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?