Breathe in, breathe out

It was a hard week. To and from New York for one last callback, a music rehearsal in which I sang zero notes, and an extended bus trip so I could get back for the nutty weekend that is Candlelight Carols. First, the high points:

Singing for James Levine, who says that I sang passages clearly that no one ever sings clearly.

Tea with a girlfriend I never see, and catching up on the exciting things going on in her life.

Listening to the interlude in Ceremony of Carols, thisclose to the harpist.

I'm trying y'all. I'm trying to tell myself that there are people who didn't get a Sullivan award and there are people who don't have a great husband and a house and a dog and a church job where people love her. I'm trying to focus on the great season I had last year with wonderful colleagues. But it's really hard to do that when you go into an audition and you know that you kill and James Levine TELLS YOU that this is absolutely suited to you, and then you get the email. And you know that it's going to be a no, because if it were a yes they would have called. You know how the polite phrasing goes, you know that they will wish you will and tell you to reapply next year. Maybe. But after such a great audition and walking out of that room feeling like I had a really good fighting chance, having my wonderful church people ask how it was to sing for The Man and being wished well so many times, coming home to that email is a big punch in the gut.

It's six days till Christmas, and I just want to sit down and cry. I hate this time of year. And I hate that this time of year makes me feel like this. I should be smiling and decorating the tree with my husband instead of counting the rejection letters that all feel like a personal slight against all I've worked for. I'm furious and hurt and confused and if we weren't slated to receive a massive snowstorm, I'd take myself out for a run to clear my head. But we are, so I won't. Instead, I'll decorate the tree and try to find perspective. It's around here somewhere, I'm sure of it. Breathe in, breathe out. One day at a time.

The most wonderful time of the year

Ever since Halloween, Crate & Barrel has put out their Christmas ornaments, and Target has cleared that huge space for their display of flashing light crap, and this really obnoxious radio station has commenced with playing nonstop holiday music. I can't cope.

I used to love this time of year. That snap in the air, the first time you have to wear a coat (much later in south LA than here in MA), snuggling with the ones you love, drinking hot cocoa and apple cider. It's really become a downer to realize that this most wonderful time of year, with some of the best music and family gatherings, has become the time of year when I contemplate quitting my profession. Every year. Why is that, you might ask? Because the bitter pill of rejection becomes harder and harder to swallow. I used to have a lot more grace, a lot more patience, and a lot more hope. I surmised that I could make it through as long as I had a few good gigs with good people doing good music. In approximately ten days, I will start the last gig of that ilk that is on my calendar until 2011. And even thinking about that makes me queasy. I've gone through weeks and weeks of auditions, trips to NYC, peppered with visits with friends, revamping old rep, working up new rep, good sings and bad, and I'm still waiting.

Waiting is the worst. It makes you question everything. Should I really be doing this? Should I just chuck it and go to law school/med school/business school? Am I fooling myself?
Last week, I got the 1-2 punch from two opera companies within four hours, and then the salt in the wound: my bill from the union, saying my dues need to be paid. It seems like a cruel joke for them to bill me when I'm NOT WORKING. Another email last night (never check your email just before bed) saying we loved your singing, but we're still not hiring you. One of my colleagues from two summers ago said that the theme of her life seems to be: you're wonderful, we love you, but we don't want none of that.

This is usually the part where I pick myself up off the mat and give myself a pep talk about patience and longevity and how I've worked too hard to quit now. I know I'll get to the point where I can do that. Even after three miles on the dreadmill (that's care of the amazing Cindy) I'm still pretty low. I think that means I need more mileage because I can't shake this funk inside my skin. I want to believe that I'm singing for a reason, that I've been given opportunities in the past for a reason. But gosh, if it could just be a little bit easier. If companies could hold off on sending the rejection emails for a little while, or send them all at once, in the next week, so I could stop holding my breath.

In the meantime, I'm just gonna take this one day at a time. Today, I'm still a singer. Tomorrow, I'm seriously considering becoming an astronaut.

Ups and downs, fried turkey, and the quest for pie

After my last post about practicing optimism, I had a pretty killer audition and, subsequently, won a pretty killer award that will make my financial adviser very very happy. It makes me happy too, because practicing that optimism gets really difficult and a little affirmation from the other side of the table is really helpful, especially when you get feedback that says you're expressive, compelling, and your artistry is more focused, but we're still not hiring you. Again. For the fourth season in a row. Or, as it came today, we're not hiring you but if you want to reapply next year, here's the link. Or also, today, no need to come in unless there's different repertoire or vocal transplants.

Ha ha. You're so witty in your emails. I love it when you talk with nonchalance about the instrument in my throat that I've been training for the last fourteen years.

Up: amazing award with rather good market recognition and prize benefits

Down: artistic administrators who can't find a direct AND polite way to say no, so they use sarcasm to cover their poor social skills

Up: callback for a role that I have always always wanted to sing, with one of the major luminaries of this age in opera

Down: *this just in* rejection email number TWO just appeared in my inbox. That's two in one day.

Up: steak for dinner tonight

Down: a bill from the union saying that I owe them for last year's AND this year's dues as I will be singing a cover at a union house next year. A contract that will be whittled down to nearly nothing after taxes and food and the union initiation fee. Nice.

