corporate hostage. (or, a bunch of ramblings about momhood and music).

today is one of those corporate hostage days. holiday weeks are always rough enough to stay focused, but i have a hunkering this week will be 3 times more 'for show' than usual. surprisingly enough, i was able to knock out 90 minutes of work this morning (even more surprising that i had 90 minutes of work to do in the first place). but the rest of my duties? benched until the rest of my team returns from vacation - apparently i haven't mastered the art of telepathy yet, so the rest of my stuff has to wait until january. out of my team of 8, one other dude joins me in our otherwise empty and quiet office. ok by me, it's just more quiet than usual, and i'm trying to find ways to occupy the next 6.5 hours of today, and planning for the next two days of this workweek, until another 4 day weekend awaits me. i'm not complaining. i know i have it made.

but as a mother. it's like - whoa. quiet? and i'm getting paid to just sit here and be on call? whoa. ok.

so i'm trying to wrack my underused brain and try to get some writing out, since i know it's not like my home environment is tranquil and peaceful. or stimulating. home = put the baby in the box. the jumper. the playpen. the diaper pad. he shat. he's hungry. daniel tiger. let's walk him around. dad - your turn? repeat. i love that kid, though. as the end of the year approaches, it's that time where i pretend to get all deep and insightful and shit and reflect on the past 365, who i am, who i've become, what i should do differently in the days ahead, how to improve upon myself, my life, goals, etc.

goals. ugh. what a downer. goals suck. i'd rather just do the shit i want. i can plan, sure. but goals nauseate me. maybe that's just because my annual self appraisal review at work is due and that's the absolute last task i feel like embarking upon. i'd rather be pregnant for a full day, 8 months, even. then do that stupid terrible review. but i digress.

obviously, this was a pretty big year for me and my family. i had a baby! my career took a backseat in my personal priorities, and now motherhood trumps all. and it's pretty awesome, no regrets. and after getting tipsy on 2 beers yesterday, i splurged and booked myself my first professional back massage for later this week, so there's that to look forward to. my 'treat yoself' gift for sleeping like a masochistic contortionist every single night to make sure my tit is within suckling grasp for the little piglet who refuses to sleep in his crib.

people ask me how i'm doing. how i've been. and i feel like all i ever have to say is the same thing. 'well, holden's good. still no sleep. it's great, though.' and then they ask about work. 'work's ok. it's flexible which is good.' are you still in chirp? 'kinda, yeah.' and that's all i really have to say about anything. honestly, the past two months i looked forward to christmas. just because it was an event and it was something with a set date, and it was an excuse to dress my son up in ridiculously adorable little old man outfits. now that that's passed, i put an insane amount of money on my credit card for an upcoming evening in wisconsin dells the first weekend in march. we'll take a family vaca to meet a good girlfriend of mine and her family. our babies will meet. we'll take them swimming. eat pizza. and i couldn't be more excited. so that's my life now. spending two+ months eagerly awaiting a swimming pizza family date. and being so fucking excited.

so why bother changing who i am. who i've become. what's to improve upon? what goals do i need to set - other than maybe more frequent family vacations. i don't know. this new year's deep thinking stuff is over my head now that i'm a grown up. sure, i still battle my own personal afflictions and conflicts. who doesn't? but the difference now is that i'm hardly one to really air any dirty laundry, as mundane as it could be - because that's not in the best interest of my son. i can't complain, so why should i? i shouldn't. so i won't. so instead, pizza. and waterslides.

but damn, that makes for one seriously boring blog post, doesn't it? i suppose instead, i could reflect on the musical selections i enjoyed in 2014. i can't really compose a top 10 list of 2014, for a multitude of reasons, mainly that i don't think i even listened to 10 different albums this year, released in 2014 or otherwise. but there were tracks i enjoyed. or older artists i really dug. maybe i could do a music spotlight? maybe that shit would give you an idea of how motherhood has really bored me down, MOMMED me, if you will.

there's no rhyme or reason, method or preconceived thought put into this list. but if you're still reading this now, you're obviously really bored (probably also another peer corporate hostage), so what the hell.

