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.

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.

Let me explain.

Before I had really gotten used to using facetime on my phone, I got a call from my brother one morning. But, a facetime call. So, you know, with video and stuff. Visuals. Anyway, I was in the middle of changing my clothes, but just picked up the phone anyway. Before you start praying for my brother’s eyes, let me assure you that he did not see a thing that I wouldn’t show the rest of the world.

Can we say HUGE SIGH OF RELIEF?

But.

I realized just in time, so said hello, then–before the screen really came to life–threw the phone on the bed, face down.

“Jessica?” Jase asked. “Are you there?”

“Yep!” I yelled, from a short distance. “Gimme two secs!”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Putting a shirt on!”

“WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD YOU ANSWER FACETIME WITHOUT A SHIRT ON?!” was what I heard next.

…

Well, that was quite a lesson, let me tell you.

Anyway, I facetimed Latshaw West and made sure to wear all the appropriate garb.

And then had a good conversation.

In which I realized something.

“I don’t think I’m gonna get married for a while yet,” I said to Darby, squarely into her face–that being the only thing I could really see. It was facetime, after all.

And the nice thing is that I was not lamenting this fact. Not at all, actually. I felt a kind of peace as I said this. And she nodded at me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it was a good thing, actually.

See, I come from this background where people get married very young. It’s a kind of race down the aisle for all the Christian kids–or at least, it can feel like that. It’s like marriage is the goal. What you do once you get there isn’t talked about so much–but marriage! DO IT! Which, incidentally, is more to the point of the race down the aisle, I think. You know: DO IT. Cause the idea for us Christian kids is to NOT do it until you’re married.

And then when my Plan A turned into a kind of Plan B that looked exactly like me not being married right now, I was devastated. A loved one even set a goal for me: “I think we can get you married by next fall,” he said.

Like it’s the middle ages and I am the Princess of Wales who needs to secure the line or something.

Like Craigslist has just the right space for me to place my personals add.

But ‘next fall’ came and went and, sure enough, I am not married. I am single. But, wonder of wonders, I am enjoying this. I do not believe I will be single forever–I try not to think of much in terms of FOREVER! or NEVER!, for that matter–but this season of life is pretty fun sometimes.

Plus the fact, I get scared of settling down with someone. I get scared that a bit of the adventure I love will drain away and I will be left staring at a television night after night, wondering who it is I am sharing a couch with and why he keeps trying to touch me; and if he gets me, truly gets me. Anyway, my point is that being single and waiting for the kind of man who makes me feel beautifully and wholly alive is way better than sitting next to some guy and feeling slightly numb, albeit warmer with him in my bed.

So, there you go. I’m single right now. And I’m okay with this. Not that I don’t ever want that magical thing called togetherness to happen–but, until it does, I sure am gonna enjoy right now for what it is.

When I’m feeling like the past is the only kind of fire I can ever warm my heart by again.
When I am feeling like I must rush to catch up, that I am that white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland who is perpetually late, late, late! Always preoccupied by the clock he clutches, by the knowledge that what he was sure he’d do yesterday isn’t even a guarantee for tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or any day, really.
When I am missing the shape that my life had settled into at one point.
When I am afraid that tomorrow will bring more change; when I am even more afraid that tomorrow will be exactly the same as today.

To all this, my friends and the maker of this beautiful universe, say the same thing. They say it over and over again, tirelessly; it sounds like doors slamming and hearts breaking, but something more, too; like the kind of peace that comes when you look to your hands and see them finally empty. The white knuckles are not so white any longer and now, oh dear God, NOW there is room for something that is pure life giving.

Like water, clean and sweet.

Like grace, undeserved.

Let go, they tell me so many times, swelling until it becomes the very sound of the wind rushing the leaves to the ground in the fall; the soft brush of winter snow sticking to the corners of the porch in piles, as if we could ever actually save some for later; the sound of springtime birds singing, not because they have to, but because it’s just another sign that they are alive; and I can hear it in summer, too. In the free swish of my skirt against my bare legs, my body having hidden behind sweaters and leggings and boots and layers of just about everything imaginable all winter long.

