Shiksa on the hunt....

.....for sandals, that is.

So I bought a new pair of Dansko sandals a few weeks ago. I've been wearing them around the house in hopes that they will be as comfortable as my Dansko clogs, which I wear every day, and to almost everything, with the exception of performances (and I usually keep them on until right before I go onstage anyway). This was not to be, unfortunately. I managed to wear holes in both pinky toes, while wearing socks AND moleskin, so today I sadly skulked back to the shoe store. Shopping for shoes has been an ordeal since I was a kid. Mom tells me how my first pair of baby shoes was a pair of sandals because I had huge feet and she couldn't stand to sandwich them into little shoes just for the sake of being cute. In some ways, I wish I had been subjected to foot-binding at a young age because it might have prevented some of the teasing, not to mention personal trauma, to which I was subjected since, oh, I entered the school system. Who's got big feet, glasses and reads for fun? Bigfoot, over there. Had I been more self-possessed in the third grade, I would have told them where I was gonna put my big foot if they didn't shut their fat mouth. I digress.

So I decide to go to this huge shoe store near my house. It's a Sunday afternoon, the hubby has work to do and the dog is sunning himself in front of the window, so I grab the car keys and take off. I have come to the conclusion that, unless you look a respectable age and are dressed as such, salespeople will invariably ignore you. I get ignored in stores with some frequency, except in Sephora, where everyone loves me and I love everyone. I tried three times to ask the salesman if they carried a certain brand and if this shoe (the one I'm waving right here in my hand? It's not just for show, I'd like to try it on please!!) is in stock in my size. I gave up after a while. I had tried on all of the Dansko sandals they had on the wall, everything was too narrow and with an arch that's not high enough (shame on you Dansko, I thought we were friends) and tremendously frustrated, I came home.
Home, to my old Birkenstocks that have seen better days and my $2.50 flip flops from Target.

I remember being about seven and asking my mom why I didn't have little feet, like Barbie. Her response is classic Miss Jean:

"Honey, if you had little feet like Barbie, you'd fall over!"

That's right. I would fall over. *sigh*

Shiksa in the windy city

So I'm going to Chicago tomorrow to audition for the Chicago Lyric Opera young artist program. In my zeal to better myself as a performer I have sought the advice of directors, professional singers, and my peers and I have come to this conclusion: being an opera singer is hard on the ego. I've spent the last 26 years forming who I am as a person, getting comfortable with being almost the tallest girl I know, coping with years and years of teasing about wearing glasses and having big feet and being too smart/not smart enough and liking myself as a nerd. And now that I'm okay with who I am, I have to transform into an opera singer. And you may ask yourself, "so how is this so different? you only have to wear costumes on stage..." but you would be wrong my friends, so terribly wrong. For being an opera singer unfortunately means assuming the role of an opera singer with the clothes, the shoes, the makeup, and the hair. I haven't colored my hair in about three years now and have quite happily gone to get my hair cut once every eight months because it just doesn't matter that much to me. Yesterday, I had to sit in the chair at the salon for an hour and a half, getting highlights that I don't want, hours at Talbots buying dresses I don't want and trying to decide which of the two bright colors I hate less so I can show up in something that's not my standard black and thereby distinguish myself from the herds of other sopranos who will show up in black.

Why do we do this? I don't know. Why is it that Anna Netrebko has sung three mainstage roles at the Met this year, and each time she has fastidiously avoided singing the high notes that are WRITTEN in the role. I'm not talking about the optional high notes for show-offs like myself, I'm talking about the ones that the composer inked out on purpose. Why does she get to sing these roles at the Met without singing the high notes? Because she looks like a supermodel and they can put her on stage as Violetta or Gilda or Norina in next to nothing and people go, "wow, an opera singer who looks good. Put away the horns and spears, I'm coming to see this girl!"

It's an aspect of the business that I hate, but if I'm going to continue to attempt a career as an opera singer, I have to get over it. So I bit the bullet, bought the pink dress (vomit vomit vomit) and the pointy-toed heels (oh how my feet cry for my Dansko clogs) and got the stupid highlights in hopes that some casting director will look twice at me. And with that said, I'm going to bed in my ugly flannel pj's. At least they can't tell me what to wear when I go to sleep at night.

Wish me luck, the Windy City awaits!

Singing mice, a sad day

Did you ever see the movie "Babe" with the talking pig? I love that movie. Not only because it has singing mice that are somewhat akin to a greek chorus, but also because it features the Saint-Saens Organ Symphony and talking sheep. For those of you who have not seen this movie, heathens, get thee to a Blockbuster.

The mice, in narrating each tableau, say all sorts of fun things like, "Pork is a nice sweet meat," and "Pigs are definitely stupid," but the one that won't get out of my head is, "A sad day."

