In a land called Hanna-lee

Mary Travers is dead. I'm listening to old recordings of Peter, Paul and Mary and it just makes me well up inside. We had this old PBS special of their taped on a Beta tape - you remember Beta, don't you? Before VHS was everywhere? - and I played that tape over and over again, learning every word to Puff the Magic Dragon and In Right Field, and I swear that I practiced my whistling (much to the consternation of my parents) along with Peter and Paul. Summers in college, driving somewhere listening to Lemon Tree. When John Denver died, and everyone was playing "Leaving on a Jet Plane," it just twisted up my insides and made me hurt. Those beautifully simple voices that reach out to us and put their hands on our hearts. As singers, we should aspire to such honesty and artistry.

Keep singing, Mary. The seraphim will take a break for you.

Miss Hannigan

"Little girls, little girls, everywhere I go I can see them...."

I'm doing my best, y'all. I have hormonal drama, I go to the gym. I have singer drama, I post my rant, and I go to the gym. I try not to blame too many other people for my own problems, I try to ask for help when I need it, I try to help others out when I can. And I go to the gym.

But may the good Lord give me strength, I nearly ran over whole crowds of tweeny-boppers who were clogging the sidewalk, listening to their iPods and texting and walking in huge groups as to completely block the whole sidewalk and the grassy area between the sidewalk and the street, so I practically had to leap out into traffic to avoid running into these kids, and they are so clueless SO ABSOLUTELY CLUELESS that they look at me like I'm an axe murderer when I'm about to run into them and they finally look up from their Sidekick.

I like kids. I babysit for my friends' kids. I coo and google at babies and toddlers. I have changed diapers, I have cleaned up vomit, I have been a camp counselor and a teacher and a music director for high school kids. So why do I feel more like Miss Hannigan than Grace Farrell when I see these sullen children with their bellies hanging out and their dangling headphones blocking my path? I'm just trying to get my run on. I know they have their own universe of pre-teen drama, I remember that and, unfortunately, there are pictures to remind me if I get too righteous.

Didn't your momma tell you to be courteous on the street? If she didn't, I will happily hook her up with Miss Jean and they can have a prayer meeting about that.

Air raid

Have you seen "Dazed and Confused?" It's one of those quintessential movies about the tortures of high school. A veritable 'who's who' of movies with Matthew Mcconaughey, Ben Affleck, Tony Rapp (of RENT fame), Milla Jovovich, and that crazy Mississippi girl, Parker Posey.

No one does crazy like Parker Posey. She relishes the nutty in a way that makes most people cringe. "House of Yes" was pretty bonkers, but also pretty amazing. She was quirky and weird in "You've Got Mail" as Tom Hanks' bizarre book-publishing girlfriend. But where I think she really excels is as the power-hungry upperclass(wo)man in "Dazed and Confused." Every time she yells, "AIR RAID!" the freshmen have to drop to the ground. She's at this kegger out in the woods and sees a freshman girl cozying up to an upperclass boy, saunters over and demands that the girl hit the deck. When the girl doesn't, she promises, with this fantastic smile on her face, that this girl will regret having defied her. And you know she means it, and you kind of want to be there when it happens.

This is how I feel about audition season. Somewhere, there is a nutty person with a power complex who says, "if we require two letters of recommendation, that's too easy. Let's require one letter, but two copies. We will not indicate this. They have to mail one copy in, the other one comes with them to the live audition TWO MONTHS LATER and if they don't have everything on the list, we don't let them in the door. Five arias is too simple - let's attach specific date restrictions so they have to be sure that their arias fall within specific 50-year ranges. OH, and let's have them learn a completely new piece that's written within their lifetime so they can worry whether or not the pianist can play it."

It's like hazing. It's like bid night at the University of I Want To Please Be A Singer, and there are all these seniors holding fire hoses and pouring warm Southpaw on you on the front lawn and telling you to like it. They're making you wrestle in the mud with other singers who are actually nice people, and none of you would act this way if you were on the street or in a civilized environment. They herd you into small spaces and make you wait like the bulls on my cousin's Angus farm, waiting to go into an even smaller space so you can do what you're trained to do. And maybe, just maybe, you live to go into the pasture another day and you don't end up as someone's dinner.

