The last week in Italy was a blur of performances, one of which was a musical theatre concert at an outdoor venue next to a halfway house for recovering mental patients. Read it again for the first time. I have nothing against people who are attempting to re-enter society, I just wish we had been forewarned before the onslaught of half-dressed men following us around and mumbling in Italian.
But all's well that ends well, I passed the Italian certification test, and managed to get all of my stuff into my suitcase under the weight limit, checked in on time (despite the fact that it might take an act of God and/or Interpol in order to find your terminal in under an hour) and downed a capuccino before I got on the plane with two of my girlfriends from the program. Nine hours, two meals, and two marriage proposals from flight attendants later, I landed in Toronto. Canada has always been high on my list of favorite countries. The people are polite, civilized, and they sell Coffee Crisps at every drugstore. So after I cleared Canadian customs, I went downstairs to collect my suitcase, noticing that it was getting on 3:15 and I was supposed to be on a flight to Boston at 4pm. I approach an Alitalia representative who tells me that Air Canada (who is flying me to Boston) will happily put me on the next flight out, no trouble.
And so, I wait. For half an hour, I wait for my baggage to come. At about 3:45, the big yellow light comes on that indicates the baggage is about to appear on the carousel. And then, it happens. My worst nightmare, come true, right there in Toronto. My Samsonite suitcase that has braved years in foreign countries, been dragged to Eastofnowhere and back, sat on and thrown and dragged on cobblestone streets, is wrapped up in brown tape. The zipper on the top is no longer attached to the suitcase, and the top of the bag is actually INSIDE the bag. It actually no longer resembles a square, instead, a sort of sad, bowling pin shape of a bag, the heavy duty plastic and metal frame completely bent. But at this point in time, I've been awake and traveling for close to 16 hours and I just want to get home. I speak briefly with another Alitalia rep who tells me to make my way to Air Canada and get my things sorted out with customs because otherwise I will miss my flight. So I take a bus to the other terminal with a pilot who looks at my suitcase and makes a joke about how on the days when things run slow it's because the luggage eating machine is down and they are destroying the bags by hand that day. I am not amused. The kind woman at Air Canada tells me that, even though I did not miss my 4pm flight because of carelessness, there is no such policy as the Alitalia rep stated and I will be charged for the changing of my flight to Boston. At this point, I am borderline hysterical and say in my most controlled voice, "You mean to tell me that I will have to pay for a change to a flight that I missed because Alitalia's flight from Rome came in late due to a thunderstorm, and then they shredded my luggage?"
Sidebar: In my year of living in Canada, I noticed that they are rather non-confrontational, and when presented with an hysterical American, they will do one of two things: freeze over or avert their eyes and comply. I was not hysterical (yet), but perhaps it was the deranged glint in my bloodshot eyes that gave away my altered state.
So the very nice woman at Air Canada changed my flight and sent me through to customs, where I was given several raised eyebrows about my luggage wrapped in tape, and a very nice American customs official named Paolo stamped my passport and said, "Welcome home, Emily." After two unsuccessful attempts to call my husband, I used the circa 1992 internet terminal to send him a text message, purchased six Coffee Crisps at the shop, and went to the Molson Pub. I met up with another girl from the program who also had a layover, and we ate steak and drank Rickard's Red and tried to think of more pleasant things. My flight to Boston was a little late, but very pleasant, and a nice man switched seats with me so I could have the aisle. I got home to Boston a little before 9pm, took a shower, and passed out in my bed, blissful at last.
You might think this is the end of my story, but oh no. This is just the beginning. Since this morning, I have been discovering what was stolen out of my suitcase. The list is almost a page long now, and perhaps the most injurious of all items stolen is the ONE dress shoe that remained in my bag. The ONE of TWO enzo angiolini strappy satin heels that was sitting amongst the ruin, the ONE shoe that reminded me of how long I waited for those shoes to go on clearance, and how much I love them, and then I began to notice the other items that were conspicuously absent. Like my bras. ALL OF THEM. Like my linen skirts. Like my button-down shirts and my favorite flip flops (again, only ONE was stolen, not both) and my dress pants that were the perfect length to wear with heels for auditions. And the list goes on.
I have called Alitalia twice now. Sat on hold for over 30 minutes at a time before being transferred to an answering machine, while listening to some pre-recorded voice wax lyrical about how Alitalia represents the best of the Italian nation and how they attempt to embody a people who "truly know how to live well" by serving fine wine and food on their flights, and strive to be courteous and ingratiating to all. So I am going to Linens and Things to look at hardside suitcases, having spent most of the morning fuming and foaming and doing online research about suitcases, and when I return, a calmer, saner individual, I will write the world's most eloquent scathing Miss Jean letter to Alitalia, and not only will I tell them that I want remuneration for the shopping spree that someone had in my luggage and the damage done to my otherwise sound suitcase, I want them to apologize for disgracing all of the nice people that I met in Italy who went out of their way to be helpful to a stranger in their country, because if this is customer service, then I'm the Pope.
Love to all, it's good to be home, pardon the explosion of bile.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Week 4, the home stretch
Rigoletto opened last night, despite the fact that a street fair was going on and a large band with an ACCORDION was set up outside of the stage door. Nice. Fortunately, our new Rigoletto came to town two days ago and was able to rehearse with us once before we went on. I'm singing tomorrow night and then at the big house in Pesaro, so I'm pretty jazzed about it. Tonight we're going to Rimini to sing a gala concert on the beach (doesn't suck) with the faculty members.
The Italian language test is on Monday, so after I finish brushing out the wigs from La Traviata, I have to haul my behind to school to take the test. And then, after the last show closes and I pack all of my little possessions into my suitcase and haul it to the piazza and dope myself up so I can ride the bus to Rome, it will only be a few long hours until I am back at my little house in Boston with my sweet husband and my big stupid dog. Oh Sam. How I miss his sweet snout.
To my readers who love to go to the street fair: just so you know, they have the same crap at street fairs in Italy as they do in the US, only it's priced in euros and the signs are in Italian.
And as an aside, my hair is really really curly in Italy. Who knew?
The Italian language test is on Monday, so after I finish brushing out the wigs from La Traviata, I have to haul my behind to school to take the test. And then, after the last show closes and I pack all of my little possessions into my suitcase and haul it to the piazza and dope myself up so I can ride the bus to Rome, it will only be a few long hours until I am back at my little house in Boston with my sweet husband and my big stupid dog. Oh Sam. How I miss his sweet snout.
To my readers who love to go to the street fair: just so you know, they have the same crap at street fairs in Italy as they do in the US, only it's priced in euros and the signs are in Italian.
And as an aside, my hair is really really curly in Italy. Who knew?
Friday, July 07, 2006
Week 3: Why I love Labello lip balm, how I burned my hand, and what happens when Gilda gets in the sack
So first it was a tablecloth, artfully draped over my torso to indicate that I'm the dead body. Then it was a sack just covering my head, but they decided that it wouldn't be realistic enough to assume that no one would notice 'he' was a 'she.' So now, after much ado, I'm in a sack. Full length, head to toe, sack. And after my father discovers that it's me in the sack and not the Duke, he has to throw his 6'5, over 250lbs frame over my dead body and lament. One thing they do NOT teach you in acting class is what to do when you're supposed to be dead and therefore not feel the pain in your hip sockets from being bent into abnormal positions that a dead body usually assumes when it goes limp. Riiight.
In other news, I purchased some melon flavored labello lip balm and it is true adult love. If I could find the equivalent for the rest of my body, I would be so happy. And to the DP, I'm still on the hunt for the exotic containers of Nivea. Only a few more months and I'll be in your neck of the woods!
So this is how I burned my hand. I was doing dishes at my friends, the Briggs', apartment. They have been kind enough to trade off cooking with me so we can all eat together like civilized people. So they had to run off to opera and I offered to do the dishes, not having been forewarned about the insanely hot water that comes out of the faucet. And I'm a fan of hot water, but when it leaves raised welts on your hand when you happen to run your hand under the faucet, there's a problem. I still have the welts. End of story.
Fourth of July was celebrated by myself and the other southerners from Georgia. Italy was playing Portugal in the semi-finals of the World Cup on the 4th, so the piazza was bedlam. They pull out a 'maxi-schermo' and hang it from the balcony of the tallest building and project the match and everyone comes out and watches it and each time Italy scores, the boys get on their scooters and zip around the town, honking their horns and yelling and such, so when they won, it was even crazier. I was sitting on the balcony with an enormous cup of homemade sweet tea, waiting for the burgers to be done (note to Americans: Italy does pork in a big way. Not so much with the beef.) and hearing the roar coming from the piazza, which only reinforced my decision to watch the match on the television and not down in the piazza. Burgers with peccorino and bacon, mashed potatos with garlic and rosemary, and vats and vats of sweet tea. Nothing says Go America! like a big burger and sweet tea.
And here's your pop culture for the day: the only thing more strange than BBC dramas with Italian over-dubbing is the Family Guy cartoon, completely translated into Italian. My husband would be so happy.
Home in two weeks. Think of me on Sunday when I'm taking cover during the World Cup Finals.
In other news, I purchased some melon flavored labello lip balm and it is true adult love. If I could find the equivalent for the rest of my body, I would be so happy. And to the DP, I'm still on the hunt for the exotic containers of Nivea. Only a few more months and I'll be in your neck of the woods!
So this is how I burned my hand. I was doing dishes at my friends, the Briggs', apartment. They have been kind enough to trade off cooking with me so we can all eat together like civilized people. So they had to run off to opera and I offered to do the dishes, not having been forewarned about the insanely hot water that comes out of the faucet. And I'm a fan of hot water, but when it leaves raised welts on your hand when you happen to run your hand under the faucet, there's a problem. I still have the welts. End of story.
Fourth of July was celebrated by myself and the other southerners from Georgia. Italy was playing Portugal in the semi-finals of the World Cup on the 4th, so the piazza was bedlam. They pull out a 'maxi-schermo' and hang it from the balcony of the tallest building and project the match and everyone comes out and watches it and each time Italy scores, the boys get on their scooters and zip around the town, honking their horns and yelling and such, so when they won, it was even crazier. I was sitting on the balcony with an enormous cup of homemade sweet tea, waiting for the burgers to be done (note to Americans: Italy does pork in a big way. Not so much with the beef.) and hearing the roar coming from the piazza, which only reinforced my decision to watch the match on the television and not down in the piazza. Burgers with peccorino and bacon, mashed potatos with garlic and rosemary, and vats and vats of sweet tea. Nothing says Go America! like a big burger and sweet tea.
And here's your pop culture for the day: the only thing more strange than BBC dramas with Italian over-dubbing is the Family Guy cartoon, completely translated into Italian. My husband would be so happy.
Home in two weeks. Think of me on Sunday when I'm taking cover during the World Cup Finals.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Week 2 in italy
Went to Venice yesterday and all I have to say is that the girl from South Louisiana was officially hotter than she would have ever imagined. Seriously thought I was going to shrivel and turn into a prune. Total tourist trap, but beautiful. Five euros for a coke, ridiculous. Nonstop coachings with the maestro, who is Italian but speaks English with a half German and half British accent. Weird.
Made it into lower intermediate Italian, which basically means I can conjugate verbs and order food, and hoping to be able to finish harry potter 6, 'Harry Potter e il mezzo sangue principe' before I get home. I'm averaging a chapter a day, slow going when you don't know the language that well, but the most confusing part is also reading harry potter 2 in German at the same time.
Next weekend is the trip to Florence, probably not going with the group because bus travel still makes my stomach turn and there isn't enough drammamine in italy to make it go away. Besides, train travel in Europe makes me remember why I like it so much. Might go to Bologna, it's only an hour from Rimini, which, for those of you who have better map skills than I do, is 30km from Novafeltria.
Might have sunburned my lips. Going through an unusually large amount of sunscreen, every day with the SPF 30 trying desperately to not become the poached southern girl with bright pink skin. And to the DP, Lobello lip balm is my new cosmetic fix of choice. And I found the big cans of Nivea that are made in Hamburg. Funny, no?
No class today, elections are being held in the school where we take classes. Have a voice lesson in a little over an hour with the big wagner soprano lady. She's nice, but I miss the furry-eyebrowed man. MTV Italy is weird and on in the background. Freaks me out.
And let's not even talk about the phone sex channels on the television. You're flipping channels at 11:3opm, trying to find an episode of Charmed or Sex and the City in Italian so you can zone out and go to sleep, and there's some half-clad signorina shoving her booty up in the camera and saying 'ciao tesoro' into the microphone. GROSS. One thing I have to say is that Italian television is not not NOT subtle.
More on another day, gotta warm up for my lesson.
Made it into lower intermediate Italian, which basically means I can conjugate verbs and order food, and hoping to be able to finish harry potter 6, 'Harry Potter e il mezzo sangue principe' before I get home. I'm averaging a chapter a day, slow going when you don't know the language that well, but the most confusing part is also reading harry potter 2 in German at the same time.
Next weekend is the trip to Florence, probably not going with the group because bus travel still makes my stomach turn and there isn't enough drammamine in italy to make it go away. Besides, train travel in Europe makes me remember why I like it so much. Might go to Bologna, it's only an hour from Rimini, which, for those of you who have better map skills than I do, is 30km from Novafeltria.
Might have sunburned my lips. Going through an unusually large amount of sunscreen, every day with the SPF 30 trying desperately to not become the poached southern girl with bright pink skin. And to the DP, Lobello lip balm is my new cosmetic fix of choice. And I found the big cans of Nivea that are made in Hamburg. Funny, no?