Today is a very sad day. Four of my friends and colleagues from IU were killed in an airplane crash early this morning. Friends that I just saw a month and a half ago when I visited Bloomington. People to whom I said, "We should get together the next time I'm here and go eat at Mother Bear's," or "I miss standing next to you in choir" or "When are you writing your next opera?" Young, vibrant musicians with most of their lives in front of them, rather than behind.
All day, my phone has been ringing. Singers reaching out to each other, relaying the news that not even the AP has been able to confirm. Telling stories, consoling and being consoled. I suppose that death is ever present. On any given day, we are one wrong turn or one mis-step away from it, but we never look for that one day. Not when you're twenty-four and you think the worst thing that could happen is not getting into grad school.

Call your mothers and fathers and siblings and friends and tell them you love them. Forgive those people that you've been holding a grudge against, and forgive yourself for all those little things that don't really matter. Every Sunday, the priest gives this great blessing that I had never heard until this year:

"Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind. And may the Divine Mystery who is beyond our ability to know but who made us, and who loves us, and who travels with us, bless us and keep us in peace."

In memoriam: William Sloane Coffin, April 12, 2006

It must have been last year - there was an interview with William Sloane Coffin in the New Yorker. I think I read it four times over and then called my mom and read it to her. And then I ordered his book 'Credo' off of Amazon, only available in hardback at the time, and I'm pretty sure I posted some of it on various web profiles. A former pastor at the Riverside Church in New York, Coffin was most known for his work as the Yale Chaplain who not only dissented against the Vietnam War, but took part in large-scale demonstrations against it and was jailed more than once as a result. Despite a stroke and other health issues, he continued to speak out against war and careless governing - this quote is taken from a sermon given at Riverside Church on World Communion Day:

"Patriotism at the expense of another nation is as wicked as racism at the expense of another race," he declared, adding: "Let us resolve to be patriots always, nationalists never. Let us love our country, but pledge allegiance to the earth and to the flora and fauna and human life that it supports — one planet indivisible, with clean air, soil and water; with liberty, justice and peace for all."

Other writings by Coffin include: "The heart is a little to the left, essays on public morality"
"A passion for the possible," "Letters to a young doubter"

Political Science

This is the title of an article by Michael Specter in the March 13, 2006 issue of The New Yorker, dealing with the Bush administration's attitude toward the research end of science, explicitly as it relates to a vaccine developed for HPV. As a woman who goes to the gynecologist every year and endures the discomfort and humiliation of putting my feet in the stirrups just to make sure that I don't develop cervical cancer, it's very disturbing to me that some blindly zealous right-winger religious types are barring this vaccine in the name of abstinence. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all about telling the the young'uns to keep their knees shut until they're old enough to deal with the consequences, but why punish women and expose them to the leading cause for cervical cancer when it could be prevented? A dear friend of mine became sexually active at a responsible and adult age, and didn't find out until two years later that she had contracted HPV from her ONLY partner. She then had to make a very uncomfortable phone call to this man and tell him that he had some phone calls to make himself. Two words dear friends: cervical biopsy. I can't even contemplate how painful it must have been for her, and even though she didn't get cervical cancer, I'm sure she got plenty of wrinkles fretting over whether or not a monogamous and seemingly protected (that's right, condoms don't protect against HPV) relationship would land her a spot in the oncologist's office. And I understand, it's a touchy subject because HPV is sexually transmitted, are we giving people a blank slate to have unprotected sex, blah blah blah, but if you had the opportunity to keep your daughter from contracting one more life-threatening disease, wouldn't you want to vaccinate her while giving her the speech about safe sex before AND after? At what point in time will we as a society stop punishing people for their mistakes, get off our proverbial high horses, and start helping them?

To the men in my life who read my blogs, don't think that I'm pointing the finger at you. It's a strange thing that men manifest no symptoms when carrying HPV, and also that they have no cervix that it can attack, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles. I've never been one to get real preachy about science, but when Nobel laureates say that we should use this vaccine and the administration drags its feet, it makes you wonder whether or not Bush considers the lives of his own daughters, his wife, and his mother precious, or if he just thinks they're immune because they're supposedly living on the right side of the Bible.

If you'd like to read the article, let me know and I'll photocopy it and send it to you. I don't think it's back up in the New Yorker's online archive just yet, but there is a Q & A with Specter titled "The President and the Scientists" that is also quite interesting.

I was just sitting here, and I got tagged....

My beloved Casey tagged me to do one of these meme things again, so I'll get to that shortly. I'm home for the morning, first time in probably a week, and I got to sleep in. Daylight savings time blows, especially when it happens on your birthday and you have to drag your behind out of bed and go to church at what feels like 7am. Ridiculous. The weather has been sketchy at best - it was near 70 for most of the weekend and I actually wore sandals (my feet were so excited, they didn't know what to do) but then yesterday, as I put on my coat to walk out the door I asked my husband, "how cold is it?" and he said, "not that cold, just take your scarf."

