Shiksa in the city - a morning at the museum

I was meant to meet an old friend for brunch this morning.  Unfortunately, she had to cancel but didn't get me on the phone until I was on the train, halfway into town.  Two choices: go home and mope or continue into the city.  So I decided to take that first step into carving out a little life here in London and went in to Charing Cross.  Trafalgar Square was lovely, all grey and misty as London is meant to be, with the fountains spitting out their beautiful spray, the national gallery just calling out to everyone, the lions around the monument being climbed on by children (and some people who fancy themselves children).  I spent the morning there, especially enjoyed the French section, and then decided to treat myself to lunch at the museum cafe.  I was so looking forward to split pea soup and a crusty roll, but the rather impolite man behind the counter informed me that they hadn't gotten in the soup of the day, nor the pie of the day, nor the quiche of the day, but I could get a sandwich from the cold case if I pleased.  Humph.  Cold case indeed.

I ended up with the chicken and mushroom pie, which was warm and tasty if a bit small, and sat quite happily reading my book until it was time to go.  Worked on the crossword before rehearsal, spent a nice hour with the director finessing the only dialogue I have, and rode the train home with the rehearsal pianist who lives about halfway between where I am and the rehearsal space.  This was very handy, as he alerted me to the shops and cinemas just off the tube in his village.  What does this mean, you might ask?  It means I might not have to fight my way into central London to see the premiere of Twilight tomorrow afternoon.  It means I won't have to ride the train home sooo very late in the cold weather.  And it also means I have one more destination to explore.

The husby arrives in five days and I'm so excited.  We're going to have a wonderful time and I get to make pecan pie for our hosts and everything.  What the world needs now is pecan pie, sweet pecan pie.  That's what I say.

1.  a late start tomorrow means another run with the geese

2.  skype - being able to cook dinner while talking to my husband

3.  discount produce at Sainsburys means I got a lot of good produce for almost nothing

4.  nice colleagues - this is something I'm thankful for every day

5.  roast parsnips

Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry

1.  sunshine on my day off

2.  milk chocolate digestive biscuits

3.  sleeping late and dreaming of mother bear's pizza

4.  six days till husby in London

5.  the local park I just found on my run

So I decided to go for a run on my day off.  I'm still adjusting to the air here so it's hard to keep it going for too long, but I indulged my need for green space and headed over the motorway (only using the crosswalks, I promise) to the big green hill that was calling my name.  Well it turns out this is prime real estate for ducks and geese.  BIG geese.  They were flapping and splashing around in a large pond that just happened to have a path looped around it.  So I did a few loops around the park before I went back to the pond.  I find ducks very sweet.  The little ones, the mallards with their beautiful feathers.  Geese, less charming.  The big ones that migrate through Boston, leaving lots of goose poop all over the Common, are very beautiful but I prefer them from a distance.  Up close, they just look big.  So I'm doing my lap and, just like a recess monitor on the playground, one of the ducks starts quacking and, because I'm still quite tired, I'd swear I hear that duck saying, "Don't you see the enormous human all in black coming this way?  Priscilla, get the hell out of the path!  Florence, take your beak out of your wing and get moving!"  The geese are more calm.  They stride out of my way, well in advance of my footfall, and calmly move back into place when I'm past.  They are not threatened by me, and they know that they have the ultimate weapon:  goose poop.  The last thing one wants embedded in the bottom of their trail runners.  Eww.

There's a street market on the high street.  I'm seriously considering packing up my laptop and camping out at the starbucks to work on my dissertation.  As husby says, I'm inclined to just sit here in my shell when left alone.  And a day off is the perfect time to get OUT into the sunshine and among people, not stay in and wish I were at home.  Right.  Must get on that.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll do an early-morning run tomorrow and see if the ducks are awake.  

Shiksa in metric, Gratitude in grams

Made it to London in one piece.  Bumpy flight, less-than-amazing movies, but I made it through Twilight in one sitting.  I know, giving into my need for teen fiction is probably a contributing factor to the length of time it will take me to adjust from jet-lag, but I like it anyway.

I have always, and continue to rely on the kindness of strangers.  I stayed the night at my friend Chris' parents' home in London.  They are lovely people, pressing a mug of tea into my hand as soon as I got through the door, schlepping my enormous suitcase up the stairs to the top room where I slept last night, offering many varieties of marmalade (my favorite!) and producing the most valued travel appliance: the hair dryer.  

Today we travel to the flat where I'll be staying through New Year.  I still get nervous riding on the wrong side of the car and driving on the wrong side of the street (look right look right look right!) but rehearsals start tomorrow so there's no time for actual fretting.  Both feet, straight in, let's go!

1.  marmalade makes everything better

2.  warm beds

3.  Ambien

4.  the migration of the power shower from Germany to Britain

5.  new colleagues, old show

Gratitude, Day 15

1. My shoulder hurts less today.
2. My dissertation session went well.
3. I got to hang out and speak some German.
4. Beef teriyaki for dinner tonight!
5. One quick run with the husby and the pup chases the crazy away. And boy do I need it.

Audition number two of three (this week) is tomorrow. Husby has taken the day off work so we can work on laundry and packing and the general tending of the crazy whirlwind that's about to transpire. And I'm not ready to go to London. Not physically, not emotionally, not musically. Not not not. I need more time to deal with the separation. I need to figure out how I feel about this. I need to get to the point where I can be excited and share in the joy of this experience and not just wish I were sitting at home in my house doing nothing rather than being anywhere else. I need a kick in the ass of my soul, as it were.

I am so grateful for the opportunities afforded me. I know that this does not come along every day. The economy is in the toilet and I have a job in the arts that I'm keeping. And I get to do what I love. No argument. But the thought of packing that suitcase makes my stomach sink in a big way that tells me it will be harder on me this time. I'll miss my tiffany box-blue kitchen and my warm red dining room that housed our first Thanksgiving. I'll even miss the chirping of the smoke alarm batteries and the distant clanging of the commuter train. This is home now, really home. And I don't think it had truly sunk in until I had to leave it for work.

So pray hard kids. Because all the running in the Boston Marathon is not going to make this go away. Saturday morning, I'm on a plane to London and I'm not coming back until March.
And They Might Be Giants is going to carry me through the next four minutes. Everything after that is up for grabs.

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Gratitude, Day 14

My friends Mary, Laura, and Margaret think I'm bonkers for going running in the cold. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't necessarily agree with them. Running in the cold can be really nice, if you've got the right clothes on and the wind isn't too bad.

This was not that day. Right now is the warmest it's been all day and it's 19 degrees outside, and the weather channel says that the wind chill makes it feel like 7. And I decided to go for a run. It's kind of sunny, the route I took doesn't have too many hills, I should be fine, right? Suuuuuure. Keep telling yourself that. About halfway through, I was sure that I was going to expire right there on the road, but thankfully I kept telling myself that the house would feel sooooo warm when I got home and no, you're not really as chilly as you think you are, it's the wind biting through that top layer you've got on (note to self: must MUST purchase a good running jacket) but you'll warm up. And I did, thankfully. And once I rounded that last corner and was able to see my house, it was just painful push to the end.

Running in the cold is for crazy people. But at least I'm crazy and burning calories, right?

1. The microwave repair guy was on time and now the microwave is fixed
2. My gloves were not lost and did not blow away while lying on the lawn all night
3. I have an audition tomorrow for the opera company in my hometown
4. I'm one more edit session closer to finishing my dissertation
5. My voice teacher is coming to dinner. Hooray!

Gratitude, every day

1.  my sweet husband, who lets me camp out on the sofa to work on my dissertation and brings me food and tea and lets me sleep with two pillows and always tells me to take every audition

2.  my family, even though they drive me crazy

3.  my job, because I have one and others don't

4.  my house, because we finally have a place to call our own

5.  my church community, who is always sad to see me go and happy when I return

Yesterday was a roller-coaster day.  We got up early and ran a 5K in some pretty cold weather and had a blast.  If I can figure out how to get the pictures off my phone, I'll be sure to post a few here, it was hilarious.  Showered and grabbed a quick bite before I had to go up to church to sing a funeral.  This is pretty typical for my church job - weddings and funerals and memorials and such.  I've been doing it for a while so usually I'm able to keep my cool and do my job, but yesterday was the hardest I've ever had to fight to keep my head above water.  There was a memorial service for a young man, only 20 years old, who had died of leukemia.  His younger sister helps out with the chorister program and takes voice lessons with me.  Everyone who read was young.  Most of the people in the congregation were young.  So many young, grieving people, trying to support this family in what must be an incredible tragedy for them, and the clergy and choir are gathered to help make this service beautiful and uplifting, comforting even, for them.  Because we're supposed to celebrate, to rejoice in the life that was led and that the suffering of this child is over and that he is with his King.  But even now, a whole day later, I still can't get the choked feeling out of my throat.  I can't stop hearing his father's voice, cracking and shaking as he delivered a eulogy for his own son, hearing the sniffles of the congregants, feeling my own face flush and feeling my breath skip when I'm trying to keep it together (come on now, keep it together, you're a professional, you're here to help them celebrate and grieve but it's about THEM).  It's just so hard sometimes.  I don't know how the clergy do it.  How do you suspend your own reaction to such sadness, how do you not cry with someone when they're hurting?  I just don't know.

So I called my mom to talk to her.  I'll probably call my brother later today - he's twenty and I can't imagine my life without his three-word text messages and his silly sweet disposition.  

Go hug someone you love.  Hell, hug anyone who's near.  Because there's a family grieving for the loss of their son and no doubt many more people grieving in silence without a church family to hold them up.  That's my two cents for the day.

