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
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
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.
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!
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!
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