I would feel better if Parker Posey were at my auditions. Just one of them. At least then I would have some levity about the situation. Instead, there are very serious-looking strangers who write really nice blogs and I want to like them and I want them to like me and moreover, to hire me. But I'm so nervous about whether or not my Spanx are hiding everything and if they noticed that I'm really a whole FOOT taller than the soubrette who just left the room.

And if Parker Posey doused me with spiked punch and demanded that I hit the deck, I would so do it. Gladly. Because there would be levity. Today, there is no levity. Today I have all these forms covering my dining room table. I have pissy people calling my phone and demanding that I send them the supplemental materials and I tell them that my photos are arriving tomorrow and that my materials will be in the mail on Wednesday, even though the deadline is more than three weeks from now.

I'm trying to keep my grip. I will not be hazed like a freshman on bid night. I will not run screaming from frat row. Nosir. Because I've got my big girl shoes on and I'm here to kick some ass and take some names. Get out of my way, quit creating your own drama, and put down the jello shots because I am NOT doing any more of those just to show you I can. I am here to sing. I am not a trick pony. Deal with yourself.

Milestones

Yesterday: my first nine-mile training run. I'm still having this debate with myself about the new shoes and I suspect I will end up going back to Adidas and keeping the Nike shoes for my shorter runs. Once I'm really warmed up, my feet feel fine and my legs feel fine, but those first three miles are just brutal and I don't feel like they should be.

Yesterday: the blinds went up in the living room and bedroom, allowing beautiful sunlight into those rooms for the first time since we moved in last June. Sammy is lounging in one such column of sunlight even as I type this. Shades went up over the windows in the basement to cover up the fact that the lights are on 24/7. If anyone knows how to rewire a smoke detector so it's NOT linked to a light switch that operates actual lights, I would be most appreciative.

Yesterday: cleaned out medicine cabinet, balanced checkbook, swiffed and vacuumed everywhere the dog could shed, because today is Bill and Don's wedding and I am not planning on doing any kind of cleaning today, no sir.

Today we come full circle on weddings at Trinity. Bill was the priest who presided over our wedding. Richard was the organist. And as of today, I will have sung at both of their weddings. There are days when it's a beautiful thing to be a part of a church family, and today is really one of them. I've gotta get ready!

Thursday morning rant - beware

I've been a crab for at least two days now. My left calf and knee are acting funny, which does not help my desire to get out of bed and do my nine-mile long run this week. My running club has decided that their general pace will be FAST with no warmup and that they will not bother to check on their underaged members who are running with us. My back hurts, I'm not sure if I'm in true adult love with my new shoes or not, and all I want to do is go outside and run until the crazy goes away. It's a real problem when the crazy-chaser is inhibited by the body. Urk.

Second interview at the coffee shop. Think it went well, but who's to know. My mother says she'll boycott if they don't hire me. They obviously don't know with whom they are dealing, because Miss Jean makes no idle threats.

Husby says that admitting I don't have any immediate gigs after the end of January and applying for a job at a coffee shop is NOT the same as admitting defeat. Today is one of those days when I'm really having trouble believing him.

Going to put on dirty clothes, clean the blinds in the basement for installation in the living room, and go outside and let the weeds in the front yard know who's boss.

Gratitude, because I really need it

1. My husband has a good job working for a good guy, finally!

2. The fact that I can bitch about not being able to go running today means I'm finally serious about my training, and that's a big deal for me.

3. Apple turnovers from that bakery next to the coffee shop.....yum!

4. The best dog ever, who is always waiting for me when I come home, sits on my foot, and looks lovingly at me while I read silly vampire books.

5. Raspberries on sale.

Pride cometh before a job

I've been looking for a job. I already have a church job, a good one, that I like and that pays pretty darn well. I have the singing thing, that pays well when I'm doing it. I teach now and then, when parents can wrangle their schedule with their child's schedule. This is not that kind of job.

I just bought health insurance from Harvard Pilgrim. I think it's an okay policy. It's not hideously expensive, but that also means I really should try to keep my non-life-threatening illnesses to a minimum. It's more expensive than my car insurance, and I don't get any discounts for training for a half marathon or not smoking or eschewing skydiving or anything else that would indicate I'm a good 'driver' of my personage.