Run the Jewels - RTJ2
I never listened to the first release from Killer Mike and El-P. And quite honestly, I wouldn't haven't listened to this release either, had it not been released for free online and continuously plastered all over my Facebook feed. But enough peers with reasonable music taste cred continued to endorse it, so I figured what the hell. At first listen, it was too aggressive for my liking. Too many 'eat a dick' references. So many dicks. Every track, it seemed, talked about dicks. Dick - what a strong word. Not penis. Not dong. Not weiner. (ha, can you imagine? rick ross or some other heavy duty hardcore rapper going on about weiners? ok, i am lame now.) So the kinda feminist side of me was like, ehhh, I'm in my 30's. I don't need to listen to this--but the production did seem sleek. And as I continued to give the record a spin and a re-spin on my iPod commute, I found the album really slowly growing on me. It was aggressive. It was angry. And yes, it was a pair of 40 something year olds rapping about their lives, or probably some social consicious crap. I don't care. Content has never really driven why I've been drawn to specific hip hop releases or not. Slick beat? Smooth rhymes? Ok. Jodi 5, 10, hell even 3 years ago, could have written a concise and thorough analysis with research as to why this album was on her top preferences for the year. Jodi now is too tired. Seriously. So tired. So instead, I'm rambling about liking an album I really honestly have no personal connection to, other than the fact that sometimes I just need something loud and angry on my morning commute. Something to supplement the permacup of coffee attached to my right hand. And that track with Zach de la Rocha from Rage Against the Machine? Holy nostalgia. I love me my 90s, and Zach is still that angry dude. Close your eyes and count to fuck is a fucking tight track. As are several others on this record. So maybe this is even my fave album of the year? I don't fucking know, but this was definitely worth the free 99 to download.

Spoon - They Want My Soul
They say ('they'= everybody) that once you own one spoon album, you own them all. And in a sense, they're correct. Lead crooner Britt Daniel has a very distinctive voice, but not a whole lotta vocal range or fluctuation. AKA - all his shit sounds the same. But it's so fucking good, that I don't give a shit. Just b/c homeboy's vocals all sound comparable track to track doesn't mean that every release Spoon puts out there is solid gold, because it's not. (Transference, anyone?) But I didn't think this Austin based indie rock staple could issue another album as strong as 05's 'Gimme Fiction', or another record after 07's 'Ga Ga Ga Ga' that could peak my interest. So when I heard a new record was dropping this year, after only being lukewarm to Daniel's collaborative effort with Wolf Parade & Handsome Fur's Dan Boeckner Divine Fits, I didn't give a shit. Hunting out new music was more of a chore than a leisure this year, and I didn't really feel like boring myself with another 12 track of generic alt rock more suited for the NPR crowd than me. But I guess I am the NPR crowd, now, so I don't even know what I'm getting at there. So when my brother was visiting one day this summer, and we were conversing about new music, I asked him if he heard the new Spoon record as it was a common ground band of ours. He repeated my intro above - ie, once you have one record, you have 'em all, but I was bored. So I did something out of character and actually downloaded the new record. For full price. On iTunes. What?  Well, it turned out to be one of the smarter and better investments I made in the last year, because with tracks like "Let Me Be Mine," "Rent I Pay," "Do You," "Knock Knock Knock," and the album's moniker, it's a really solid fucking album. And I listened the shit out of it. Probably one of the only releases that kept me sane throughout the three months of maternity leave i endured earlier this year. I don't know exactly what it is about the record, but since procuring it in early August, They Want My Soul has been an easy go-to-favorite for my morning downtown commute.

TV on the Radio - Seeds
Another surprise for me. After eagerly awaiting the release of Nine Types of Light, only to be totally let down, I figured there was never going to be another 'Return to Cookie Mountain,' or even 'Dear Science'. And I'm right about the first assumption - there'll never be another RTCM. But Seeds, an impulse $5 buy on Amazon, actually is remisiscent to the poppier glitz jams found on DS. It's hardly fodder for any major publications top albums of the year, but as I stated earlier, I'm hardly the music critic I once was. For a lesiurely listen, this album was definitely worth the five bucks. The first six tracks on this record are a solid listen - with first single, "Happy Idiot," almost worth the five bucks alone. Opening track "Quartz," "Careful You," and "Could You," are all solid tracks, so the first half of the record is nonstop go go go. Perfect soundtrack for bouncing a non-tired little boy to sleep in your kitchen, half mad, running on fumes of the long day past. The second half of the album isn't bad, by any means, but the songs begin to blur together, giving off TV on the Radio syndrome, where everything just sounds harmonious, expensive, overly produced and good - but the exact same. Maybe good background music, but nothing demanding your attention, begging to be repeated or sticking out in your head like the first half. Like I said, totally worth the five bones, but not likely something I'll revisit a year from now.