No class today, elections are being held in the school where we take classes. Have a voice lesson in a little over an hour with the big wagner soprano lady. She's nice, but I miss the furry-eyebrowed man. MTV Italy is weird and on in the background. Freaks me out.
And let's not even talk about the phone sex channels on the television. You're flipping channels at 11:3opm, trying to find an episode of Charmed or Sex and the City in Italian so you can zone out and go to sleep, and there's some half-clad signorina shoving her booty up in the camera and saying 'ciao tesoro' into the microphone. GROSS. One thing I have to say is that Italian television is not not NOT subtle.
More on another day, gotta warm up for my lesson.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
in italy.....
weird keyboards, hard to type correctly. so far, so good, except the bus ride which was six hours of misery. surrounded by young'uns who are sweet, but young. lessons start tomorrow, lots to do. living with a cute little Italian lady who speaks zero english, and all of a sudden, it comes back to me. strange, no? took the italian test this morning, hoping to make it into intermediate so I'm (ha ha, found the apostrophe) not stuck conjugating beginning verbs.
miss the hubby awful. call him, if you get a chance.
miss the hubby awful. call him, if you get a chance.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
This morning.....
.....my sister-in-law is having surgery. She was diagnosed with renal cancer two years ago and they took the kidney to which the tumor was attached. Everything looked fine, until they noticed two little nodules that had formed on her lungs, which I believe have now multiplied to four. After who-knows-how-many sessions of chemotherapy and drug therapy at NIH, they are going to remove the lower lobe of her lung, along with the cancerous nodules, and hope against all hope that it does not come back. Pray hard people - I've got five sisters-in-law and I'd rather keep it that way.
In other news, tomorrow is go time. I've got my traveler's visa, my passport, my new mp3 player that's smaller than my flash drive (thanks to my little brother the gadget whiz), and I haven't packed a thing. I have an audition in two hours and a rehearsal this afternoon so I keep telling myself, "this evening, you'll pack. and do laundry. and pack some more." I can't explain it - I've never been to Italy, I love to travel, but there's something in me that says, "why go to Italy when you can stay here with your husband and dog and spend the summer together?"
And I'm going to miss our six-month anniversary (June 30th, for those who would like to know) as well as the wedding of a dear friend and no matter how much I want to sing Gilda, it just makes me a little sick inside. *sigh*
Must go do laundry and at least get started on the packing. My pianist will be here in less than an hour to rehearse for this audition and I need to be remotely ready.
In other news, tomorrow is go time. I've got my traveler's visa, my passport, my new mp3 player that's smaller than my flash drive (thanks to my little brother the gadget whiz), and I haven't packed a thing. I have an audition in two hours and a rehearsal this afternoon so I keep telling myself, "this evening, you'll pack. and do laundry. and pack some more." I can't explain it - I've never been to Italy, I love to travel, but there's something in me that says, "why go to Italy when you can stay here with your husband and dog and spend the summer together?"
And I'm going to miss our six-month anniversary (June 30th, for those who would like to know) as well as the wedding of a dear friend and no matter how much I want to sing Gilda, it just makes me a little sick inside. *sigh*
Must go do laundry and at least get started on the packing. My pianist will be here in less than an hour to rehearse for this audition and I need to be remotely ready.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Five days
Five days till go time.
We spent most of yesterday and today cleaning rugs and putting together our new bed frame (wahoo!) and petting the quilt that my mother-in-law made for us as a wedding gift. She's seriously about the cutest little old lady ever. Pictures of the quilt to follow.
It's still raining here in Boston and I just wish it would stop. I don't want to spend my last five days stateside sitting inside and swiffering out of boredom because that's just a sign of illness my friends, illness. That and I'm almost out of swiffers. I've tried training Sam to not shed but it just does NOT work. I think that dog can projectile shed, seriously.
This will be short as I'm tuckered out from housecleaning and World Cup watching. Tomorrow is the last day of the season at Trinity. We don't have rehearsal between services so I see a trip to the bakery happening, with a very large cup of tea in store. To the Spiehlers and the soon-to-be Broadheads, watch your mailboxes.....
We spent most of yesterday and today cleaning rugs and putting together our new bed frame (wahoo!) and petting the quilt that my mother-in-law made for us as a wedding gift. She's seriously about the cutest little old lady ever. Pictures of the quilt to follow.
It's still raining here in Boston and I just wish it would stop. I don't want to spend my last five days stateside sitting inside and swiffering out of boredom because that's just a sign of illness my friends, illness. That and I'm almost out of swiffers. I've tried training Sam to not shed but it just does NOT work. I think that dog can projectile shed, seriously.
This will be short as I'm tuckered out from housecleaning and World Cup watching. Tomorrow is the last day of the season at Trinity. We don't have rehearsal between services so I see a trip to the bakery happening, with a very large cup of tea in store. To the Spiehlers and the soon-to-be Broadheads, watch your mailboxes.....
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Eight days......
I have eight days to finish writing thank-you notes to all of my sponsors, memorize Act III of Rigoletto, and figure out what the heck I'm supposed to pack to spend a month in Italy. And even though my Eagle Scout husband can pack a suitcase to the density of a neutron star, I'm a little scared at what my gown would look like when I got to the other side of the ocean.
It's another cold and rainy day here in Boston - yeah, because we needed more rain, really we did - and I'm about to go to the dentist. I know it's ridiculous, but there's something in me that feels like a petulent child every time I have to go to the dentist. I know that I brush and floss at least twice a day (if not more) and that I don't do any of the stuff I'm not supposed to do (chewing ice, eating bagels) that aggravates my jaw, but I still feel a little sheepish when they say to me, "Well Emily, you've just got groovy teeth and we're gonna have to fill those cavities." Years and years of dental maintenance, sealants, listerine, cleanings every six months, how the heck did I manage to get cavities? *sigh* Maybe it's just an inadequacy thing. I have inferior teeth.
I'm supposed to rehearse with Roberto later today....I wonder if one can sing with a jaw that's all numbed up. Maybe it will be a transcendent experience as a singer - truly not being able to feel your mouth. Of course, my Italian might sound like pig Latin as a result, but either way, it's better than sitting at home on a gross day like this. At least Sam can curl up on his rug and sleep away the day. Oh, to be a chocolate lab.
Must go and pre-medicate. Miles to go before I sleep (again).
It's another cold and rainy day here in Boston - yeah, because we needed more rain, really we did - and I'm about to go to the dentist. I know it's ridiculous, but there's something in me that feels like a petulent child every time I have to go to the dentist. I know that I brush and floss at least twice a day (if not more) and that I don't do any of the stuff I'm not supposed to do (chewing ice, eating bagels) that aggravates my jaw, but I still feel a little sheepish when they say to me, "Well Emily, you've just got groovy teeth and we're gonna have to fill those cavities." Years and years of dental maintenance, sealants, listerine, cleanings every six months, how the heck did I manage to get cavities? *sigh* Maybe it's just an inadequacy thing. I have inferior teeth.
I'm supposed to rehearse with Roberto later today....I wonder if one can sing with a jaw that's all numbed up. Maybe it will be a transcendent experience as a singer - truly not being able to feel your mouth. Of course, my Italian might sound like pig Latin as a result, but either way, it's better than sitting at home on a gross day like this. At least Sam can curl up on his rug and sleep away the day. Oh, to be a chocolate lab.
Must go and pre-medicate. Miles to go before I sleep (again).
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
overheard in my living room
At the moment, the only thing I'm hearing is the moaning of my dog, Sam, who seems to think that his life, lounging in the middle of the floor on his rug, is difficult. Maybe he's just dreaming.
So far, this has been a fabulous week. I'm an auntie, because little Ace Spiehler decided that he was good and ready to get out (see my friend Stacey's blog for details) and dontcha know it, the little guy already has lots of hair. I figure that if one of my friends has a baby about every 18 months, then I can stave off the loud 'tick tock' for at least another few years. Either that, or we're going to have to get another dog.
After much deliberation, the husband and I have decided to go it alone in the house next year. The housemate and his new wife (and when I say 'new', I mean they got married a week ago) will be at Middlebury learning German until mid-August and then they will vamoose for their new apartment, leaving a conspicuous amount of space open in the front bedroom, which will be converted into a studio so we can teach out of the house. And what did we learn at our tax seminar last month kids? If you teach out of your house and devote that space to the sole purpose of your profession, you can deduct that portion of rent, heat, utilities, everything! Huzzah! Finally, it will pay off to teach at home!
And, the big happy dance event of the week. I have to preface this by saying that my mother always told me that there's no harm in asking for what you want. The worst thing that could happen is someone says no. I wouldn't say that this is a universally applicable principle, but sometimes miss jean is right. I appealed my merit award from the voice department back in February and got zilch. I appealed it again in May and they wrote me a letter telling me they were increasing it by a whopping $1100. Now I'm not one to sneeze at anyone increasing my scholarship and thereby decreasing the amount of debt I will accrue in order to become Dr. Hindrichs, but when they're handing out more scholarship to undergrad string players, I take issue. $1100 is a drop in the proverbial bucket when tuition is being raised to 29K next year. If you only admit eight doctoral students per year, you should fund them. PERIOD. They're working their asses off to become the next round of higher education and the sooner educators get treated like rock stars (or at least like college basketball players), the better the education scene will be in America. Stepping off the soapbox.
So long story made longer, after I received my piddly increase, I wrote yet another polite but aggressive email stating that, while I was grateful for the 3% increase in my scholarship, I did not feel that this appropriately reflected the contribution I was making to the image of the conservatory, especially in light of my upcoming engagements (singing Gilda with an Italian opera festival, singing with the International Bachakademie, and being hired to sing Norina with Opera Providence) and the publicity that NEC will thereby receive. And two days later, I received an email with yet another amended financial aid offer. And what did it state? It stated that your truly will be receiving full tuition starting this fall. That's right kids, they're fully funding a soprano at the New England Conservatory of Music, and all it took was a whole lot of asking. I told my mom I felt kind of bad for having harassed them as much as I did, but her point was this: if I wasn't worth it, they wouldn't have given it to me. And if I had not asked, they would not have had to consider how much of an asset I am to their institution. And we all come out better on the other end.
Time for the happy dance!
So far, this has been a fabulous week. I'm an auntie, because little Ace Spiehler decided that he was good and ready to get out (see my friend Stacey's blog for details) and dontcha know it, the little guy already has lots of hair. I figure that if one of my friends has a baby about every 18 months, then I can stave off the loud 'tick tock' for at least another few years. Either that, or we're going to have to get another dog.
After much deliberation, the husband and I have decided to go it alone in the house next year. The housemate and his new wife (and when I say 'new', I mean they got married a week ago) will be at Middlebury learning German until mid-August and then they will vamoose for their new apartment, leaving a conspicuous amount of space open in the front bedroom, which will be converted into a studio so we can teach out of the house. And what did we learn at our tax seminar last month kids? If you teach out of your house and devote that space to the sole purpose of your profession, you can deduct that portion of rent, heat, utilities, everything! Huzzah! Finally, it will pay off to teach at home!
And, the big happy dance event of the week. I have to preface this by saying that my mother always told me that there's no harm in asking for what you want. The worst thing that could happen is someone says no. I wouldn't say that this is a universally applicable principle, but sometimes miss jean is right. I appealed my merit award from the voice department back in February and got zilch. I appealed it again in May and they wrote me a letter telling me they were increasing it by a whopping $1100. Now I'm not one to sneeze at anyone increasing my scholarship and thereby decreasing the amount of debt I will accrue in order to become Dr. Hindrichs, but when they're handing out more scholarship to undergrad string players, I take issue. $1100 is a drop in the proverbial bucket when tuition is being raised to 29K next year. If you only admit eight doctoral students per year, you should fund them. PERIOD. They're working their asses off to become the next round of higher education and the sooner educators get treated like rock stars (or at least like college basketball players), the better the education scene will be in America. Stepping off the soapbox.
So long story made longer, after I received my piddly increase, I wrote yet another polite but aggressive email stating that, while I was grateful for the 3% increase in my scholarship, I did not feel that this appropriately reflected the contribution I was making to the image of the conservatory, especially in light of my upcoming engagements (singing Gilda with an Italian opera festival, singing with the International Bachakademie, and being hired to sing Norina with Opera Providence) and the publicity that NEC will thereby receive. And two days later, I received an email with yet another amended financial aid offer. And what did it state? It stated that your truly will be receiving full tuition starting this fall. That's right kids, they're fully funding a soprano at the New England Conservatory of Music, and all it took was a whole lot of asking. I told my mom I felt kind of bad for having harassed them as much as I did, but her point was this: if I wasn't worth it, they wouldn't have given it to me. And if I had not asked, they would not have had to consider how much of an asset I am to their institution. And we all come out better on the other end.
Time for the happy dance!
Friday, May 26, 2006
Any place I hang my hat is home...
...so long as it lies south of DC. We returned from the homeland around 1am on Thursday after spending way too much time in the Dallas airport. The downside was the very rowdy flight in and out of Dallas with the military men who had gone to NO on leave to party down and had already begun their drunken stupor on the plane. It's only an hour long flight - how can anyone drink that much in an hour? But I digress. The upside of the airport experience was the part where we got bumped from our overbooked flight for a tidy sum of travel vouchers that will surely pay for our flights home for Christmas. Hurrah!