Gratitude, Day 12

1. new pictures of my nephew, up on his dad's facebook page
2. the mild weather that let me run longer today (2.5 miles of sheer torture/incredible fun)
3. the arrival of my new MacBook!
4. hot tea
5. friends from far away who help me find a place to live

Some people call it luck. You happen to get through the doors of the train just before they shut and you make that connection that lets you get home on time instead of being stuck on a platform somewhere. Someone calls you out of the blue because you happen to fit the bill for this emergency gig and they just know you'll be perfect for it, and you happen to be available. The perfect pair of shoes on the clearance rack, oh yes they're marked down double, and they are in your size and make your feet look small.

Well whatever it is, luck has delivered on my doorstep once more. This happened to me last year. I was standing in my friend's kitchen talking about how I had nowhere to live in Seattle and I was really starting to panic. She picks up the phone and suddenly, I'm going to live with her aunt and uncle. Well I sent out a bunch of emails and facebook messages trying to find a place to live in London. A bunch. I waded through the scary craiglist postings (No, it is NOT okay to trade "personal services" for rent, and you don't have to say "if you know what I mean" because we all know WHAT YOU MEAN and I think you should ask yourself whether or not your grandma would be okay with that.) and even started looking at housing placement services. I'm leaving in nine days. Yesterday, out of the blue, an old singer friend says, "Oh, we have a room here in the house I'm living in. Would you like to know more about it?"

Relief. Sweet relief.

AND. In just a few hours, I'll be gently caressing the beautiful white plastic exterior of my MacBook, yet to be named but I'm leaning toward Thais. I've never been a technophile (see my serious attachment to paper products and office supplies) but the prospect of this new machine fills me with such joy. I can actually unplug my laptop. For more than five minutes. Say it ain't so!

I hope everyone is having a great day like I am. I think this running thing makes me unnaturally perky.

Gratitude, Day 11

1-5: The healthy birth of my new nephew, Mason Jude Catallo. Born yesterday at 6:10pm CST, 8lbs 9oz with big hands and feet (according to his dad).

I think that's plenty to be grateful for. Happy prayers for mom and dad and baby, who are all doing just fine.

Gratitude, Day 10

1. I know how to read maps
2. My new shoes are waterproof
3. The weather was unusually beautiful today
4. My MacBook will be here in 3-5 days
5. My husband is making fish tonight

Get out the map. My husband really wants a GPS. He wants that bossy, accented voice to tell him to turn left and sound very miffed when he doesn't. And then that bossy, accented voice (Australian, perhaps?) will say, "Recalculating."

I don't believe in GPS systems. I think that a GPS system will find the most ridiculous way for me to get from here to the drugstore and I will disagree with that GPS system. Why? Because I know how to read maps and I drove cross-country long before GPS systems and so did my parents. We believe in AAA.

So tonight, on the last leg of our run when we were both wishing our new shoes weren't so new, these two guys in an SUV pull up and say that they're sure the GPS is screwing with them, because they're looking for the Cheers bar in Boston. Well I know where the Cheers bar is - it's at the corner of Beacon and Brimmer right off the Boston Common in Beacon Hill. And it's absolutely, positively nowhere near where we live in Hyde Park. But, like many people do, they punched the number into their GPS and trusted that they would find that Boston landmark right here in Hyde Park. So after much pointing and street name reciting, we sent them on their way to find Cheers bar. And I giggled the whole way home.

So learn to read maps, friends. I'm going to eat the delicious dinner that my husband is preparing.

Gratitude, Day 9

It's gorgeous weather and I got to go for a run. This means that I'm back on my WW plan, and that I can feel better about the last two days of food free-for-all. But since the day is so beautiful, we plan to go out and enjoy some of it. Here's the skinny 5:

1. For my running partners, including my friend Sherri who's visiting from NYC
2. For the fact that running somehow made my sinuses temporarily clear
3. For both hills, up and down
4. For a long weekend with the ones I love
5. For toad in the hole, that which I am about to eat for breakfast

Go out into the sunshine!

Gratitude, Day 8

My head is fuzzy. I haven't stopped sneezing for a few days now. But I'm grateful.

1. For the 10 people who came to my house for Thanksgiving and helped break it in for years to come.
2. For the fact that our turkey fry went off without a hitch.
3. For the delicious traditions that were on the table from everyone.
4. For the good behavior of Sammy, who didn't beg from the table.
5. For kleenex with lotion. I'm using a lot of it.

I would say more, but I'm already typing through the haze. Hope everyone had a happy Turkey day.

Gratitude, Day 8

1. My sweet husband, who offered to hold Sam's leash on the run
2. The crazy New England weather, which cleared/warmed up enough for us to go running tonight
3. Having enough space to accommodate all 12 people for Team Turkey
4. My nutty Finnish friend from German school who taught me how to knit two summers ago
5. Perspective

The weather channel says it's 46 degrees outside and "feels like 40." But with 93% humidity, it suits me just fine. We went on a short run, just 23 minutes on a little out and back, but it felt good to get back on the horse. Every day is an opportunity to get back on the horse. Every breath is an opportunity to sing better. And every job is an opportunity to meet new people and make new friends - or not. Because it's also okay to be alone and not to be friends with everyone in your classroom.

But in two days my house will be filled with ten people, all of whom I love. And they love me and my husband and our dog Sam. Friends from a couple states away, friends from just up the street, a friend's mother who flew from Israel, old friends from our days in Mississippi. And I'm grateful, oh so grateful, for the occasion.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Don't mind us, we'll be out by the turkey fryer.

Asking the question

This is my question:

Who is the idiot who still has their job after determining that the most appropriate product for placement in the middle of my episode of Lipstick Jungle happens to be VIAGRA????

Gratitude, Day 7

I have to say, I don't feel very gracious right now. I've been in a snarl of a mood since late last night, I woke up with a dry nose and a throat that is both scratchy and gooky, and for absolutely no good reason at all. I gave a great recital for my church yesterday - a program that I put together and loved singing. I was surrounded by wonderful people, friends and fellow parishioners, musicians and non-musicians alike. I sang well, we raised money for the stained-glass window, and then the foundation took my husband and me out to dinner at our favorite restaurant, the restaurant where we had our rehearsal dinner the night before we got married. A great weekend.

It's that time of year. Paranoia sets in - will I get work? Was last year a fluke? Am I already falling off the wagon of interest at the age of 28? Oh God, what if I've spent all these years studying just to become another overqualified Starbucks employee?

That's where I'm at.

So at the urging of my husband (urging doesn't really cover it - he pretty much ordered me to) I went for a run. This is usually a good idea. I put on my running outfit that I love, lace up the shoes, put the leash on the dog. It's not very cold, so I only wore three layers and figured I'd be fine. And today would be a perfect day to try out the extension to my usual route. Riiiiiiiight.

Well we started off badly. Sammy was anxious and he was flinging his head around and the tip of his ear ended up in the latch for his leash, there was yelping and jumping while I frantically tried to unlatch the latch and then even more flailing and yelping when I tried to see if his ear was okay. Which it was. So off we went. Up the hill, turn right, even more up the hill, wishing for death as usual, down the hill (hooray, sweet relief) and then left to try out this new loop. Down the hill, up the hill up up UP the hill, plateau, lots of trash cans full of leaves but none appropriate for disposing of a doggie bag, now I'm running with my dog who's practically dragging me by his leash, full of energy, and a bag of dog poop in my other hand, now I'm really wishing for death. Then the left turn onto the parkway which should have sidewalk. But it doesn't. Just lots and lots of uneven ground, with a few asphalt driveways, and lots of trash.

*sidebar* If you're one of those people who thinks it's perfectly okay to throw your Big Gulp out the window while you're driving, I want you to know that there's a special circle of hell reserved for people who litter. Find a trash can. It's called common decency.

So Sammy and I are traipsing along, trying to stay on semi-level ground, of which there appears to be NONE, and trying to avoid all the glass bottles and plastic bags and MAXI PADS that are on the side of the road. I contemplate actually running on the road but I can tell that cars are speeding so I don't dare take my sweet baby onto the road, so it's us and the trash and the hills and e'en so Lord Jesus QUICKLY come and I do mean quickly because I'm so tired now. We round the bend and I can see our driveway and I'm just so thankful to be home.

Mapmyrun.com says it was 2.57 miles. Well I'm never EVER taking that route again.

Time: 35 minutes
Time spent wishing for death: at least 20 minutes
Temperature: 39 and overcast

So let's try for that gratitude, shall we?

1. My dog will be worn out for the rest of the day
2. The down days make the up days seem sweeter
3. T minus three days till Team Turkey
4. Momma's pie crust
5. I can always try again tomorrow. And the day after that.

Gratitude, Day 6

1. Sam let us sleep till 9am this morning
2. The sun came out long enough to warm us up through our crazy run
3. The duvet went on the bed last night
4. The smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen
5. One more day of chasing away the crazy

Husby went with me for my crazy hill run. It's a completely different world on the back side of the hill. Big homes, lots of land that's just itching for a dog to run, rock walls and beautiful old houses straight out of Jane Eyre. We have fallen prey to the Boston trap: first we fell in love with the Red Sox, then we bought real estate in the city limits, now we've taken up running. But I swear, I'm not even remotely interested in hockey.

Five days till Team Turkey!