It snowed, dear friends. I'm sorry, but it's April and I've really had enough of the winter and the sleet and the sideways snowflakes that somehow manage to get between my glasses and my eyeballs and having to wrap up my face because it's 25 degrees outside. Enough, say I!
That said, it is sunny again today, another cruel trick by mother nature designed to lure me outdoors. No siree bob, I'm going to stay right here, with my dog on my foot, in my pyjamas and when I feel motivated, I'm going to make myself eggs and tea and watch television for at least half an hour, and only then will I consider putting on clothes and leaving the house.

My show opens this Sunday, so if you're in the Boston area, come see Songs For A New World (Jason Robert Brown) at 4pm in St. Botolph Hall. It promises to be a good time!

And now, for the meme of the day:

Four jobs you have had in your life:
1 retail at Victoria's Secret (no joke, y'all)
2. music teacher
3. health insurance claims processor
4. singer

Four movies you would watch over and over:
1. when harry met sally
2. moonstruck
3. gone with the wind
4. Lola rennt

Four places you have lived:
1. Slidell, LA
2. Victoria, BC
3. Boston, MA
4. Exeter, England

Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. West Wing - only two more episodes!!
2. new addiction formed to 24
3. CSI, but not CSI Miami
4. What not to wear (guilty, I admit it)

Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Berlin
2. Aix en Provence
3. New York
4. Baton Rouge (that's for you my casey)

Four websites I visit daily:
1. gmail
2. the new york times
3. scholarships.com
4. my blog

Four of my favorite foods:
1. butter chicken and naan bread
2. sushi
3. fried shrimp po-boy
4. a really really good burger

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. at the Chimes
2. on the road with my husband
3. in London
4. anywhere that's got sunshine and a temperature above 65 today

My birthday is: April 2

We're going to party as if it were, in fact, my birthday

I don't know about you, but any of the songs that feature the line, "Go (whoever), it's your birthday. We're gonna party like it's your birthday," don't make much sense to me.
On my birthday, since I started undergrad at least, I've had rehearsals, concerts, exams, class, and sometimes even Easter, so there's really not been a level of partying that one could equivocate with the kind of partying these songs promise. And I want to know, at what point in time will I be able to party as if it were, in fact, my birthday?

I'll be 26 tomorrow and, if the movie 'Singles' is any kind of cultural measuring stick, I seem to remember a line about how you need to do all the stupid stuff you want to do before you turn 25, as that is the official age of responsibility that signifies your mid-twenties. The most stupid thing I've done is probably a tie between dying my hair cranberry red and piercing my belly button (which happened on the same day....hmm) and that took place long before 25, so I guess the only thing left to do before I turn 26 is clean my house and paint my toenails.
(Does anyone want to clean my house for me? That would be awesome!)

In other news, my first DMA recital is on Monday. I'm taking the day off to relax, warm up at my leisure, and have a coffee date with an opera singer to talk about becoming one. I still haven't decided what I want to wear for said recital, but my programs are being printed on lime green paper. I guess this means the orange sequined dress is out....


Cross your fingers I remember all of my German, and don't worry, I would never wear orange sequins before Easter.

Why spring break is nothing of the kind

I remember spring break in elementary school. It meant that I would spend the whole week going to the pool with my mom and my friends and then we would go and run around the neighborhood until we got too tired. In junior high it meant that we would watch the Princess Bride every day and make milkshakes in the blender and paint our toenails. High school spring break was a different story - when most of your friends live a few hours away and you don't have a car, it means that you get on the phone and try to figure out where you can possibly meet and how long you can stay out of your parents' house. Underage drinking is a given, as well as causing ruckus in a public place. By the time you get to graduate school, spring break takes on a different form.

I'm on spring break right now. It doesn't feel like spring break, namely because it doesn't feel like spring. On the first day of 'spring' here in Boston, it was somewhere around 25 degrees with the wind chill and even though the crocuses are starting to peek out of the flowerbed in front of the house, I'm not convinced. If I still have to wear a sweater and wool socks, it's not spring.
I'm also spending a great deal of time practicing and doing research for my papers that are due in a few weeks. Again, not feeling very much like spring break. You don't do work on spring break - you watch Days of our Lives and bake cookies and sunbathe and go see movies.

In protest, I have decided to paint my toenails and wear sandals around the house. I don't know how long this will last - I might have to put a blanket over my feet because the thermostat says it's 51 in the house - but come hell or high water, I'm going to have some sort of a spring break, even if it means that I have to go and get bronzing gel to give myself the impression that I've been in the sun. Is it possible to actually get paler as time goes by?