It was seven days of bliss. Borrowed the car from my mom, ate shrimp at whole foods in Metairie, drove to Hattiesburg, gave a recital and was loved up by all the people who I've missed so terribly, went to our favorite pub and ate still more seafood and drank them out of Abita, went to BR and partied not terribly hard but hard enough with Casey and the husbands got a chance to bond over gin while we went shoe shopping, again with the consuming of the yummy food, and then the three hour road trip to Natchitoches.
I haven't been back since 2001 and I can't even express how much good it does to walk around the old stompin' grounds, remember those hot days of early summer and the nights of nearly-escaped expulsion and the feeling of the prickly grass through your sandals, holding hands with my little brother and watching him, so eager to leave, not realizing how eager he will be to visit, not fully appreciating that these years where he has been pushed to expect the best of himself and given the opportunity to explore what he really wants to do will never come again and in the fall, he'll be shoved into classes with the rest of the masses at LA Tech. Nothing against the state university system, I'm a graduate of one two times over as are many of my most intelligent friends and colleagues, but I just don't know if he appreciates how nice it is to be in the small environment, ten to a class, one on one work with the teacher who really cares about you. *sigh* Those were the days, right?
So we ate some amazing food at the Landing, glared meaningfully at Armand's ex-girlfriend/stick insect, and prepared to pack up the last of his little dorm life. Nostalgia is so nice when you're far enough from it to really see it clearly. How much fun we had, careless and so young, arrogant and righteous, flippant and frivolous with our affections and our friendships, ready to stand up for anything or anyone that we really believed in, and ready to take the punishment for not signing out to go and get that Icee from Texaco (in house suspension? you're not serious. don't you have other things to do than babysit me?) as defiantly as I could muster. At least they only caught us once, right?
More road tripping back to New Orleans for the big family shindig on Sunday, visiting with my dear friends and cousins and every aunt and uncle, trying to hug people with crawfish fingers on one hand and a mimosa in the other. THIS my friends is a real family gathering. I miss them so much and wish we could live closer. If only the conservatory would let me take courses by correspondance, I would so be there in a heartbeat. The beignets alone make it worth the trip!
Another recital, more time in Hattiesburg with friends and family, and I remember how much I love being at home in the south. How comfortable I feel just being me, and how nice it is to say things like, "well, we should be there in an hour, order us a couple pounds of crawfish and we'll be there soon." Being able to jump in the car and go eat with my folks - who were at their most ingratiating - and turn down dessert because you know you're going to drink cafe au lait later.
My history is there, and hopefully my future will be too.
It was seven days of bliss. Borrowed the car from my mom, ate shrimp at whole foods in Metairie, drove to Hattiesburg, gave a recital and was loved up by all the people who I've missed so terribly, went to our favorite pub and ate still more seafood and drank them out of Abita, went to BR and partied not terribly hard but hard enough with Casey and the husbands got a chance to bond over gin while we went shoe shopping, again with the consuming of the yummy food, and then the three hour road trip to Natchitoches.
I haven't been back since 2001 and I can't even express how much good it does to walk around the old stompin' grounds, remember those hot days of early summer and the nights of nearly-escaped expulsion and the feeling of the prickly grass through your sandals, holding hands with my little brother and watching him, so eager to leave, not realizing how eager he will be to visit, not fully appreciating that these years where he has been pushed to expect the best of himself and given the opportunity to explore what he really wants to do will never come again and in the fall, he'll be shoved into classes with the rest of the masses at LA Tech. Nothing against the state university system, I'm a graduate of one two times over as are many of my most intelligent friends and colleagues, but I just don't know if he appreciates how nice it is to be in the small environment, ten to a class, one on one work with the teacher who really cares about you. *sigh* Those were the days, right?
So we ate some amazing food at the Landing, glared meaningfully at Armand's ex-girlfriend/stick insect, and prepared to pack up the last of his little dorm life. Nostalgia is so nice when you're far enough from it to really see it clearly. How much fun we had, careless and so young, arrogant and righteous, flippant and frivolous with our affections and our friendships, ready to stand up for anything or anyone that we really believed in, and ready to take the punishment for not signing out to go and get that Icee from Texaco (in house suspension? you're not serious. don't you have other things to do than babysit me?) as defiantly as I could muster. At least they only caught us once, right?
More road tripping back to New Orleans for the big family shindig on Sunday, visiting with my dear friends and cousins and every aunt and uncle, trying to hug people with crawfish fingers on one hand and a mimosa in the other. THIS my friends is a real family gathering. I miss them so much and wish we could live closer. If only the conservatory would let me take courses by correspondance, I would so be there in a heartbeat. The beignets alone make it worth the trip!
Another recital, more time in Hattiesburg with friends and family, and I remember how much I love being at home in the south. How comfortable I feel just being me, and how nice it is to say things like, "well, we should be there in an hour, order us a couple pounds of crawfish and we'll be there soon." Being able to jump in the car and go eat with my folks - who were at their most ingratiating - and turn down dessert because you know you're going to drink cafe au lait later.
My history is there, and hopefully my future will be too.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
The Name Game
Snagged from Stacey, I couldn't resist.
The Name Meme
1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet and current street name) Alex Mt. Vernon
2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on your dad's side, your favorite candy) Marta Chocolate
3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first two or three letters of your last name) E-Hin
4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite animal, favorite color) Dog Blue
5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) Marta Metairie
6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters of your last name, last 3 letters of mother's maiden name, first 3 letters of your pet's name) Hincassam (um, can this be right?)
7. JEDI NAME: (middle name spelled backwards, your mom's maiden name spelled backwards)Atram Nolletsac
8. PORN STAR NAME: (middle name, street you grew up on) Marta Lake Village - this is not exciting at all
9. SUPERHERO NAME: ("The", your favorite color, the automobile you drive) The Blue Train - can I technically 'drive' the train? I don't drive, so it is my current mode of transport. In any case, I tag Casey, DP, Crack Sammich, and E-Mac
The Name Meme
1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet and current street name) Alex Mt. Vernon
2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on your dad's side, your favorite candy) Marta Chocolate
3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first two or three letters of your last name) E-Hin
4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite animal, favorite color) Dog Blue
5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) Marta Metairie
6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters of your last name, last 3 letters of mother's maiden name, first 3 letters of your pet's name) Hincassam (um, can this be right?)
7. JEDI NAME: (middle name spelled backwards, your mom's maiden name spelled backwards)Atram Nolletsac
8. PORN STAR NAME: (middle name, street you grew up on) Marta Lake Village - this is not exciting at all
9. SUPERHERO NAME: ("The", your favorite color, the automobile you drive) The Blue Train - can I technically 'drive' the train? I don't drive, so it is my current mode of transport. In any case, I tag Casey, DP, Crack Sammich, and E-Mac
raindrops keep falling on my head
I always think of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when I hear this song. But for the moment, it's the theme song of Boston. It's been raining for something like four days now and I'm really over the cold, rainy, this is why we call it "new" England crap that makes it somehow okay for it to be COLD and rainy in the month of May. May is almost half over and I'm wearing a sweater and pulling a blanket onto my lap as I type. What is wrong with this picture? In protest, I am going to sit on the sofa and watch my DVDs of the West Wing. Sam is already curled up on his rug and I suspect he will not move from that spot for a while either.
Four days till we touch down in the homeland. I'm excited to see my family and friends but, more than that, I'm excited to experience how good it is to be from the South. I know I already wrote one gushy blog on this so I won't bore you with another, but the other part of this visit is going back to Natchitoches to see the little brother graduate from high school. Those of you who have known him since he was a squirt - and he now has the nerve to be a hell of a lot taller than me - are just as shocked as I am that he's graduating from high school, but I'm happy for him. Hopefully he'll go to college and find out what it means to be passionate about something other than his latest girlfriend. I am told that I will meet this girlfriend when I come to visit and I'm really not sure how I feel about this. In all fairness, he did meet almost every guy I ever dated, but that usually resulted in someone getting a piggyback ride or the two of them going to play with Legos, and I don't think he was old enough to really comprehend that I was involved with any of them anyway. I digress. So we get to go to Natchitoches, where it all began, and I get to see my old teachers and, by an even stranger coincidence, most of my seniors because it's their ten year reunion. This is a topic for another blog where I talk about how old I feel and how I'm not emotionally ready to go to my ten year reunion.
And to my beloved Casey, it's a date for Thursday night. The Chimes better stock up on Abita because we're gonna drink 'em dry!
Four days till we touch down in the homeland. I'm excited to see my family and friends but, more than that, I'm excited to experience how good it is to be from the South. I know I already wrote one gushy blog on this so I won't bore you with another, but the other part of this visit is going back to Natchitoches to see the little brother graduate from high school. Those of you who have known him since he was a squirt - and he now has the nerve to be a hell of a lot taller than me - are just as shocked as I am that he's graduating from high school, but I'm happy for him. Hopefully he'll go to college and find out what it means to be passionate about something other than his latest girlfriend. I am told that I will meet this girlfriend when I come to visit and I'm really not sure how I feel about this. In all fairness, he did meet almost every guy I ever dated, but that usually resulted in someone getting a piggyback ride or the two of them going to play with Legos, and I don't think he was old enough to really comprehend that I was involved with any of them anyway. I digress. So we get to go to Natchitoches, where it all began, and I get to see my old teachers and, by an even stranger coincidence, most of my seniors because it's their ten year reunion. This is a topic for another blog where I talk about how old I feel and how I'm not emotionally ready to go to my ten year reunion.
And to my beloved Casey, it's a date for Thursday night. The Chimes better stock up on Abita because we're gonna drink 'em dry!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
eight days
Eight days until what, you might ask. Eight days until the apocalypse? The end of the fictitious gas crisis? This string of seemingly meaningless questions?
Eight days until I go home. Home, to humidity, flat interstate, mosquitos the size of Buicks, and the best damned food I've ever put in my mouth. I had lunch with one of my friends today - he's from the Carolinas (which some might consider part of the South) and we were talking about how the more time we spend on the eastern seaboard, the more we want to move back home. Where people are nice, land prices are low, and no one looks at you funny when you say you're going to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving. People don't scoff when you tell them that you can't go out because college ball is on TV, or that you're absolutely dying for some fresh catfish. (FYI, here in the north, they sell catfish under the guise of an exotic fish. Boy are those yankees stupid. There is nothing exotic about those ugly things other than the spices you fry them in.)
Home where I can twang if I want to and no one looks at me with the slanty glance. I'm so sick of being nice to rude people, even though it's what my momma taught me to do, instead of turning around to them and saying, "well, I could say something like that, if I was a Yankee jackass like you, but I'm from the South and we know how to treat people, even if they don't deserve it." Even the rude people in Mississippi are nicer than polite Bostonians. Do I want my kids to grow up thinking it's okay to not hold doors open for people who are carrying bags or offering to help someone with their exceptionally large suitcase up the stairs? Not a chance my friends. Just you wait, as soon as this blasted doctorate is over, we're packing up, throwing the dog in the car, and skee-daddling back your way.
Eight days till drive-thru daiquiris and po-boys from the truck stop. Eight days till "y'all" is normal parlance again. Eight days till fresh seafood and all the cousins I can hug in one day.
Can't wait to see all y'all.
Eight days until I go home. Home, to humidity, flat interstate, mosquitos the size of Buicks, and the best damned food I've ever put in my mouth. I had lunch with one of my friends today - he's from the Carolinas (which some might consider part of the South) and we were talking about how the more time we spend on the eastern seaboard, the more we want to move back home. Where people are nice, land prices are low, and no one looks at you funny when you say you're going to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving. People don't scoff when you tell them that you can't go out because college ball is on TV, or that you're absolutely dying for some fresh catfish. (FYI, here in the north, they sell catfish under the guise of an exotic fish. Boy are those yankees stupid. There is nothing exotic about those ugly things other than the spices you fry them in.)
Home where I can twang if I want to and no one looks at me with the slanty glance. I'm so sick of being nice to rude people, even though it's what my momma taught me to do, instead of turning around to them and saying, "well, I could say something like that, if I was a Yankee jackass like you, but I'm from the South and we know how to treat people, even if they don't deserve it." Even the rude people in Mississippi are nicer than polite Bostonians. Do I want my kids to grow up thinking it's okay to not hold doors open for people who are carrying bags or offering to help someone with their exceptionally large suitcase up the stairs? Not a chance my friends. Just you wait, as soon as this blasted doctorate is over, we're packing up, throwing the dog in the car, and skee-daddling back your way.
Eight days till drive-thru daiquiris and po-boys from the truck stop. Eight days till "y'all" is normal parlance again. Eight days till fresh seafood and all the cousins I can hug in one day.
Can't wait to see all y'all.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Shiksa on the hunt....
.....for sandals, that is.
So I bought a new pair of Dansko sandals a few weeks ago. I've been wearing them around the house in hopes that they will be as comfortable as my Dansko clogs, which I wear every day, and to almost everything, with the exception of performances (and I usually keep them on until right before I go onstage anyway). This was not to be, unfortunately. I managed to wear holes in both pinky toes, while wearing socks AND moleskin, so today I sadly skulked back to the shoe store. Shopping for shoes has been an ordeal since I was a kid. Mom tells me how my first pair of baby shoes was a pair of sandals because I had huge feet and she couldn't stand to sandwich them into little shoes just for the sake of being cute. In some ways, I wish I had been subjected to foot-binding at a young age because it might have prevented some of the teasing, not to mention personal trauma, to which I was subjected since, oh, I entered the school system. Who's got big feet, glasses and reads for fun? Bigfoot, over there. Had I been more self-possessed in the third grade, I would have told them where I was gonna put my big foot if they didn't shut their fat mouth. I digress.