Let go.

It’s an anthem and a challenge; it’s simple but there’s nothing easy about it.

Nevertheless, let go.

It’s better this way, the universe keeps telling me, and who am I to argue?

Today, I marveled at life. I’m feeling all whole and full inside lately. Buoyant, even. Like a little apple that continues to happily bob along in the water.

It’s really good. Life is really good. And lately, I’ve been feeling it.

“Nothing cataclysmically amazing has happened,” I told my friend Kevin who called me from LA tonight, “But I’m just feeling so good inside.”

“That’s great, Jess!” he said. “And it’s okay to feel happy just, you know, like normally. Even if there aren’t great events that are making it so.”

This is good to know.

And my mom–she is good to know. 50% Italian and 100% adorable, that one. And since I am half of whatever she is, I suppose that makes me 25% Italian and 50% adorable.

50% is better than nothing!

Oh, and I like to make cards. “I am happiest–absolutely thrilled!–when I am making something,” I told my friend Nick tonight. “Even if it’s just a puppy sign. My heart sings when I am busy creating, is the thing.”

Speaking of making things, these friendships have been years in the making. Decades now, actually. I’m a lucky girl, to have two such as them love me.

And who doesn’t like tiny mittens? They were on the outside of a gift from a new friend this year. And I knew just what to do with them.

Sometimes I do.

Which is when I steal away.
I close my mouth, swallow my apologies,
and play music.

I did this tonight.
It helps so much.

I recorded a cover. I have the whole thing down now. AFter I messed it up while performing at a cabaret in NYC a couple weeks ago. Oh well, you really can’t take yourself too seriously. Especially when you’re covering something by Dr. Dre and Eminem, I guess.

It’s funny, it took me a full two days, I think, just to memorize the FIRST LINE, “I told the world one day I would pay it back, say it on tape and lay it, record it, so that one day I could play it back…”

That line just kept alluding me. I could not wrap my brain around it, and it would not stick in my memory. Then it became my weird little mantra I said over and over in my head until it finally made a kind of rhythmic sense to me. Then, the rest came pretty easy after that.

Anyway, the song:

I was thinking about some decisions I’ve made lately; mostly about who I want to get close to.

And then I thought about a friend I have. A dear and beautiful friend with whom I recently shared a conversation. “You know you’re better than that, right?” I said, after listening to this friend tell me some sad things that some sad people have been saying and doing to my friend. “And you know it’s better to be alone, standing on your own two able feet, than to be side-by-side with people who hurt us more than they don’t?”

But it’s not easy to choose a new kind of aloneness instead of the familiarity of someone–anyone. I realize this. But sometimes it’s when we’re alone that we can make the necessary room for something truly great to fill our lives and our hearts–even if it’s just knowing that we, each of us, are enough.

Darling, you’re better than that; sing, you’re better than him
Sing this song with me now, then take a bow.

Baby, you’re pretty enough, and you know, words, they’re just fluff–
Don’t let him blind you with a poem, when you’re a story you don’t owe him.

So be wild.
So be free.
So be like the moon, so high above it all.
Untouchable by those who cannot see
That you are listening to some kind of higher call.

Darling, you are stronger than you think.
Your heart is broken, raw, and pink.
Your vulnerability makes this busy world stop and blink.

And your tears, they keep watering the earth.
They are pieces of your worth.
Don’t let them wash the feet of those who taste like dirt.

We sit on the set bed while it’s backstage and we discuss.
We don’t sit on it while it’s onstage and discuss, cause we’d probably be fired then.
“He texted me,” she’ll say.
“And…?” I’ll prompt.
And then I’ll get the low-down.
Or:
“Yeah, I talked to him,” I’ll tell her.
“And…?” she’ll say.
And then it’s on.