What do these two things have in common? The job I'm applying for. Scratch that - I've sent my resume and cover letter and the person doing the hiring wants to meet me tomorrow.

I'm applying for a job at.....*deep breath*.....Starbucks.

Twelve years of post-secondary education. Two years at a competitive math/science/arts prep school. Four degrees. Four languages. International opera debut. Would you like whip?

I've gone round and round on this one. Here's the "pro" column:

1. access to lower-cost health insurance

2. a job that might actually have enough flexibility to accommodate my gigs

3. proximity to husband's work = transportation possible

4. more regularity in my daily schedule = better practice ethic

5. a job that pays money for showing up and doing my job

And here's the "con" column:

1. I am too smart for this job.

2. I am naturally polite and engaging to strangers, but less so when they are rude to me.

3. I am too smart for this job.

4. Will I be bored asking people what they want to drink and potentially making it for them?

5. I am too smart for this job.

***sigh***

All of the reasons in the "con" column smack of pride. I am proud of what I have accomplished. But my mortgage company does not care. My husband has a good job, but I want to contribute more than I am contributing now. I do not want us to fret between gigs. I want us to be able to contribute to our savings and our retirement on a regular basis. I want good things for us and for the dog. I would like us to go on vacation together. I want Sam to get a new dog bed from LL Bean for Christmas. The nice one.

Is it hard to swallow that I have a doctorate in music and no job? Yes.

Is it harder to swallow that I have a doctorate in music and no job because I won't take a job as a barista? Yes.

I'm going to meet the manager tomorrow. If he likes me, and thinks I will be a good fit for the job, you can find me behind the counter in the green apron and the comfortable shoes. Because if there's one thing I'm good at - and I mean really really good at - it's following directions in linear processes. You want that latte? I will for sure make it for you. I will practice and it will be the best damned latte ever.

I can do this. (oh please God, give me the strength to do this)

PSA from yours truly

Dear jackass driver,

I'm one of you. I drive stick shift. I live in the city and need to get places quickly. I curse at stupid pedestrians who cross against the green light and jaywalk across six lanes of downtown traffic. But I'd really like to know who you are texting at 6:45am at the intersection as you roll toward the middle of the road instead of stopping at the STOP sign and nearly crush me with your Corolla. Are you perhaps related to the other driver who nearly ran me over two blocks later, also texting at the intersection and relaxing those muscles that support your ankle and foot on the brake pedal?

So here's my PSA:

Don't text and drive. Nothing is that important. You endanger yourself, the people in your vehicle, and the people on the street who are running, walking, strolling with their kids, on their way to the train.

And to my runners out there - don't wear headphones and run along the highway. You want to wear your headphones to get your pace going, I get that. Take it to the track where you'll be safe.

Shiksa out.

Mirella Freni

So I'm singing a concert next month. I have to learn 'Chi il bel sogno' from La Rondine. Now I'm not a Puccini singer, so I turn to youtube and the best that it has to offer, namely Mirella Freni.

Usually, the videos suggested to the side are other singers doing the same aria, or the same singer doing other things.

But how how how does one jump from Mirella Freni singing 'Chi il bel sogno' to Wreckx-n-Effect singing 'Rump shaker,' I ask you? HOW?

Shiksa on the riviera, part 3

This is the part that sucks about being away. I'm missing two of my dear friends' wedding right now. Husby is at the church getting ready for pictures because they have asked him to be an usher. I was meant to sing, but then this France thing happened. Not that I'm not grateful to be in France, but on a night like this, I just want to be home with the ones I love.

The day started off wrong, really. The masterclass ran really late, I didn't get home till late, I woke up late and therefore did not go for a run in the obscene heat, and I've been crabby since. Lunch with SJ was lovely, really and truly, and then I had a quick chat with my husby, wherein we discussed the fact that my letter from Chicago STILL had not arrived and I was really starting to fret. Practiced with Chris the pianist, did a p90x workout with Marcus, ate supper and decided to go for a swim. Which was a lovely idea. In principle.