So I decide to go to this huge shoe store near my house. It's a Sunday afternoon, the hubby has work to do and the dog is sunning himself in front of the window, so I grab the car keys and take off. I have come to the conclusion that, unless you look a respectable age and are dressed as such, salespeople will invariably ignore you. I get ignored in stores with some frequency, except in Sephora, where everyone loves me and I love everyone. I tried three times to ask the salesman if they carried a certain brand and if this shoe (the one I'm waving right here in my hand? It's not just for show, I'd like to try it on please!!) is in stock in my size. I gave up after a while. I had tried on all of the Dansko sandals they had on the wall, everything was too narrow and with an arch that's not high enough (shame on you Dansko, I thought we were friends) and tremendously frustrated, I came home.
Home, to my old Birkenstocks that have seen better days and my $2.50 flip flops from Target.
I remember being about seven and asking my mom why I didn't have little feet, like Barbie. Her response is classic Miss Jean:
"Honey, if you had little feet like Barbie, you'd fall over!"
That's right. I would fall over. *sigh*
So I bought a new pair of Dansko sandals a few weeks ago. I've been wearing them around the house in hopes that they will be as comfortable as my Dansko clogs, which I wear every day, and to almost everything, with the exception of performances (and I usually keep them on until right before I go onstage anyway). This was not to be, unfortunately. I managed to wear holes in both pinky toes, while wearing socks AND moleskin, so today I sadly skulked back to the shoe store. Shopping for shoes has been an ordeal since I was a kid. Mom tells me how my first pair of baby shoes was a pair of sandals because I had huge feet and she couldn't stand to sandwich them into little shoes just for the sake of being cute. In some ways, I wish I had been subjected to foot-binding at a young age because it might have prevented some of the teasing, not to mention personal trauma, to which I was subjected since, oh, I entered the school system. Who's got big feet, glasses and reads for fun? Bigfoot, over there. Had I been more self-possessed in the third grade, I would have told them where I was gonna put my big foot if they didn't shut their fat mouth. I digress.
So I decide to go to this huge shoe store near my house. It's a Sunday afternoon, the hubby has work to do and the dog is sunning himself in front of the window, so I grab the car keys and take off. I have come to the conclusion that, unless you look a respectable age and are dressed as such, salespeople will invariably ignore you. I get ignored in stores with some frequency, except in Sephora, where everyone loves me and I love everyone. I tried three times to ask the salesman if they carried a certain brand and if this shoe (the one I'm waving right here in my hand? It's not just for show, I'd like to try it on please!!) is in stock in my size. I gave up after a while. I had tried on all of the Dansko sandals they had on the wall, everything was too narrow and with an arch that's not high enough (shame on you Dansko, I thought we were friends) and tremendously frustrated, I came home.
Home, to my old Birkenstocks that have seen better days and my $2.50 flip flops from Target.
I remember being about seven and asking my mom why I didn't have little feet, like Barbie. Her response is classic Miss Jean:
"Honey, if you had little feet like Barbie, you'd fall over!"
That's right. I would fall over. *sigh*
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Shiksa in the windy city
So I'm going to Chicago tomorrow to audition for the Chicago Lyric Opera young artist program. In my zeal to better myself as a performer I have sought the advice of directors, professional singers, and my peers and I have come to this conclusion: being an opera singer is hard on the ego. I've spent the last 26 years forming who I am as a person, getting comfortable with being almost the tallest girl I know, coping with years and years of teasing about wearing glasses and having big feet and being too smart/not smart enough and liking myself as a nerd. And now that I'm okay with who I am, I have to transform into an opera singer. And you may ask yourself, "so how is this so different? you only have to wear costumes on stage..." but you would be wrong my friends, so terribly wrong. For being an opera singer unfortunately means assuming the role of an opera singer with the clothes, the shoes, the makeup, and the hair. I haven't colored my hair in about three years now and have quite happily gone to get my hair cut once every eight months because it just doesn't matter that much to me. Yesterday, I had to sit in the chair at the salon for an hour and a half, getting highlights that I don't want, hours at Talbots buying dresses I don't want and trying to decide which of the two bright colors I hate less so I can show up in something that's not my standard black and thereby distinguish myself from the herds of other sopranos who will show up in black.
Why do we do this? I don't know. Why is it that Anna Netrebko has sung three mainstage roles at the Met this year, and each time she has fastidiously avoided singing the high notes that are WRITTEN in the role. I'm not talking about the optional high notes for show-offs like myself, I'm talking about the ones that the composer inked out on purpose. Why does she get to sing these roles at the Met without singing the high notes? Because she looks like a supermodel and they can put her on stage as Violetta or Gilda or Norina in next to nothing and people go, "wow, an opera singer who looks good. Put away the horns and spears, I'm coming to see this girl!"
It's an aspect of the business that I hate, but if I'm going to continue to attempt a career as an opera singer, I have to get over it. So I bit the bullet, bought the pink dress (vomit vomit vomit) and the pointy-toed heels (oh how my feet cry for my Dansko clogs) and got the stupid highlights in hopes that some casting director will look twice at me. And with that said, I'm going to bed in my ugly flannel pj's. At least they can't tell me what to wear when I go to sleep at night.
Wish me luck, the Windy City awaits!
Why do we do this? I don't know. Why is it that Anna Netrebko has sung three mainstage roles at the Met this year, and each time she has fastidiously avoided singing the high notes that are WRITTEN in the role. I'm not talking about the optional high notes for show-offs like myself, I'm talking about the ones that the composer inked out on purpose. Why does she get to sing these roles at the Met without singing the high notes? Because she looks like a supermodel and they can put her on stage as Violetta or Gilda or Norina in next to nothing and people go, "wow, an opera singer who looks good. Put away the horns and spears, I'm coming to see this girl!"
It's an aspect of the business that I hate, but if I'm going to continue to attempt a career as an opera singer, I have to get over it. So I bit the bullet, bought the pink dress (vomit vomit vomit) and the pointy-toed heels (oh how my feet cry for my Dansko clogs) and got the stupid highlights in hopes that some casting director will look twice at me. And with that said, I'm going to bed in my ugly flannel pj's. At least they can't tell me what to wear when I go to sleep at night.
Wish me luck, the Windy City awaits!
Friday, April 21, 2006
Singing mice, a sad day
Did you ever see the movie "Babe" with the talking pig? I love that movie. Not only because it has singing mice that are somewhat akin to a greek chorus, but also because it features the Saint-Saens Organ Symphony and talking sheep. For those of you who have not seen this movie, heathens, get thee to a Blockbuster.
The mice, in narrating each tableau, say all sorts of fun things like, "Pork is a nice sweet meat," and "Pigs are definitely stupid," but the one that won't get out of my head is, "A sad day."
Today is a very sad day. Four of my friends and colleagues from IU were killed in an airplane crash early this morning. Friends that I just saw a month and a half ago when I visited Bloomington. People to whom I said, "We should get together the next time I'm here and go eat at Mother Bear's," or "I miss standing next to you in choir" or "When are you writing your next opera?" Young, vibrant musicians with most of their lives in front of them, rather than behind.
All day, my phone has been ringing. Singers reaching out to each other, relaying the news that not even the AP has been able to confirm. Telling stories, consoling and being consoled. I suppose that death is ever present. On any given day, we are one wrong turn or one mis-step away from it, but we never look for that one day. Not when you're twenty-four and you think the worst thing that could happen is not getting into grad school.
Call your mothers and fathers and siblings and friends and tell them you love them. Forgive those people that you've been holding a grudge against, and forgive yourself for all those little things that don't really matter. Every Sunday, the priest gives this great blessing that I had never heard until this year:
"Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind. And may the Divine Mystery who is beyond our ability to know but who made us, and who loves us, and who travels with us, bless us and keep us in peace."
The mice, in narrating each tableau, say all sorts of fun things like, "Pork is a nice sweet meat," and "Pigs are definitely stupid," but the one that won't get out of my head is, "A sad day."
Today is a very sad day. Four of my friends and colleagues from IU were killed in an airplane crash early this morning. Friends that I just saw a month and a half ago when I visited Bloomington. People to whom I said, "We should get together the next time I'm here and go eat at Mother Bear's," or "I miss standing next to you in choir" or "When are you writing your next opera?" Young, vibrant musicians with most of their lives in front of them, rather than behind.
All day, my phone has been ringing. Singers reaching out to each other, relaying the news that not even the AP has been able to confirm. Telling stories, consoling and being consoled. I suppose that death is ever present. On any given day, we are one wrong turn or one mis-step away from it, but we never look for that one day. Not when you're twenty-four and you think the worst thing that could happen is not getting into grad school.
Call your mothers and fathers and siblings and friends and tell them you love them. Forgive those people that you've been holding a grudge against, and forgive yourself for all those little things that don't really matter. Every Sunday, the priest gives this great blessing that I had never heard until this year:
"Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind. And may the Divine Mystery who is beyond our ability to know but who made us, and who loves us, and who travels with us, bless us and keep us in peace."
Monday, April 17, 2006
In memoriam: William Sloane Coffin, April 12, 2006
It must have been last year - there was an interview with William Sloane Coffin in the New Yorker. I think I read it four times over and then called my mom and read it to her. And then I ordered his book 'Credo' off of Amazon, only available in hardback at the time, and I'm pretty sure I posted some of it on various web profiles. A former pastor at the Riverside Church in New York, Coffin was most known for his work as the Yale Chaplain who not only dissented against the Vietnam War, but took part in large-scale demonstrations against it and was jailed more than once as a result. Despite a stroke and other health issues, he continued to speak out against war and careless governing - this quote is taken from a sermon given at Riverside Church on World Communion Day:
"Patriotism at the expense of another nation is as wicked as racism at the expense of another race," he declared, adding: "Let us resolve to be patriots always, nationalists never. Let us love our country, but pledge allegiance to the earth and to the flora and fauna and human life that it supports — one planet indivisible, with clean air, soil and water; with liberty, justice and peace for all."
Other writings by Coffin include: "The heart is a little to the left, essays on public morality"
"A passion for the possible," "Letters to a young doubter"
"Patriotism at the expense of another nation is as wicked as racism at the expense of another race," he declared, adding: "Let us resolve to be patriots always, nationalists never. Let us love our country, but pledge allegiance to the earth and to the flora and fauna and human life that it supports — one planet indivisible, with clean air, soil and water; with liberty, justice and peace for all."
Other writings by Coffin include: "The heart is a little to the left, essays on public morality"
"A passion for the possible," "Letters to a young doubter"
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Political Science
This is the title of an article by Michael Specter in the March 13, 2006 issue of The New Yorker, dealing with the Bush administration's attitude toward the research end of science, explicitly as it relates to a vaccine developed for HPV. As a woman who goes to the gynecologist every year and endures the discomfort and humiliation of putting my feet in the stirrups just to make sure that I don't develop cervical cancer, it's very disturbing to me that some blindly zealous right-winger religious types are barring this vaccine in the name of abstinence. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all about telling the the young'uns to keep their knees shut until they're old enough to deal with the consequences, but why punish women and expose them to the leading cause for cervical cancer when it could be prevented? A dear friend of mine became sexually active at a responsible and adult age, and didn't find out until two years later that she had contracted HPV from her ONLY partner. She then had to make a very uncomfortable phone call to this man and tell him that he had some phone calls to make himself. Two words dear friends: cervical biopsy. I can't even contemplate how painful it must have been for her, and even though she didn't get cervical cancer, I'm sure she got plenty of wrinkles fretting over whether or not a monogamous and seemingly protected (that's right, condoms don't protect against HPV) relationship would land her a spot in the oncologist's office. And I understand, it's a touchy subject because HPV is sexually transmitted, are we giving people a blank slate to have unprotected sex, blah blah blah, but if you had the opportunity to keep your daughter from contracting one more life-threatening disease, wouldn't you want to vaccinate her while giving her the speech about safe sex before AND after? At what point in time will we as a society stop punishing people for their mistakes, get off our proverbial high horses, and start helping them?
To the men in my life who read my blogs, don't think that I'm pointing the finger at you. It's a strange thing that men manifest no symptoms when carrying HPV, and also that they have no cervix that it can attack, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles. I've never been one to get real preachy about science, but when Nobel laureates say that we should use this vaccine and the administration drags its feet, it makes you wonder whether or not Bush considers the lives of his own daughters, his wife, and his mother precious, or if he just thinks they're immune because they're supposedly living on the right side of the Bible.
If you'd like to read the article, let me know and I'll photocopy it and send it to you. I don't think it's back up in the New Yorker's online archive just yet, but there is a Q & A with Specter titled "The President and the Scientists" that is also quite interesting.
To the men in my life who read my blogs, don't think that I'm pointing the finger at you. It's a strange thing that men manifest no symptoms when carrying HPV, and also that they have no cervix that it can attack, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles. I've never been one to get real preachy about science, but when Nobel laureates say that we should use this vaccine and the administration drags its feet, it makes you wonder whether or not Bush considers the lives of his own daughters, his wife, and his mother precious, or if he just thinks they're immune because they're supposedly living on the right side of the Bible.
If you'd like to read the article, let me know and I'll photocopy it and send it to you. I don't think it's back up in the New Yorker's online archive just yet, but there is a Q & A with Specter titled "The President and the Scientists" that is also quite interesting.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
I was just sitting here, and I got tagged....