To everyone in a warmer climate, I am terribly terribly jealous. And by the way, we get the wedding photos back today so be on the lookout for the online photo album!!

what's your sign? (I'm an Aries)

I've been in a holding pattern for the last seven months or so, waiting for a sign that moving to Boston and taking the leap to the big city was the right thing to do. In the realm of the career, I'm one who tends to play it safe. Go to the state school with the full academic scholarship, get the safe teaching job that pays well, move to the foreign country but only when fully funded by a benevolant organization so you won't have to worry about money, major in something practical (laugh if you will but in the realm of music degrees, majoring in something like church music seems very practical and applicable when you grow up in the deep South) so you can get the good job so you can own a safe car and life in a safe part of town. Safe safe safe.

While waiting for this sign, I have been rejected by numerous summer programs, reduced to tears in front of a room full of singers by the assistant French coach from the Metropolitan Opera, emotionally and academically abused by the head of the DMA program, and generally treated like poo. Nearly two weeks ago, I actually got told by a judge that languages were not my strong suit and that my voice was 'smallish, with an average sound.' By that point in time, I was so over it, I just shrugged and let my mother and friend Kristy offer to go slash the judge's tires. [and just so you know Mr. I'm from Texas and I direct operas and probably have never sung a note in my life, I kick your ass with my German and remind you that one can't even understand half of what Joan Sutherland says on her recordings. You can stick it in your hautbois and smoke it.]

Let me state for the record that this post is not about self-pity. I went through my pity party when I didn't get into Juilliard - it involved burning the condescending letter and then going to Copeland's for steak and two Crash 'n Burns. I went through my pity party when I didn't advance at the Met Competition - it involved sitting on the sofa and watching the West Wing with a very good beer in my hand. I went through it every time I got a POSTCARD saying that I didn't get in to "insert name of program here" but I still put my headshot in the mail with my CD, neatly labeled with the best excerpts of my singing, in hopes that something would turn up.
I went to Sephora, learned how to really put on some fabulous makeup, spent the bucks on a good haircut and a kick-ass dress and shoes, brought every ounce of whoop-ass possible and got NADA.

And then, I was in the computer lab between class and a choir practice when my friend Andrew taps me on the shoulder and says, "hey, what are you doing ?" and I say, "well we've got choir in 45 minutes, I'm going to get some supper and go to choir" and he says, "okay, I already called Tom (our boss) and told him you're going to be late because you're going to do this audition for a summer program in Italy. They're doing Rigoletto and Traviata." *blink blink* "Andrew, I'm in jeans and a sweater. I have zero makeup on, I don't have my resume with me or my headshot, I look like crap on a stick, I'm not doing a last-minute audition." "I already told them you're coming, close that window and go put some lipstick on."

This is not like me. I don't do the spontaneous audition. It requires a level of sheer gumption that I just don't think I have. But I figure I have nothing really to lose except fifteen minutes so I run my fingers through my hair, dig out my lipstick and borrow some powder and grab my soprano anthology book. I shake hands with the woman in charge, I sing my Handel and she says to me, "I really love your middle voice but I'd like to hear if there's real ease in the top."
I can still hear her saying these words and I'm laughing hysterically inside because honey, you want high notes, I've got high notes for days. So I offer to sing the cadenza from Lakme and then she says, "do you know Caro Nome?" And I've played it a jillion times but never sung it so I say, "I don't have the music with me but sure." The accompanist picks a spot and I sing my thing and she says, "wonderful, thank you." I think that I will never hear from this woman again, go to Wendy's and get a baked potato and go to choir. End of story.

Until last week. I had been offered this really wonderful job singing with a choir at the Carmel Bach Festival and was just about to accept. Nothing else had come down the line so I figured taking a choir gig was a good deal, I'd make a little money and spend some time in California getting away from the Yankees with whom I work on a daily basis. Last Thursday I drag my ass out of bed, I make myself some tea and I sit down to check my email. And there's an email from the director of the program asking if I would like to come to Italy and sing Gilda in Rigoletto.
*nerd moment - For those of you who are not familiar with this opera, Gilda is Rigoletto's daughter, she gets seduced and tossed away by the Duke of Mantua and ultimately, when her father tries to avenge her honor and have the Duke killed, Gilda ends up in the bag and dies tragically. This is a big deal in the world of opera - if you're a soprano and you die, chances are, you're the leading lady.*
So after I begin breathing again, I look into the specs of the program. Dates overlap with Carmel. Shit. So this means I can't do both. At this point in time, I am faced with the realization that this is a SIGN. Not the kind of sign I was looking for, but this is definitely a sign. This is a "Okay Emily, do you want to be an opera singer or do you want to be a chorus girl?" sign. The kind that comes at the worst possible time, and asks you to look carefully at both your long-term and short-term needs and goals. I talk this over with the husband, the voice teacher, anyone who will sit still, and after about six days of flim-flamming, I decide to take the leap.