Ganking the meme from DP

Dear DP - you know how I roll.
Love, your ganking friend, Shiksa

This time last year, can you remember who you liked?
The peeps crowded around our Thanksgiving table

Two days from now this time, where will you be?
Hopefully in my jammies, watching TV and drinking tea

Do you think anyone has feelings for you?
I know he does - that's why he sleeps on my foot and sheds everywhere.

Have you ever thought you were going to marry someone?
Yep. And then I did. Weird.

Who was the first person you talked to today?
Who was the first person I mumbled at in a semi-conscious state? My husband.

How late did you stay up last night and why?
11:30pm, wading through the headshot responses.

Do you smoke weed everyday?
Um, no. (DP, where did you get this meme??)

Could you go a month without cursing?
Likely not.

Have you ever ridden a horse?
Yes, with varying degrees of success.

You can take one friend on vacation with you, who?
Sherri put up with my bullshit all over France, she's first in line.

Who was the last person you cried in front of?
Probably the husby.

You can only drink ONE liquid for the rest of your life, what is it?
Lady Grey tea.

Have you ever been nice to someone who treated you like crap?
All the time, Miss Jean style.

Are you anything like you were at this point last year?
Improved, I think. Happier, healthier, and in my own home!

Have you lost contact with someone you wish you didn’t?
Yes.

When was the last time you felt like your heart was actually breaking?
Years and years ago.

Who are your favorite people to talk to when you’re down?
My non-musician friends.

Does the person you like, like you back?
The husby? He thinks he can play all tough, but I know better. Plus, the ring.

*grammar intervention - does the above question really need that comma? I don't think so.*

When’s the last time you talked with the opposite sex on the phone? Who?
Earlier today, if you count voicemail, the organist at my church.

Are you friends with someone who lies about the stupidest stuff ever?
No, but I heard a great story about a little old lady who insists she's still 75.

Do you think you are a good person?
I sure do try. But everyone has days when they deserve to be locked in a room with teenagers.

What did you do today?
Woke up, made the bed, futzed on the computer, went for a run, more computer futzing.

What will you be doing in 3 hours?
Killing time downtown.

Do you miss the way things used to be?
I miss the way New Orleans used to be.

Have you held hands with anyone in the past three months?
Absolutely.

Does anyone call you baby?
Not unless they want to get a knuckle sandwich.

Are you a patient person?
With other people, yes. With myself, no. Grrrr.

What were you doing this morning at 8AM?
Snoozing.

Have you ever thought you liked someone, and then found out that you really didn’t?
High school. Multiple times.

What is the last thing you said out loud?
"Good boy, Sam."

Are you ticklish?
Only when taken by surprise.

How is your heart lately?
It's cranky when I go running in the cold. Otherwise, fine.

Are you a jealous person?
Jealous, not really. But singer envy is a constant struggle.

Has anyone ever mistaken you for someone else?
Yes, on the beach, when I was 16. Only they mistook Miss Jean for my sister.

Do you like to text or call more?
I would happily call people more, if my phone were not in league with the devil. As a result, I text a lot.

Do you have any kids?
I have a Labrador retriever named Sam.

What are you wearing right now?
Running shoes, smartwool socks (my favorite!), cold weather running pants, two running shirts.

How was your day?
Much better now. Running drives away the crazy.

What usually cheers you up?
A clean house and the promise of pie.

How are your grades?
Pretty damned good.

What are your plans for tomorrow?
Swiffing the house, go for a run, maybe cook something.

Do you like sports?
Red Sox Nation!

Do you like haunted houses?
Meh, not really.

Two things you would never brag about? Why?

1. my feet - because they're huge
2. my job - because you never know when someone else is having a hard time

Is there any great lesson life has taught you?

*totally ganked from the DP* Wear sunscreen. Clichéd but true. If you want proof, go look at Miss Jean with her perfect white skin. Then go look at those leather-skinned broads who slathered themselves with oil throughout the 80s. Miss Jean looks like a porcelain doll. The other women look like my favorite pair of Pikolino pumps.

Gratitude, Day 5

Time: 25 mins
Distance: 1.92 miles, according to mapmyrun.com
Ascent: +200 feet (guess who found the elevation tool on mapmyrun.com?)
Descent: -213 feet
Number of layers on upper body: 4, plus hat and gloves
Number of times stopped for Sam to sniff in expectation: 3
Temperature (in F) outside, according to the weather channel: 28
Temperature (in F) outside, with the wind chill, according to the weather channel: 17

I must be crazy. That's what I was thinking as I put on my running clothes this morning. I double-checked the weather, just to be sure that it really is THAT COLD. Now I don't swear by the weather channel, especially when it comes to things like predicting rain in south Louisiana. But when they say it feels like 17 in the sunshine, they are NOT kidding. My nose can tell the difference and my nose says it's really freakin cold. Or, as a college friend of mine used to say, "ASS cold, and windy."

But it's a beautiful time of year. The leaves have turned and are making these lovely piles along the road, perfect for kicking and jumping in (or sniffing like mad, if you're Sam the dog), and even though it's not Thanksgiving for another week, the cab drivers in NYC have already tuned their radios to the all-Christmas music station and Macy's has decorated their windows. And soon, my pecans will be here and I'll be up to my elbows in Karo syrup making pie and eyeballing the candy thermometer for pralines.

1. my southern birthright
2. my dog's nonverbal communication skills that say, "Are you sure you really want to keep going? Because we can stop at any time."
3. church choir - because I love singing Christmas music
4. Thirsty Thursdays, following church choir
5. the feeling of a hot shower after a run in the cold

One week till Team Turkey!

Gratitude Day 4

1. butternut squash gnocchi WOW
2. people who look at my dog and say, "What a sweet chocolate lab!"
3. my friend Felicia, who came over and worked on my dissertation format with me
4. well-tuned pipe organs
5. merino wool sweaters

Ran 2.3 miles in 31 minutes. Uphill. In the VERY COLD wind. The plus side? The last six blocks were downhill. Sammy kept pace very well and didn't complain once. And the even bigger plus side? Weight Watchers gives me 4 activity points for my run. That's a small serving of steak. Which is exactly what I had for dinner, along with the sweet nectar of life, Abita beer on tap at the amazing restaurant that opened up in our neighborhood. We had a sweet dinner with some Mississippi friends - southern transplants just like us - and I tell you what, it was made even sweeter knowing that those 4 little points meant I could have a beer with dinner. Shit. I could have a beer, and eat a few fries (with truffle mayonaise!) and have my little steak, and some butternut squash gnocchi, and come home to a scoop of Starbucks mocha almond fudge ice cream. Okay, I went over my points today. I confess. But I kept to my promise of running five out of seven days and tomorrow morning when I fold myself into a bus seat, I will not feel guilty for sleeping in while I'm in the city, or for staying indoors and conserving energy before I sing for....those people.

***ohhhhmmmmmmI'mtalentedandsmartandspeakGermanpleasehiremeohmmmmmmm****

Gratitude, Day 3

1. My running partner(s) - Sammy the quadruped and the husby
2. The person who invented the reflective stripes that let me safely run at night
3. The kindness of a very sweet lady who lets me stay at her apartment on the upper east side when I'm in NYC
4. The flexibility of the door monitor at the Glimmerglass audition, who worked me in early so I could make my train
5. The good humor and creativity of my acting coach, who made my kickass audition even more kickass

Despite the insane winds and impending rain, ran 2.25 miles with husband and dog to ward off the crazy. Also went to see the new Bond movie. I enjoyed it, but (to the chagrin of my husby) I would have appreciated more shirtless Daniel Craig. But really, who wouldn't appreciate more shirtless Daniel Craig?

One more day at home, then back to NYC for the big audition. You know which one I'm talking about.
*ohm....I am an ebullient soubrette and a scary-as-shit Queen and a brilliant actress and can sing stratospheric notes please hire me.....ohm*

Gratitude, Day 2

1. I live on a hill. This means that half of my run is uphill and horrible. But this also means that the second half of my run is downhill and wonderful.
2. Youtube. I get to watch and listen to amazing artists singing the arias I'm singing from the comfort of my sweaty running clothes.
3. The smell of burning leaves.
4. 99-cent lattes between 2 and 4pm at Dunkin Donuts.
5. Sweating releases the crazy.


Shiksa has three auditions in two days in two different cities. Pray for the continued release of the crazy and the inspiration of the ebullient soubrette hidden beneath the academic exterior.

Lost in translation

I don't always like to acknowledge when I'm blue. I sweep up all of the dog hair in the house, work on the dog's toenails, make the bed, do the laundry, and then obsess about whether or not my home computer has a virus. I update and run all the virus software. I watch yet another episode of a mindless TV show on surfthechannel. And only after my husband asks me what's going on, what's REALLY going on, do I stop to ask myself the same question.

What the shiksa says: I'm worried our computer has a virus.
What the shiksa means: My agent wants me to sing bel canto and I'm scared of bel canto.

What the shiksa says: Did you install that anti-virus software?
What the shiksa means: Oh sweet JesusMaryandJoseph, please let my dissertation be done. If it's done and there's a virus on it, then at least it's done. What if I just didn't finish? That would be ridiculous, of course I'll finish. What if the committee doesn't like it? What are you talking about, of course they'll like it, they thought your topic was brilliant.

What the shiksa says: It's chilly in the house.
What the shiksa means: I'm still in my pyjamas and have been glued to the chair in front of the computer since I made my breakfast four hours ago. My will to be active is directly proportional to the shades of gray that the clouds are exhibiting.

Oy. As a person who tries really hard to be straightforward with her husband and her friends, it's easy to obfuscate oneself.