My beloved Casey tagged me to do one of these meme things again, so I'll get to that shortly. I'm home for the morning, first time in probably a week, and I got to sleep in. Daylight savings time blows, especially when it happens on your birthday and you have to drag your behind out of bed and go to church at what feels like 7am. Ridiculous. The weather has been sketchy at best - it was near 70 for most of the weekend and I actually wore sandals (my feet were so excited, they didn't know what to do) but then yesterday, as I put on my coat to walk out the door I asked my husband, "how cold is it?" and he said, "not that cold, just take your scarf."
It snowed, dear friends. I'm sorry, but it's April and I've really had enough of the winter and the sleet and the sideways snowflakes that somehow manage to get between my glasses and my eyeballs and having to wrap up my face because it's 25 degrees outside. Enough, say I!
That said, it is sunny again today, another cruel trick by mother nature designed to lure me outdoors. No siree bob, I'm going to stay right here, with my dog on my foot, in my pyjamas and when I feel motivated, I'm going to make myself eggs and tea and watch television for at least half an hour, and only then will I consider putting on clothes and leaving the house.
My show opens this Sunday, so if you're in the Boston area, come see Songs For A New World (Jason Robert Brown) at 4pm in St. Botolph Hall. It promises to be a good time!
And now, for the meme of the day:
Four jobs you have had in your life:
1 retail at Victoria's Secret (no joke, y'all)
2. music teacher
3. health insurance claims processor
4. singer
Four movies you would watch over and over:
1. when harry met sally
2. moonstruck
3. gone with the wind
4. Lola rennt
Four places you have lived:
1. Slidell, LA
2. Victoria, BC
3. Boston, MA
4. Exeter, England
Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. West Wing - only two more episodes!!
2. new addiction formed to 24
3. CSI, but not CSI Miami
4. What not to wear (guilty, I admit it)
Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Berlin
2. Aix en Provence
3. New York
4. Baton Rouge (that's for you my casey)
Four websites I visit daily:
1. gmail
2. the new york times
3. scholarships.com
4. my blog
Four of my favorite foods:
1. butter chicken and naan bread
2. sushi
3. fried shrimp po-boy
4. a really really good burger
Four places I would rather be right now:
1. at the Chimes
2. on the road with my husband
3. in London
4. anywhere that's got sunshine and a temperature above 65 today
My birthday is: April 2
It snowed, dear friends. I'm sorry, but it's April and I've really had enough of the winter and the sleet and the sideways snowflakes that somehow manage to get between my glasses and my eyeballs and having to wrap up my face because it's 25 degrees outside. Enough, say I!
That said, it is sunny again today, another cruel trick by mother nature designed to lure me outdoors. No siree bob, I'm going to stay right here, with my dog on my foot, in my pyjamas and when I feel motivated, I'm going to make myself eggs and tea and watch television for at least half an hour, and only then will I consider putting on clothes and leaving the house.
My show opens this Sunday, so if you're in the Boston area, come see Songs For A New World (Jason Robert Brown) at 4pm in St. Botolph Hall. It promises to be a good time!
And now, for the meme of the day:
Four jobs you have had in your life:
1 retail at Victoria's Secret (no joke, y'all)
2. music teacher
3. health insurance claims processor
4. singer
Four movies you would watch over and over:
1. when harry met sally
2. moonstruck
3. gone with the wind
4. Lola rennt
Four places you have lived:
1. Slidell, LA
2. Victoria, BC
3. Boston, MA
4. Exeter, England
Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. West Wing - only two more episodes!!
2. new addiction formed to 24
3. CSI, but not CSI Miami
4. What not to wear (guilty, I admit it)
Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Berlin
2. Aix en Provence
3. New York
4. Baton Rouge (that's for you my casey)
Four websites I visit daily:
1. gmail
2. the new york times
3. scholarships.com
4. my blog
Four of my favorite foods:
1. butter chicken and naan bread
2. sushi
3. fried shrimp po-boy
4. a really really good burger
Four places I would rather be right now:
1. at the Chimes
2. on the road with my husband
3. in London
4. anywhere that's got sunshine and a temperature above 65 today
My birthday is: April 2
Saturday, April 01, 2006
We're going to party as if it were, in fact, my birthday
I don't know about you, but any of the songs that feature the line, "Go (whoever), it's your birthday. We're gonna party like it's your birthday," don't make much sense to me.
On my birthday, since I started undergrad at least, I've had rehearsals, concerts, exams, class, and sometimes even Easter, so there's really not been a level of partying that one could equivocate with the kind of partying these songs promise. And I want to know, at what point in time will I be able to party as if it were, in fact, my birthday?
I'll be 26 tomorrow and, if the movie 'Singles' is any kind of cultural measuring stick, I seem to remember a line about how you need to do all the stupid stuff you want to do before you turn 25, as that is the official age of responsibility that signifies your mid-twenties. The most stupid thing I've done is probably a tie between dying my hair cranberry red and piercing my belly button (which happened on the same day....hmm) and that took place long before 25, so I guess the only thing left to do before I turn 26 is clean my house and paint my toenails.
(Does anyone want to clean my house for me? That would be awesome!)
In other news, my first DMA recital is on Monday. I'm taking the day off to relax, warm up at my leisure, and have a coffee date with an opera singer to talk about becoming one. I still haven't decided what I want to wear for said recital, but my programs are being printed on lime green paper. I guess this means the orange sequined dress is out....
Cross your fingers I remember all of my German, and don't worry, I would never wear orange sequins before Easter.
On my birthday, since I started undergrad at least, I've had rehearsals, concerts, exams, class, and sometimes even Easter, so there's really not been a level of partying that one could equivocate with the kind of partying these songs promise. And I want to know, at what point in time will I be able to party as if it were, in fact, my birthday?
I'll be 26 tomorrow and, if the movie 'Singles' is any kind of cultural measuring stick, I seem to remember a line about how you need to do all the stupid stuff you want to do before you turn 25, as that is the official age of responsibility that signifies your mid-twenties. The most stupid thing I've done is probably a tie between dying my hair cranberry red and piercing my belly button (which happened on the same day....hmm) and that took place long before 25, so I guess the only thing left to do before I turn 26 is clean my house and paint my toenails.
(Does anyone want to clean my house for me? That would be awesome!)
In other news, my first DMA recital is on Monday. I'm taking the day off to relax, warm up at my leisure, and have a coffee date with an opera singer to talk about becoming one. I still haven't decided what I want to wear for said recital, but my programs are being printed on lime green paper. I guess this means the orange sequined dress is out....
Cross your fingers I remember all of my German, and don't worry, I would never wear orange sequins before Easter.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Why spring break is nothing of the kind
I remember spring break in elementary school. It meant that I would spend the whole week going to the pool with my mom and my friends and then we would go and run around the neighborhood until we got too tired. In junior high it meant that we would watch the Princess Bride every day and make milkshakes in the blender and paint our toenails. High school spring break was a different story - when most of your friends live a few hours away and you don't have a car, it means that you get on the phone and try to figure out where you can possibly meet and how long you can stay out of your parents' house. Underage drinking is a given, as well as causing ruckus in a public place. By the time you get to graduate school, spring break takes on a different form.
I'm on spring break right now. It doesn't feel like spring break, namely because it doesn't feel like spring. On the first day of 'spring' here in Boston, it was somewhere around 25 degrees with the wind chill and even though the crocuses are starting to peek out of the flowerbed in front of the house, I'm not convinced. If I still have to wear a sweater and wool socks, it's not spring.
I'm also spending a great deal of time practicing and doing research for my papers that are due in a few weeks. Again, not feeling very much like spring break. You don't do work on spring break - you watch Days of our Lives and bake cookies and sunbathe and go see movies.
In protest, I have decided to paint my toenails and wear sandals around the house. I don't know how long this will last - I might have to put a blanket over my feet because the thermostat says it's 51 in the house - but come hell or high water, I'm going to have some sort of a spring break, even if it means that I have to go and get bronzing gel to give myself the impression that I've been in the sun. Is it possible to actually get paler as time goes by?
To everyone in a warmer climate, I am terribly terribly jealous. And by the way, we get the wedding photos back today so be on the lookout for the online photo album!!
I'm on spring break right now. It doesn't feel like spring break, namely because it doesn't feel like spring. On the first day of 'spring' here in Boston, it was somewhere around 25 degrees with the wind chill and even though the crocuses are starting to peek out of the flowerbed in front of the house, I'm not convinced. If I still have to wear a sweater and wool socks, it's not spring.
I'm also spending a great deal of time practicing and doing research for my papers that are due in a few weeks. Again, not feeling very much like spring break. You don't do work on spring break - you watch Days of our Lives and bake cookies and sunbathe and go see movies.
In protest, I have decided to paint my toenails and wear sandals around the house. I don't know how long this will last - I might have to put a blanket over my feet because the thermostat says it's 51 in the house - but come hell or high water, I'm going to have some sort of a spring break, even if it means that I have to go and get bronzing gel to give myself the impression that I've been in the sun. Is it possible to actually get paler as time goes by?
To everyone in a warmer climate, I am terribly terribly jealous. And by the way, we get the wedding photos back today so be on the lookout for the online photo album!!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
what's your sign? (I'm an Aries)
I've been in a holding pattern for the last seven months or so, waiting for a sign that moving to Boston and taking the leap to the big city was the right thing to do. In the realm of the career, I'm one who tends to play it safe. Go to the state school with the full academic scholarship, get the safe teaching job that pays well, move to the foreign country but only when fully funded by a benevolant organization so you won't have to worry about money, major in something practical (laugh if you will but in the realm of music degrees, majoring in something like church music seems very practical and applicable when you grow up in the deep South) so you can get the good job so you can own a safe car and life in a safe part of town. Safe safe safe.
While waiting for this sign, I have been rejected by numerous summer programs, reduced to tears in front of a room full of singers by the assistant French coach from the Metropolitan Opera, emotionally and academically abused by the head of the DMA program, and generally treated like poo. Nearly two weeks ago, I actually got told by a judge that languages were not my strong suit and that my voice was 'smallish, with an average sound.' By that point in time, I was so over it, I just shrugged and let my mother and friend Kristy offer to go slash the judge's tires. [and just so you know Mr. I'm from Texas and I direct operas and probably have never sung a note in my life, I kick your ass with my German and remind you that one can't even understand half of what Joan Sutherland says on her recordings. You can stick it in your hautbois and smoke it.]
Let me state for the record that this post is not about self-pity. I went through my pity party when I didn't get into Juilliard - it involved burning the condescending letter and then going to Copeland's for steak and two Crash 'n Burns. I went through my pity party when I didn't advance at the Met Competition - it involved sitting on the sofa and watching the West Wing with a very good beer in my hand. I went through it every time I got a POSTCARD saying that I didn't get in to "insert name of program here" but I still put my headshot in the mail with my CD, neatly labeled with the best excerpts of my singing, in hopes that something would turn up.
I went to Sephora, learned how to really put on some fabulous makeup, spent the bucks on a good haircut and a kick-ass dress and shoes, brought every ounce of whoop-ass possible and got NADA.
And then, I was in the computer lab between class and a choir practice when my friend Andrew taps me on the shoulder and says, "hey, what are you doing ?" and I say, "well we've got choir in 45 minutes, I'm going to get some supper and go to choir" and he says, "okay, I already called Tom (our boss) and told him you're going to be late because you're going to do this audition for a summer program in Italy. They're doing Rigoletto and Traviata." *blink blink* "Andrew, I'm in jeans and a sweater. I have zero makeup on, I don't have my resume with me or my headshot, I look like crap on a stick, I'm not doing a last-minute audition." "I already told them you're coming, close that window and go put some lipstick on."
This is not like me. I don't do the spontaneous audition. It requires a level of sheer gumption that I just don't think I have. But I figure I have nothing really to lose except fifteen minutes so I run my fingers through my hair, dig out my lipstick and borrow some powder and grab my soprano anthology book. I shake hands with the woman in charge, I sing my Handel and she says to me, "I really love your middle voice but I'd like to hear if there's real ease in the top."
I can still hear her saying these words and I'm laughing hysterically inside because honey, you want high notes, I've got high notes for days. So I offer to sing the cadenza from Lakme and then she says, "do you know Caro Nome?" And I've played it a jillion times but never sung it so I say, "I don't have the music with me but sure." The accompanist picks a spot and I sing my thing and she says, "wonderful, thank you." I think that I will never hear from this woman again, go to Wendy's and get a baked potato and go to choir. End of story.
Until last week. I had been offered this really wonderful job singing with a choir at the Carmel Bach Festival and was just about to accept. Nothing else had come down the line so I figured taking a choir gig was a good deal, I'd make a little money and spend some time in California getting away from the Yankees with whom I work on a daily basis. Last Thursday I drag my ass out of bed, I make myself some tea and I sit down to check my email. And there's an email from the director of the program asking if I would like to come to Italy and sing Gilda in Rigoletto.
*nerd moment - For those of you who are not familiar with this opera, Gilda is Rigoletto's daughter, she gets seduced and tossed away by the Duke of Mantua and ultimately, when her father tries to avenge her honor and have the Duke killed, Gilda ends up in the bag and dies tragically. This is a big deal in the world of opera - if you're a soprano and you die, chances are, you're the leading lady.*
So after I begin breathing again, I look into the specs of the program. Dates overlap with Carmel. Shit. So this means I can't do both. At this point in time, I am faced with the realization that this is a SIGN. Not the kind of sign I was looking for, but this is definitely a sign. This is a "Okay Emily, do you want to be an opera singer or do you want to be a chorus girl?" sign. The kind that comes at the worst possible time, and asks you to look carefully at both your long-term and short-term needs and goals. I talk this over with the husband, the voice teacher, anyone who will sit still, and after about six days of flim-flamming, I decide to take the leap.