The Jesus Mary Chain - Darklands
Obviously, this album wasn't released in 2014. And let me be upfront in my disappointment for all you so called 'friends,' who have known me long enough to know that what really makes me tick is80's and 90's cult alternative, and never once recommended this staple to my must have collection. I mean, seriously? How did I get by for so long without every pining and obsessing over this dark, broody Scottish quintet? Of course I knew the single everyone else knows, just like honey, but it wasn't until a couple weeks ago I decided to stream my iTunes radio station 80s alternative and found that the station was plumb full of tracks from the 1987 album Darklands. And how much I loved it. It made me angry at my younger self, who thought she was so indie cred, listening to the Dandy Warhols for so long in the 90's and 2000's, when obviously, they were and are a major TJMC rip-off. This morning, even, with my iPod on shuffle, the intro to Just Like Honey (not from this record, I know) started with the bump - ba-dump percussion intro, I skipped ahead (on shuffle) to a Deerhunter track, that had the IDENTICAL opening intro. I even skipped backwards to the JMC track again to make sure, and yep- total ripoff. So they obviously influenced a good majority of today's indie bands without most idiots like me being completely oblivious to their greatness/influence. But that's changed now. I feel like a dork, thinking I was so knowledgeable on a music scene I obviously still have a lot to learn on, and like an even bigger dork for onlyl learning more through iTunes radio stream - but whatever. This album is dark enough to get me through never sleeping, and matches my not depressed but not 100% happy all the time b/c the baby is a vampire and sucks all my lifeforce outta me days where I need a little comiserating. It fits right into my Depeche Mode/Tears for Fears/Cure/Echo & The Bunnymen/etc. mood playlists. Makes me feel normal. And resentful for all teens and youths who spent the 80s wasting their tastes on crap like Inyxs like my older bro, instead of tapping into the real greats. Thanks, Jamie - for passing on your love of Huey Lewis and leaving it to your kid sister to school you on the Pixies. But yeah, if you haven't heard this record yet - 2015 is your year to kick yourself in the ass and do so. It's fucking good.

Taylor Swift - 1989
This isn't a joke. And yeah, it's one hell of a transition from the Jesus Mary Chain. And I realize by admitting and listing this album, I am a sucker. But I'm also a mom, now. And Shake it Off is really fucking catchy. Even though I'm sick to death of it as it's my 7 month old son's favorite song (guaranteed to stop a melt down in its tracks every time), I still can appreciate it. Other than that ungodly awful fucking 'breakdown' or rap bit she does at the end. Fuck that. Seriously. No. But the album itself is surprisingly good. Even Pitchfork thinks so, although they didn't go so far as to admit it outright, just by naming two of the tracks on their top 100 songs of the year list. Ha. So this album was given to us as a xmas gift for Holden, who unwillingly and unknowingly suckered both his 80s/90s snob mom and death/black/gloom/scaryfuckingshit metal loving 'i hate pop music' dad into fans. What the hell, right? But if you listen to the album once, you'll see that it's catchy. Listen a second time, the songs will linger in your head. A third time? and you're screwed. You'll have to admit it's actually good, and you like it. Unless you have better taste than me and my family, which is very possible. But whatever. I think it's funny. I fully admit liking pop music, I get a kick outta the fact that my son and husband do, too.

Other releases that got more than a couple spins this year include Beyonce's self-titled - which I know was released in December of 2013, but still had a lot of spillover in the first half of the year as my prego diva soundtrack; Haim was on repeat from later 2013 as well; Veruca Salt's 'American Thighs' received a lot of play in anticipation of the July 12th concert I caught with my cousin at Lincoln Hall - the one and only show I made it out to this year - and ohmannnn what a drunken dream that show turned out to be. . . ; and a late record that surprised me as an impulse whim was the Charli XCX record. Total bubblegum snotty girl pop at its best and worst - some of the tracks like the Vampire Weekend featured "Need Ur Luv" are fucking catchy as hell. Perfect baby rocking in the kitchen music, which is pretty much every night.