I'm taking the leap, walking away from the safe job, and I'm going to Italy for four weeks to learn Italian, study my craft, and sing possibly one of the most amazing roles in the repertoire. I'm taking the leap and committing myself to being a singer and doing what it takes in order to achieve that goal. And if I can just stop second-guessing myself and enjoy the fun of saying, "I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda," I think it will eventually drown out the voice that says, "play it safe, play it safe, play it safe."

Incidentally, while this debate was still in progress, I got a callback for Boston Lyric Opera's 2006-07 season. It's a callback, it's not a job offer yet, but it's a callback with a professional house. And even if they want to hire me to be third fairy from the left, it's still work that pays at a professional house.

And with that said, I just want to say that I'm glad we moved to Boston. I'm glad that my husband is wonderfully supportive enough to say, "go to Italy, we'll make it happen." I'm glad that we decided to take this chance that is forcing me to choose my path, rather than waiting for whatever turns up. And by the way, if I haven't told you yet, I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda.

Woohoo!

Not in a while...

Haven't done one of these meme things in a while - I was tagged by Kristy so I will oblige.

Six things that nobody knows about me. Hmm....this will be difficult. I think some people will know some of these things, but I doubt that everyone will know all of them. Let's go.

1. I had my belly button pierced in 2002. Momma found out by accident and I don't think she ever let me live it down, but she didn't tell my dad. No, I wasn't living with my parents, no, they weren't supporting me, but yes, he would have given me hell about it and dragged me to the emergency room and had one of the doctors that has known me since I was seven talk to me about the dangers of body piercing.

2. I had a lump removed from my left breast when I was eighteen. Benign, but scary.

3. I went to Berlin by myself for three days. It was lots of fun but again, a little scary. Fortunately, Germans are taught English alongside German in school so I didn't have any trouble asking for directions to the philharmonic.

4. I don't like Beethoven's music. Most musicians would disqualify me from their group of friends for saying this. I just can't help it - it does nothing for me. Ditto for Mendelssohn.

5. I'm lactose intolerant. This is something I've only recently admitted to myself and I have to say, oreos and soy don't do it for me the same way oreos and milk did. I will still splurge and eat ice cream, but it's got to be really really good ice cream to make it worth it. Ben & Jerry's Dublin Mudslide was my most recent escapade. Yum!

6. I got sent to the principal's office twice in the first grade. Once for fighting with a boy on the playground, another for hitting the same boy with my lunchbox, on the bus. What do you do when someone makes fun of your big metal Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox? You hit him with it. My metal lunchbox was replaced shortly thereafter with a plastic one that had Rainbow Brite on the cover. Parents ruin all the fun.

I tag: Dictator Princess, Drew, Stacey, Emily, Casey, and Armand.

Long time, no post

Hello all - I know it's been forever and a day since I last posted. I returned from my whirlwind visit to everyone I could possibly see in twelve hour slots about nine hours ago and I'm still exhausted and not sure what time zone I'm in.

First, update on the dad: he's doing lots better, it was ruled that he had gotten dehydrated and, as a result, his ventricles weren't pumping at full efficiency. He and mom are probably going to go to a heart clinic in Cleveland over spring break to make sure that the muscle walls have not thickened again - the problem for which he had open heart surgery twelve years ago. Mom says that the builder told her they should be able to move back into the house (albeit partially) some time in the next week. They are delivering appliances later this week and the builder will be doing the electrics. There will still be no cabinets and no flooring, but they can at least cook and bathe in the house, still sleeping in the FEMA trailer I believe....

Second, update on the personal illness: whatever strain of bronchitis I picked up last week, it's pretty evil and even though my recital hearing is tomorrow, I'm still getting this smoker's cough thing going on and I have to say, it's really getting on my nerves. Upside of this problem - I seriously doubt that the recital committee will keep me for too long, especially once they hear the death rattle in my chest.
I exaggerate - it's not that bad, it only rattles a little and I'm still medicated out the wazoo so hopefully it won't rattle when I'm singing.

Third, I wanted to say a big thanks to all of my wonderful friends who orchestrated both my arrival and departure: to Kristy, for posting fun pictures of our revelry at the Chimes, to Casey for carting my ass around, and to Drew and Stacey for the use of their guest bedroom and, as always, the hilarious conversation that made me laugh too much. Go baby Spiehler!

Gotta get going - lots to do and never enough time, of course. Have a good week y'all!

Life with father

This is my dad -------------------------------------------->

Cute, ain't he? My dad is your average, everyday, middle-class, hard-working pain in my ass. He's always been there for me, he loves to call me and tell me inappropriate jokes, and at the moment, he's in the hospital.

