baby daddy.”

Which is when he told me that he’s on his second wife and this one talks way too much.

Oy vey.

“And if we get separated,” he explained, “I guess I’ll move to Mexico or something.”

“Trust me,” I said. “New York City is big enough for both you and an Ex. I, myself, have one here in the city and we never run into each other.”

And it’s true. Gone are the days of living in a small town and running into him in Acme at midnight. Thank goodness.

Favorite quote of the night from a girl: “Whoever you were singing about–the guy who did that to you and lost you–is a f***ing idiot. I mean, I’m straight as an arrow and I was falling in love tonight, just watching and listening to you.

Like I said, people say very kind things sometimes.

And nope, I didn’t even eat the banana.

But it was eighty-six cents well spent, I can tell you that.

I just took a cab home because I was too tired of waiting for an A train that never came. The cab driver missed my exit. “Uh-oh, I miss exit! This BIG mistake!” is what he said.

And then we got caught in some kind of traffic jam that involved loud Dominican music and a guy who tried to convince my driver to back all the way up the exit the wrong way. Luckily, the cabbie wasn’t buying it. He’s from Afghanistan and he’s not about to be anyone’s fool.

I just met a guy from a small country wedged between Russia and Poland. It cannot actually be this, but it sure sounded like he said that he’s from Spalenka. Or maybe Palenta, but I am pretty sure that is cheese. “How do you like America?” I asked him. “I like New York, but I do not know about America. This–” and he gestured all around him–”This is not America. Nobody even speaks English here in New York,” he explains.

“I guess so,” I agreed.

“Do you speak Spanglish?” he asked.

Thinking he meant Spanish, I said, “No, sadly I don’t speak Spanish.”

“But SPANGLISH–” he repeated, “Do you speak that?”

And then I laughed and regrettably informed him that I don’t speak Spanglish either.

Anyway, he started teaching me some Russian. Privet. That means hello. He told me that he’d be happy to tutor me, like, on the regular. I laughed it off. And then he asked me for my number.

“I’m sorry, I don’t give out my number.”

I got to use the line that my friend Leao has taught me.

But then Misha gave me his number and said he is greatly looking forward to my call. Oh, Misha. You will meet a wonderful girl who will call you someday, but she is not me. Though, I would actually like to learn Russian. And Misha told me that I don’t look Russian at all. “You look very much American,” is what he said, actually.

I guess that makes sense.

“I am not gonna be your girlfriend or your hook-up,” is what I told someone else today. “I am unavailable,” I stated.

And the guy says this is okay. An attractive girl as a friend is new for him, he says, but he’s willing to give it a try.

“But, Cisne,” my friend Leao tells me, “Saying you’re unavailable just makes a guy want to try harder, you know. They see it as a challenge.” And he shakes his head while I say that I am just trying to be upfront and honest.

“When are you going to learn that nobody wants to talk about your book?” he asks me, which is now code for: guys just want one thing.

“But maybe this one actually does want to “talk about my book”,” I maintain. “I mean–maybe.”

But Leao looks at me like I am telling him that maybe every last dream will come true. Like I am naive, but he is done explaining for now.

“You’re kinda like Sarah Connor from Terminator,” the guy who has promised to be happy being my platonic friend tells me. “Do you know who that is?”

“The girl who is ripped and skinny?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’s kind of like you.”

I guess there are worse things.

What a night; what a night.

That’s not gonna work for me.

Nope.

Actually, I can’t.

No.

Let me say that in Spanish for you, in case it wasn’t clear:

No.

This lesson is continuing to rear its uncomfortable head over and over again in my life.

The issue of saying no.

And I’m not talking about The Three Most Important Things You Should Say No To that is drilled into us as kids. I have no problem saying no to drugs, sex, and the celebration of Columbus Day.

Oh, was that last one not on your JUST SAY NO! list? I guess Lynn Latshaw is not your mother, then.

In fact, I don’t know what it is about me, but nobody ever offers me drugs. Like, nobody. Friends who will remain nameless will be happily smoking weed and won’t even try to get me to join in. “You’re too good,” they will remark to me. “We know you don’t smoke.”

But it’s not that I don’t smoke because I’m “good;” nobody is good, really. I’m just me. I don’t smoke because I happen to like my brain cells. I’d rather not become even more directionally challenged than I already am. I mean, I’ve been walking from Grand Central Station to 2nd ave and east 47th for a couple weeks now, and I still have to pull out my google maps app just to figure out which direction it is I walk in again, once I get out of the terminal. If that app could talk it would totally tell me that it  has TOLD ME THIS ALREADY! and don’t you EVER LISTEN?!?!

I can’t even imagine where I’d end up if I were high.

And with the amount of strangers who seem to target me, it makes me shudder to think of this countrified, friendly, and generally lost on the east side of town girl totally high.

And I guess it’s illegal. Smoking weed, I mean. I try to stay away from illegal. But then, I do speed. In my car,  I should clarify. Like, I sometimes drive fast, is the point. So I guess there’s some hypocrisy there, huh?