Somewhere between the salmon pasta and the creme anglaise on the dessert, my stomach went into full-scale revolt. I was almost sprinting back to the hotel, and sprinting in a swimsuit and flip-flops is NOT pretty. And then I read my email. The letter came.

I'm supposed to be flattered that I was under consideration until the very end. I'm supposed to be able to look at this with levity and perspective. But tonight, I have no perspective. I'm tired, my stomach is empty and angry, and all I want to do is lay down and cry.

Tomorrow will be different. I'll get up early (intestinal misery is a good reason to go to bed early) and take pictures of the sunrise, I'll have coffee in a lovely little seaside cafe, and I'll have an easy day leading into the competition. I'll sing Lakme in a killer dress. I'll look fabulous and sing something I love to sing. And then I'll be glad I get to do what I do. Just not tonight.

Pictures from the masterclass at the Kerylos Greek Villa with my maria callas eyeliner and my Norma hairdo:

Shiksa on the riviera, part 2

Morning run, glorious sunrise again, and a slightly different route - up the hill instead of down the driveways. And what did I find? A beautiful little cemetery atop the hill (that nasty steep hill...grrr). Might make a long walk part of the plan for tomorrow so I can take photos properly.

Here's one from the tourism website:

More later - must practice!

Shiksa on the riviera

Went to bed at 1030 after having been awake for 33 hours. Slept for a glorious eight hours and awoke in time for my morning run. And when I pulled back the curtain, this is what I saw out my window. (blogger is being stupid so these photos are in reverse order)

The sun rises so quickly - in the time it took me to get dressed and put on my running shoes, the sky had gone from dark red to purple and still lighter. This is why people get up early.

So I went downstairs to wait for Marcus (who chickened out on me). While I was there, this guy comes up to the hotel, drops a huge sack by the front desk, and leaves. Curious, right? I go and peek in - it's a huge sack of freshly baked baguettes for the day. They're still warm and I can smell that wonderful freshness that tells me they were made while I was still sleeping.

The run was pretty good, but the humidity is brutal, even at 630am. I huffed and puffed my way through the run, out and back in 1:01 with more walking breaks than I would have liked, but I think a full day of travel and exhaustion has a lot to do with it.

French gratitude

1. sunrise on the riviera

2. centuries of pedestrians who made sure we have places to walk and run

3. fresh croissants

4. French coffee - oh my Lord

5. what looks to be a beautiful day

6. the slow return of my French skills

sprinklers

thank God for sprinklers

the humidity was already crazy at 630 this morning when i went out to do my long run

seven miles

in my warmup i met an old pro, trotting down metropolitan

he says to me, 'how long are you going?' 'seven miles' 'how far along are you?' 'just started'

'good for you!' he says

good for me. oy. if only i had known.

i have this formula to achieve a good run. i lay out my clothes the night before. i wear my good socks. i lace my shoelaces with the reef knot so they don't come undone. i don't start out too hard or too fast. i hum my pace song. i smile on the downhills (that's for my Vegan girl who's out running a half marathon as i type this).

but mostly, i tell myself that i just have to finish.

this run was almost as bad as the six miles i did two weeks ago. slow and hard and too hot outside. will i have to get up at 5 just to avoid the humidity?

feel disgusting. getting in the shower. but at least i finished.

Knitting, my other random hobby

Go to this link. Go NOW.

I need these patterns in my life. NEED NEED NEED.

And after all, don't you want a chance at receiving a hand-knitted monster for Christmas?

At your own pace

Just got home from my four mile run with the running club. Funny thing about peer pressure - sometimes it's what causes you to run too fast and injure yourself. Sometimes it's what pushes you to run just a little bit faster than you normally would, and helps you get to a new place.

I really feel like I've turned a corner in my running. I'm finally able to go more than five miles, and I'm able to judge my own pace by the feeling in my legs and my feet, I can take my walking breaks and make them stretching breaks at the same time, and I'm home and I don't feel dead. Starting to run outdoors was absolutely the right thing to do and I'm so glad. The discovery of my pace song was also a happy and completely serendipitous occasion, so I'm just going to share the happiest part that runs through my head every time I start to feel like I can't do this.