Let's talk turkey. Fried turkey. This Thanksgiving marked Team Turkey 4.0 at our house with twelve of our friends/chosen family, and some of their family as well. Turkey was fried, sides were brought and cooked, and the din of turkey calls was only muffled by the chewing of fourteen sets of teeth. It was a great holiday, the table looked beautiful - finally figured out the perfect configuration of tables and tablecloth(s) to accommodate all 14 guests - and the food was really fantastic. I'm still dreaming of that amazing sweet potato soufflé. There was some debate about marshmallow topping vs. streusel vs. nuts, so the chef of that particular dish threw the kitchen sink at the dish and put on all three. The result was TO DIE FOR.

I spent the day before in the kitchen making pie. Now those of you who are long-time readers know that I have a personal, almost religious, relationship with pie. This year marked a new milestone - homemade pie crust. Likely the most stressful thing I have ever concocted in the kitchen. Step one - identify ingredients. Discover, after measuring out several cups of flour, that we are 1/3 cup short. Think I have found other container of flour, discover it is powdered sugar AFTER putting in 1/3 cup. Lots of cursing. Make it work. Crust seems good. First pie - pumpkin. Also my first time making pumpkin pie, and I was using fresh pumpkin from a rather large pumpkin that we roasted and pureed after Halloween.

Note: a medium-sized pumpkin will yield 10-12 cups of pumpkin puree. You only need two cups for a loaf of pumpkin bread, or one pumpkin pie, or one batch of pumpkin chocolate-chip muffins. 12 cups of pumpkin is a LOT of pumpkin.

So the pumpkin pie went in the oven. Then I made the second pie, my old specialty, pecan. Last Monday, after a politely-worded but VERY irate email to the pecan company from which I have ordered my pecans every year for the last twelve years, they called me to assure me that my pecans would be on my doorstep the next day, which they were. Two batches of pralines and one pecan pie later, I am still glad that I order from them. I still have several pounds of pecans left, some of which are going into cookies tonight, the pies were both successful, and a good time was had by all. We had second-day turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce, foisted more pie upon friends who didn't make it on the day, and rejoiced in the wonder that three tables fit into our dining room to begin with. Team Turkey 4.0 = success.

Up: Saints beat the crap out of the Pats last night. Total up.

Down: I don't have any more work today than I did yesterday.

Up: Two auditions on Thursday - opportunity for fun projects.

Down: Two bus rides in the next four days.

Up: Chocolate-chip pecan cookies.

Down: There is no down. Did you not read the previous line?

That's where I'm at. Let's try to get through the week (or maybe just the day??) without any more rejection emails, shall we?

Practicing optimism is hard, y'all. This is me, picking my chin up.

Optimism as a verb

I can't explain why, but somehow my audition yesterday had a strange and happy effect on my state of mind. I went into an audition, stood on a very large stage (!) and sang Ravel. And was then asked to sing......Britten? Wow, really? It was the happiest little surprise I've had during audition season yet. And it made me think that, perhaps, there are companies that have imagination and appreciate singers who have imagination too. Maybe companies will start to notice me for what I can do that's special, instead of trying to fit me into the lyric box with every other soprano.

It's all conjecture. But as I walked out of the theatre, I wasn't agitated or cross. I was hopeful. And then I spent the afternoon and evening with two absolutely lovely people whom I never ever get to see, one because she is so ferociously talented that she's never in the same place for longer than a month, and the other because he works in Switzerland. We talked about work and "the business" and how it made us crazy but also happy, and I'm smirking as I even write this, but this - the visiting and bitching and hugging and having coffee with wonderful colleagues whom you never see - is part of the process too. I love meeting new people and forming these connections with artists who inspire me and teach me, and let me do likewise.

Maybe it's not about optimism. Maybe it's about generosity and vulnerability - allowing yourself to be in the moment with a character, just as much as you allow yourself to be in the moment with a friend. When I get scared, I lose sight of this aspect of singing and I start to freak out about what's next WHAT'S NEXT. So I'm going to try to practice optimism as an action, and take it as a good sign that not only did I sing a killer audition, I have the opportunity to do it again today.

Countdown to Team Turkey 2009: 10 days

Standing in the doorway

My friend Judy sent me a segment from a book she's reading about opening doors in one's life, coping with change, and the general business of living. I don't read a lot these days (scores SO do not count) so it's much appreciated when someone takes the time to share wisdom they have gleaned. In this book, the author talks about doorways and the state of being in one - more specifically, the disorientation and discomfort of being in a between state, transition but without any kind of directional inkling, truly IN the doorway, not sure if you should go forward or backward, if forward then in which direction, if backward then why and then what. Well dear friends, it could not have been more timely. I am decorating the inside of that doorway with the trappings of my former sanity, Martha Stewart and her decoupage ain't got shit on me and the crazy I'm using to make festive my transitional discomfort.

I always knew I'd teach someday. I've been planning to teach since I was in high school. Teach choir, teach piano, teach language, teach something. It's always been there. I met mentors on whose career I patterned my own educational pursuits - honors studies, foreign languages, academic writing, studying abroad, always directed toward the doctorate, always directed toward the classroom or the rehearsal studio. This surprises no one.

