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.

“It’s a recording present…and it has a ukulele on it!”

And look at that–isn’t it so adorable? I am one very lucky girl.

And WE DID IT!

We recorded FOUR SONGS in just under TWO DAYS. And, I must say, I am so excited about these tracks. I keep listening to them. In fact, I went to the gym tonight (yes, I’m the girl who goes to the gym on a Friday night. Romantic, I know)–but, I was in the weight room and listening to this one part of my song that breaks down into a rap. And there’s this rolling snare drum that just makes me SO EXCITED (that’s why I used caps, guys, cause caps are EXCITING!), I cannot help but dance when I hear it. So, I am standing there with one weight in my hand while the rest of me is sort of dancing, when one of the trainers walks up to me.

“What are you listening to that’s making you dance?” he asks.

And for a second, I can’t even hear him, my music is blasting so loud through my earphones. I see that he’s not going to stop asking me whatever it is he’s asking, so I regrettably stop the music and listen to his question.

And am instantly embarrassed and evasive.

“Oh…” I say, scrambling to think of something–ANYTHING!–other than: “Myself. I am listening to myself and it’s making me dance. And, oh yeah. I don’t go on dates on Friday nights–I go to the gym. At least you’re here because you’re getting paid to be here; I cannot say the same about myself…”

Right, so I don’t want to say that, so I say, “Oh…it’s nobody you would know…” and just kind of hope he goes away.

But he keeps standing right in front of me, staring, muscles bulging through his polo shirt, looking like he’s ready to talk to me about whatever it is that’s making me dance —even if it takes all night. Or at least until ten, when the Y closes.

“What kind of answer is that?!” he says, “Come on, what are you listening to?!”

“Uh…myself? I am listening to myself…” I finally admit. “I didn’t want to tell you that I was dancing to my music. That’s kind of embarrassing to be caught doing. I mean, I never thought anyone would ever ask me what was making me dance…”

And then that led to a whole conversation about me being a musician and then another guy came over and, having talked to me at my parents’ Y last time I was in town, asked me if I’ve cut some weight. Cut some weight. Not lost it. Huge body building men have their own language, guys. So I admitted that I might have. “But not on purpose–I’ve just been so busy lately, that I keep forgetting to eat.”

Which, once these guys got over the shock and incredulity of anyone EVER forgetting to eat, of all things, led to us talking about what’s happened since youtube happened to me.

And then I came home and played the tracks for my parents and one of their dogs. Strider seemed to enjoy it. Well, he slept through it, but he seemed to enjoy whenever I scratched his ears–and my tracks were playing when I was doing it–so there’s that. My parents listened to it in a kind of reverie, smiling or moving a little or closing their eyes (but unlike Strider, I am pretty sure they didn’t fall asleep).

My nephew and brother are geniuses in the studio. Their help is immeasurable and I could not do this without them.

Like I said, I am one lucky girl.

And so, let me tell you what this millionaire went and did. Tried to buy one of those packs of men’s undershirts at Modell’s because I forgot a shirt to wear to class tonight.

And my card was denied.

Yep, just rolling in it. 

I, too, am so glad that I am finally a millionaire.

I am probably the only millionaire on the planet who cannot afford something that costs $6.99.

And before you freak out (hi, mom! hi, pop!)–don’t worry. I went to my bank and moved some money from my savings account into my regular account and so now I can once again afford men’s beater shirts. WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE NOW?!

Oh, I also did an interview and played some songs on one of Z100′s podcasts, with TJ, who co-hosts with Elvis Duran for the morning show. If you wanna hear it, you can go HERE. If you wanna see what TJ and I look like when we stand next to each other under a big, neon sign that says Z100, you can go here:

And here are some random thoughts that are all vying for my attention right now: I am in love with my friends. But not, you know, in love in love. But definitely in love. My mom just texted me four little emojis at 1:24 am. A thumbs up, a smiley face, a red balloon (one of my favorite emojis, hands down), and a chinese character that I certainly don’t understand and would also bet every one of my MILLION DOLLARS that she doesn’t understand, either. I like making eye contact with people–is that strange? When I used to work at a coffee shop, it was my goal to make eye contact with every person I waited on–you know, have a real human connection. This is probably why so many strange people end up talking to me, though, I am guessing. I am hungry almost all the time, lately. My yoga teacher went 40 minutes over in class tonight. This is a gift, unless you are starving and exhausted. Guess what I was? Yep. Starving and exhausted. I wanted to take the gift back.

And buy dinner with the money I got for it.