Last night, I got out of choir rehearsal and saw a missed call from him. Figuring that this was yet another evening where he calls to check on me (daughter in the big city and all) and then tells me a bad joke, I called him back when the subway went above ground. But he wasn't at home, with the dog (who's not really a dog, but more of a paperweight) in his lap. He was in a hospital bed because he decided to go to the house and do some cleaning. Alone. Now I'm no genius, but I wouldn't go alone to a house in a neighborhood where people are not living at night to do some cleaning. I would wait until it was daylight, when the other people in the neighborhood are there working on their houses, and I wouldn't go alone. But that's me. My dad decided that this was the perfect time for him to go. Mom was at school in Hammond, so he got in his car and drove himself over to the house. Next thing he knows, he wakes up in a little pool of blood and his head is killing him. He's a little sketchy on the details, but somehow he ended up in the ER with twenty staples in his head. By the time I talk to him, he's heading toward lucidity so he can at least tell me who's on call and what tests have been done. I call mom, she is of course FURIOUS because not only was he not supposed to go over there alone, he was probably doing something he should not have been, like moving heavy boxes and standing up too quickly. She took him home last night with his twenty staples and, I would surmise, instructions to stay the hell in his chair.

This morning, after a rather unrestful night of sleep, I awoke to a voice message on my phone from my mom. She's on her way to Natchitoches to go fetch the brother as his spring break starts today and he needs to be out of the dorm by 4pm, and oh by the way, Pop is back at the hospital. No, he's not at work, he's back in the ER. He passed out again while walking the dog around 5am. So I call him and tell him that this is wholly unacceptable, couldn't he have waited a week to pull this kind of stunt because I'm going to be home in five days for crying out loud.
He chuckles, tells me that he's propped up reading the paper and waiting for the cardiologist to come check on him.

I love my father. We are cut from the same cloth in more ways than I think most people can fully describe or appreciate without seeing us together. Say a little prayer for the old man; that he might manage to not do anything too self-destructive before I get down there to beat him senseless.

a new day, a new blog

As you know, I am a semi-malcontent DMA student at the New England Conservatory. NEC is the self-proclaimed oldest music school in the US, and as of yet, no one has challenged that claim. They have a long history of turning out amazing musicians, and continue to have one of the more competitive string programs in the country. And they have been coasting on this reputation and collecting tens of thousands of dollars from unsuspecting aspiring musicians year after year. They flaunt their facilities - NEC's Jordan Hall is famous as a professional concert venue. Pity they rent it out to generate revenue, making it nearly impossible for any of their students to use it. They talk about their world class faculty. Pity that some of them are so old they FALL ASLEEP in lessons. Pity that most of their alumni are so disenchanted from their alma mater that they don't even come back for benefit concerts thrown in their honor.

So anyway, all of this is to say that some of the malcontent students have decided to band together and express ourselves in the most timely forum - that of the blog world. You'll notice a new hyperlink to the right entitled 'Blogging for a better NEC.' It is my hope that we can get students involved in this, instead of just having our random gatherings at Pizzeria UNO and bitching about the tragic state of affairs that is our school over a few beers. While it makes us feel a little better, it doesn't change anything.

I'm seriously contemplating sending the administration a link. Does anyone think they would bother to read?

what month is it?

If I'm not mistaken, we had the warmest January on record for the city of Boston. And that was countered by an incredible nor'easter that kept most Bostonians inside for the whole day.

I was not one of those people. Trinity felt that church should still go on as normal in spite of the blizzard-force winds and the eight inches of snow already on the ground by 7am. My sweet husband and I got up at 6:45 to assess the precipitation situation and do a little bit of pre-emptive plowing on the driveway. It took us half an hour to get to church (normally takes 10 minutes) but the Civic did very well in the snow. I looked out the front door of Trinity between services and the snow was blowing so hard I couldn't see the Boston Public Library. Yipes!

My father says, "oh, but snow is so pretty!"

I think snow is beautiful. When you're not the one shoveling it.

Won't have tons of time to blog, have an audition this weekend. Cross fingers and think French thoughts in my direction this Friday!

I heart Wednesdays

I don't have class until 2pm on Wednesdays. For one beautiful day a week, I can sleep past 7:45am (and I don't want to get any beef from people who get up at 5am - I have rehearsals till 1opm regularly and sleeping past 8 is a treat for me) and eat breakfast in my jammies instead of on the train.

I'll catch the train around 11:30am, leisurely eat my lunch at school and do some work before my coaching at 2:30pm, and then gear up for the rest of the evening. I know that I've been waxing lyrical about the commuter train, so here's another vignette:

There is a woman who stands in the same line that I do every time I take the 9am train. She doesn't wear a hat, which I think is kind of silly considering how cold it is outside, she has a very festive striped scarf, and she walks fast like I do. When we get to Back Bay station, she sprints up the stairs to be first in line at Dunkin Donuts. She takes the 6:25pm train home on Mondays like I do, when I don't have night rehearsals, and we get off at the same stop and walk to the grocery store parking lot where our husbands are waiting with the car. There's something comforting about this train routine. It's relatively quiet on the train, usually not crowded, people are reading their Boston Globe or Metro if it's been published that day, sucking down their coffee and waiting to go to Dunkins.