I never knew I'd sing professionally. When I started auditioning, I expected that I would gain some valuable insight about the process and learn a little about the business of singing that I would not have otherwise known. And then I'd be able to pass that information on to my students. Never ever did I think I would sing in A houses in foreign countries and at home. And really really never ever did I think I would accomplish those things and still be hunting for part-time jobs to help pay the bills. No one told me that good gigs did not always equal good pay, and that I would sometimes have to take less than great gigs to keep paying the bills and sometimes not get paid as much for the really good gigs that could lead to better things.

So here am I. Standing in the doorway. Teaching options keep falling into my lap - more than I can even contemplate at this very moment it makes me dizzy to think too much about it. Music directing, private students, school opportunities. I'm also applying for faculty positions. Trying to put into words why I want a faculty job is a difficult thing as well. I want to teach good students. I want to reach singers when they are still young and teach them good habits and good technique and fuss at them about language when it's still early enough to do something about it. I want them to learn good repertoire that's not just "standard" and really challenges their artistry. I want to be a part of that. I also want all of the very material things that come with a faculty job - salary, benefits, retirement, an office with my name on the door, and a hangtag for my parking space. Security. Comfort. Holiday breaks.

There are also the things I want out of singing, the things I do get when I am singing. That incredible rush when you make your first entrance and feel yourself floating over the orchestra. The secret smiles you share with your fellow actors in moments when you know that you're really killing in a scene. The fun factor of playing dress-up with eyelashes and hair pieces and that first costume fitting when you're pinned and poked within an inch of your life so you can look like the most beautiful/evil/magical/plain/fancy creature ever to grace the stage. The princess. The evil queen. The fairy. The Jersey girl. The sheer joy of feeling your voice move against someone else's. The discovery when an Italian coach really helps you place all of those vowels in the right place and suddenly the language no longer feels foreign. Traveling to fun cities and learning their ins and outs. Finding new places to eat. Sharing that with friends old and new. And, of course, the applause. Oh, the applause, that drug that takes us by surprise every time.

This is where I'm at. I'm standing in the doorway, scratching my height into it for the twenty-fifth time this week, waiting for a push or pull from the universe to tell me where to go. I suck at rolling with it. I suck at letting things ride. In the words of the immortal Inigo Mantoya, "I hate wait." I'm waiting without very much grace, trying to take what comes when it comes, putting dates into my book and saying yes to everything I can, so as not to exclude any of my options, but also hoping that something will jump out of the texture and bop me on my thick skull and say, "hey YOU! over here!" because I am not so clever in this particular way. I look at the forest, I see trees. I look at the trees, I see more trees. I don't see the Hansel and Gretel path leading through the trees, I only see the trees. I'm getting splinters in my eyeballs.

I'm itching with anticipation. My feet are tapping alternating time steps because they won't rest. I am in a holding pattern and I'm even starting to annoy myself, so I'm relatively certain I'm annoying others.

I'm trying to breathe through this series of moments. In out, in out, in out. Is it over yet?

Sick chicken

At home in day two of a nasty cold. Antibiotics, mucinex (made of angel tears, according to my friend Jamie) and nonstop neti pot between now and my two concerts this weekend. I will get better. I WILL.

How Glory Goes

There's this great song from the musical "Floyd Collins," a lesser-done work by Adam Guettel about a guy who tries to make his fortune turning a cave into a tourist attraction and subsequently loses his life from the endeavor. I don't think it did very well, but the best damned song in the show ended up as the title of an Audra McDonald album that's completely worth checking out if you don't know it. As Floyd is stuck there, contemplating the end of his life, he asks all kinds of questions about the afterlife and what it looks like. Specific questions, like:

Do we live?
Is it like a little town?
Do we get to look back down at who we love?

Today is All Souls' Day. Yesterday was All Saints' Day/All Souls' Eve. At my church, we read out the names of those who have died during the year, in remembrance. I'm always taken by surprise at how much this affects me. Thinking about the people in my life who have passed on, thinking about the notes they sent me, the conversations we had, places we went. Most recently, it was Miss Jeanne, from my old congregations in Hattiespatch. She was so lovely. Her late husband, TB, sang in the church choir when I was the director. TB could not sing a round vowel to save his skin, but he sure did try every little trick I asked of him. They were wonderful, generous people in my life. They established a scholarship at the church and about a week after TB's death, they announced that I was the first recipient. Just before I was supposed to get up and sing 'Schlafendes Jesuskind.' It was all I could do to hold it together. Miss Jeanne has struggled with illness for a little while and I knew she wasn't doing well when she didn't return my birthday note. I was back down there not too long ago and considered going to see her, but one of our mutual church friends said that she wasn't really conscious much, kind of hazy from the pain medicine, and did I really want to remember her that way. I think of Miss Jeanne, hopping out of her white cadillac, insisting that we had to go get frozen custard, talking about how mischievous TB was. That's how I remember her - vibrant, funny, full of love and kindness.

Last night, on the way home, my husband asked me to talk about what I believe in terms of an afterlife. Do I believe that people pass on and hang out in heaven, waiting for the rest of us to show up and join the party? Do they look down on us?

