First page of the table archive.

scratch the felt, I say; you might just learn something in the process.

Posted by jessica on Jul 16, 2010 with 2 Comments
in Funny Stuff, I Lift My Eyes Up, Loved Ones, Thoughts and Feelings
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My pop asked me tonight if I am any good at playing pool.

To which I said, No. And you wanna know why? Because you never let me and my brothers play on our pool table for fear that we’d scratch the precious felt (well actually I said velvet, but my mom corrected me). The most we were allowed to do was roll those pool balls around (and for all the rolling of balls I did (let’s try to be mature and just let that statement go, please), you’d think that, as a result, I’d at least be better at bowling, but nope. I suck at bowling too!) and so, there’s your answer, pop: no, I am not at all good at pool because you never let me play!

And guess what’s probably not even intact anymore anyway? That dumb felt. I’m assuming it isn’t because the pool table isn’t. And what? Is felt comparable to the ivory from an elephant or something? Is it really that hard to replace? Because I am pretty sure it’s like five dollars at Joanne Fabrics. I am pretty sure every church has reams of it, just begging to be used, come those long hot days of VBS.

And after all of this, my pop smiled sheepishly and admitted, Well that probably wasn’t very good, huh?

But don’t worry pop, there are a lot worse things parents can do to their children; I remain grateful that my daddy issues revolve around felt.

But I think there is a metaphor somewhere in all this. I think that, in an attempt to keep something in perfect condition, we can sometimes keep from really trying. Or even trying at all. Sure, we can try and get hurt or scratch the felt or break our heart or feel intense disappointment, but at the end of the day wouldn’t you rather have discovered that darn! you’re really super good at pool, despite the scratches you have in the felt with which you now have to contend?

I would, anyway.

And I am really not so mad about the pool table. Though, if it’s anything like the way we took to the table that we were allowed to use–the ping-pong table–then, the Latshaw’s would now be a force to contend with in the world of pool as well as ping-pong.

And I am not saying I’d be a hustler, but at least if I were, you don’t have to worry, because it’d be COMPLETELY CO-ED! –just like the way I like my organized skinny dipping, if you didn’t know.

And I’m just kidding about that, if you didn’t know.

Anyway, yes. I’d rather risk some fallout and go after something wholeheartedly than sit and stare at a perfect and unused table. Or heart. Or dream. Or life, for that matter.

I feel the earth move under my feet, just like Carol King said.

Posted by jessica on Aug 13, 2009 with No Comments
in Funny Stuff, Performance, Thoughts and Feelings
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Okay first, don’t be jealous, but there’s something I have to tell you.

Not only does my current toilet come installed with a bidet, it also has a seat warmer.
Enough said.
Second, this whole earth quake situation has me mildly freaked out. Well, if the realization that you really can do nothing about it but you’re still apprehensive can be called freaked out.
See, the thing is, I got it the first time, Japan. If you’re trying to impress a girl from Pennsylvania with your ability to roll up the earth and make it seem like it’s not ground at all, consider your goal achieved.
And really, some might say that three quakes in four days might be overkill. Like you’re overcompensating. Are you thinking I might not notice how much of your sushi is slathered in mayonnaise if you keep the ground fluid? Are you thinking that a little tremble beneath my feet will keep me from running to the bathroom and spitting that mayo-slathered-sushi out?
If so, you’re wrong.
Cause I will not eat mayonnaise in a quake; I will not eat it in a lake; I will not eat it Japan-I-Am; I will not eat it anywhere.

But moving on. And trusting God that I will make it back to America in one piece. And still moving on.

I am exhausted. Completely drained. I have done four shows in 24 hours and have yet another matinee tomorrow. I got five hours of sleep last night and my show shoes feel like they simply must be mistaken for something else because surely those torture devices could not have been intended to actually be worn; not by a blue-blooded and voting American, not in a democracy, not by someone who naively thinks they are ideal for not only standing but also dancing.
Seriously, the pain in my feet have reminded me once again how awfully a foot can ache. On the break, I had sort of forgotten about all of that, which was nice.
Tonight we had dinner in a Mexican restaurant. In Tokyo, Japan. Six of us walked in, and upon taking our seating number, the hostess asked if we wouldn’t mind sharing a table. Of course not, we said, and we were led to share the table with these two gentlemen.
We pretended that we weren’t taking the picture with them, but rather just with me and Brandon, but really I had instructed Sterling to please make sure she got our strange table fellows in the picture–and I obviously had to sidle up as close to them as propriety would allow.
The unfortunate part was that one was a chain smoker. As we were seated I assumed that they would be leaving soon, given that they had basically finished their meal, but no. Wouldn’t you know that they had so much to talk about, so much to smoke about, and so we shared this table for almost the entirety of the meal.
I wouldn’t have minded so much if it weren’t for the part when their stinky cigarette smoke kept wafting in my face. Like it was cute. Like it didn’t shrivel my lungs.
And a sweet Japanese woman convinced me to purchase some face wash that had, among other things, avocado and charcoal in it.
I tried it and so far, so good.
I also washed it off and am now completely ready for bed.
Thank God for this.