Dunkin Donuts is a part of the culture here in a way that might mirror CC's Coffee House in the New Orleans area. My dear friend Kristy is so addicted to her particularly tweaked Mochasippi that she put it on her latest quiz as an identification question, and I confess that when I lived at home, I spent most of my spare time at the CC's on Gause, shooting the bull with whomever.
Coffee house culture and public transportation. What's not to like?
I don't care for Dunkin Donuts coffee myself. I'm trying to give it a chance, especially because it's closer to the school than Starbucks and infinitely less expensive. They claim to make lattes now, but I'm suspicious of a donut place that claims to make anything other than donuts and coffee. Somehow wrong and slightly pretentious.

Going to eat breakfast with the dog, who has assumed his usual position in the middle of the floor.

doin' the Vatican Rag

As a person who has spent most of her young life working in churches, one might say that I have a jaundiced but well-rounded view of how things are done. I've talked down hysterical brides who are convinced that if they ask second cousin Jeanette to sing she'll totally screw it up or try to steal the glory for herself. I've music directed children's musicals (which is really more like herding cats than music directing) and been a youth choir tour chaperone. In junior high, I worked in the church nursery every Sunday, both services. I've done church camp as a counselor, sunday school as an assistant and a teacher, choir practice as a singer, accompanist, librarian and conductor. I've had sit-downs with clergy about planning the liturgical season and the importance (or unimportance) of the lectionary cycle, and even sat in on budget meetings.

Church is like champagne brunch. There's something for everyone, lots of sweet things, usually a relatively friendly atmosphere, but no one likes to stay afterwards to pay the bill.

I enjoy church on many levels. I'm a church musician so I try to find a church that meets my needs as a musician; I like working with children so I try to make myself useful to childrens' ministries; I'm OCD so I put in a little extra time and help the choir librarian sort music after holiday events that involve lots and lots of music and virtually zero turn-around time.
I enjoy the fellowship of a community so I try to get involved in the congregation, even if I'm an employee because hey, we're all in this together.

I understand my function in a congregation as a parishioner.
I understand my function in a choir as a paid singer.
I consider myself very lucky when these two coincide.

Very few things make me more infuriated than higher-ups on the ladder attempting to exploit my good nature and playing it off to 'Christian fellowship.' Yes, I understand that the church is having budgetary problems. Yes, I am willing to do more than is expected of me to ease things along in this time of transition. Yes, I am willing to hold off for a month looking at other job prospects so that you can see whether or not you have room in your budget to keep me on staff.
And yes, if I leave, I am willing to help you find a replacement for me. But NO, I AM NOT WILLING to sit idly by and not look for another job while you decide whether or not you want to reconfigure your program to suit your vision that you have not discussed with the rest of the staff, or the clergy, or the vestry, because you're trying to not alienate your entire staff of professional singers going into the St. John Passion. And I will NOT be a party to you trying to make nice with everyone because you don't want them all to look for other jobs before the second-biggest liturgical season of the year. And I will really REALLY not tolerate you conveniently moving up our season dates by six weeks because you can't figure out how to manage your money.
My landlord does not care how much I do or do not get paid. And I am sympathetic to church budgetary problems, I really am. But when you try to change the terms of my contract when three weeks previous you told me it was perfectly secure, I get angry. And then, when you tell me that you think I will understand because I'm such a good colleague and I have a good understanding of church fellowship, that's pretty much when I'm done.
Done. As in seeing red, ready to froth at the mouth, DONE.

End of soapbox speech.

shiksa in the city

I spent five days in NYC staying at a snazzy hotel on West 57th St. and singing at Carnegie Hall. This is a post that will take much more time, so I will simply say hello, it's nice to be back at my house, I missed my husband, my dog, and my kitchen, and I will oblige Stacey and do one more meme for this week:

My good quirks:
I'm a hard worker, almost to a fault.
I am very well organized, and my bathroom is always clean.
I'm fiercely protective of the ones I love.
My pralines and pies are only rivaled by my mother's - in all other matters of dessert, I defer to Stacey.
I can drive stick shift.

My bad quirks:
I don't know when to quit.
I am horribly self-deprecating.
I don't know how to say no to more work.
I have a sharp tongue.

My food quirks:
I will only eat Hellmann's mayonaise. Everything else is gross and smells funny to me.
I will only drink sweet tea that comes from tea bags and sugar. Anything that comes from powder is NOT tea and I don't care if the label says 'tea,' it's a big fat lie.
I will not eat fried chicken from anywhere except Popeye's or the cafeteria at Southern Miss.
I really do love sweet and salty together - chocolate covered pretzels are the best!
The only canned veggies that I will eat are wax beans and olives (though I prefer olives that aren't canned). Canned fruit is fine, but canned asparagus looks like slime.
I will not drink fruit juice that's not real fruit juice, and I think instant coffee is a crime against nature.
I will not eat 'fresh frozen' seafood. This to me seems wrong, and also impossible.