As he asked me this, I started to hear this song in my head, asking those same questions. Is it like a little town? Is my grandmother up there, playing canasta with her friends and making her toilet paper cover-dolls to sit on the back of the toilet? Is my grandfather fiddling with his workshop and hollering to her across the room and still protesting that he won't eat vegetables? Gosh I hope so. When I think about my loved ones, the feelings come back so strongly that I go hunting for that piece of jewelry, the flavor of ice cream, that piece of clothing, anything that I can press into my hands that reminds me of them. Avon discontinued the liquid deodorant that my mother's mother used to wear, but there was a time when I would smell it on a total stranger and be completely swept out of my reality, back into her floral room with the armchair and the bags of yarn and quilt scraps, candy wrappers hidden in the cushions. They are still there, if only in my head and in my heart, but doesn't that make them still there? If they were once here, then aren't they always?

Only heaven knows how glory goes, what each of us was meant to be. In the starlight, that is what we are.

I send you my love. Save me a seat at the card table.

Just a quickie

Three services today. Went running between, have a bit of a wheezy chest now....

For all the saints who, from their labours, rest.

I hate the dentist

Went to the gym first thing in the morning. 45 minutes in, I'm feeling better but not as strong as I did before. This is when I know it's really time. I'll feel the ache tomorrow, but I'll feel stronger every day that I continue to do this. The twelves in my hands will become fifteens again, as they were just before the race. My back won't ache, my legs will be ready to run. This is the plan.

Now on to the weakness. I hate the dentist. I hate needles. I hate the sensation of the grinding and it makes me twitch all the way down to my toes. I twitched for a very very long time until it was over. Three fillings, done. Then, a very successful (and unplanned) trip to the consignment shop.

Teaching today. Hope the numbing in the mouth goes away before I have to teach, or there will be some very funny singing going on.

The ugly truth

I looked at my training log today. Since the BAA Half, I've gone running twice. Three times if you count the catastrophe that was my afternoon run today. Here's the business end of it - if you don't keep your body in shape, it will hate you when you try to do things you did when you were actually in shape. I think it was cutting me slack when Robin and I went running the other evening. First time running in central park, with a friend, auditions were all stressful, I think perhaps my body was just distracted and enthusiastic enough to let me do five miles with minimal issues. But today it was just NOT going to happen. Yesterday was a really shit day with the late bus and the train and the dropped half sandwich and no umbrella, but after I sleep normally tonight and get up tomorrow and go to the gym, it's back on the horse. November will be a stressful month anyway, I need to do everything in my power to make sure I'm in top form. The right dress, the right shoes, and the right rep are simply not enough. I need to be physically, mentally, and emotionally in the game.

And this is the part where I solicit help/encouragement/harassment from the general reading public.

If I run, I will blog it. If I don't run or work out or take Sam for a four-mile walk and I don't have a really good reason (i.e. I was on an airplane all day) I want you to get on me about it. Tell me to get up off my shit. You know I'd do the same for you :)

Signs

Like that song Tesla remade - "Signs, signs, everywhere are signs." Just when I feel I've read one correctly, I get whacked on the head in the opposite direction by the fickle friend called Providence. Here's the hamster wheel breakdown since Saturday.

Saturday - drive to RI, show up 65 mins early with hopes of singing competition early and getting home before nasty storm. They are running early, and I'm told there are two people ahead of me. An hour later, they are now running late. Warm up AGAIN, sweat into my beautiful silk dress because of the heating system (plus 65 degrees outside, ridiculous), sing one aria, HEAR them talk about how they're running late and really don't have time to hear another. Ugh. And a large tree bug fell down my back. Removed tree bug from self without much hysteria, still sang well. On the way back to the interstate, had a freak fashion encounter with a store window displaying the most perfect mallard blue wrap dress. Hold the phone, because they have it in eggplant too. What's that, the last two in the store? Yes, I'll take them both.

Score: shiksa - 1, hamster wheel - 1 (because of the tree bug and the disorganization)

Sunday - sing two services, teach voice lesson, apply makeup in church bathroom, go to subway. This has never happened to me - I wait for the train, and THREE D trains go by before a single B train. Then we stand by just before BU central. Then I go to the wrong building (dear young artist administrator - when you say 'center for fine arts,' that's not the same as the opera center. Figure your shit out before you send out emails and all of your singers show up panting because they have run from the other building, where there is NO ROOM 210!) for my audition, hoof it to the right building, just as they are saying, "oh great, you're next." Oh great. I'm next. Pull off coat, put on shoes, just as the door is opening. Sure. I'll start with Queen of the Night. Why not. Maybe there's a little defiance in my delivery, but I'm working it (in my eggplant dress). Husby comes with the car, get to south station and manage to standby for an earlier bus. Arrive in NYC three hours earlier than originally planned, eat eggplant on the way.

Score: shiksa - 3 (for the early bus and nailing the Queen despite circumstances), hamster wheel - 2 (for the wrong building)

Monday - up early-ish to prepare for Italian coaching. Panic and get on the bus ridiculously early. Find out this is a blessing as cannot seem to find the entrance to the Juilliard school. Find room same time coach shows up. My Italian does not suck as bad as I think it does. Great. Lovely lovely lunch with wonderful friend, get dressed while singing Funny Girl, walk up the street and audition for the Germans from major house, tempo on Fire not great but Queen nailed it again. Purple dress luck. Feeling good. More Scharffen Berger chocolate, yum. Coffee with girlfriend, quiet evening with little sister. Monkey wrench - no place to stay for month of January during gig in NYC. Oh shite.