But yesterday, she asked me a question.
“Do you think I should hang out with so-and-so?” she asked.
“Do you want to?” I asked right back.
“Well…it’s kind of nice sometimes, I guess…”
“Even though so-and-so has been SO SO SO lame in the past?” I’ll ask her. And yes, I am totally leading the witness.
“…Well…” she’ll say, slowly.

And I know that kind of well; I mean, I recognize it.

“I know what you mean, but I’m gonna bring God into this, if you don’t mind.”
“Bring him,” she said.
“I was reading a proverb and it said something about how to the hungry, even what is bitter tastes sweet. And I am not sure what other people think that means, but for me–I think that can mean relationships. Like, it feels good to be liked and loved and paid attention to and none of that stuff is wrong, necessarily…unless it IS wrong, you know?”

She nodded her head.

“Say the proverb again?” she asked.

And I did.

“Sometimes I think we’re so hungry that we just take anything into ourselves and call it food, call it good, just cause it’s something and we think something is better than nothing, but the truth is that SOME THINGS are way worse than NOTHING.”

“Like being with a cheater just cause you’re lonely,” she chimed in.

“Exactly,” I said.
“And,” I went on, “I will be the first to admit that I am hungry…”
“So hungry…” she agreed.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything close to a meal in terms of relationships,” I said.
And again, she agreed.
And then we started laughing really hard on that set bed backstage.

Finally, I took a breath to say, “We’re laughing because it’s true,”
“So true,” she said.
Which made both of us laugh all over again.

And then we got off the bed and went back on stage.

Truth is, I am not the best anything in the world.

But that doesn’t really matter. Because who is? Not being The Best In The World is peripheral compared to this: What is it that you love?

And I mean real love. The kind that makes your heart beat faster and your body feel electric as you push yourself and find that you’re doing things you never imagined you’d do. Not ever. Maybe for the guy who’s shy, who’s never read Shakespeare–maybe he’s suddenly writing a poem to some blue eyed girl in Minnesota that, just by her very presence, has transformed Minnesota into some kind of wonderland. A place where dreams are born.

What I mean is, being in love transforms you.

And I love to dance.

Which is why I went to samba class again tonight. Why the four drummers playing in the corner were changing the beat of my own heart, turning it into something that went bum, BOOM, boom, boom, for a change. And why I shook my whole body for about an hour and a half. These are the kinds of crazy things that people do–people who are in love, I mean.

And no, I am not the best dancer in the world.

But do you refrain from falling in love with another person for the mere fact that you are not The Best Person In The World?

No, you don’t.

And that doesn’t matter at all.

Heck, that doesn’t even exist at all.

You fall in love, and then you’re doing crazy wonderful things (one hopes). You’re stopping at nothing to make sure you’re the very best vehicle for that pure strong love to flow through, and you point it nowhere but in your beloved’s direction.

So it is with the things that we love to do, I think.

And I remembered tonight, while shaking it in samba. I remembered how much I love to dance. And that’s something, guys; that’s really something.

It’s nice to have some privacy, I guess.

Real real nice.

I had lunch with a close friend last week. His dad is dying. He’s flown home now to say good-bye. This is not fair. How can we eat salad and talk about saying good-bye to someone we love so much? Sometimes life asks too much, I think.

Also, the pain and mess of it all makes me believe harder in a God who redeems this shit. I’m sorry for saying shit. It’s just–that’s the contrast sometimes: God’s redemption vs. shit. Beauty and transcendence vying against the ugliness and depravity we face sometimes.

It’s not easy, and so I use words that cost something.

And now my mom is gonna have to explain to her friends that not only do I sometimes use curse words in my songs, but now I sometimes use curse words in my blog.

It’s a good thing she loves me so much.

Love is always a good thing. No matter what somebody does with it, it’s a good thing. This is how I know my life is not a waste; was never a waste; will never be a waste.

And this is why I still love; even though it makes the part when you have to say good-bye hurt too much.

Even then, I choose love.

It hurts and heals us; but more than anything, it redeems us.