I am also wearing my fair share of leg warmers recently. The dream of the nineties might very well be alive in Portland (as they say in Portlandia. Which is an awesome and hilarious show. Even I know this and I hardly ever watch the television, is the thing), but the dream of the eighties is alive right here in New York City.

Just look at my legs and how warm they are lately.

Because right now, there are always things to do, it seems. I need to write this person back. Or text that person. Or call her. Or record a song. Or practice my music. Or listen to a message. Or get artwork together for an itunes release. Or send a post card. Or do laundry. Or brush my teeth. Or get on the train back to NYC. Or meet with someone. Or eat a sandwich.

But, tonight, I sat and talked with my parents about the recent occurrences, and I was just so happy for them, if that makes any sense at all. I have not yet had a kid, but I have heard that being a parent is to have your heart walk around outside of your body. What I mean to say is, the connection goes deep. And, they’ve seen me through some sad times. And then some more sad times, after that. We’ve sat on that couch many a night when I was crying and asking them to please tell me something that is good; tell me that there is a plan for my life that involves dreams coming true. Or love. Or, hey–how bout plain old health insurance, for starters?

But, I just watched them tonight. Their faces were so animated, talking to me. They were actually laughing out loud when I played for them the finished track of Ain’t My Friend tonight. Well, my pop was joyously laughing, anyway. My mom was concentrating very hard and looking irritated at my pop every time he adjusted the volume. Like, if you touched a knob–altered the atmosphere even the tiniest amounts–this whole thing might just vanish as fast as it first appeared.

And it might.

But, in the meantime, I am happy to sing my songs for people. And really really happy to watch my parents’ eyes light up over something good happening in my life. Not that it’s the first good thing. No, far from it! There are so many good things that have already happened to me–and many of them share my last name; while some don’t, but our closeness makes it feel like they do, anyway.

But tonight it was good to see my parents so happy.

And I am just gonna sit in this feeling for a while, if you don’t mind.

Who knows!? Maybe health insurance is next.

But it’s  a great kind of exhausted, because it comes from doing a lot of this:

Which doesn’t look nearly as difficult as it is. Does anyone realize how hard it is to record an instrument that is not your forte? Recording a piano is much easier than recording a ukulele. For me, anyway. I imagine this is not the case with everyone. But, luckily, one can take many takes in a studio.

Favorite quote today…Wait, not yet.

Because, first, let me give you some context. My pop had just picked me up from the train station and taken me back home; my parents’ three HUGE (see how effective it is to actually make the word ‘huge,’ well, huge? I need you to know these are not small or even medium sized dogs, guys)–but their three alaskan malamutes were making me feel very welcome. By sniffing me and stuff. You know, what dogs do. So my pop says to me very seriously, “No matter how famous you might get, Jess, you will always come back home to a place where the dogs will sniff your crotch.”

Which keeps things in perspective. Keeping it real, as they say.

And something else that’s real is I need to record vocals tomorrow. And so sleeping is a very good idea.

Good night.

People–the ones in my life, specifically–helped a lot with that.

And my parents got me a microphone. One that I can plug into my computer and record songs in such a manner that they don’t sound entirely terrible. MERRY CHRISTMAS, INDEED.

Favorite quote from church this morning had to be while my mom and I were listening to my pop give the message. She leans over to me and I’m expecting to hear something–anything, really–other than what I hear. Maybe spiritual. Maybe Christmasy. But, not this: “I hope your pop stops speaking soon, so I can put the turkey in the oven.”

If you knew my mom, you’d know that is such a very uncharacteristic thing for her to say. She hardly ever cares about putting turkeys in ovens. But Christmas day is different, I suppose.

Anyway.

You wanna hear my new microphone put to work? Um, if you do, you’re in luck, cause I recorded this tonight. Track after track after track of vocals and uke and claps and clicks. Not to be confused with clucks.

I am not, after all, a chicken.

sdfds

I woke up early, glued on some false eyelashes, and sang some songs for people sitting behind a table who do not know, nor care to know my middle name. Which is fine. There’s a big difference between the people who hire us and the people who love us, and it doesn’t do good things for our psyche when we start confusing the two.

I had what I consider to be a good audition, but now–10 hours after the fact–it’s easy to doubt. To wonder if it really went as well as I imagined it did. Oh well, I guess I’ll see. And there sure isn’t anything I can do about it while flying somewhere above…(this is the part when I pick a state between Atlanta and Los Angeles…any state between Atlanta and Los Angeles…)…um, Colorado? It’s probable I’m somewhere above Colorado right now, yes?