Score: shiksa - 4, hamster wheel - 4 (for the subway going express between 96th and 137th and housing catastrophe)

Tuesday - raining. Gross. Make it to audition, pianist is there, all set and ready. Sing both Handel and kick ass, great feedback and then lunch with wonderful friend. Coaching on upper west for upcoming role. This is where it gets wonky. I'm covering, but everything this guy says amounts to how much he thinks of my singing. How I'm a world-class Queen. How I need to find someone to help me work Konstanze into my rep because I would OWN her. How he loves my musicality. Head spinning. Must find a way to make this work. Thinking far too much for my own good. Contemplating going straight into academia. Contemplating going into working at Bloomingdales at the Shu Uemura lash bar. Make it stop! And then, I show up at the NY sports club, where none other than my fellow blogger the VeganDiva is there to take my bag and help me kick my own ass as we run through Central Park. Five miles later, I have clarity. Oh praise the Lord with the timbrel and dance, FINALLY I have clarity.

score: shiksa - 7 (for killer audition, rocking my coaching, and making 5 miles on a hilly course after not running in far too long), hamster wheel - 6 (for the general head-fuckery that comes from too much thinking)

What does this mean? This means that

a. I need to stick to a training plan for races. Chasing away the crazy on my own could be a full-time job and require a personal assistant, or I could just run.

b. I need to follow the path that leads to more opera singing, not the path that seems the least complicated because I'm feeling a little unsure. Everything else can be worked out.

c. I need to go into every audition and do my job because I'm damn good at my job.

I rock. You rock. We all rock. And we will live to kick the shit out of the hamster wheel another day.

The sweet smell of success

I sang a competition today. I showed up early, was told I'd be third in line to warm up and then sing since they were running early. Somehow, in the next hour (MORE than three people later) I ended up warming up and then only singing one aria because....they were running late. Weird.

But the success of which I speak does not have to do with the competition, oh nosir. The success of which I speak is the sweet wonderfulness that has to do with finding an audition dress that is so very much exactly what you want, and on sale, and OH HEAVEN, they have it in two colors that both look amazing with your skin. So what did yours truly do? That's right, she did what her momma taught her. She bought both dresses. Both on sale. Both fabulous, in two lovely shades of eggplant ("Bob, would you call this color 'eggplant' or 'aubergine'?") and mallard blue - I look divine in jewel tones.

So now, when I waltz into my Santa Fe audition tomorrow, I will be sporting one of these two divine concoctions (purple? blue? so many choices!) and the other will be packed safely in my bag for my other auditions this week, and I just know I will be working it. How do I know? Because a girl knows when she's working it.

Gotta go pack the bag. Think positive thoughts. Momma wants to work, as well as work it :)

Making a list, checking it twice

Finished applying for two faculty jobs today. Cover letters edited, proofread the CV, double-checked contact info, requested transcripts. Done and done.

For now.

Other job deadlines are a little bit later so I'm giving myself the latitude to step away from the Macbook and take it easy until next week is over (italian coaching, Haydn coaching, two auditions and a competition, oy) and I can get back on my feet. Plus, I really need to give the Brahms a good hard look and make sure I have a strategy for singing it beautifully. I don't remember if it was Richard who said it to me, but a runner friend told me they had heard some very sage words regarding race running: Position yourself toward the front, and then run.

Basta. Position yourself toward the front, and then run. I'm trying to adopt that as my mantra for singing and job-hunting. Honing those paper materials so they display the best of my skills and education in a premium of space. Choosing my words for the cover letters so I give a little bit of my personality with a big whack of my qualifications and a dash of ingenuity. Making sure I have a really good understanding of my strengths and weaknesses.

Weakness: I run slow.

Strength: I run long.

Weakness: No one would pay to hear me sing low notes.

Strength: Check out those high notes! With a healthy serving of fioratura!

Cindy has been doing this Boot Camp thing and it got me thinking that perhaps I should set a regimen for myself. I have a lot of music to cover and a lot of jobs and competitions to apply for, and not a ton of time in which to do it, while also balancing this thing called life and marriage and running and eating and whatnot. So here's my proposition. Starting next Monday, I will get up at 7:30am and either

a. have breakfast and get dressed right away, spend 1/2 an hour reviewing my Schoenberg and my Haydn recits, give myself a good warm-up and sing into the Brahms for another 1/2 hour, and conclude with reviews of the tricky spots in my audition arias, all before 10am

OR

b. get dressed and go for a run, stretch/shower/change, eat breakfast, and then commence with said music routine.

None of my engagements start before 11am. I'll be in NYC Sunday night through Wednesday morning, so I should be able to get in some good running (thanks to the VeganDiva, with whom I have a running date on Tuesday evening already!) during the daytime or at the very least, some good stretching and strength training. I don't need to sing to review a lot of my stuff, so I can do this in a quiet non-vocal way (thereby NOT pissing off the neighbors at my grandmother's building) and be really productive and get myself in the game.

This is me, positioning myself toward the front. Stay tuned.