When everything feels all over

Everybody seems unkind

I'll give you a four leaf clover

Take all worry out of your mind

Let my love open the door

Let my love open the door

Let my love open the door to your heart!

I had to break off and leave the group - they were doing eight miles tonight and since I did six yesterday, eight today would have been stupid - and as I was waving goodbye to them, I realized that I don't feel alone even when I am alone. I'm in Boston, THE marathon city, so every sidewalk is filled with runners and sprinters and joggers and walkers and bikers. We're all sweaty, we're all huffing and puffing, we're all bitching about the humidity and giving thanks to the gods for the breeze off the Charles River, we're all in this together. And that's a very comforting notion.

That said, I'm going to stretch before the ick in my hamstrings sets in and reminds me that blogging after running, while a useful winding-down tool, should NOT come before stretching!

Under pressure

I had laryngitis all last week. For the first time ever. And then I had an allergy attack in the Norman Rockwell Museum, which has precipitated some very serious gook in my nose and throat. Nothing colorful, just....plentiful. Yuck.

I'm supposed to be in Vermont right now. I'm supposed to be in Middlebury, immersing myself in my German so I can audition for these agents on Thursday. And yet, where am I? I'm still in Boston. I'm actually in my running clothes because I decided to go do a little four-miler with the running club this evening. They are doing eight miles, but since I did six yesterday, I'm going to lay out halfway through.

When people ask me about sources of pressure (school, job, etc) nothing seems to measure up to the amount of pressure I put on myself. Pressure to make my workouts, meet my goals, get well on time, learn my music right away, get the laundry done before I'm out of running socks, all of those things. It's always been this way - I set goals and, if I don't meet them, I'm so much harder on myself than necessary. I had laryngitis. I didn't go to a Faith No More concert and scream my lungs out. I didn't blow out my vocalis by yelling at A-Rod at a Sox/Yankees game. It just happened. Poof. I did everything in my power to get better quickly. I didn't talk or whisper. I drank lots of fluids. No caffeine (aaaaarrrrrgh) or alcohol. Lots of sleep. Throat-soothing tea. But I'm scared that if I drive up to Vermont tomorrow, I'll have to sing. Just because I'm there. I will have to sing because I'm me and I will be there and exercising restraint in the face of an opportunity has never been my style.

So why am I still sitting in Boston in my running clothes?

Because I have crud. I have crud in my throat and my voice is mostly there but it's not back in shape, nowhere near ready to get up and sing Lakme or Zerbinetta for those people. And I don't want to make a bad first impression (you only get one chance to make a first impression...blahblahblah) but if I don't go, is it because I'm scared I'll suck or because I'm not ready. And is that letting myself off the hook. And would letting myself off the hook be such a bad thing for once.

Is bowing out giving up or being sensible? Ask me after my run. Maybe I'll know by then.

Y'all gonna make me lose my mind (up in here, up in here)

I don't know why DMX is my personal soundtrack for this morning, but here I am, humming this ridiculous song as I'm stretching.

I'm one of those people now. Those people you see out on the sidewalk when you're half-awake, clutching your coffee as you trudge from the kitchen to the living room. Those people who go to bed early so they can get up early to do their long run before the sun is all the way up. I found myself saying to my friends last night, "No, I'm gonna pass on the sangria, I have to get up early for my long run." My friend Laura says to me, "Um..are you training for something?" "Yes, the Boston Half." "And why are you doing that, exactly?" "Ask me tomorrow."

If I didn't do my long run, I would feel like shit. I would feel guilty and I would be cranky all day that I didn't go. At what point in time did running become a major indicator in my mental health? I was having this conversation with my weekly running phone buddy, the VeganDiva of NYC. We usually talk on Mondays after my long run - catching up about our runs this week and her pursuit of the half-Ironman and singing and whatnot. We are those bat-shit-crazy people. We have conversations about sports bras and Bodyglide and shoes and pacing and running plans. I done lost my mind. It's time to shower.