My pop handed me a book right before I left today. “For the plane,” he told me. Not entirely happy with the fact that it was hardback and weighed more than I wanted to carry, I protested. “Oh, Jess, it weighs a pound. You can carry it with one hand,” he said, and that was that.

And now I’m two hundred pages into a book on survival. Survival of all sorts of fantastical and dangerous scenarios. Knitting needles puncturing hearts. A fall off the Golden Gate Bridge. A brain bleed on the side of a mountain in sub-zero temperatures. A mountain lion ripping someone’s face off. A cyclist hit by a cement truck (which seems to be a trend, for some reason–watch out for those cement trucks!). And of course, lots of plane crashes.

You better believe that this time I listened to the safety instructions, read the safety manual, and made sure to know that I am exactly three rows away from the emergency exit aisle. Apparently, all of that stuff really matters. So does having a plan. As does exiting the plane within 90 seconds of a crash. Also–your chance of being killed in a plane crash is 1 in 60 million.

So, sigh of relief.

Also, short legged women and overly tall men have a harder time escaping a plane in under 90 seconds. Since I am neither a short-legged woman or an overly tall man, I feel pretty good about this statistic.

Side note: the captain. Nope, the pilot–yes, planes have pilots and ships have captains. Anyway, the pilot just said over the intercom that we’re flying over Dallas right now (hi, Mandy!), so I was wrong about Colorado, I guess.

Another statistic in this book (which is not written by a particularly religious man, by the way): people who attend a religious function regularly tend to live seven years longer than those who don’t.

Interesting.

Also: the number 3 is very important. Because, so says this book (The Survivor’s Club, Ben Sherwood. There, now you know):

The Rule of 3 States that You Cannot Survive:

3 seconds without spirit or hope
3 minutes without air
3 hours without shelter in extreme conditions
3 days without water
3 weeks without food
3 months without companionship or love

So yes, the book is fascinating. So is the fact that I was in NYC this morning, Philly this afternoon, and will be in LA in a few hours.

Okay, now I’m back to reading why the best place to have a heart attack is in Vegas.

Go figure.

Me: For my first anniversary after…well, you know…

(Dann shakes his head, cause he knows)

Me:…My parents took me to Gettysburg.

…

Me again: And then for my birthday this year, they took me to Harper’s Ferry. You know, more Civil War stuff.

Dann: Hmm…war…dead soldiers…graves…hardship…

Me: Yeah, it kind of fit with my mood at the time…

Dann: So, where are your parents taking you for Christmas–Auschwitz?

What do you say, mom and pop? 

—————————–

I have been having a few disappointing, dead-end auditions lately. But my sadness never lasts long over these. It’s strange how resilient the human spirit is. I’ll be so bummed, but then I’ll realize: THIS IS NOT THE END OF THE STORY. It’s a feeling, a valid feeling, but my disappointment is not the last word.

Still, I’m about due for a knock-’em-dead-audition, I’d say.

Any day now, folks; any day.

—————————

On the subway today, a guy told me in very thickly accented English that I am beautiful.

Okay, that’s nice…but I’m thinking not so innocent.

“Give me your number,” he said.

Only it sounded more like “Give me your numberrrrrrrrr,” cause of his fancily rolled r’s.

“I already have a man,” I said.

And I do; I have many.

Many brothers.

And a pop.

And so many beautiful friends who are men.

And even a nephew who is darn close to being a man now.

Is already one, if you go by the US Army’s standards.

But my argument turned out to be futile, as this guy with the rolled r’s parried it aside with his own admittance to already having a girl.

Well, now–what a lucky girl she is.

“You should stay with your girl,” I said.

But on second thought, he probably should just be single, since that’s the way he acts, anyway.

Why are some people such dogs?

No, I LOVE dogs. I won’t discredit dogs by comparing cheating men to them.

Why are some people such…people who become their worst selves at times?

Gosh, including me, actually.

Okay, I guess we all need help.

And grace.

But at least we don’t all go around hitting on people on the subway when we have a perfectly fine somebody at home.

But, then again: there but for the grace of God, go I…

Though thankfully, that is not something I struggle with.

I might have 99 problems, but trying to get numbers from people when I already have someone with their own ten digit number is not one of them.