Music. I miss hunting for it. I miss talking about it. I miss listening to it. I never thought I'd be one of those people who you'd ask, 'what are you currently listening to these days' and would say, 'eh nothing new, really'. I always thought those people were insane. Turns out, those people had families. And more important things to do than impress random hipsters with bar music chat. Although, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss a good night out at the Green Eye or The Whistler, fancy overpriced craft beer or bourbon concoction in hand, half in the bag rambling about the next big thing. There's always 2015, I suppose.

At this point I've succeeded in killing nearly 90 minutes on the clock and the first coffee of the day is wearing off. I think I've accomplished a sufficient ramble for the day, month, year, although we'll see if any more caffeine inspires the old rusty wheels in the noggin another day this week. Wednesday at 3:00pm is still 48+ hours out there. . . .

when i grow up.

When I was a teenager, all I dreamed of was getting out of my ho-bunk hometown and becoming myself. Finding an identity which I had no idea existed. I dreamed of becoming famous - whether it be as a writer, a broadcaster, an actress, or maybe one day accidentally discovering I could sing - it didn't matter. Big city lights, exciting new friends, a college education and a sure fire path on to stardom - or at the very least, success, however that was defined, was what I had my mind set on. To make sure I accomplished these feats, I excelled through school, worked my little ass off at every after school job imaginable and participated in every extracurricular activity my farm town community offered. Forensics, theater, Spanish club, yearbook, track and field, National Honor Society, mentoring younger students, leading the community haunted house, class secretary, participating in the mock accidents used to train EMTs, hell, I was even the president of the non-drinking club. You name it, I did it.

I went to college. Continued to get good grades and work part-time jobs, never taking any summers or other time off. I eventually saved enough cash to move to the city, and here I am, 8 years and counting in Chicago. It's my home. I've built a pretty impressive roster of solid friendships, nabbed a husband, added some decent professional experience to my resume, and even dabbled in the 'show business' I dreamed of volunteering for the Chicago Independent Radio Project. It's been real. 

Have I attained the dream I so often pined over in my youthful years? Have I finally achieved the 'be' in the infamous 'What do you want to 'be' when you grow up' mission? Well, if you told 15 year old Jodi where 31 year old Jodi is, I'm not sure if she'd agree or disagree. I like to think she'd be pretty pleased, however. Very few individuals ever get to nail down their dream - whether it's stardom and fame, owning your own business and becoming your own boss, or becoming an astronaut, whatever. And I don't think the issue particularly lies with individuals not possessing the drive, or even resources, because I am a bit of a dreamer in that regard, but of knowing precisely what your dream is. I guess I never really knew what mine is/was. As far as possessing/not possessing the resources, I call it bluff - I myself, have a bit of a 'rags to riches' tale. I don't want to exaggerate, because I know many that experienced more poverty and less than ideal living situations growing up, but anyone who knows me can attest that I've been financially responsible and accountable for myself since I began bussing tables at age 14. My mom wasn't around very much in my high school years (she worked the night shift), and the home life was a far fetch from Leave it to Beaver. I'll spare the details, because they don't really matter. 

What I'm getting at is that I worked hard, and now I'm working a career type job with a respectable salary, holding my own in one of the largest city's in the country, surrounded with a solid network of loved ones, and am comfortable with my life. But back to the point at hand, am I famous? No. Am I even still writing? Not really - although I guess when I get hit by a thought and it doesn't immediately fall away, (like what I hope this rambling blog post manages to accomplish), I give it my best effort to document as cohesively as I can. But am I that 'be'? Am I even 'grown up'? I'm not sure. Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm here. And my day to day is like every other day. There's no major exciting points to peer ahead to in the regard of next career steps, or education, although the idea of getting my MBA is still out there. Some day.

But I have to step back and not take my accomplishments, as menial and 'boring' as they may sound to me, for granted. I am educated. I am skilled. I am able to provide a comfortable living for my family. Hell - this year alone, I managed to pay off the remainder of my student loans (which was a good chunk of $$), fund my husband's college tuition for his final three semesters (he graduates in 12 days), AND give birth to a baby boy. I think 2014 was a pretty accomplished year, if I may say so. The fact that I grew up dirt broke, and now am able to afford tuition for two college educations, medical expenses for a new human being, while still being comfortable enough to buy decent gifts for the upcoming holiday makes me feel like I 'made it' in my book. At least in the consolatory, I'm not famous but I'm still not doing half bad way.