So AFTER my sweet husband gently prodded me to maybe put on my running shoes and go running, and AFTER I combed all of my normal website haunts, I decided to go back to an old friend: runnersworld.com

What do I love about runnersworld.com? So many things - the reviews of the newest shoes, the tool that lets you put in the temperature and the cloud cover and tells you what to wear, the entire section for beginners (am I still a beginner? I think so....) and women and more conversations about seams and sports bras than anyone could ever hope for. But more than the articles about socks and gloves, I love the section called 'Motivation.'

Within this section, there's an article called "101 kicks in the butt.' Now that's my kinda talk. There are these great playlist suggestions for your running mix, ideas about how to push and reward yourself, but the carrot and stick technique works a little differently for yours truly. I have to feel that it's a matter of character for me to get my ass out there and run, especially when it's daylight savings time in November in Boston and I'm losing daylight FAST. Fortunately, the author of tip #3 spoke directly to my heart:

3. RUNNING COMMENTARY "Running is a big question mark that's there each and every day. It asks you, 'Are you going to be a wimp, or are you going to be strong today?'" --Peter Maher, two-time Olympic marathoner from Canada

I gotta tell you. When I saw that, it was like I was back in sixth grade and some snot-nosed boy was telling me that I wasn't as smart because I'm a girl. Them's fighting words. My momma didn't raise a wimp and I am not doing her credit by sitting at home, feeling my ass mold to the shape of the chair in front of the computer. So I used the handy-dandy tool to tell me what to wear when it's 41 and overcast (note to self: the gloves were a GOOD idea) and threw on my running shoes and put the leash on the dog and off we went. I couldn't find my Polar heart monitor so I have no idea how hard I was running, but the first eight minutes were pure hell for me and I suspect for Sammy too. Running in the cold is about the worst feeling in the universe (did the weather channel really say it's 41? because I'd swear it's colder!) until you get past the burning in your chest and the desperate wish to turn around and pack yourself back into those pyjamas. But run we did, Sammy and I. And about 25 minutes later, back from our just under two miles, I was so freakin happy to see the sight of my front porch.

So this is the challenge I issue to myself. Five out of every seven days, I will make myself get out there in the yuck and I will run. I will bring the clothes with me to New York and I will go run in the park because that's what it's there for. I will buy batteries for my mp3 player and I will load up fun music for the journey. And I will STOP making excuses for all the reasons I can't run because there are so many better reasons to do it in the first place.

And, taking a cue from some fellow bloggers, I'm adding these five little points of gratitude.

Gratitude, Day 1

1. my dog, who is happy to keep pace with me when I'm running
2. my dog, who has to take pee breaks and therefore gives me a little break when I'm running
3. my brother, who talks to his technology-illiterate sister in small words, lest her brain overflow
4. my husband, who only lets me halfway off the hook
5. the sun, who came out from behind the cloud for twenty minutes of my run

Gray is the new black

I love charcoal gray. I bought these amazing charcoal gray trousers from Banana before I left for Syracuse and I wish I had more excuses to wear then. I bought a stand-up funnel-necked gray merino sweater, with short sleeves. It's soft and fuzzy and form-fitting and makes a lovely complement to my dove gray Kenneth Cole shoes. The really really beautiful wedges that put me well over the six foot-mark. Gray is the new black and my singer friend M told me that, while she was in Paris, she saw gray everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

Well that's where I'm at. I see gray everywhere. It's gray outside, drizzly, and makes me want to curl up in a blanket with my mug of tea *pause - that's the kettle whistling* and not move until it's absolutely positively necessary. We're talking in case of fire or typhoon here. My throat is scratchy, my eyes are puffy, I ache all over and I'm seriously contemplating a career as a Lorac rep for Sephora. This can mean only one thing: it's audition season.

I spent eight out of the last 24 hours on a bus to and from NYC. There's a newer busline, a subsidiary of Greyhound, called BOLTbus. They offer outlet plug-ins, wireless internet, and more room, for about the same price as the insane Chinatown bus where you're really not sure if you're going to get there alive. The frequency of my auditions this year dictates that I must be in and out of NYC almost every week, so the train tickets must be kept to a minimum. BOLTbus didn't suck, it was on time, and it drops off right outside Penn Station. So far, so good. I was staying with my sweet little old lady-friend on the upper east - she greeted me with chicken and matzo ball soup and cheese and crackers and chicken salad and regular salad and don't forget to save room because I have chocolate cake too. Yipes! Good thing I led with the soup, otherwise I'd be totally out of my weight watchers gourd by now. Watched the election returns, rejoiced greatly, and zonked out in preparation for my audition. Woke up early, tried to start warming up. Fixed breakfast, drank coffee, sing sing sing. Fix hair, put on makeup, sing sing sing. Humming on the bus, buzzing down the street to the audition site, where they're running ten minutes EARLY. Hug tenor friend who I haven't seen in years while flinging off coat and jeans, slip on heels, recheck lipstick, dash upstairs. Lead with Feu - this goes rather well please God don't let them pick Zerbinetta I'm just so tired still when will this madness end - okay, they picked the Queen, no problem. Sing sing sing did the f come out okay or am I just paranoid? Change clothes very quickly, bump into panel of judges on the way out of the restroom, receive very sincere congratulations on my good singing, exeunt omnes chased by a bear. Book it over to Penn Station to have a quick lunch with my friend S before I have to get back on the bus. Talk about Thanksgiving and turkey frying. Lament how we never seem to have enough time. Kiss kiss, we'll talk soon. Four hour-long bus ride back home. Grab train to other train station, arrive early and eat crap pizza with the choristers. This was the beginning of a string of bad ideas. Two hours of rehearsal involving count-singing, probably the worst rehearsal technique for teaching music that's not rhythmically complicated. Getting agitated. Set rehearsal dates for upcoming recital. Go to the bar with friends, wait for husband. Drink beer. This was yet another bad idea. Order salad with salmon. Am dissatisfied with salad. Order chocolate nachos. Hooooooo boy. We can see where this is going. Manage to get home without picking a fight with anyone, promise husband I'll come to bed soon. Watch half an episode of favorite HBO show online, about to go to sleep, will check email one more time.

And that was my last mistake of the night. Do yourselves a favor. Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Just do it. Even if you're waiting to hear from someone, just make yourself go to bed because you'll be well-rested and able to handle whatever comes your way the next morning. Genius of the hour, sitting right here in this chair, she checked her email one more time before she went to bed. And so, instead of being sound asleep at 12:45am, she was reading the rejection email from the foundation for which she sang 13 hours previous. Still exhausted from the eight hours on the bus, still edgy from the rehearsal, still feeling like boo from the chocolate nachos and the salad, dehydrated and crabby, she was reading and re-reading the rejection email that lamented the lack of funds for this year and the exceptional number of talented individuals and the wish to extend 'special congratulations' to a small group of singers, of which she was one.
It makes me want to throw up all over my aria book.

But next week I have to do it all over again. Get on the bus/train and go to a major metropolitan city and put on my dress and try to work it and sing well. And the next week. And the next week. In between those trips, I'm trying to finish my dissertation (we're in the editing phase people, the time is near) and prepare for a recital and remember the business of living. Petting the dog, cooking with my husband, sitting on the sofa together, planning for Thanksgiving dinner with our friends. Amusing myself by looking at lolcats and loldogs. Knitting gloves (despite the mockery of my friends who want to know why I'm knitting just one. smartasses. no hats for them this year) and looking at patterns for other fun winter treats that involve putting two needles together and coming out with something beautiful. Ironing.

I emailed my friend M, who I know is up because she's seven hours ahead. She's been at this a while and has managed to juggle singing and husband and puppy, so our spirits are kindred in more ways than one. Plus, she likes to knit and crochet. The best thing she said to me was,

"Throw up if you must, but my advice to you is to know that, in the end, even if they love you, their responses are only to what you do, not who you are. Keep your marriage strong, your faith strong, your love of life strong. You'll end up with the same amount of work whether you cry or are Zen about the whole thing. But the worrying will just give you a hole in your stomache."

And she's totally right. Which means that once I'm done with breakfast and watching 90210 and feel that I have sufficiently sulked and licked my "special congratulations" wound, I have to get up off the mat and walk the dog. Take those vitamins and use the neti pot and layer up for a long walk. And pull out my Turabian manual and start double-checking my footnotes, finish the first and start knitting that second glove. LIFE GOES ON. This is the mantra for the day.
One day at a time.

The privet hedge

Boundaries. Everyone has them. For some, it's in the form of a small, well-manicured hedge that lines their yard; others, it's an eight-foot fence with barbed wire at the top. We used to have a hedge that went along the sides of our back yard. I used to love running through it, as if I were crossing the finish line of a marathon. As a result, I think those two bushes never did grow all the way together, but I'd have to go back to check for sure.

I like quiet time. I enjoy sitting on my sofa and watching the West Wing and knitting and not speaking for hours at a time, other than to talk along with whatever Josh Lyman is saying. I like working by myself, in a quiet room with lots of books around me, piles of notes and photocopies and post-its with subjects written on them. I'm well-versed in boundaries because I have a lot of them.

I like to shake hands with people when I first meet them - a good firm handshake thank you so much, none of that limp-wristed dead fish bullshit - because I think you can tell a lot about someone from a handshake. I also like to look people in the eye. I don't mind speaking in front of people, classrooms, auditoriums, or otherwise. And, as evidenced by my choice of profession, I don't mind performing in front of people. I like it a great deal, truth be told. I enjoy putting on lots of silly makeup (when I have the good eye makeup remover to take it all off at the end of the night) and yes, even the riding in silly contraptions that fly across the stage, and I like singing stuff that's high and impressive.