I'm taking the leap, walking away from the safe job, and I'm going to Italy for four weeks to learn Italian, study my craft, and sing possibly one of the most amazing roles in the repertoire. I'm taking the leap and committing myself to being a singer and doing what it takes in order to achieve that goal. And if I can just stop second-guessing myself and enjoy the fun of saying, "I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda," I think it will eventually drown out the voice that says, "play it safe, play it safe, play it safe."
Incidentally, while this debate was still in progress, I got a callback for Boston Lyric Opera's 2006-07 season. It's a callback, it's not a job offer yet, but it's a callback with a professional house. And even if they want to hire me to be third fairy from the left, it's still work that pays at a professional house.
And with that said, I just want to say that I'm glad we moved to Boston. I'm glad that my husband is wonderfully supportive enough to say, "go to Italy, we'll make it happen." I'm glad that we decided to take this chance that is forcing me to choose my path, rather than waiting for whatever turns up. And by the way, if I haven't told you yet, I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda.
Woohoo!
While waiting for this sign, I have been rejected by numerous summer programs, reduced to tears in front of a room full of singers by the assistant French coach from the Metropolitan Opera, emotionally and academically abused by the head of the DMA program, and generally treated like poo. Nearly two weeks ago, I actually got told by a judge that languages were not my strong suit and that my voice was 'smallish, with an average sound.' By that point in time, I was so over it, I just shrugged and let my mother and friend Kristy offer to go slash the judge's tires. [and just so you know Mr. I'm from Texas and I direct operas and probably have never sung a note in my life, I kick your ass with my German and remind you that one can't even understand half of what Joan Sutherland says on her recordings. You can stick it in your hautbois and smoke it.]
Let me state for the record that this post is not about self-pity. I went through my pity party when I didn't get into Juilliard - it involved burning the condescending letter and then going to Copeland's for steak and two Crash 'n Burns. I went through my pity party when I didn't advance at the Met Competition - it involved sitting on the sofa and watching the West Wing with a very good beer in my hand. I went through it every time I got a POSTCARD saying that I didn't get in to "insert name of program here" but I still put my headshot in the mail with my CD, neatly labeled with the best excerpts of my singing, in hopes that something would turn up.
I went to Sephora, learned how to really put on some fabulous makeup, spent the bucks on a good haircut and a kick-ass dress and shoes, brought every ounce of whoop-ass possible and got NADA.
And then, I was in the computer lab between class and a choir practice when my friend Andrew taps me on the shoulder and says, "hey, what are you doing ?" and I say, "well we've got choir in 45 minutes, I'm going to get some supper and go to choir" and he says, "okay, I already called Tom (our boss) and told him you're going to be late because you're going to do this audition for a summer program in Italy. They're doing Rigoletto and Traviata." *blink blink* "Andrew, I'm in jeans and a sweater. I have zero makeup on, I don't have my resume with me or my headshot, I look like crap on a stick, I'm not doing a last-minute audition." "I already told them you're coming, close that window and go put some lipstick on."
This is not like me. I don't do the spontaneous audition. It requires a level of sheer gumption that I just don't think I have. But I figure I have nothing really to lose except fifteen minutes so I run my fingers through my hair, dig out my lipstick and borrow some powder and grab my soprano anthology book. I shake hands with the woman in charge, I sing my Handel and she says to me, "I really love your middle voice but I'd like to hear if there's real ease in the top."
I can still hear her saying these words and I'm laughing hysterically inside because honey, you want high notes, I've got high notes for days. So I offer to sing the cadenza from Lakme and then she says, "do you know Caro Nome?" And I've played it a jillion times but never sung it so I say, "I don't have the music with me but sure." The accompanist picks a spot and I sing my thing and she says, "wonderful, thank you." I think that I will never hear from this woman again, go to Wendy's and get a baked potato and go to choir. End of story.
Until last week. I had been offered this really wonderful job singing with a choir at the Carmel Bach Festival and was just about to accept. Nothing else had come down the line so I figured taking a choir gig was a good deal, I'd make a little money and spend some time in California getting away from the Yankees with whom I work on a daily basis. Last Thursday I drag my ass out of bed, I make myself some tea and I sit down to check my email. And there's an email from the director of the program asking if I would like to come to Italy and sing Gilda in Rigoletto.
*nerd moment - For those of you who are not familiar with this opera, Gilda is Rigoletto's daughter, she gets seduced and tossed away by the Duke of Mantua and ultimately, when her father tries to avenge her honor and have the Duke killed, Gilda ends up in the bag and dies tragically. This is a big deal in the world of opera - if you're a soprano and you die, chances are, you're the leading lady.*
So after I begin breathing again, I look into the specs of the program. Dates overlap with Carmel. Shit. So this means I can't do both. At this point in time, I am faced with the realization that this is a SIGN. Not the kind of sign I was looking for, but this is definitely a sign. This is a "Okay Emily, do you want to be an opera singer or do you want to be a chorus girl?" sign. The kind that comes at the worst possible time, and asks you to look carefully at both your long-term and short-term needs and goals. I talk this over with the husband, the voice teacher, anyone who will sit still, and after about six days of flim-flamming, I decide to take the leap.
I'm taking the leap, walking away from the safe job, and I'm going to Italy for four weeks to learn Italian, study my craft, and sing possibly one of the most amazing roles in the repertoire. I'm taking the leap and committing myself to being a singer and doing what it takes in order to achieve that goal. And if I can just stop second-guessing myself and enjoy the fun of saying, "I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda," I think it will eventually drown out the voice that says, "play it safe, play it safe, play it safe."
Incidentally, while this debate was still in progress, I got a callback for Boston Lyric Opera's 2006-07 season. It's a callback, it's not a job offer yet, but it's a callback with a professional house. And even if they want to hire me to be third fairy from the left, it's still work that pays at a professional house.
And with that said, I just want to say that I'm glad we moved to Boston. I'm glad that my husband is wonderfully supportive enough to say, "go to Italy, we'll make it happen." I'm glad that we decided to take this chance that is forcing me to choose my path, rather than waiting for whatever turns up. And by the way, if I haven't told you yet, I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda.
Woohoo!
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Not in a while...
Haven't done one of these meme things in a while - I was tagged by Kristy so I will oblige.
Six things that nobody knows about me. Hmm....this will be difficult. I think some people will know some of these things, but I doubt that everyone will know all of them. Let's go.
1. I had my belly button pierced in 2002. Momma found out by accident and I don't think she ever let me live it down, but she didn't tell my dad. No, I wasn't living with my parents, no, they weren't supporting me, but yes, he would have given me hell about it and dragged me to the emergency room and had one of the doctors that has known me since I was seven talk to me about the dangers of body piercing.
2. I had a lump removed from my left breast when I was eighteen. Benign, but scary.
3. I went to Berlin by myself for three days. It was lots of fun but again, a little scary. Fortunately, Germans are taught English alongside German in school so I didn't have any trouble asking for directions to the philharmonic.
4. I don't like Beethoven's music. Most musicians would disqualify me from their group of friends for saying this. I just can't help it - it does nothing for me. Ditto for Mendelssohn.
5. I'm lactose intolerant. This is something I've only recently admitted to myself and I have to say, oreos and soy don't do it for me the same way oreos and milk did. I will still splurge and eat ice cream, but it's got to be really really good ice cream to make it worth it. Ben & Jerry's Dublin Mudslide was my most recent escapade. Yum!
6. I got sent to the principal's office twice in the first grade. Once for fighting with a boy on the playground, another for hitting the same boy with my lunchbox, on the bus. What do you do when someone makes fun of your big metal Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox? You hit him with it. My metal lunchbox was replaced shortly thereafter with a plastic one that had Rainbow Brite on the cover. Parents ruin all the fun.
I tag: Dictator Princess, Drew, Stacey, Emily, Casey, and Armand.
Six things that nobody knows about me. Hmm....this will be difficult. I think some people will know some of these things, but I doubt that everyone will know all of them. Let's go.
1. I had my belly button pierced in 2002. Momma found out by accident and I don't think she ever let me live it down, but she didn't tell my dad. No, I wasn't living with my parents, no, they weren't supporting me, but yes, he would have given me hell about it and dragged me to the emergency room and had one of the doctors that has known me since I was seven talk to me about the dangers of body piercing.
2. I had a lump removed from my left breast when I was eighteen. Benign, but scary.
3. I went to Berlin by myself for three days. It was lots of fun but again, a little scary. Fortunately, Germans are taught English alongside German in school so I didn't have any trouble asking for directions to the philharmonic.
4. I don't like Beethoven's music. Most musicians would disqualify me from their group of friends for saying this. I just can't help it - it does nothing for me. Ditto for Mendelssohn.
5. I'm lactose intolerant. This is something I've only recently admitted to myself and I have to say, oreos and soy don't do it for me the same way oreos and milk did. I will still splurge and eat ice cream, but it's got to be really really good ice cream to make it worth it. Ben & Jerry's Dublin Mudslide was my most recent escapade. Yum!
6. I got sent to the principal's office twice in the first grade. Once for fighting with a boy on the playground, another for hitting the same boy with my lunchbox, on the bus. What do you do when someone makes fun of your big metal Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox? You hit him with it. My metal lunchbox was replaced shortly thereafter with a plastic one that had Rainbow Brite on the cover. Parents ruin all the fun.
I tag: Dictator Princess, Drew, Stacey, Emily, Casey, and Armand.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Long time, no post
Hello all - I know it's been forever and a day since I last posted. I returned from my whirlwind visit to everyone I could possibly see in twelve hour slots about nine hours ago and I'm still exhausted and not sure what time zone I'm in.
First, update on the dad: he's doing lots better, it was ruled that he had gotten dehydrated and, as a result, his ventricles weren't pumping at full efficiency. He and mom are probably going to go to a heart clinic in Cleveland over spring break to make sure that the muscle walls have not thickened again - the problem for which he had open heart surgery twelve years ago. Mom says that the builder told her they should be able to move back into the house (albeit partially) some time in the next week. They are delivering appliances later this week and the builder will be doing the electrics. There will still be no cabinets and no flooring, but they can at least cook and bathe in the house, still sleeping in the FEMA trailer I believe....
Second, update on the personal illness: whatever strain of bronchitis I picked up last week, it's pretty evil and even though my recital hearing is tomorrow, I'm still getting this smoker's cough thing going on and I have to say, it's really getting on my nerves. Upside of this problem - I seriously doubt that the recital committee will keep me for too long, especially once they hear the death rattle in my chest.
I exaggerate - it's not that bad, it only rattles a little and I'm still medicated out the wazoo so hopefully it won't rattle when I'm singing.
Third, I wanted to say a big thanks to all of my wonderful friends who orchestrated both my arrival and departure: to Kristy, for posting fun pictures of our revelry at the Chimes, to Casey for carting my ass around, and to Drew and Stacey for the use of their guest bedroom and, as always, the hilarious conversation that made me laugh too much. Go baby Spiehler!
Gotta get going - lots to do and never enough time, of course. Have a good week y'all!
First, update on the dad: he's doing lots better, it was ruled that he had gotten dehydrated and, as a result, his ventricles weren't pumping at full efficiency. He and mom are probably going to go to a heart clinic in Cleveland over spring break to make sure that the muscle walls have not thickened again - the problem for which he had open heart surgery twelve years ago. Mom says that the builder told her they should be able to move back into the house (albeit partially) some time in the next week. They are delivering appliances later this week and the builder will be doing the electrics. There will still be no cabinets and no flooring, but they can at least cook and bathe in the house, still sleeping in the FEMA trailer I believe....
Second, update on the personal illness: whatever strain of bronchitis I picked up last week, it's pretty evil and even though my recital hearing is tomorrow, I'm still getting this smoker's cough thing going on and I have to say, it's really getting on my nerves. Upside of this problem - I seriously doubt that the recital committee will keep me for too long, especially once they hear the death rattle in my chest.
I exaggerate - it's not that bad, it only rattles a little and I'm still medicated out the wazoo so hopefully it won't rattle when I'm singing.
Third, I wanted to say a big thanks to all of my wonderful friends who orchestrated both my arrival and departure: to Kristy, for posting fun pictures of our revelry at the Chimes, to Casey for carting my ass around, and to Drew and Stacey for the use of their guest bedroom and, as always, the hilarious conversation that made me laugh too much. Go baby Spiehler!
Gotta get going - lots to do and never enough time, of course. Have a good week y'all!
Friday, February 24, 2006
Life with father
This is my dad -------------------------------------------->Cute, ain't he? My dad is your average, everyday, middle-class, hard-working pain in my ass. He's always been there for me, he loves to call me and tell me inappropriate jokes, and at the moment, he's in the hospital.
Last night, I got out of choir rehearsal and saw a missed call from him. Figuring that this was yet another evening where he calls to check on me (daughter in the big city and all) and then tells me a bad joke, I called him back when the subway went above ground. But he wasn't at home, with the dog (who's not really a dog, but more of a paperweight) in his lap. He was in a hospital bed because he decided to go to the house and do some cleaning. Alone. Now I'm no genius, but I wouldn't go alone to a house in a neighborhood where people are not living at night to do some cleaning. I would wait until it was daylight, when the other people in the neighborhood are there working on their houses, and I wouldn't go alone. But that's me. My dad decided that this was the perfect time for him to go. Mom was at school in Hammond, so he got in his car and drove himself over to the house. Next thing he knows, he wakes up in a little pool of blood and his head is killing him. He's a little sketchy on the details, but somehow he ended up in the ER with twenty staples in his head. By the time I talk to him, he's heading toward lucidity so he can at least tell me who's on call and what tests have been done. I call mom, she is of course FURIOUS because not only was he not supposed to go over there alone, he was probably doing something he should not have been, like moving heavy boxes and standing up too quickly. She took him home last night with his twenty staples and, I would surmise, instructions to stay the hell in his chair.