And sex with strangers honestly does not interest me. Hook-ups seem rather awkward and I’d rather not contract a disease if I don’t have to. Call me conservative. So right, saying no to all that isn’t exactly on parr with being a saint. Nobody ever got a standing ovation for saying no to someone offering them something they find distasteful anyway. Like beans. I say no thank you to beans all the time. Random hook-ups don’t seem that different to me, really.

But what’s uncomfortable for me is the idea of disappointing people. Hurting their feelings. Just because I cannot do what they want me to do. Well, I could–but I know I don’t want to, so the better thing to do is just say no and move on. Cause it’s not like a moral or ethical thing. It’s more just like a I-don’t-want-to-be-close-to-you kind of thing.

And part of me gets all kinds of busy just wishing that other people who have questionable boundaries would please stay away. Like, it’s their fault. I wouldn’t find myself in these uncomfortable situations if it weren’t for them! But no, I need to have boundaries and live honestly from my heart, regardless of the boundaries of others.

If someone is getting too close, demanding too much, etc., it is because I am allowing this.

So, anyway, I am practicing this.

Saying no.

And then moving on.

And for some reason, this is no easy fete for me.

Sigh.

And then I finally got home at 2:00 am and was all ready to trade the real world for the dream world, but before that could happen, I had to open up a door to my parents’ house to, you know, get inside.

deep breath.

Cause that was the kind of sentence that you swear must be a run-on. But it’s not. It’s just lengthy. It’s just a stop-and-take-a-breath-girl! sentence, is all.

But the door was locked.

Well, every door was locked.

And I literally thought: sucks to suck! when I realized this.

Sucks to suck.

This is my sister Jenna’s latest favorite phrase. She says it a lot. She said it to Strider the dog the other day. He had managed to steal one of her starbursts, but then didn’t like the flavor and so Jenna was all, “SUCKS TO SUCK, STRIDER!”

It made me laugh.

But being locked out of my parents’ house at 2 am when I am already feeling what one would classify as rough?

That did not make me laugh.

Until I thought SUCKS TO SUCK! to myself and then remembered how Jenna said that to Strider. And then I did laugh.

But I was still locked out and wondering what to do about it.

I decided to drive my car to someone’s house. I had just said good-bye to a bunch of people who were heading to Shane’s house to eat food. I wanted to eat food. Plus, I knew his house would have doors that were not locked, so perfect.

I got in my car.

But my brother had just borrowed my car and, instead of leaving the key inside the car (which is what I always do. But if you’re a car thief, I’m just joking. I never do that. Never ever)–but instead of leaving the key right between the two front seats, my brother had put the key on the key ring inside my parents’ house.

The one that was currently locked.

So I couldn’t drive my car anywhere either.

AWESOME.

Then I decided to do something crazy. I vaguely remembered my mom giving me a key. Luckily, I was using the purse that I had not used for a while, so maybe it was the same purse I had dutifully put the key in and then promptly forgotten about it.

I looked for it with no faith at all.

And then I found it with what could be called very modest rejoicing. As in: For once that evening, I did not think: SUCKS TO SUCK!; I thought something more like: I wonder how this thing works…

Well, okay, not totally. But I did not grow up with keys, see. I grew up in the legit country. We didn’t lock our doors. Nobody even came to our house for candy on halloween. Well, almost nobody. And when one kid did manage to brave the half mile country lane into the woods to climb up our deck and finally figure out which door to our dome house could possibly be considered the front door and then ask for candy, my pop managed to find some old forgotten piece, probably left over from one of our Easter baskets or something.

I hope that was the best candy of that kid’s life, considering what he did to get it and all.

But keys make me nervous and I don’t trust them and I always kind of doubt they’ll work.

But this key worked.

I was a lucky duck.

And then I was a sleeping duck.

And then Darby felt really badly about locking me out of the house.

But I didn’t care; I actually thought it was kind of funny.

I’m happy.

I know it’s just a feeling, I get that. I’m not about to build my house on this feeling and call it home, but I will admit that it’s nice to feel. I don’t mind it at all.

Tonight the E train just stopped working. Oh good, no big deal, E train. It’s not like you’re the only method of transportation I use to get from the East side to port authority or anything. I guess you’re tired, running all day long like that. Take a break–I’ll just walk.

And so I did. But not alone. Nope, there was this guy waiting for the E train, too. He was the one who actually told me that it had stopped running. Plus, he had on a pair of vintage oversized lime green headphones. I know, so cool.

“You wanna walk to port authority, then?” I asked him. Like I said, those headphones clued me in that he was pretty safe.

“Sure,” he said.

So we had a good old walk. He’s a doctor at Mt. Sinai. I was not expecting that. Not with those headphones, I guess. Perhaps if he was wearing an oversized lime green stethoscope, I would have known, but the headphones really threw me.