But anyway. That's me, now. So all of those dreams I harbored. What became of those? How many years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds - time was spent madly scribbling angsty poetry or stories only to be stashed away in forgotten shoe boxes under my bed? Acting like a dramatic nut job in hopes of finding my place in the center of the world's attention? Singing deliriously loud and off-key, daydreaming of one day being 'discovered'? A lot. I was a pretty dramatic kid. And I guess I still can be. 

But it wasn't until the other night, when it hit me. That all of those dreams, efforts. The hard work. The sacrifices. The broken hearts. The hours logged, memorizing the angstiest of angsty songs, only to be sung to my shower head. The life I've spent the last 31 years leading. It's all led up to now. And on Sunday, November 30th, 2014, I for the first time, fully appreciated and understood the meaning of it all up until this point.

In May I had a son. Most of you reading this have either met him, seen (way too many - sorry, guys) photos on social media, or at least read about how terribly miserable he made me on my third month of maternity leave on this blog. It goes without saying, he's kind of my everything - I almost ended that sentence saying 'these days', but then realized, no, he's pretty much my everything for always. And that's a gift. He's my little dude and I love the bejeezus out of him, even when he's a jerk and screams at me for no apparent reason. But this particular post isn't about me reinstating my obvious maternal affections for my son. Or even about my son. But about me. And where I'm at. So now that I've put the disclaimer out that my little dude is my bb boy for lyfe, I can continue. 

Two nights ago was just a normal night, like any other. It was the last evening coming off of a four day holiday weekend, my fifth consecutive day with my son in a row. I was returning to work the next morning, and while I wasn't looking forward to it at all (because let's be honest, who is eager to get back to work after a mini-break?), I wasn't really dreading it, either - because it meant a real lunch break, and 8 consecutive hours meltdown-free. It was just another night. I lounged lazily on our lint balled maroonish brown over sized couch cover, Absent mindedly swiping my iPhone screen, crushing the candies, or sodas, or whatever the hell zombie puzzle app was 'engaging' me for the moment. I let my husband take a turn to soothe the baby, as he was a particular firecracker on this day. I'm proud to say (but maybe I shouldn't be?) that I've gotten pretty good at toning out the 'I hate this,' 'I'm bored,' and 'I'm angry' cries, so the fact that Holden was howling furiously in the kitchen, a mere 30 feet away, wasn't phasing me in the slightest. Won't he go to bed, I signed to myself. Candy swipe, sugar ball, crush! Shit the owl tipped over, swipe, swipe, retry. I'm out of lives. Holden continues crying. I glance at the time, it's only 6:12. Bed time is at 7:00. Tylenol for the  mystery teeth that will seemingly never appear, yet successfully manage to murder my son's mouth has already been administered. Frozen washcloth devoured. What does this leave now? Well, I'm out of virtual lives on all brainless iPhone games. Social media is only telling me that Nicole's still selling more jewelry, there's (still) a never ending supply of cat photo memes, some awkward selfies of friend's little sisters, and there are only so many mommy Huffington Post links I can continue to read. My outfit's already laid out for the morning, my work bag packed, and there aren't any more chores I can last resort attend to. He's still crying. It's 6:14.

I deep sigh and shuffle to the unlit kitchen, where my exhausted husband is pacing and rocking, screaming demon laid out in his arms, and gives me the defensive look of "I've got this, but goddamn it I'm exasperated,". I give a half 'hang in there' smile and trudge to the baby station and pick up the multi-colored Maya Wrap sling. I grudgingly slip it over my left shoulder and adjust the ring. I walk back into the kitchen, and give Vincent the 'gimme the baby, I guess' look of defeat. He appreciatively forks the kiddo over, inching him into the cocoon I've nested in the sling for the little hellion. Holden immediately quiets. Vincent rolls his eyes in defeat, and I'm both secretly disappointed and pleased. Disappointed that it looks like my night is shot until the little devil conks out, but half satisfied that he reacted to his mother's touch.