This morning, after a rather unrestful night of sleep, I awoke to a voice message on my phone from my mom. She's on her way to Natchitoches to go fetch the brother as his spring break starts today and he needs to be out of the dorm by 4pm, and oh by the way, Pop is back at the hospital. No, he's not at work, he's back in the ER. He passed out again while walking the dog around 5am. So I call him and tell him that this is wholly unacceptable, couldn't he have waited a week to pull this kind of stunt because I'm going to be home in five days for crying out loud.
He chuckles, tells me that he's propped up reading the paper and waiting for the cardiologist to come check on him.
I love my father. We are cut from the same cloth in more ways than I think most people can fully describe or appreciate without seeing us together. Say a little prayer for the old man; that he might manage to not do anything too self-destructive before I get down there to beat him senseless.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
a new day, a new blog
As you know, I am a semi-malcontent DMA student at the New England Conservatory. NEC is the self-proclaimed oldest music school in the US, and as of yet, no one has challenged that claim. They have a long history of turning out amazing musicians, and continue to have one of the more competitive string programs in the country. And they have been coasting on this reputation and collecting tens of thousands of dollars from unsuspecting aspiring musicians year after year. They flaunt their facilities - NEC's Jordan Hall is famous as a professional concert venue. Pity they rent it out to generate revenue, making it nearly impossible for any of their students to use it. They talk about their world class faculty. Pity that some of them are so old they FALL ASLEEP in lessons. Pity that most of their alumni are so disenchanted from their alma mater that they don't even come back for benefit concerts thrown in their honor.
So anyway, all of this is to say that some of the malcontent students have decided to band together and express ourselves in the most timely forum - that of the blog world. You'll notice a new hyperlink to the right entitled 'Blogging for a better NEC.' It is my hope that we can get students involved in this, instead of just having our random gatherings at Pizzeria UNO and bitching about the tragic state of affairs that is our school over a few beers. While it makes us feel a little better, it doesn't change anything.
I'm seriously contemplating sending the administration a link. Does anyone think they would bother to read?
So anyway, all of this is to say that some of the malcontent students have decided to band together and express ourselves in the most timely forum - that of the blog world. You'll notice a new hyperlink to the right entitled 'Blogging for a better NEC.' It is my hope that we can get students involved in this, instead of just having our random gatherings at Pizzeria UNO and bitching about the tragic state of affairs that is our school over a few beers. While it makes us feel a little better, it doesn't change anything.
I'm seriously contemplating sending the administration a link. Does anyone think they would bother to read?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
what month is it?
If I'm not mistaken, we had the warmest January on record for the city of Boston. And that was countered by an incredible nor'easter that kept most Bostonians inside for the whole day.
I was not one of those people. Trinity felt that church should still go on as normal in spite of the blizzard-force winds and the eight inches of snow already on the ground by 7am. My sweet husband and I got up at 6:45 to assess the precipitation situation and do a little bit of pre-emptive plowing on the driveway. It took us half an hour to get to church (normally takes 10 minutes) but the Civic did very well in the snow. I looked out the front door of Trinity between services and the snow was blowing so hard I couldn't see the Boston Public Library. Yipes!
My father says, "oh, but snow is so pretty!"
I think snow is beautiful. When you're not the one shoveling it.
Won't have tons of time to blog, have an audition this weekend. Cross fingers and think French thoughts in my direction this Friday!
I was not one of those people. Trinity felt that church should still go on as normal in spite of the blizzard-force winds and the eight inches of snow already on the ground by 7am. My sweet husband and I got up at 6:45 to assess the precipitation situation and do a little bit of pre-emptive plowing on the driveway. It took us half an hour to get to church (normally takes 10 minutes) but the Civic did very well in the snow. I looked out the front door of Trinity between services and the snow was blowing so hard I couldn't see the Boston Public Library. Yipes!
My father says, "oh, but snow is so pretty!"
I think snow is beautiful. When you're not the one shoveling it.
Won't have tons of time to blog, have an audition this weekend. Cross fingers and think French thoughts in my direction this Friday!
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
I heart Wednesdays
I don't have class until 2pm on Wednesdays. For one beautiful day a week, I can sleep past 7:45am (and I don't want to get any beef from people who get up at 5am - I have rehearsals till 1opm regularly and sleeping past 8 is a treat for me) and eat breakfast in my jammies instead of on the train.
I'll catch the train around 11:30am, leisurely eat my lunch at school and do some work before my coaching at 2:30pm, and then gear up for the rest of the evening. I know that I've been waxing lyrical about the commuter train, so here's another vignette:
There is a woman who stands in the same line that I do every time I take the 9am train. She doesn't wear a hat, which I think is kind of silly considering how cold it is outside, she has a very festive striped scarf, and she walks fast like I do. When we get to Back Bay station, she sprints up the stairs to be first in line at Dunkin Donuts. She takes the 6:25pm train home on Mondays like I do, when I don't have night rehearsals, and we get off at the same stop and walk to the grocery store parking lot where our husbands are waiting with the car. There's something comforting about this train routine. It's relatively quiet on the train, usually not crowded, people are reading their Boston Globe or Metro if it's been published that day, sucking down their coffee and waiting to go to Dunkins.
Dunkin Donuts is a part of the culture here in a way that might mirror CC's Coffee House in the New Orleans area. My dear friend Kristy is so addicted to her particularly tweaked Mochasippi that she put it on her latest quiz as an identification question, and I confess that when I lived at home, I spent most of my spare time at the CC's on Gause, shooting the bull with whomever.
Coffee house culture and public transportation. What's not to like?
I don't care for Dunkin Donuts coffee myself. I'm trying to give it a chance, especially because it's closer to the school than Starbucks and infinitely less expensive. They claim to make lattes now, but I'm suspicious of a donut place that claims to make anything other than donuts and coffee. Somehow wrong and slightly pretentious.
Going to eat breakfast with the dog, who has assumed his usual position in the middle of the floor.
I'll catch the train around 11:30am, leisurely eat my lunch at school and do some work before my coaching at 2:30pm, and then gear up for the rest of the evening. I know that I've been waxing lyrical about the commuter train, so here's another vignette:
There is a woman who stands in the same line that I do every time I take the 9am train. She doesn't wear a hat, which I think is kind of silly considering how cold it is outside, she has a very festive striped scarf, and she walks fast like I do. When we get to Back Bay station, she sprints up the stairs to be first in line at Dunkin Donuts. She takes the 6:25pm train home on Mondays like I do, when I don't have night rehearsals, and we get off at the same stop and walk to the grocery store parking lot where our husbands are waiting with the car. There's something comforting about this train routine. It's relatively quiet on the train, usually not crowded, people are reading their Boston Globe or Metro if it's been published that day, sucking down their coffee and waiting to go to Dunkins.
Dunkin Donuts is a part of the culture here in a way that might mirror CC's Coffee House in the New Orleans area. My dear friend Kristy is so addicted to her particularly tweaked Mochasippi that she put it on her latest quiz as an identification question, and I confess that when I lived at home, I spent most of my spare time at the CC's on Gause, shooting the bull with whomever.
Coffee house culture and public transportation. What's not to like?
I don't care for Dunkin Donuts coffee myself. I'm trying to give it a chance, especially because it's closer to the school than Starbucks and infinitely less expensive. They claim to make lattes now, but I'm suspicious of a donut place that claims to make anything other than donuts and coffee. Somehow wrong and slightly pretentious.
Going to eat breakfast with the dog, who has assumed his usual position in the middle of the floor.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
doin' the Vatican Rag
As a person who has spent most of her young life working in churches, one might say that I have a jaundiced but well-rounded view of how things are done. I've talked down hysterical brides who are convinced that if they ask second cousin Jeanette to sing she'll totally screw it up or try to steal the glory for herself. I've music directed children's musicals (which is really more like herding cats than music directing) and been a youth choir tour chaperone. In junior high, I worked in the church nursery every Sunday, both services. I've done church camp as a counselor, sunday school as an assistant and a teacher, choir practice as a singer, accompanist, librarian and conductor. I've had sit-downs with clergy about planning the liturgical season and the importance (or unimportance) of the lectionary cycle, and even sat in on budget meetings.
Church is like champagne brunch. There's something for everyone, lots of sweet things, usually a relatively friendly atmosphere, but no one likes to stay afterwards to pay the bill.
I enjoy church on many levels. I'm a church musician so I try to find a church that meets my needs as a musician; I like working with children so I try to make myself useful to childrens' ministries; I'm OCD so I put in a little extra time and help the choir librarian sort music after holiday events that involve lots and lots of music and virtually zero turn-around time.
I enjoy the fellowship of a community so I try to get involved in the congregation, even if I'm an employee because hey, we're all in this together.
I understand my function in a congregation as a parishioner.
I understand my function in a choir as a paid singer.
I consider myself very lucky when these two coincide.
Very few things make me more infuriated than higher-ups on the ladder attempting to exploit my good nature and playing it off to 'Christian fellowship.' Yes, I understand that the church is having budgetary problems. Yes, I am willing to do more than is expected of me to ease things along in this time of transition. Yes, I am willing to hold off for a month looking at other job prospects so that you can see whether or not you have room in your budget to keep me on staff.
And yes, if I leave, I am willing to help you find a replacement for me. But NO, I AM NOT WILLING to sit idly by and not look for another job while you decide whether or not you want to reconfigure your program to suit your vision that you have not discussed with the rest of the staff, or the clergy, or the vestry, because you're trying to not alienate your entire staff of professional singers going into the St. John Passion. And I will NOT be a party to you trying to make nice with everyone because you don't want them all to look for other jobs before the second-biggest liturgical season of the year. And I will really REALLY not tolerate you conveniently moving up our season dates by six weeks because you can't figure out how to manage your money.
My landlord does not care how much I do or do not get paid. And I am sympathetic to church budgetary problems, I really am. But when you try to change the terms of my contract when three weeks previous you told me it was perfectly secure, I get angry. And then, when you tell me that you think I will understand because I'm such a good colleague and I have a good understanding of church fellowship, that's pretty much when I'm done.
Done. As in seeing red, ready to froth at the mouth, DONE.
End of soapbox speech.
Church is like champagne brunch. There's something for everyone, lots of sweet things, usually a relatively friendly atmosphere, but no one likes to stay afterwards to pay the bill.
I enjoy church on many levels. I'm a church musician so I try to find a church that meets my needs as a musician; I like working with children so I try to make myself useful to childrens' ministries; I'm OCD so I put in a little extra time and help the choir librarian sort music after holiday events that involve lots and lots of music and virtually zero turn-around time.
I enjoy the fellowship of a community so I try to get involved in the congregation, even if I'm an employee because hey, we're all in this together.
I understand my function in a congregation as a parishioner.
I understand my function in a choir as a paid singer.
I consider myself very lucky when these two coincide.
Very few things make me more infuriated than higher-ups on the ladder attempting to exploit my good nature and playing it off to 'Christian fellowship.' Yes, I understand that the church is having budgetary problems. Yes, I am willing to do more than is expected of me to ease things along in this time of transition. Yes, I am willing to hold off for a month looking at other job prospects so that you can see whether or not you have room in your budget to keep me on staff.
And yes, if I leave, I am willing to help you find a replacement for me. But NO, I AM NOT WILLING to sit idly by and not look for another job while you decide whether or not you want to reconfigure your program to suit your vision that you have not discussed with the rest of the staff, or the clergy, or the vestry, because you're trying to not alienate your entire staff of professional singers going into the St. John Passion. And I will NOT be a party to you trying to make nice with everyone because you don't want them all to look for other jobs before the second-biggest liturgical season of the year. And I will really REALLY not tolerate you conveniently moving up our season dates by six weeks because you can't figure out how to manage your money.
My landlord does not care how much I do or do not get paid. And I am sympathetic to church budgetary problems, I really am. But when you try to change the terms of my contract when three weeks previous you told me it was perfectly secure, I get angry. And then, when you tell me that you think I will understand because I'm such a good colleague and I have a good understanding of church fellowship, that's pretty much when I'm done.
Done. As in seeing red, ready to froth at the mouth, DONE.
End of soapbox speech.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
shiksa in the city
I spent five days in NYC staying at a snazzy hotel on West 57th St. and singing at Carnegie Hall. This is a post that will take much more time, so I will simply say hello, it's nice to be back at my house, I missed my husband, my dog, and my kitchen, and I will oblige Stacey and do one more meme for this week:
My good quirks:
I'm a hard worker, almost to a fault.
I am very well organized, and my bathroom is always clean.
I'm fiercely protective of the ones I love.
My pralines and pies are only rivaled by my mother's - in all other matters of dessert, I defer to Stacey.
I can drive stick shift.
My bad quirks:
I don't know when to quit.
I am horribly self-deprecating.
I don't know how to say no to more work.
I have a sharp tongue.
My food quirks:
I will only eat Hellmann's mayonaise. Everything else is gross and smells funny to me.
I will only drink sweet tea that comes from tea bags and sugar. Anything that comes from powder is NOT tea and I don't care if the label says 'tea,' it's a big fat lie.