Slow coloraturas and the sound of silence

I ran six miles yesterday. I use the term "running" to generally describe the jogging/ walking/ running that occupies a significant portion of my day in preparation for the Boston Half Marathon. Yesterday was my first six-mile run. Just like two weeks ago was my first five-mile run. I decided that it would be a smart move to have my husband drop me off at the track, which is approximately three miles from our home, so I could do three easy miles on the track and then do some road running for the last three. We live near the Blue Hills so it's pretty hilly, but it's still quasi-residential so there are sidewalks. The weather channel predicted rain by about 7pm so I figured that would be great - rain coming down about halfway through my run would keep me cool and probably lower the temperature outside, a singular bonus of the New England summer rains.

It didn't rain. There were dark clouds and wind but not a DROP of rain.

The first three miles were okay. I stopped, I stretched, I wondered why exactly my shins were giving me trouble when they have NEVER ever given me trouble before, and then I found the perfect trotting pace song. Who knew that Pete Townshend's "Let My Love Open The Door" would be the perfect song to jog to? (sidebar: one of my favorite performances of this song is from "Dan in Real Life," with Steve Carell - a rare moment where he's so earnest I want to kiss his cheek) It got me through the third mile with flying colors and I felt ready to hit the road.

I learned a lot yesterday. I learned why runners have those little belts with plastic water bottles around their waists instead of carrying an enormous aluminum bottle. I learned why Hal Higdon tells people it's about finishing the distance and not a thing about speed. And I learned why they cover the Boston Marathoners with blankets when they cross the finish line. I was sweaty, achy, HUNGRY, and I felt like I'd been battered with a blunt object the whole way home. But I finished, and with stretching and walking breaks (as well as the telling myself I was insane for doing this), I still made it home in 1:20, averaging a 13-minute mile.

So for that 1:20, I didn't talk to anybody. Which also means I didn't seem to notice what was taking place in my throat. I sang two services yesterday and felt fine. I mean just fine. Somewhere in the afternoon, I got a little husky. This morning, I tried to call the dog and nothing came out. That's right kids, my voice (speaking, singing and otherwise) has gone on vacation. I was waiting for some kind of illness to take over - once my classes were done and my summer program was done I just knew my body was holding out on me. But I didn't expect this. I guess this is some weird way of the universe telling me it's time to hold my tongue.

I'll take the hint for today, but as of tomorrow, I'm calling the doctor.

Here in my car

We went to Tanglewood this weekend. Despite the gross weather on the front end, it turns out to be lovely. I saw some friends from last summer and tried hard to let myself off the hook for not working out yesterday. Technically, Friday was my "free day" and Saturday was supposed to be some kind of cross-training for 30 minutes. Whoops. Saturday ended up being "sit in a masterclass with Mark Morris and eat honey-lavender ice cream day." Being in the car brings up all of the aches and pains that normally get stretched out when I go to the gym. That pinch in the bottom of my lower back, the knots of ick that find their way into my shoulders and neck. But today's four miles was good, if not easy. Much better than the 3.5 mile disaster of last Tuesday. I'm told that the group is running close to 6 miles this Tuesday. I confess that I'm frightened to even put myself in that situation, but if I can stick to my interval training, I think I'll be fine. You know how peer pressure works. You're with a group whose pace is faster than yours and you don't want to be the caboose. I am the caboose. I have to embrace my caboose (you in the back - get your mind out of the gutter. you're not getting anywhere near my caboose so don't even think it!). I'm sure someone smart would say that those who don't run fast run long.

Dinner with friends tonight, a lazy afternoon is ahead of me. Four miles down, maybe learning a new aria and a glass of iced tea...

Band on the run

Yesterday was rough. At least one day out of the month, I want to eat everything in sight and feel like a ton of bricks has settled into my ass. Everything looks appetizing. Those weird pistachio snacks sold next to the cashier in the liquor store. Rhubarb. Waffles. Any of the above, but with peanut butter. So I did what I always do when I'm in a pms-induced haze: I tried to go shopping. My husband says that this happens, like clockwork, every month. He could set a watch by it. I'm never successful, and the combination of fluorescent lighting and short running shorts only makes me feel more bovine in my personage. But luckily, yesterday was free pastry day at Starbucks. So before I went back to the school to teach the little kiddies, I treated myself to an Americano with steamed soy milk on top and a blueberry scone. As I'm reading the little pastry sleeve, I notice that Starbucks has decided to join the revolution and stop using artificial whatnots in their food. No more high fructose corn death, preservatives, etc. No wonder this blueberry scone tastes so SO good. Read through some music, had a lovely long conversation with the Divine Dr. L about her upcoming visit to Boston, taught the kiddies and hung out watching various recordings of the Lucia sextet on youtube.