My sleep quirks:
I have to sleep with my back to the door. As a teenager, I developed several furniture configurations to facilitate this quirk, much to my roommates' dismay.
I also still sleep with pilly, the little white pillow that has been re-pillowcased at least twice in my lifetime. I have had pilly since I was three. And anyone who laughs is going to meet the business end of my Honda.
I have been known to sleepwalk and give speeches in my sleep. My dad said I gave a speech about world peace when we were on vacation in California. And something about dolphins.

Quirky people I tag (who haven't already been tagged):
Casey
Emily

Tag, I'm it!

Drew hit me up to do this little meme, so I will humbly oblige...

Four Jobs I've Had in My Life
piano teacher
grocery cashier
Victoria's Secret retail slave
health insurance processor

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over, and Have
When Harry Met Sally
Howard's End
Steel Magnolias
Moonstruck

Four Places I Have Lived
Slidell, Louisiana
Portland, Oregon
Victoria, B.C.
Boston, Massachusetts

Four TV Shows I Love To Watch
West Wing
CSI
Project Runway (I feel my smartness slipping away)
Monarch of the Glen - oh to have BBC Scotland.....

Four Places I Have Been On Vacation
Aix en Provence
New York City
Berlin
San Francisco

Four Websites I Visit Daily
Les Arts Florissants
gmail.com
nytimes.com
nola.com

Four Favorite Foods
cheese of all sorts
Popeye's fried chicken
sushi (nigiri, sashimi, whatever)
po-boys from Check-in Check-out

Four Places I Would Rather Be Right Now
in New Orleans with family
at the Chimes with Casey
London
in my house with Sam & Frank

Four People Whom I Tag Next
eMc
Casey
Kristy, on the off chance she's reading today
Armand

train travel: the civilized route

I love the train. Everyone is quiet, reading their books, listening to their iPods, eating their breakfast like I am. I claim the little seat that folds down by the staircase to the upper car. It's sort of tucked away so unless people were looking for you, they wouldn't hardly notice you were there. The conductors on the train are an interesting mix of Bostonians and people from Western Massachusetts, Worcester, Framingham, Marlborough. I wish I could spend a whole day's route with them and try to transcribe the pronunciations of each stop into phonetics. It's an exercise in Northeastern dialect, I tell you.

I eat my tupperware of oatmeal, drink my tea, read my New Yorker. It only takes twelve minutes to get into the city on the train. The subway takes about 40, and it's loud. I never realize how loud it is until I don't take it. Parents not minding their kids, people talking so loudly as if trying to leak information to the Washington Post from afar, at least four seats out of commission because of the leaking windows and the rainstorm that came in sideways.
Even at 9:30pm, when I have been singing for two hours, teaching German pronunciation to a large room of people who neither read nor speak German, and all I want to do is sit quietly, I cannot get a seat on the subway. So I perch on the stairs, leaning against the partition, one arm crooked around the pole, trying to remember to switch sides when we get to Kenmore because the doors open on the other side at Kenmore. And it dawns on me that there is a reason I love the commuter train. I have my own little seat, the loudest part of the experience is the clanging of the train's bell (that sounds like an overexuberant cow), and I can sit in my little corner and eat my oatmeal and drink my tea and watch the city go by.

Next week, I'm taking the train to NYC. Four hours of quiet time and space in which a person can work on their species counterpoint homework, read an 18th century treatise on keyboard playing, finish a good book and start another, knit, do crossword puzzles, and, as Depeche Mode reminded us to do back those so many days ago, enjoy the silence.
That said, I'm going to spend the rest of my afternoon on the sofa with my dog and my book. Hope everyone else's day is as peaceful as mine.

why I love college football

I love college football. You can go to the games for relatively cheap, sit with the band, heckle the cheerleaders, and sneak in the beer of your choice. The players are still lean and hungry, trying to get noticed, trying to keep their scholarships. The games are not televised as much, so less commercial breaks, which means that I don't have to devote an entire evening to watching a bunch of yahoos run around fighting over the same two yards for half an hour of my life that actually only took three minutes on the clock.

Which brings me to the game I'm watching now. Seahawks vs. Redskins.
I live with two men. My husband is from Washington D.C. and our housemate is from Seattle, making it impossible for me to change the channel for more than three minutes. And every time the Redskins score, my husband dances around the house, singing the fight song.

*sidebar* my husband knows more fight songs than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. When we drove through Princeton, he stopped at the corner and sang the Princeton fight song.

So here we are, in the fourth quarter, the clock stopped at 11:51, 50, 49, 48...and I will be held hostage for at least the next eleven and a half minutes of football time, probably another thirty minutes in real time, and all I can think is, "why did I ever leave a university that had a football team that played down the street at the stadium?"

sigh