Alright kiddo, we're in this together, now. Vincent leaves the kitchen. The lights are still out. It's 6:17. Holden is snugly curled up on the right side of my upper torso, with his legs dangling on each side of my hip. I know that I need to start talking, and fast, to keep the baby appeased from having another melt-down. He's on the 'I'm going to fight sleep like a mother fucker, you can't trick me out of this, I'm pissed off but exhausted, but no, sleep, no--never ever, uh uh' bring of freaking out. 'Hey baby boy,' I quietly hum into his ear, softly bouncing around like a mama kangaroo. "Let's find some songs, you and me. Mommy thinks it's time for a dance party, whaddya say,'. He says nothing, but continues quickening his breath, letting me know my time is limited, so I better pick something good. In a frenzy, I make a half assed 'calm' iTunes playlist on our ancient original iPod that only works in our kitchen docking station, due to  faulty worn out wiring in the headphone jack. I don't even recall at this point what I've selected, but I hit Play.

First up, is Adele, "Rolling in the Deep." I never really got into Adele, a couple of her songs were more less guilty pleasures, but I figure her voice and the instrumentation has to be a decent start to getting the kiddo to unwind. It's not working. I decide to whip out my secret weapon, my off key vocal chords, and pretend to sing along to the every other word I managed to pick up. He responds. His head quits twitching from side to side, looking for anything to stimulate him in the kitchen. He rests his head on my right breast, sighs, and looks up at me, with wide, but heavy eyelids. Adele ends. Next up, Ani DiFranco's "Little Plastic Castles." Here's where it hit me, folks. 

Ani DiFranco was never as huge of an influence to me as say, Tori Amos or Fiona Apple. She was more of the cousin to my favorite female soloists, but I always had a sort of soft spot for a couple handful of songs from her 90's catalog, this particular track topping that list. I haven't listened to this song in years. Years and years. And my first instinct was to head to the iPod and hit Next, to see if there was anything better on the playlist. But instead, I notice he seems to be calmed by the soft acoustic opening intro of the guitar strums. So I bounce with him and sway a little softer and slowly than with Adele. And I sing to him. And miraculously, I know every. single. word. And I'm not even sure at what point it happened, but I lost myself. In the song. In the moment. In the music. In the intimacy, the special moment, I was sharing with my son. His eyes continued to get heavy, but as I sang - no longer in my self conscious screeching, but full-hearted, lung emptying song, I realized this was it. What I'm here for. What I've been working towards. I finally was living my life to the fullest. This was my moment. Having this beautiful, healthy, satisfied baby boy, snuggled onto my chest. Feeling loved and comforted by me, reliving my teenage/early 20s songs. Never did I expect in a million years  that I would ever have an audience, let alone, such a special one, to belting out the lyrics, 'I wish they could see us now, in leather bras and rubber shorts - like some ridiculous team uniform, for some ridiculous new sport - quick, someone call the girl police and file - a - re-port.' It was a moment. We were transfixed and it was magic. 

The dance and sing-a-long didn't end there. I think we finished up with some Final Fantasy, Okkervil River, Grizzly Bear, Beach House, Bon Iver - and of course Hozier because it's one of 3 songs Holden LOVES. (Seriously, between the theme song to Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, Taylor Swift's 'Shake it Off,' and Hozier's "Take Me to Church," this kiddo would be content never hearing anything else ever again. But that would drive mommy mad, it almost has.) I continued to croon and sway, and eventually the little man's eyes fell shut. We drifted to the bedroom, where I laid him out on the bed for his rocket-ship sleep sack and I wish I could say he dreamily remained asleep and gave us no problems and slept through the night for the first time -but of course that didn't happen. He woke up the minute his blonde messy head hit the mattress, alert, betrayed and pissed off, only to keep battling me for the next 25 minutes for a feeding and cuddle session, fighting like hell against the crib. And I'm beginning to be convinced that I'll never sleep through 8 consecutive hours of sleep. That there will always be a monster demanding my teet. But that's not the point.

The point is, all those years of my life. The earlier life. The life leading up to now. The different experiences - efforts, trials and tribulations - they were training. Even the angsty sing-alongs and angry poetry. The shitty ex boyfriends breaking my heart, ultimately teaching me what I do deserve. The crappy after school jobs, which only raised the bar in my expectations for a better life. All of it. It helped me get to where I am today, and taught me all that I know. So I could experience that one pure, untainted, real moment. Pure love. Bonding with another human being who knew me as his sole source of comfort, in that moment. Lost in song and dance and love.

It was something. And while 14 year old Jodi may not have realized it, and even 31 year old Jodi didn't know it until two nights ago, I finally had a taste of what it was I've unknowingly aspired to be, my whole life.

It was better than I could have ever dreamed.