Multi-tasking

This is what I call multi-tasking: writing out the Italian from my recits in ink, skipping lines to leave room for the translation and IPA (in different colored pencil), putting that down to look over the Copland and then the Schoenberg, and glancing up from time to time to see the silly drama that is the new 90210. Amazingly enough, 90210 does NOT require all of my attention to follow along. I hardly noticed when it was over and Melrose Place came on, until Ashley Simpson came on the screen with ridiculously red hair and I thought to myself, "wow, that's either a really bad dye job or a totally synthetic wig!"

I'm also multi-tasking in parts of my life. Yesterday it was "take the dog for a long walk and get my cross-training in at the same time." Sammy did four miles of walking and so did I, but I didn't get home and go to sleep on my big fleecy pillow, nosir. It was also "visit with friend while scrubbing the bathroom." In that respect, I was the most successful. I know I'm supposed to be looking into greener ways to keep things clean, I know I should, but Lord help me, I do love the smell of a bleached bathroom. It is a childhood illness from which I may never recover.

The biggest new ring to my circus of existence is the faculty applications. I am searching for these jobs every single day. I am reformatting my cover letters and double and triple-checking my CV. I am sending transcripts or NOT sending transcripts, preparing CDs of "unedited recordings," (what exactly does that mean??) and preparing myself for the barrage of questions from the people whom I have asked to write letters of recommendation (are you moving? are you going to stop singing? will your husband move too? OMIGOSH people. It's just an application until there's an offer on the table. Until then, let's view it like an exercise in skill-building. Good? Good. Yeesh.) while also trying to keep perspective about the actual jobs and where I might consider going to work.

It's hard to envision a life that would involve teaching full-time and auditioning as well. I tell myself that colleagues of mine make it work and that I could make it work if it came to it, but in my heart of hearts I'm really not sure. I don't know what "faculty job" looks like other than the teachers I've had, none of whom were still performing really. Part of me is excited at the prospect - teaching students, having my own studio, making a difference in the lives of young musicians, starting from day one with the golden rule of preparedness so that none of my kids are the ones who show up without their music learned. There's also the added benefit of some financial stability - benefits, a salary, retirement. Things that would make my financial adviser ever so happy, and keep me from fretting over whether or not I can afford to have these three fillings fixed (no, miss thang at the dentist's office, I can't have them done in silver, I show my teeth to the world for a living, thankyouverymuch). But there is the fear that taking a full-time faculty job will put a crimp in the pursuit of this crazy thing called singing. Will I have time to read through my recits when I'm also reading vocal lit papers? Will I have time to learn and practice Lucia when I'm teaching German diction to my young ones? There are a lot of unknowns and I'm trying to be patient. My friend Althea said I sound like such a good Presbyterian when I say I know I'll end up wherever I'm supposed to be. In the words of George Michael's immortal acid-wash jeans, "I know I've got to have faith (a-faith, a-faith, AH).

For today, it's in the cosmos. And I am here, in my house, in my jammies, and I've got to shake a tail feather. Rehearsal in two and a half hours, a voice to wake up, and a tummy to feed. Thursday is the day I get back on the road. I always sleep better and breathe easier with a few miles under my feet. Today's best to you and yours, and a shout-out to Cindy as she takes on her first race this weekend! Go git it girl!

Fall crazy

Eight days ago, I ran the Boston Half and it was a glorious 45 degrees, clear and crisp and breezy, perfect weather. It got chilly. Then it got cloudy. And yesterday, it SNOWED. Now if I were up on my cult film-ology, I would produce an instantly recognizable quote from Apocalypse Now, but instead I'll just say that I was waiting for the frogs and locusts to show up because for crying out loud, it's OCTOBER. Today, it's beautiful and sunny again, still rather chilly but walkable, and I am astounded to see that the little piles of snow that had accumulated by the time we got home from the grocery are gone. I really hope Mother Nature isn't psyching me out on this one. Really.

In other news, I've decided to run the Chicago Marathon next year. My running mentor/organist friend Richard was running it the same day I was doing the Boston Half. He called me before my race started and we had a lovely chat, shared our pictures after he got home, and then it hit me, like a ton of bricks. I think I want to do a marathon. I KNOW I want to do a marathon. Oh my goodness. So I was talking to Richard about it and he says, "Why don't you come run Chicago with me next year?" And that was it. We haven't talked about hardly anything else. We're going to get hotel rooms and make a little mini-vacation out of it. I've already bookmarked Hal Higdon's novice marathon training program (debating between the novice marathon program and the novice supreme - I think I can maintain my basic mileage on my own, up to about an 8 or 9 mile run, so the 18 week program should suffice) and contemplated what running through the winter is going to be like (layer system, you have nothing on me) and how I really need to get a pair of those running tights that have muscular support in them, and how amazing it's going to feel to cross that line and, somewhere down the line, tell my kids that I ran marathons, because of course I'm going to have to do more than one. This could become an illness.

Shiksa running - staving off the crazy since 2007. Get on board, little children, there's room for many a-more.