Auditioning is a weird thing. It's about 1/3 of the way between practicing, rehearsing and performing. You should emote, but not necessarily stage the entire scene by yourself. You should be demonstrative but not do anything silly like mime props. You should dress in a way that befits your character and sometimes, the characters you inhabit, but showing up in a burlap sack when you're auditioning for Gilda is a stretch. I've been working on this process for a while and after a full week of what I would characterize as 'successful' auditions, my managers suggested that they still find me to be reserved in the audition room.

Now it's my nature to read too much into criticism - it's that analytical part of the brain that does really well in the academic situation but when it comes to subjectivity goes completely berserk. When I first read it, my immediate reaction was, "Well, that's right. I am a little reserved when I meet new people." My second and third reactions were, "Does that mean I didn't sing well? Do they not like what I do?" The reactions that followed were decreasingly rational and I ended up curled up in a ball on the blue chair for about five minutes, contemplating how much I suck at auditioning.

A few hours and a hot shower later, I'm back in the land of the rational again. I keep having to remind myself that this business is not about selling ME. It's about selling the singer. And it's okay if the singer likes to go out and smile and shimmy just a little when she walks into the room because, thank you Weight Watchers, she has lost a little junk off the trunk and is looking pretty fine these days. It's also okay if the real me likes to sit on the sofa and knit gloves and pet the dog. But it's not okay for either of those people to judge each other.

So we're going to go dry the hair now and walk the dog, who's been so sweet while his mommy was freaking out. When I call his name, he comes running, ears up and tail wagging, because he knows it's me. And I know it's me too.

Come fly with me

The show opens tonight. I think I've finally figured out exactly where I want my eyeliner to go, exactly how much blue to mix into my base to look scary and bloodless, and how much material I have to shove under my headpiece to make it stand up like it should without shadowing the top half of my face. The conductor is a super nice guy and he refers to me as the "island of calm" because I always know exactly what I want in the tempo and even though there are four men operating ropes and running rail cues while I'm singing, somehow my face conceals the nervousness in the pit of my stomach. Why am I nervous, you might ask?

Because I have to fly. They hoist my costumed ass up in the air inside a giant hand and, amid thunder and lightning, fly me out onstage so I can sing these two great arias. Now I don't know how it looks from the audience, but it feels pretty fast to me. Maybe it's because I have to remind myself not to lock my knees so my body will absorb the small tremors from the mechanism. Maybe it's because they almost flew me into a large set piece in the shape of the moon the other night. Maybe it's because I'd rather be knitting.

I'm not afraid of heights. Not an issue. I'm not afraid of singing in front of people, most of the time. Audition season excepted, I feel pretty comfortable getting up and hollering in front of total strangers, especially if there's a whole stage and some set pieces and lights and an orchestra between me and them. What am I afraid of? Sucking. I'm afraid that one of those sweet men will get an itch and let go of the rope just a little bit and that the contraption will shake and I will lose track of my breath and the F won't come out. I'm afraid that my enormous collar will bump into the moon on my way up or down. I'm afraid that the rail guys will be a little overenthusiastic and I'll end up so high I'm in darkness.

It's just a little nervousness. And it actually has nothing to do with singing. So all I can do is rest up today, eat a good meal, drink some more throat coat tea, and trust.

Spread my wings boys, it's time to fly.

Shadowing my dreams

I had a dream last week about my friend Kristy's wedding. Kristy isn't married - she's engaged to a great guy named Bob - but in my dream, Miss Jean had planned her wedding. Now I don't know why so don't ask me about the innerworkings of my subconscious, but Kristy had to hurry up and get the ceremony over with because she was moving to Plaquemines (!) and had to get over the bridge. Stream of (un)consciousness, people. Bear with me. So Miss Jean comes up to me as Kristy is beating it out the door and exclaims, in a very pissy tone of voice, "She can't go! I have a pinata coming in an hour!"

And then I woke up.

Miss Jean found this story hilarious. My husband wanted to know why on earth Miss Jean was planning Kristy's wedding. And my colleague wanted to know what was in the pinata.

I haven't been sleeping especially well in this hotel room. I've been here two weeks now and I've got the cooking on two burners thing down to an art, but the a/c gets too cold in the night and I turn it off and then I wake up in sweats and turn it back on. I'm sleeping fitfully, waking up and falling back asleep, and countless people have received a rather rude greeting when calling me before 9am because I didn't get to sleep in the first place till 2am, despite being in bed at 11pm. Ridiculous.

So it's no great surprise to me that today, after a full run of the show, my voice feels like ground hamburger, I don't want to eat real food, and all I want to do is sit in the dark and listen to the Indigo Girls and feel sorry for myself. And eat Haagen-Dazs. I think my first clue to the slump was the Jason Robert Brown spree on my playlist. I always go to the musical theatre in an attempt to perk myself up, but then the sad ballad starts playing and there I am, spoon in hand, vanilla chocolate almond in the other, morose.

Well I'm not sure if this is one of those "Hello self!" type moments, but I now, very firmly, recognize myself as an emotional eater. And fortunately, I've been very good with my WW points for the last few weeks so I know it's not a huge catastrophe to sit here with the Haagen-Dazs. I didn't finish the pint, not even close, and I did put it back into the freezer and turn the light back on. And I'm going to accompany my colleague to the Macy's one-day sale that's going on until 11pm because if I don't, the ice cream will be gone before you can say banana split hold the whipped cream.

There has to be an easier way.
And with that

Joe the plumber

Where is Joe? Where are Joe's stats? Where does Joe live? Does Joe have student loans? Does Joe have kids or dogs or illegitimate children or someone else's illegitimate children? Does Joe have a pregnant teenage daughter? Does she go to college? Does Joe have health insurance? Does Joe give a shit about whether or not his employees have health insurance? Does Joe live in one of John McCain's 17 houses? Does Joe's forehead move when he speaks? Does Joe blink every three seconds?

I AM SO SICK OF HEARING ABOUT JOE THE PLUMBER. COME ON.

This is why I don't watch the debates. It just turns my stomach.

and p.s. John McCain thinks that Sarah Palin is a role model for women. I'm going to hurl and it's not even lunchtime.

Gracious Diva - an oxymoron?

When I finished my masters' degree, my voice teacher gave me a sweet little plant in a beautiful lavender planter with a card. The plant died and I lost the card in one of many moves. I don't remember everything that was written inside, but two words have been burned into my brain: "gracious diva."

Now the word "diva" can conjure some pretty negative images. A high-strung soprano socking a director at the Met, a tenor stepping in front of his supposed lover to hold that high note longer than seems humanly (or healthily) possible, two high sopranos hollering out, "Ich bin die erste Saengerin" in what seems like farce but might actually just be art imitating reality. These are only a few examples; I could call up any number of singers and come up with many MANY more.

But what does it mean to be a diva in a non-negative sense? The online etymology dictionary tells me that "diva" in Italian means "goddess, fine lady," and from the masculine form of divus (Latin) that means "divine one." In the singer sense, it means you kick ass at singing. It doesn't necessarily mean that everyone loves your voice or the way that you sing, but it does mean that your ability is undeniable. People can disagree at the tops of their voices about whether or not you should have done that cadenza or the nerve of adding the obscenely high note, but as a singer, being a diva means you are a force of nature. La Divina herself, Maria Callas, comes to mind.

Now most of the time, I'm so in awe of my professional colleagues that it takes the three ladies shouting, "The Queen! She comes! She comes! SHE COMES!" for me to remember that they're talking about me and I'd better get my butt on stage. I'm well-acquainted with my golden retriever people-pleaser nature that causes me to say things like, "You want me to climb up into a giant puppet hand and then you'll fly me down forty feet while I'm singing one of the hardest arias ever? Sure!" And when the director says, "Let's go back and run the whole act again," I'm usually the person who says, "Okay!" and scampers back to my place, even if we've already run this act multiple times and I've been given exactly zero notes.

But I'm learning things now. I'm learning that, even though the Fs always come out exactly when I need them to, I'm more susceptible to illness and allergies when I travel. My skin and hair are drier, I'm drinking so much water it's ridiculous. I'm trying to eat healthily (and on a budget) but it's difficult when you have two little burners and a microwave with which to cook, and a crappy grocery store nearby that carries a limited supply of organic and natural foods. I'm putting myself on the elliptical machine and sweating a crazy amount to stave off the crazy. And if I didn't sleep well the night before, chances are I'll feel more tired - it will show in the puffiness around my eyes and the slightly ragged edges on the first few warmups of the day. What does all of this mean? It means that I have to preserve and protect that asset that lives in my throat like my career depends upon it. BECAUSE IT DOES.

So this afternoon, when the director said we were going to run Act I again, I went up to him and asked, very politely, if he really needed me to sing my aria again. First, he said, "um, yes, I do." And I said, "okay, the whole thing?" and he said, "well......actually........no. We just need your entrance and exit to cue the puppeteers." And I said, "Great, I'm happy to do that."
And you know what? It was fine. I entered; I exited. Cues given. Done. But I had to ask.
This is something I'm not used to doing. The asking part. It feels like cheating not to sing through. But I've come to a strange and long-time-coming conclusion: it's okay to be a diva, so long as you're a gracious diva. Not the soprano who throws a hissy because she has to share a dressing room with another person when there are only three dressing rooms for a cast of twenty. It's okay to mark when you can (sidebar: I recently tried to mark through the Queen's arias. It's ridiculously impractical and a waste of time and energy. Sing it or don't sing it. Anything inbetween is just folly.) and to save your voice when you know you're going to be rehearsing for a while. It's okay to make sure that your break times are honored. Because no one will think twice about hiring someone else if you can't sing. It is no one's responsibility but your own to safeguard your instrument, and thereby, your career.