*sidebar for fashion: if you have some time and inclination, go look up the Lucia sextet with Pav and Renee, circa 1991. There is some SERIOUS fashion crisis involving puffed sleeves and what looks like a side ponytail. I'll say no more.*

Tuesday is the day that the urban youth running club meets and since I'm teaching the aforementioned urban youth, I've decided to join them in the pursuit of the Boston Half Marathon. We've already established I'm insane for doing this, just ask my mom - oh yes, I made the mistake of telling Miss Jean. The run yesterday was looking very promising. Rain coming down, cool air, not that many people out on the Esplanade, and it's only 3.5 miles. Shoot, I can do that no problem. Easy peasy.

My legs were like lead. Every breath was labored and I generally wanted to die every single step of the way, all the way down the Esplenade, across the bridge, back across the other bridge, and down to Clarendon for the last stretch. My feet were wet (but then again, strangely dry thanks to my Smartwool socks), I had one too many layers on so I had my outer layer tied around my waist (too hot!) and I had chosen to carry my Sigg bottle with me for water. But of course, I carried it FULL because I'm an idjit. I was the slowest of my group, plodding along at the back, trying hard not to focus on the fact that my heart rate was absolutely peaking out and that I feel like a total poseur in this running business I must be crazy I must be crazy it's so close run run run hard to the end and the boys are there to greet us on the porch, clapping and yelling and hooting and hollering. At least I finished. That's all that matters.

Hal Higdon does this great training program for the half marathon. In it, he says that even if you have to walk every single pace of the half marathon, you should still do it and not be at all ashamed. Well it may happen that my legs give out and I consider flinging myself into Jamaica Pond somewhere in the middle of the course, but I'm going to try hard to stay on my feet and not be at all ashamed when the course closes and I'm left to finish the race on the sidewalk. Not ashamed, nosir.

Well maybe a little.

Today was better. I followed Hal's plan and did 3 miles plus strength training. I ate yummy chicken curry for dinner, I anticipate a Hit cookie for dessert, and I feel confident that I can achieve Hal's 2 miles set down for tomorrow, with an eye to 4 miles on Sunday. Especially with the help of my telephonic running coach, the VeganDiva of NYC. If we can get enough musicians together, then my blog title will be made manifest. Wouldn't that be hilarious? A few hundred opera singers, running en masse?

I see it in Shepherd Ferry-type colors.

Josquin and the pips

I'm listening to a WGBH broadcast on which I sang a few years back. I was into some pretty serious early music at the time and, even though I was super busy into my DMA coursework, it was really nice just to take a few nights out of a month and sing Josquin with some amazing musicians. There's a wonderful camaraderie among early music nerds. We already accept that people think we're weird for liking plagal cadences or cross relations or weird things like antiquated French. Knowing that from the outset, we really let loose and indulge those crunchy suspensions and cling to those weird metric modulations by the skin of our teeth. I frequently think about one of my old colleagues, Carolann. She was an unquestionable force of singing and had the best instincts about phrasing and exactly how to lean into a pitch and how to pull away from it with incredible style and panache. Carolann lives in Princeton now and, I suspect, is thrilling another congregation with her Hildegard. If my life had taken a different turn, I would have pursued early music as a field of study. Instead, I'm an opera singer. Weird.

I did a crazy thing today. I told my mother I'm running in the Boston half marathon this October. Now that's the funny part, isnt' it? It's not so much crazy that I'm running the half marathon, it's that I told my mother about it. She promptly pronounced me insane, told me that I must wear my heart monitor every step of the way so that my heart doesn't "go crazy" and also told me that I must not attempt anything "heroic." Hunny and I were talking at the gym - what exactly would constitute something "heroic" along the way? At mile marker 9, will there be dragon-slaying? Does the city have the right permits for that?

Fish tacos for dinner tonight. Very excited.