Finish what you started

A few months ago, my friend Richard sort of convinced me to do the BAA Half Marathon. After two weeks of travel and less-than-ideal running conditions in Indiana and Louisiana, I was really worried about the race. But the fact that I'm sitting here the morning after is a testament to the statement that you can do anything you set your mind to. I got up early EARLY yesterday morning with the husby, put on my racing clothes, we parked the car in Brookline and took the T in (along with an entire trainful of other racers - never seen so many sets of running shoes in one T car) and found the rest of my racing team. Sidebar: Port-a-potties, at any age, in any situation, are DISGUSTING. I convinced myself that I would warm up and shucked my racing pants and jacket, and at 8am, the starting horn went off. The BAA course is just gorgeous, down the Riverway, Jamaicaway, Arborway, around Jamaica Pond, through the Franklin Park Zoo and then back again. It's a little bit of a thrill to have the roads you drive shut down for you to run. The crowds were great - people coming out of their houses to cheer for the runners, the runners cheering for the elite qualifiers who were SMOKING their distance and the wheelchair competitors as they were on the back end of the 'out and back' leaving us all to wonder exactly how much longer we had until mile 7....

But here's the crazy thing. After my knee started to twinge around m

ile 8 and I realized that I still had another 5K to go, I became kind of numb from the waist down. I would walk through the water stops (as Hal Higdon told me to) so I could guzzle as much water as I could without spilling, and then I just picked right back up again with the running. This is, in many ways, completely different than my normal running routine (run 13 minutes, walk 1 or 2). I decided to see how much I could push myself without really getting hurt. I still believe that the temperature plays the biggest factor. It was 45 when the race started and 55 by the time it was over, so no matter how warm I was, the cold breeze kept me cool and breathing steadily, no stitches in my side or g

asping for air on the uphill turns, none of that. No muscle cramps, no breathing pea soup in humidity. It was one of the best runs I have ever had, all 13.1 miles of it, and I'm still so stoked that I finished, I kind of don't know what to do next!

And now, the proof that is in the pudding - more photos!

Running with the devil

Last week was a horrible week for running. I was in Munster, Indiana singing a gig with an orchestra. It was soupy, the air was way too thick, and my muscles completely seized up on me within the first two miles. Nightmare. And no running makes me a very very crabby girl.

So it was a very pleasant surprise to go for a seven mile run and realize that a week of bad running does not mean you will not be able to get back to your good pace and your good distance. I woke up this morning, felt like poop and went back to bed. After several hours of procrastination and wishing I had actually gone running at 630 as planned, I put on my clothes and vowed to go for a reasonably long run to get my head in the right place. The weather channel (brought to you by lying liars, inc) said that it was 63, sunny, with 94% humidity. Now I don't know what kind of crack rock they are smoking, but it is NOT 94% humidity. That's what I tried to run in last week, and this was NOTHING to that. No cramps, no side stitches, no general wishing for ritual suicide, just a good solid run. Thank heavens.

Tomorrow I'm going back to the homelandia to see my family. Here's hoping I can get a few good runs in while I'm there. Thirteen days to the half-marathon!!

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.

I'm on a bus (this bus is real!)

On my way to NYC for an audition and a meeting with my agent tomorrow.  The only perk of riding the bus is the use of outlets that power my macbook and thereby keep me entertained with the third season of West Wing.  Additionally, there's an adorable little black lab service dog sitting in the seat in front of me who keeps looking back and making sweet eyes at me.  I know she wants my peanut m&ms, but she's not getting a one.  

I'm also going to meet up with one of my singer/runner friends for a visit - our first face to face since probably last winter.  We encourage one another's crazy career pursuits (namely this singing thing) and our even crazier extra-curricular activities, that bonkers idea that's called running.  My church runs an urban youth group every summer, and they have started a running club.  Because the associate organist is a dear friend and a marathoner, he's persuaded me to join said running club and, this is the real clincher, to run the Boston half marathon with them in October.  I must be losing my mind.  

Yesterday was my first run with them.  I was in the second group, renamed the "slinky" group so as not to call ourselves that other word that starts with "s" and might indicate our general pace.  I did not grow up running.  I did not engage in activities that required running.  I played piano and did ballet and sang in choir.  I spent approximately four months leading up to prom my senior year working my behind into shape for said prom (sidebar: let's talk about how good my ass looks in those pictures, shall we?) and as soon as prom was over, I promptly went back to my books.  I ran five miles yesterday with a group of kids, along the Charles River and over the bridges and back, and I tell you what.  My legs feel fine.  My glutes feel fine.  But my knees, oooooohhhh my knees.  Only going down stairs, not up.  And when I get off this bus, they are not going to be happy with me.  Five miles down, a little over eight more to go.  Oy.  I have eleven weeks to get this together, because I'm running with this team and, if yesterday was any indication, I just might be the timer and pacer.  Slow and steady, that's me.  Watch out for the goose poop, single file on the bridge, stretch out your calves every time we stop.  

Other than the running, I had a lovely weekend in Chicago doing an audition.  I got all dolled up in my new dress (care of the dress barn 50% off sale rack - score!) and my pewter pumps that make my legs look killer, and Spanx that, well you know what they do.  I was all set to roll out the new rep.  I've been practicing and working myself through this Bellini aria and some Baby Doe, embracing a more vulnerable side of my singing, trying to show a little more lyricism.  I'm all set to pull it out, terrified that I even wrote it down on my rep sheet (that means it's possible for them to ask me to sing it oh crap) and the pianist seems a little unsure and what do they ask for?  

Mozart.  Queen of the night.  First aria.  