So I'm totally cool going up in the giant puppet hand 40 feet in the air. I will be super careful and double-check the latches on the gates and get a good hold on the structure. I will be conscientious about my movement and say a little prayer every time they release me into the air. I promise to show up on time, warmed up, wearing the appropriate footwear. But in the interest of self-preservation, I reserve the right to sing the five high Fs that Mozart gave me no more than once a day if we're going to be doing this every day for the next two weeks. And I will always say "please" and "thank you." Because that's what gracious divas do.

My 200th post - a non-event

Things to do when you're in an extended-stay hotel:

1. catch up on every single episode of Project Runway
2. watch Sox game one
3. re-acquaint myself with the elliptical machine
4. stretch
5. listen to the airplanes fly over
6. work on my dissertation
7. think about baking cookies - realize, once again, that I have no oven
8. make pudding instead
9. count my WW points
10. fantasize about public transportation that simply does not exist
11. plan my return to the Starbucks downtown
12. experiment with single pan cooking
13. wonder if Christian Slater's forehead has actually gotten larger or his eyebrows pointier
14. watch Sox game two
15. stare at the Chicago Manual of Style until my eyes cross
16. go back to the elliptical machine
17. watch Tabitha's Salon Takeover - wonder how many bad hairdressers there are on television
18. flip flip flip flip flip flip flip
19. ask myself a major life question: Would I really want to be Paris Hilton's new BFF?
20. sigh in disgust, think to self that Paris Hilton looks like a slightly cross-eyed not-very-cute Siamese cat and prepare lunch

Hope everyone is having a marvelous Sunday!

A prairie home opinion from the shiksa

No one who knows me doubts my love for Garrison Keillor. He is literate, articulate, humorous, wry, heartfelt, and he likes Messiaen. Four years ago I came across his book Homegrown Democrat. I bought it in hardback. I bought it on audiobook, just to hear his melodious voice speaking those tender words to my ears on the twelve-hour drives from Bloomington to Hattiesburg. I stood against a large metal pole for several hours just to watch the live show at Tanglewood and then stood in line getting my ankles eaten by mosquitoes so I could shake his enormous hand and tell him how much I enjoy his work. Long live radio - it keeps those of us who travel from getting too lonely on the road.

Sometimes it makes people skittish to talk about politics. In large groups of educated women, I frequently find myself shaking my head in tandem with them at the unfortunate turn this election has taken, embodied in the well-coiffed red-heeled persona of the Republican vice-Presidential candidate. We foam and froth about her lack of eloquence, her evasive answers, and her inability to produce the name of a single periodical that she reads. We, liberal women all around the table, scoff that she does not read the New Yorker. This makes the less liberal among us believe that we hate her because she is not Hilary. I can't put my finger on why, but Hilary never appealed to me. Qualified, educated, tough-as-nails no doubt, but her message never spoke to me. So my aversion to the woman in the Tina Fey glasses is not because my heart beats its last drops for Clinton.

I remember reading Keillor's book nearly four years ago and remembering his words - the Republican party is the party of fear. Not much has changed since then. Some people are so intoxicated by fear that they actually believe same-sex marriage will somehow endanger the sanctity of marriage. Many MANY of my friends are living testaments to the contrary. They are good spouses, good parents, pillars of their church communities, public servants, and walking embodiments of the golden rule. Some people believe that they can return this nation, this generation, to an earlier, purer, more naive time by closing their eyes and turning their hearts away from the future, from their neighbors, from their problems.

I'm not a die-hard Obama enthusiast either. I was extremely disheartened to watch him tiptoe across the aisle and tag the 'marriage only between a man and a woman' base. I was reading an article in my New Yorker (there I go again - does anyone have a band-aid for my bleeding heart?) about Jim Webb and his attempt to bring Obama to rural Virginia, to make him more relevant, more appealing to otherwise skeptical voters. There's this unbelievable segment about David (Mudcat) Saunders - a "good ole boy" of the highest order, and a zealous Democrat. When Webb was running against George Allen, Saunders came out to support Webb and spoke on the issue of a gay marriage ban that was on the docket. This is what he had to say:

"In my first interview, I said, This has nothing to do with queers getting married, this has to do with politics, " Saunders recalled. "This has to do with drivin' up George Allen's numbers. It has to do with dividing God's children. The one thing people better understand is God loves every queer every bit as much as he loves any Republican. It's about individual rights."
(The New Yorker, October 6, 2008, article by Peter J. Boyer entitled "The Apppalachian Problem")

It's about individual rights. It is my right to think what I want to think and believe what I want to believe and, whether I agree with you or not, and it is your right to think what you want to think and believe what you want to believe. I believe the Red Sox are among God's chosen people and that the Yankees can build all the new stadiums they want, it won't make them a worthwhile team. And you can cheer for the Devil Rays to kick the shit out of the Sox and we can all sit in Fenway Park together and manage not to kill each other because we are civilized human beings and we are entitled to the same rights. But this isn't about baseball. It's about welfare and security and ensuring the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity.

So I urge you, my friends and readers, to read Garrison Keillor's piece in the Chicago Tribune.
You want plain-spoken, he's got it. You want opinion without a lot of the academic-speak fanfare, he's got it.

More than that, I urge you to make sure that you are registered to vote and that you get your ass out there on election day or you fill out that absentee ballot. Because it is your individual right to have your say. So go have it.

On the job again

I flew to Syracuse this morning to start my first professional non-YAP opera contract. I'm here for a few weeks so after a fair amount of grumbling about the new baggage fees, I checked the bag affectionately known as 'Big Red' and schlepped my enormous laptop bag and a grocery bag of breakfast food onto a very VERY small airplane. Note to self: I don't like small planes. Not one bit.

The lead-up to this morning was a lot more eventful. My friend Zach was my zen shopping guru on Thursday and helped me find the perfect 'first day of work' outfit. Yesterday, I went to Kenneth Cole and a very sweet theatre major from Northeastern did an excellent job of helping me into not one but two gorgeous pair of shoes, pictured here for your drooling enjoyment. Then I went and chopped off a significant amount of hair to eliminate what I've identified as the 'ponytail problem.' So long as the hair is long enough to go into a ponytail, that's the only place it will go on a daily basis. It's still long enough to go under my Red Sox hat and behind my ears so I don't eat my hair while I'm running, but short enough that it has a lot more opportunity for me to maximize the curl possibility. Read: Now I have to fix my hair.

What prompted this adventure in fashion and personal grooming, you might ask? Well here's the thing. I've been a student for so long, I've forgotten what business dress looks like. I know what I can wear to go to class or to a concert, but the whole idea of a dressy look for professional purposes is largely lost on me. I have one audition outfit. I have multiple gowns. And I have three amazing pair of jeans, one pair of waterproof trail runners, one pair of regular running shoes, and a whole lot of shoes that are really meant to look pretty while I'm standing still on the stage. But when I walk into our first meeting tomorrow and I meet a new conductor, artistic director, stage director, and the cast of a show that's being re-mounted (that's right, I'm the 'new kid' in class) I don't want them to see a doctoral candidate with my JanSport backpack and my Dansko clogs and my favorite comfy jeans and tortoiseshell glasses. I want them to see an opera singer. Wearing amazing shoes.

Keeping score

This is not a post about sports. I did go see the Sox play the Yankees on Friday night after trekking into the city in the horizontal rain and sitting in Boston Beer Works while they told us the game was delayed for rain (it's raining? really?) first until 8:05 and then 8:30 and then when they stopped the game in the LONGEST INNING EVER to send out the grounds crew to pull the tarps over the diamond. Damn Yankees. Stupid Johnny Damon. But this is not a post about sports.

This is not a post about my career. I'm home for another few days before I head off to Syracuse to sing some Magic Flute with puppets and masks. Read it again. Puppets and masks. Like Mardi Gras, only with opera. I'm trying to locate my character shoes but I have a sneaking feeling that they are actually still in Seattle. A curious problem. I also have to figure out how to condense my stage makeup kit down to a travel-friendly size because I refuse to take more than one suitcase. As it is, I have issues about checking bags. Let's not even talk about London for two and a half months. But this is not a post about my career.

This is a post about math. In an attempt to get a handle on what I eat and how I eat, I started doing Weight Watchers. This is not about eating less or more. This is about eating better and in a non-emotional way. Eating the veggies and the fruits because they're good for me. Cutting down on the double steak nachos and beer on Thursday nights with the gang. Two beers instead of four. Eight glasses of water instead of two. Actually preparing soup and a sandwich instead of grazing on whatever happens to be at the front of the fridge. And so I asked my mother to send me the food guides from WW. She and Mr. Hart have had great success with this program and pop has managed to stop complaining about being 'starved and deprived,' realizing that two scoops of creole cream cheese ice cream really IS one serving, especially when you add strawberries to it. Yum! Anyway, the books came in the mail and my hubby is flipping through them. There are 'points' values assigned to each of the foods listed so you can keep score throughout the day - how many points you've used, how many you have left, when you're making a recipe or a sandwich or whatever. And then he stops and says I won't believe what he's found.

Complete A-Z Food List

Opossum, cooked, 1oz 2points
Squirrel, cooked, 1oz 1point

Wow. But what I really want to know is this: what's the Points value for Nutria??