(of course, being single helps with that…)

And now I not only know, but I have seen with my own eyes each and every song from the Newsies sound track that’s on this girl’s ipod.
Because simply telling me that she has the soundtrack just doesn’t do it, I guess.
And I also know about the Newsies blog she created, as well as the 30 female characters she added to the story because, NO FAIR! THE ONLY FEMALE ROLE IS THAT ONE LEAD’S SISTER!
And she only got to sing one line.
Anyway, they were interesting, for sure.
Well, and strange, too.

What was also interesting and strange was eating a cheeseburger at the Shake Shack in my tutu and corset. Those kinds of things just are not conducive to eating. And if you must eat–well then, a cheeseburger isn’t exactly the first thing you naturally reach for.

And Leao and I walked in the Halloween Parade in the West Village tonight. It was ridiculous and hilarious and freezing and fun and one guy dressed as the Black Swan sure did want my tiara.

Sorry, man–get your own tiara. This one’s being used. Clearly.

But way to sport both a tutu and a beard; I’m guessing that doesn’t happen a ton.

I’ve never been in such a jostling and cattle-like crowd before. I think I could have lifted my feet from the ground and not even moved. But I was too busy clutching my purse and trying not to get separated from Leao to try it.

Oh, I also got glitter-fied. Captain Glitter (it’s okay, I’d never heard of her before either) found me and asked if I’d like some glitter.
Hello!
Who says no to glitter offered by Captain Glitter herself?
Yeah, not me.
So then I became sparkly.
Nice.

And I also informed Leao that next year I will be a Sasquatch or a polar bear or maybe even a beluga whale. Basically, something warm. Cause this little black swan was so cold tonight. And here’s a new definition of commitment for you: walking down 6th avenue in pointe shoes.
FOR FOUR HOURS.

So yeah, I was not sad to take those off at the end of the night.
And I’m not sad to be warm now.
Or to be going to sleep.
Which is my cue.
Good night.

You know–when it’s freezing and you put on a costume and you go outside and wish to goodness that The Black Swan looked more like an eskimo than a ballerina, cause maybe then you’d be warm.

Or at least, warmer.

But The Black Eskimo would probably be an entirely different story. One that wouldn’t star Natalie Portman, I’d bet.

But then you go inside where your friends have a wood stove that they keep piping hot and you’re feeling better about the temperature, at least; but you’re trying to make small talk and you realize that, actually? It’s kind of difficult to be all casual while wearing a tutu.

Really. You try it.

But, here it is: my costume this year:

And just cause it’s so Swan Lake, I had to do this.

Yep, had to.

And last night was a good one.

A friend in Chicago asked me to get drinks with him afterwards.

Get drinks.

That feels so adult. Like the time I was sick as a teenager, and, after waking my pop up in the middle of the night, he just told me to go down to the kitchen and pour myself some kind of medicine. Sent me down by myself. SO ADULT.

And now I’m getting drinks with a friend.

EVEN MORE ADULT.

Anyway.

It was lovely. I got emotional and cried. We were talking about love. Love makes me cry; so does opening the oven when I toast coconut. But for entirely different reasons. Love doesn’t hurt my eyes and toasting coconut doesn’t break my heart. Good to keep those straight.

Anyway, my friend told me something beautiful. “You’re a unicorn, Jess,” he said. And immediately, every part of me that can light up, did. My eyes, my heart, my mind, the backs of my knees–you name it, I was feeling bright.

“Do you know my favorite animal is a unicorn?” I asked him, knowing that he didn’t.

“Unicorns aren’t real,” he pointed out.

“But they’re my favorite, anyway,” I said, failing to see why real always matters.

“You’re a unicorn, Jess, and unicorns are gonna attract all sorts. You gotta watch out, though, just cause they’re attracted to you and coming around, doesn’t mean that they know how to treat a unicorn. Unicorns are very special and need to be taken care of just so.”

“I love that I’m a unicorn; I mean, that’s such a beautiful thing to call me,” I said, still not quite over the fact that in this world that my friend is creating in John’s Tavern at midnight in Media, I get to be a mythical creature. Win.

“But,” he went on, “If I had a unicorn, I’d feed it and pet it and love it and take special care of it–not general care of it, but specific unicorn care of it. Not everyone will. Douchebag men like unicorns, too. And for some reason, a lot of straight men seem pretty douchy. Don’t pay them attention, okay? You find the guy who gets that you’re a unicorn.”

“Okay,” I agreed, “I will,” I said. Cause if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never to argue with a guy who’s comparing you to a unicorn.

And that was that.

But anyway, it was a beautiful conversation. I mean, I got to be a unicorn, for goodness’ sake.

Yesterday, a unicorn and today, a swan.

I’d say it’s been a pretty good weekend.