So I'm still dizzy with fear when the piano starts, but the Queen is an old friend and I smoked it.  Now it's all about wait and see.  I hate wait and see.  But I love the art institute and the field museum and old friends and dinosaurs and Seurat.  And I'm going to try to zen out on this bus until we get out of Connecticut.  Maybe the little black labbie will look back at me again.  

To run or not to run

On any given day, that is the question.  But today it's not the specific question.  It's "to enter the Boston 1/2 marathon or not to enter the Boston 1/2 marathon" because registration is next Wednesday and the church running team is working up toward that race.  Yikes.  

I have to go and get on a train to the airport for Chicago (audition, cross your fingers) so it's not something I have to decide right now, but I do have to decide soon.  Will I make that kind of commitment to myself and this team and enter the Boston 1/2 marathon?  Stay tuned.....

Freaky dreams, or What happens when I eat after 9:30pm

So we double-booked yesterday.  It was an accident, we swear.  We were going over to see our friends and their kids in the afternoon and we thought it was going to be an early dinner, so we accepted an invitation to a fireworks/late-night drinks party out by the water.  By the time the kids went to bed, it was 7:30.  This pushed our arrival at our second engagement (shame on my face) to 10:30.  And the host was serving lamb and roast potatoes and peas and heavy duck gravy and wine and cocktails and all that stuff.  I didn't eat half of what was on my plate, it was so rich.  I had three very sinful sips of red wine (acid reflux is the devil) and it was deeeelicious, and then I took my apple pie out of the oven and managed to eat a piece of that too.  There was a time when none of this would have bothered me in the slightest.  I think it was when I would have considered myself in my "early twenties," but we ain't there no more, no siree.  And that means we have to accept certain things about ourselves.  I must go to the gym or else I will be cranky.  I must not drink red wine or my acid will act up and my voice will be shot.  I must be asleep before midnight or else I will feel like poop the next day.  Now and then, when I break my body's rules, I am rewarded with some pretty freaky dreams.  Last night was a doozy, and my friend Ayla suggested I write them down just for humor or something.  

Part 1:  Hanging out at very large house, not mine, with Cher and Bette Midler.  Raving about how much I love Cher's acting in Moonstruck, Bette Midler might have been doing her nails.  Not so freaky.  Woke up, went to the bathroom, went back to sleep.  Just wait.

Part 2:  I'm visiting Peter (artistic director of the Seattle YAP) on the set of a show he's directing.  He's busy and trying to tell me where to go so that I will be out of the way and I can see what's going on - tells me to go sit on the set.  I'm asking, "are you sure you want me to sit on the set, won't I be in the way?"  "Damn it, just go sit on the fucking set!"  "Okay okay, I'll go!  But if the mailbox ends up on my bed, you'll pay for it!"  (What the hell?) So I go and sit on the set, where there's this girl doing some kind of ass-backwards seduction with a semi-cute guy.  She's not nailing her beats, and I'm just sitting there, trying to be out of the way, making spitballs with straw wrappers (that have mysteriously appeared in my hands) and then someone yells, "HOLD!" which usually means something is seriously wrong and/or unsafe on the set.  I take this opportunity to get off the set and Peter comes up to me and says, "Okay, either you are seriously fucked up and mad that you didn't get in this production, or you completely misunderstood my directions."  "What are you talking about?"  "What am I talking about?  They were running the fucking scene and you were sitting right in the middle of it?  Have you lost your mind?"  "YOU TOLD ME TO GO SIT THERE."  "Right.  So then you misunderstood.  Now my actress is freaking out, would you please please go apologize to her so maybe she will come back and finish the fucking scene?"  So I go off to find this woman, feeling absolutely horrible because she probably thinks I was trying to hijack her scene for some stupidly malicious reason.  I find her, and I'm trying to apologize and saying, "You can ask anyone on this set who knows me, it's not me to do something like this.  I misunderstood Peter's directions when he told me to go sit on the set, I took him literally so I did, I'm so so sorry and I really hope we can be colleagues and work together someday."  And she says, "Well.  I think any chance of that went out the window when you said "If the mailbox ends up on my bed, you'll pay for it!" right in the middle of my scene!"  At this point, Jenna, the girl who runs the computer lab at NEC, comes out of the next room.  She's apparently the stage manager, because I say to the huffy girl, "Look, Jenna knows me and she knows I would never do this to a colleague - Jenna, tell her!" And she tries, but to no avail.  The girl grabs her giant white crayon highlighter, smears it down her nose, and stomps off.  Jenna shrugs and leaves.  So then I'm really feeling like crap, trying to get out of the way as fast as possible.  Then, I hear the music start for the "big number" in the act, and I realize they're doing Sunday in the Park With George, one of my favorites, and this crazy girl is playing Dot.  So I dash around to the front of the set so I can watch (just watch, I swear!) and the production is.......weird.  The girl playing Dot is wearing these space-aged go-go boots and something out of Thunderdome (or a Lady Gaga video) and she really REALLY can't sing.  I mean really.  And projected on the scrim behind the main part of the stage are videos of squid, octopi, and other fish, floating around during this opening number.  Wow.  Now I'm really confused.  Sunday in the Park With George, at the aquarium?  Underwater?  Underwater in space?  

And then I woke up.  Holy crap.  Happy 4th of July.  I'm NEVER eating that late again.