Country road, take me home

In this case, the country road happens to be Jet Blue, who finally got their act together and rescheduled my flight for Saturday morning.

I haven't been home in nearly two years, since Christmas of 06, and that's just too long. I have cousins to hug, friends to drink with, and of course, Miss Jean, Mr. Hart, and their neurotic sideshow dog, Max. It's strange to say that I'm excited to go, in light of the recent evacuations and the storm systems still out in the Gulf, but I am excited. I want to sit shivering inside the local coffee shop, knowing that it's above 90 outside and I'm freezing because of the a/c. I want to order a shrimp po-boy and know that it will take longer because they're frying the shrimp right now. I want to drive across the twin spans and see the outline of the CBD when I hit the peak of the bridge, just for a moment before it goes down.

You can take the girl out of the south. You can even make her into a baseball fan who owns a house in Boston. But you can't take the south out of the girl.

I'm coming home!

Paging sanity

Dear Jet Blue,

Your customer service department is run by monkeys. And not the smart ones, either. If you expect me to believe that my flight to New Orleans tomorrow morning is 'on time' and that I can just waltz off the plane into a city whose residents are being discouraged from returning BECAUSE THERE'S NO ELECTRICITY, then you are smoking the crack rock. And as the immortal Whitney Houston told us, "Crack is whack."

Get a clue. Preferably before tomorrow morning because I'm not dragging my ass down to the airport just so you can tell me my flight isn't happening.

Disappointedly yours,
Shiksa Traveler

Listen to me.

It's taken me 28 years to know who I am. Listen to me.

I like singing Poulenc more than I like singing Faure or even Debussy. Listen to me.
I know that Beethoven is one of the cornerstones of Western music but I still don't want to sit through one of his piano sonatas or his string quartets. Listen to me.
I don't care if you think that there's no difference between Coke and Diet Coke, I can taste the difference so don't try to pull a fast one. Same with Pepsi. I know the difference. Listen to me.
I like the Red Sox better than the Yankees. Why? Because I do. And the rest of Red Sox Nation agrees with me so don't try to tell me that the Yankees are better. Listen to me.
I make my bed every day and when I change the sheets, I still fold the ends with hospital corners like my dad taught me. I know it's OCD, but it's what I do. Listen to me.
I like real butter, but the unsalted kind. You may not think it tastes as good, but I like it better. Listen to me.
I say [pI 'kan] and not ['pi kan] and I say ['pra lin] and not ['prei lin]. I make them and unless you've stood over the stove with the candy thermometer, don't correct my pronunciation. Listen to me.

I'm a soprano. A high one. I sing high soprano repertoire. And it's taken me a long time to figure out that I should do this, how to do it well, and exactly how much I can juice up certain parts of my voice without sacrificing my super high notes. Trial and error, lots of practicing, lots of listening, lots of mistakes, but I've taken a lot of time to get to know my voice. So what makes you think that you can make pronouncements about my voice and my attitude toward the 'narrowly conceived scope of what my voice can do' from a fifteen minute tape and a seven minute live audition? What gives you the right to tell me that I need to throw caution to the wind and blow out my chest voice because that's what is in the score? You're not the one with binding executed contracts that tell me I have to show up and sing that high F the number of times that Mozart put it on the page or else they won't hand me the paycheck at intermission.

It's taken me 28 years to know who I am. I've spent the last eight weeks questioning that because of coaches and pianists who presume to know better. Well I'm closing the question/answer portion of this segment. Your ticket is no longer valid. And not everyone has earned the right to give me their opinion. So step off.

Listen to me.

Testing, testing

*Warning - I was angry. I am still angry. I am not past angry. But it's where I am and I have to accept that before I can move forward*

My friend Stacey wrote a most interesting entry about an approach to wedding invitations that, as a person who fought tooth and nail with her family about inviting every single second cousin, really appealed to me. If I recall correctly, she had read about this in a 'how to save money on weddings' article on consumerist.com - how do we weed out the people who are coming out of social obligation and the hunt for free cake? Only the people who could answer the following questions would be issued an invitation to the wedding.

1) Name the city I'm living in now.
2) Name at least two of my closest friends.
3) Name my current employer and my past employer.
4) Do I have any kids?
5) Do you know the name of my fiancé? Bonus question: Where and when did we meet?
6) Do you know where my parents are and whether they are still alive?
7) Name at least two of my hobbies.
8) How old am I?
9) Where did I go to college?
10) Name my last boyfriend before this engagement.

Now I'm pretty partial to this idea. Thanks to a major natural disaster, my wedding was pretty small and included only very immediate family and friends. But I still had to address what seemed like a jillion invites and put a stamp on every single one, even the last-minute ones that my in-laws requested. You know, a week before the wedding when they ask, "Oh, did you remember to invite so-and-so, the guy who was my postgrad student and I was his thesis adviser?" Seriously? Seriously.

Reading Stacey's blog and the above questions got me thinking. I've been struggling a lot lately with my relationship with my parents and that sense of obligation that I feel that makes me buy plane tickets to see them every year, even though they haven't been to Boston to see me since my wedding. It's that little voice inside that says, "Well, if you left your husband three days earlier than you'd planned, you could see your parents for two days while you're in Seattle, just before you're about to work on a 10-day contract with brand new music and a director." It's also the same voice that says, "Even if you're upset with them, you only get one set of parents. You don't get to pick your family. They're all you have, you have to make nice."
And it occurred to me today that the voice that says all of those things belongs to someone. It belongs to my mother. The voice of guilt, the voice that makes my stomach clench up, the voice of obligation and 'don't be a bad daughter' belongs to none other than Miss Jean. And anyone who's met her in person knows what I'm talking about. If I have a well-developed look of scorn, she's got the Sears catalogue variety. If I'm well-versed in the art of disdain through politeness, she's on freaking Team USA.

Maybe it's not nice. Maybe we're not supposed to test people by quizzing them about their lives, or judge the depth of our relationships by whether or not they can answer these questions. Given her encyclopedic memory, my mother could probably answer all of those questions. But in less than a month, I'm getting on an airplane to New Orleans and will be there for ten days and all I can think about is how I'm going to balance who I want to visit and who I'm obligated to visit. I've got huge quantities of family - aunts, uncles, cousins, plus the parents, the brother, and the globe-trotting Opa who may or may not be in the States at that time - and I can say with absolute certainty that if I do not get in my rental car and drive my ass all over God's country to see (or at least try to see) each and every one of them, I will hear about it. Now answer me this - WHY MUST I BE THE ONE WHO TRAIPSES ALL OVER THE SOUTH WHEN MOST OF THEM DON'T EVEN BOTHER TO PICK UP THE PHONE AND CALL??

Even sitting here, consciously resisting the urge to delete that sentence, I hear that voice in my head:
"Now sweetheart, we all have obligations to our family. Not everyone has enough time to call you and keep up with everything it is that you're doing. We have lives too and we know you're a very busy girl with all that traveling you do. And it's your duty to make an effort to see your relatives while you're in town. And don't say that we haven't been supportive, we came to every piano recital you had when you were little and every choir concert. We've done our part. Now why don't you go set the table for dinner?"

It makes me want to vomit with rage. I have been so angry for so long and now that it's riding close to the surface, I feel it in every part of my body. I feel my jaw starting to clench and I feel my shoulders pulling up towards my ears, just thinking about my mother pontificating to me about the importance of being a good daughter, my duties in being a good wife to my husband, don't be too hard on your father he doesn't understand exactly what you do but would you give him a call please he feels neglected when you don't and don't forget to write your aunt a thank-you card, it's the polite thing to do. IT MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM.

I've been trying to think of a constructive way to talk about this with her. Him. Either of them.
Maybe I'll write an email. Maybe I'll call. Maybe I'll write a letter. Or maybe I'll just never answer the phone again. Ever. I just can't fake it any more. I can't endure any more of the false politeness, the superficial niceties and the rehearsed speeches about what it is that I'm supposed to do to be a good and dutiful daughter. The phone works both ways and so do the airlines.
I'm so sick and tired of this fake relationship that involves one of us being shamed into doing something we don't want to do and the other holding the carrot of love. Because I'm not a child anymore. And I refuse to play this game any longer. I'm angry. And that's where I'm at.

Survivor

No, not the television show. I've never actually seen it, but it sounds like a silly idea to me. Even more silly than a houseful of 'exotic dancers' fighting over Bret Michaels.

I'm in my little room at Twood, listening to Beverly Sills sing the 'Dunque io son' duet from Barber of Seville and enjoying the fact that, thanks to the weird cold front that moved in, I don't have the fan blowing full blast to create a breeze in my stuffy (not nearly as romantic as a garrett apartment, I assure you) fourth floor chamber. Bubbles is on fire with coloratura and ornaments that are to die for, and while I'm excited to be working on this scene, it's been a hard few weeks. The Russian songs are memorized and sitting in the back of my mind, waiting to be resurrected for a development event in a week or so, I'm trying to motivate myself to memorize the Brahms songs that are simply too low for me, and in losing my bel canto virginity, I'm also trying to memorize a whole lot of Italian.

But really, I'd rather be hunting for the missing bolts to the bed among the unpacked boxes in our new house. I'd rather be dusting and swiffing and watching Sammy sniff the new place to be sure if it's really home for him. And most of all, I'd like to be back to the business of learning the music that is on the docket for next season and not constantly feeling as if I'm in the crosshairs of someone else's educational conquest, spouting all of the reasons why I should be learning all of this low rep that's not really right for me, questioning my resistance against opening all of those barriers that are in place not only for my own protection but also for the security of my performance. Security is boring, who needs control, safety is boring. I've heard this in so many different ways that it makes me resentful, a little spiteful even. All those years trying to figure out how to line up the voice, training it and the brain and the body to be at ease, under control but not controlled so that, amid all of the acrobatics, we can let loose and emote. And now you're telling me that control is boring, that seeing a performer completely secure is boring. That you'd rather see a singer make a mistake because they're 'in the moment' than hear the safer but perhaps less spontaneous performance.