We talked about life. I told him about capoeira, since he asked where I was coming from. He’s from Texas. He’s a far way from home. I’m from green PA–not so far, but a whole other world, nonetheless.

He did sort of manage to get my number. I knew what he was doing, too, but I am not good at saying “No, I am not going to give you my number.” Especially after I had just had a pretty good walk with him and he seemed nice enough. At one point, we walked by Cookie Monster.

Yes, Cookie Monster.

It is New York, after all.

He was all, “Oh, you should pose with him! I’ll take your picture…”

So sure, I posed with Cookie Monster. And then the good doctor told me that he should really get my contact info, so as to email me the picture. “It can be your new facebook profile picture,” he added.

So, I did. I gave him my number. I didn’t take the time to explain that I am not dating anyone right now on purpose–because I didn’t feel like getting into it. I told my friend Leao about this. He had a very good answer. “You just say, ‘I don’t give my number out,’ see? It’s simple. Easy. When are you gonna learn, Cisne, that nobody ever just wants to talk to you? Not here in New York, anyway, and not a man.’

So nobody wants to talk about my book.

And

Nobody just wants to talk to me.

Okay!

But it was a nice walk. People are so interesting. Cookie Monster was a little creepy. He kept motioning at his stomach, asking me to feed him. It was uncomfortable–especially since I had no cookies.

But right now life feels like a book with some blank pages. And the blank pages make me excited; I wonder what happens next. I wonder what happens now. I feel a little excited and I smile and I don’t feel such a burning desire to play solitaire on my phone lately–a sure sign that, emotionally, at least, I’m doing better.

And I’ll take it.

Especially since I have it on good authority from my new friend Leão that:

A). There are only about ten nice guys in New York City.
B). Five of them are already taken.
C). None of them live above 168th street.
And
D). Nobody (“NOBODY, JESS!”) wants to talk about my book.

if only I’d known those pertinent facts before yesterday afternoon. ‘If only.’ Two words that are really no help at all.

See, I was on the subway, reading my new book, Walking With God. Suddenly a guy sidles up next to me and says, “Can you please tell me about your book?”

I think: Ooh, he wants to know about God. My pastor friend Christian will be so proud of this!

Later, Leão tells me: “Guys will use anything to talk to a girl. Don’t be fooled. He didn’t care about your book; not even a little bit.”

So we talk. I tell him about my relationship with God and he listens intently, this guy who I later find out is named Gerald, does.

“Could we go somewhere and talk more about this?” Gerald asks, once we both get off at 200th.

I think: Oh, nice–Gerald wants to know more about it! He likes this book so much…

Leão later reminds me that: “Nobody, not even your Christian grandmother, wants to talk about your book.

Hahahaha okay. Good to know.

So Gerald and I sit down. And then bam! He doesn’t mention the book again. Instead, he discusses the following:

–my views on men and women “mating.”
(MATING?! What are you, a zoologist? An alien doctor? According to Leão, since we are dangerously above 168th street, Gerald very well could be)
–do I work out? Yes? He can tell! And wants to squeeze my bicep.
(I want to throw up and politely tell him that I will not flex for him)
–he discovers I am older than him–but no worries, cause he “likes a wine finer with age!”
(still wanting to throw up)
–After finding out that I am partly Italian, he tells me that he has “only ever been with Italian women.”
(well, this Italian woman will not be adding to that record)

I knew I had to get out of there and I was starting to suspect that Gerald didn’t care at all about my book. So I finally say, “I gotta run.”

I know, brilliantly clever and deftly maneuvered. Feel free to write that one down, folks.

The odd thing is, he took me literally and told me that he’d love to run with me, but unfortunately has an injury right now that prevents him from running. Though he does sometimes work out on the treadmill, he made sure to tell me, which I was ever so relieved to hear, you know.

I thanked him for the hot chocolate and got the heck out of dodge. I even kind of slammed the door, but not on purpose. I work out, you know, so not only do weirdos want to feel my bicep, I sometimes inadvertently slam doors.

Anyway, the whole thing was a learning experience and unfortunately, none of it is going to make my pastor friend Christian particularly proud.

This is one testimony I will not be sharing at church. Nor will I ever again believe that anybody wants to talk about my book (least of all the people I meet above 168th street).

I cannot imagine.

What an ending everyone must have felt. I mean: DEAD. There isn’t much more of a THE END you can give to a story than that. But on Friday, nobody knew about Sunday. Nobody knew that the story didn’t end there.

And my pop said that sometimes we are stuck at Friday, and what we need to realize is that Sunday is coming.

Oh God, I need Sunday.

I mean, sometimes I’d give myself a good Saturday-ish feeling, in terms of how I am doing. But a lot of times, I forget about Sunday. Today was a really good reminder.

—————————————————————–

Also, Isaac kindly requested that I record the duet Lyric and I had sung back in the fall, Lately Darling. So I did just now. You can listen to it, if you’d like, though I must say that I miss Lyric in this song. A lot. A lot a lot. Yes, I think I need to get back to California soon.

lately, darling