I get it. The larger lesson. I get it. But I have my own timeline that needs to play itself out in singing, in acting, in therapy, before those barriers are going to come down in front of a roomful of strangers. And you can't tell me that Diana Damrau didn't practice floating that C in Caro Nome flat on her back in the bed in the Dresden production so that it looked spontaneous AND sounded gorgeous. Spontaneous but practiced. Involved but not over-involved. Rehearsed but not mechanical.

Yo-yo Ma was talking about the communication between the conscious and the subconscious in its most present and pliable state - half asleep, half awake - and how we can use that time to really experiment with our imagination. When I first wake up in the morning, once I've hit the snooze button and pulled the mask back over my eyes, I'm so relaxed. It doesn't occur to me that I haven't talked to my parents in more than a week or that those crazy English Magic Flute translations need to be learned or that I have to get new innersoles for my running shoes because that stupid right one keeps creeping back. I'm swimming in this warm dark place under my pillow, my jaw isn't clenched (at least it doesn't feel that way), my stomach isn't turning over with anxiety, and my heart isn't heavy and confused trying to figure out exactly when I put up this protective shell against conflict and hurt.

Why does life feel more like surviving than living these days? And when can I get off the evil merry-go-round with the bad music and the clowns who keep telling me to smile?

Omigosh (x4)

1. sang in a masterclass for Renee Fleming today. It was sixteen kinds of awesome.

2. saw the Freiburg Baroque Orchestra in an all-Mozart program. Who knew that three hours of Mozart would be exciting and not just interminable?

3. the new Harry Potter trailer is up online. Why is Harry Potter so RAD?

4. after tomorrow, we won't have an apartment. Just a house that's all our own.

Quit while you're ahead, says I. So I'm putting myself to bed before anything threatens to dampen my mood.

There is no halfway

In or out - don't just stand there in the door letting all the cold air out. This phrase is common to any household that enjoys the necessity (some might say the 'privilege' but they are crazy) of air conditioning, especially in peak summer when the humidity is above 80% and the heat index says just don't bother going outside because you'll bake before you even get to your car. In or out. Make a decision.

For the last few years, I've been grappling with a performance issue that I suspect is largely linked to the academic, analytical side of my personality. The side that likes to get all the notes right, all the words right, every articulation exactly as it appears on the page, every interval tuned. The side that takes such great joy in the beauty of form - the tension of voice against voice, the perfect unfolding of a fugue, the subtlety of excellent orchestration. This is also the side of me that rejoices in the fact that I finally understand grammar, thanks to the cases of German. I think structure is beautiful.

But this is also the side of me that searches for control in every situation. Immediately unpacking my suitcase even if I'm only in one place for one night, putting my folded clothes into a drawer, setting out my toiletries on the bathroom shelf. Purchasing little colored flags to distinguish my arias from my art songs. Obsessing over the perfect day planner at Staples - one that fits my time needs (why can't I find a three-year planner, seriously??) and dovetails nicely with the end of my previous planner. Salivating over desk organizers, those little stackable trays and dividers and drawer inserts. Let's not even talk about The Container Store. It's an obsessive-compulsive orgy just waiting to happen.

How does this relate to performance, some might ask. At the end of the dress rehearsal for the Messiaen piece I did a few weeks ago, my coach said that, in general, she felt that I was holding back, emotionally. And I asked her if there were specific places that she wanted me to be more expressive, if this is a stylistic issue or (dare I say it) a vibrato issue. And she said that, in general, she felt that I was too contained. Now let's first address the justifiable side of this issue. What I sing usually requires a pretty sufficient amount of breath efficiency, so I can't be emoting all over the place with 'expressive breaths' because quite frankly, I wouldn't be able to sing half of what I do if I emoted with my breath. And a lot of my rep has lots of vocal fireworks and acrobatics, which requires that I keep my wits about me, lest my voice run away with itself. The arias are usually a bit longer than usual, so I have to pace myself. All of this means that I have to be in the driver's seat of my singing - I can't check out or go on auto-pilot so I can enjoy the moment.
A few years ago, during dress rehearsals for Dialogues of the Carmelites, I caught myself getting all choked up during the scene in which the jailer comes into the cell and reads the death sentence for the nuns. I was completely overwhelmed and, as a result, unable to sing through my tears. In one way, I was glad, even proud that it happened because it meant that I was involved in the scene, connected with the text and emoting from a direct and honest place. But on the other hand, the audience can't be connected with the scene if the singers are too busy crying to sing what Poulenc put on the page. They deserve more than supertitles. And as my voice teacher later said to me, it's not about what I'm feeling, it's about what the character is feeling. It's our job to project what the character is feeling, what the poet has to say, what the composer has chosen to emote. Stage actors, I'm sure, deal with this in a different way but for singers, the bottom line is this: if you're crying, you can't sing.
Earlier that same year, I was in a masterclass being held in my German diction class. I was preparing for my masters' recital and it seemed only fitting to bring in my Strauss set. Allerseelen is one of my favorites, so I thought I'd start with that. After my initial sing-through, the baritone, this wonderful man named Benno Schollum, began to talk with me about the text, the poem by Hermann von Gilm.

Allerseelen
Stell auf den Tisch die duftenden Reseden,
Die letzten roten Astern trag herbei
Und laß uns wieder von der Liebe reden
Wie einst im Mai.

Gib mir die Hand, daß ich sie heimlich drücke,
Und wen mans sieht, mir ist es einerlei,
Gib mir nur einen deiner süßen Blicke
Wie einst im Mai.

Es blüht und funkelt heut auf jedem Grabe,
Ein Tag im Jahre ist den Toten frei;
Komm an mein Herz, daß ich dich wieder habe,
Wie einst im Mai.

And I've done my translation so I know what it means, but then he begins to discuss philosophies on death and how, for this poet, death isn't the ending of this relationship, that the speaker still maintains this relationship with their beloved, beyond the bounds of death, speaking tenderly to them as if they were still sitting across the table, holding hands, and even now, sitting here typing I feel the tears welling up in my eyes because I was thinking about my crazy old German grandparents, scolding each other over using too much coffee in the pot but still calling each other 'Schatz,' grousy in their old German ways of eating herring salad (not kidding people, it's pink) and shaming their grandchildren into eating all of the boiled purple cabbage that was put on their plate and shaking hands instead of hugging. Even now, four years after that masterclass, I can't talk about this song without crying. I thought I was doing okay until I was asked to sing it for the All Saints' concert at Trinity a few years ago - I was holding it together reasonably well until the last page of "Komm an mein Herz, daß ich dich wieder habe," and then it was over. I could barely phonate, the tears were rolling down my face, I'm just grateful that the pianist went on without me to the end because someone had to finish out the song and it sure wasn't going to be me.

So as my coach is telling me that she finds me a little too emotionally contained, I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do. Some people are able to walk right up to that line, touch it, caress it, and then step back. Some people can tap dance right on top of the emotion and then shake it off in a breath. Christine Ebersole, such an amazing performer, allowing her voice to break just a little in 'Send in the Clowns,' but still finishing out the song with beautifully sad tone, tugging on the heartstrings of everyone in the Shed. Maybe I haven't gotten there yet, maybe the lines are still too strongly defined, but I can't split the difference. Because if the door isn't shut while I'm working, if even a little of my real feelings start to leak out, it's the surprise flood that brings my singing to a total stand-still. Anyone who was at my husband's concert in April bore witness to this - a song that I'd rehearsed and sung through as recently as fifteen minutes before the concert, suddenly snuck up on me and laid me bare to an entire audience, my pianist trying so hard to wait for me to get a decent breath between sobs so I could sing the last note, the LAST NOTE of the ENTIRE CONCERT. Listening to the recording, I can tell you the exact moment at which it got away from me. I can hear my breath hopped up, my throat starting to close, the waver in my voice that says I'm no longer driving my own train.

I'm not saying that I hold this back all of the time. I watch my favorite movies and get sniffly at the same parts every time, I go to the opera and my heart swells at the end of Act I of Boheme, I listen to those Indigo Girls songs that meant so much to me in high school and I'm transported back to that emotionally turbulent time when I took solace in putting one song on repeat for the entire afternoon and reading Jane Austen and drinking passionfruit tea. I cried when Canio killed Nedda and Silvio, I teared up just last night when I was at the movies watching the new Batman movie - the situation I will not disclose because I know that some of my friends still want to see it.

But all of this is to say that I'm not emotionally contained because I'm removed from the innate emotion of what I'm doing. It's because I can't multitask in that way. I, the great multitasker who can sing and play and translate and write a dissertation and spin flaming hoops at the same time, cannot get that close. I've been struggling with this and trying to figure out how to rework my thinking but it just comes back to the same idea. Once the toothpaste is out, you can't put it back in the tube. And once the door is open, the cold air will go rushing out. In or out. Maybe it's the safe decision. Maybe it's the decision of self-preservation because I don't want my emotions dripping down my face in front of coaches and pianists and strangers and audience members. Maybe it's because I'm scared to let it all out for fear of what that looks and feels like. But for now, I have to sing with the door shut.