I will not eat fried chicken from anywhere except Popeye's or the cafeteria at Southern Miss.
I really do love sweet and salty together - chocolate covered pretzels are the best!
The only canned veggies that I will eat are wax beans and olives (though I prefer olives that aren't canned). Canned fruit is fine, but canned asparagus looks like slime.
I will not drink fruit juice that's not real fruit juice, and I think instant coffee is a crime against nature.
I will not eat 'fresh frozen' seafood. This to me seems wrong, and also impossible.
My sleep quirks:
I have to sleep with my back to the door. As a teenager, I developed several furniture configurations to facilitate this quirk, much to my roommates' dismay.
I also still sleep with pilly, the little white pillow that has been re-pillowcased at least twice in my lifetime. I have had pilly since I was three. And anyone who laughs is going to meet the business end of my Honda.
I have been known to sleepwalk and give speeches in my sleep. My dad said I gave a speech about world peace when we were on vacation in California. And something about dolphins.
Quirky people I tag (who haven't already been tagged):
Casey
Emily
My good quirks:
I'm a hard worker, almost to a fault.
I am very well organized, and my bathroom is always clean.
I'm fiercely protective of the ones I love.
My pralines and pies are only rivaled by my mother's - in all other matters of dessert, I defer to Stacey.
I can drive stick shift.
My bad quirks:
I don't know when to quit.
I am horribly self-deprecating.
I don't know how to say no to more work.
I have a sharp tongue.
My food quirks:
I will only eat Hellmann's mayonaise. Everything else is gross and smells funny to me.
I will only drink sweet tea that comes from tea bags and sugar. Anything that comes from powder is NOT tea and I don't care if the label says 'tea,' it's a big fat lie.
I will not eat fried chicken from anywhere except Popeye's or the cafeteria at Southern Miss.
I really do love sweet and salty together - chocolate covered pretzels are the best!
The only canned veggies that I will eat are wax beans and olives (though I prefer olives that aren't canned). Canned fruit is fine, but canned asparagus looks like slime.
I will not drink fruit juice that's not real fruit juice, and I think instant coffee is a crime against nature.
I will not eat 'fresh frozen' seafood. This to me seems wrong, and also impossible.
My sleep quirks:
I have to sleep with my back to the door. As a teenager, I developed several furniture configurations to facilitate this quirk, much to my roommates' dismay.
I also still sleep with pilly, the little white pillow that has been re-pillowcased at least twice in my lifetime. I have had pilly since I was three. And anyone who laughs is going to meet the business end of my Honda.
I have been known to sleepwalk and give speeches in my sleep. My dad said I gave a speech about world peace when we were on vacation in California. And something about dolphins.
Quirky people I tag (who haven't already been tagged):
Casey
Emily
Monday, January 23, 2006
Tag, I'm it!
Drew hit me up to do this little meme, so I will humbly oblige...
Four Jobs I've Had in My Life
piano teacher
grocery cashier
Victoria's Secret retail slave
health insurance processor
Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over, and Have
When Harry Met Sally
Howard's End
Steel Magnolias
Moonstruck
Four Places I Have Lived
Slidell, Louisiana
Portland, Oregon
Victoria, B.C.
Boston, Massachusetts
Four TV Shows I Love To Watch
West Wing
CSI
Project Runway (I feel my smartness slipping away)
Monarch of the Glen - oh to have BBC Scotland.....
Four Places I Have Been On Vacation
Aix en Provence
New York City
Berlin
San Francisco
Four Websites I Visit Daily
Les Arts Florissants
gmail.com
nytimes.com
nola.com
Four Favorite Foods
cheese of all sorts
Popeye's fried chicken
sushi (nigiri, sashimi, whatever)
po-boys from Check-in Check-out
Four Places I Would Rather Be Right Now
in New Orleans with family
at the Chimes with Casey
London
in my house with Sam & Frank
Four People Whom I Tag Next
eMc
Casey
Kristy, on the off chance she's reading today
Armand
Four Jobs I've Had in My Life
piano teacher
grocery cashier
Victoria's Secret retail slave
health insurance processor
Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over, and Have
When Harry Met Sally
Howard's End
Steel Magnolias
Moonstruck
Four Places I Have Lived
Slidell, Louisiana
Portland, Oregon
Victoria, B.C.
Boston, Massachusetts
Four TV Shows I Love To Watch
West Wing
CSI
Project Runway (I feel my smartness slipping away)
Monarch of the Glen - oh to have BBC Scotland.....
Four Places I Have Been On Vacation
Aix en Provence
New York City
Berlin
San Francisco
Four Websites I Visit Daily
Les Arts Florissants
gmail.com
nytimes.com
nola.com
Four Favorite Foods
cheese of all sorts
Popeye's fried chicken
sushi (nigiri, sashimi, whatever)
po-boys from Check-in Check-out
Four Places I Would Rather Be Right Now
in New Orleans with family
at the Chimes with Casey
London
in my house with Sam & Frank
Four People Whom I Tag Next
eMc
Casey
Kristy, on the off chance she's reading today
Armand
Thursday, January 19, 2006
train travel: the civilized route
I love the train. Everyone is quiet, reading their books, listening to their iPods, eating their breakfast like I am. I claim the little seat that folds down by the staircase to the upper car. It's sort of tucked away so unless people were looking for you, they wouldn't hardly notice you were there. The conductors on the train are an interesting mix of Bostonians and people from Western Massachusetts, Worcester, Framingham, Marlborough. I wish I could spend a whole day's route with them and try to transcribe the pronunciations of each stop into phonetics. It's an exercise in Northeastern dialect, I tell you.
I eat my tupperware of oatmeal, drink my tea, read my New Yorker. It only takes twelve minutes to get into the city on the train. The subway takes about 40, and it's loud. I never realize how loud it is until I don't take it. Parents not minding their kids, people talking so loudly as if trying to leak information to the Washington Post from afar, at least four seats out of commission because of the leaking windows and the rainstorm that came in sideways.
Even at 9:30pm, when I have been singing for two hours, teaching German pronunciation to a large room of people who neither read nor speak German, and all I want to do is sit quietly, I cannot get a seat on the subway. So I perch on the stairs, leaning against the partition, one arm crooked around the pole, trying to remember to switch sides when we get to Kenmore because the doors open on the other side at Kenmore. And it dawns on me that there is a reason I love the commuter train. I have my own little seat, the loudest part of the experience is the clanging of the train's bell (that sounds like an overexuberant cow), and I can sit in my little corner and eat my oatmeal and drink my tea and watch the city go by.
Next week, I'm taking the train to NYC. Four hours of quiet time and space in which a person can work on their species counterpoint homework, read an 18th century treatise on keyboard playing, finish a good book and start another, knit, do crossword puzzles, and, as Depeche Mode reminded us to do back those so many days ago, enjoy the silence.
That said, I'm going to spend the rest of my afternoon on the sofa with my dog and my book. Hope everyone else's day is as peaceful as mine.
I eat my tupperware of oatmeal, drink my tea, read my New Yorker. It only takes twelve minutes to get into the city on the train. The subway takes about 40, and it's loud. I never realize how loud it is until I don't take it. Parents not minding their kids, people talking so loudly as if trying to leak information to the Washington Post from afar, at least four seats out of commission because of the leaking windows and the rainstorm that came in sideways.
Even at 9:30pm, when I have been singing for two hours, teaching German pronunciation to a large room of people who neither read nor speak German, and all I want to do is sit quietly, I cannot get a seat on the subway. So I perch on the stairs, leaning against the partition, one arm crooked around the pole, trying to remember to switch sides when we get to Kenmore because the doors open on the other side at Kenmore. And it dawns on me that there is a reason I love the commuter train. I have my own little seat, the loudest part of the experience is the clanging of the train's bell (that sounds like an overexuberant cow), and I can sit in my little corner and eat my oatmeal and drink my tea and watch the city go by.
Next week, I'm taking the train to NYC. Four hours of quiet time and space in which a person can work on their species counterpoint homework, read an 18th century treatise on keyboard playing, finish a good book and start another, knit, do crossword puzzles, and, as Depeche Mode reminded us to do back those so many days ago, enjoy the silence.
That said, I'm going to spend the rest of my afternoon on the sofa with my dog and my book. Hope everyone else's day is as peaceful as mine.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
why I love college football
I love college football. You can go to the games for relatively cheap, sit with the band, heckle the cheerleaders, and sneak in the beer of your choice. The players are still lean and hungry, trying to get noticed, trying to keep their scholarships. The games are not televised as much, so less commercial breaks, which means that I don't have to devote an entire evening to watching a bunch of yahoos run around fighting over the same two yards for half an hour of my life that actually only took three minutes on the clock.
Which brings me to the game I'm watching now. Seahawks vs. Redskins.
I live with two men. My husband is from Washington D.C. and our housemate is from Seattle, making it impossible for me to change the channel for more than three minutes. And every time the Redskins score, my husband dances around the house, singing the fight song.
*sidebar* my husband knows more fight songs than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. When we drove through Princeton, he stopped at the corner and sang the Princeton fight song.
So here we are, in the fourth quarter, the clock stopped at 11:51, 50, 49, 48...and I will be held hostage for at least the next eleven and a half minutes of football time, probably another thirty minutes in real time, and all I can think is, "why did I ever leave a university that had a football team that played down the street at the stadium?"
sigh
Which brings me to the game I'm watching now. Seahawks vs. Redskins.
I live with two men. My husband is from Washington D.C. and our housemate is from Seattle, making it impossible for me to change the channel for more than three minutes. And every time the Redskins score, my husband dances around the house, singing the fight song.
*sidebar* my husband knows more fight songs than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. When we drove through Princeton, he stopped at the corner and sang the Princeton fight song.
So here we are, in the fourth quarter, the clock stopped at 11:51, 50, 49, 48...and I will be held hostage for at least the next eleven and a half minutes of football time, probably another thirty minutes in real time, and all I can think is, "why did I ever leave a university that had a football team that played down the street at the stadium?"
sigh
Saturday, January 07, 2006
how to bathe a dog in winter
Step one: get or already own a dog.
Step two: take dog for a run in a nearby playground so he will be sufficiently worn out
Step three: persuade dog to get into the bathtub
This is where you begin to improvise. My chocolate lab loves water, except when it's coming out of a faucet. At this point, I have to pull up my jeans to my knees, throw on a t-shirt I hate, and get into the bathtub with the aforementioned horse, I mean dog.
Sam also hates dog shampoo. I don't really blame him, as I remember having my hair washed as a young child and the whole experience was rather unpleasant. This was also during the time where I would wear shorts under my first-grade uniform so I could play on the monkey bars without scandalizing the nuns or my mother. But Sam likes to roll around in things that smell, specifically piles of rotting leaves that have undoubtedly been rolled in by other dogs. And this means that, in the middle of winter, he needs a bath. So, back to the instruction manual.
Step four: once you have persuaded your horse, antelope, or chocolate lab to get into the bathtub, get him as wet as possible, using extra mardi gras cups to douse him. If you're lucky, he'll just sit still and think he's getting a massage. There is, of course, the danger of the aardvark (or dog) shaking and covering you and your bathroom with suds.
Step five: after the dog has been shampooed, enlist the help of a housemate, husband, or circus trainer to help you dry off said dog. The inevitable shaking will ensue, but your dog will be clean. Cleaning the dog is not nearly as gross as cleaning your bathroom afterwards, but I digress. This is where your (or my, as the case may be) husband comes in. Seeing that you are not only soaked and covered in dog hair but also holding your dog and trying to clean his ears, the husband wonderfully offers to clean up the bathtub and mop the bathroom floor.
The husband had, of course, offered several times to help with the dog bathing, but there is only room in a bathtub for one person and one dog, especially when the dog is nearly half the size of the human. And for the record, there is nothing alluring about a woman in jeans and a t-shirt, soaking wet, holding her soaking wet dog INSIDE in the middle of winter.
Summertime, a nice Hefeweizen in hand, sunshine and burgers on the grill, different story.
Should you require further instruction on how to bathe your hippopotamus, armoire, or other large creature with legs and a tail, feel free to contact the author, once she has taken a shower herself.
Step two: take dog for a run in a nearby playground so he will be sufficiently worn out
Step three: persuade dog to get into the bathtub
This is where you begin to improvise. My chocolate lab loves water, except when it's coming out of a faucet. At this point, I have to pull up my jeans to my knees, throw on a t-shirt I hate, and get into the bathtub with the aforementioned horse, I mean dog.
Sam also hates dog shampoo. I don't really blame him, as I remember having my hair washed as a young child and the whole experience was rather unpleasant. This was also during the time where I would wear shorts under my first-grade uniform so I could play on the monkey bars without scandalizing the nuns or my mother. But Sam likes to roll around in things that smell, specifically piles of rotting leaves that have undoubtedly been rolled in by other dogs. And this means that, in the middle of winter, he needs a bath. So, back to the instruction manual.
Step four: once you have persuaded your horse, antelope, or chocolate lab to get into the bathtub, get him as wet as possible, using extra mardi gras cups to douse him. If you're lucky, he'll just sit still and think he's getting a massage. There is, of course, the danger of the aardvark (or dog) shaking and covering you and your bathroom with suds.
Step five: after the dog has been shampooed, enlist the help of a housemate, husband, or circus trainer to help you dry off said dog. The inevitable shaking will ensue, but your dog will be clean. Cleaning the dog is not nearly as gross as cleaning your bathroom afterwards, but I digress. This is where your (or my, as the case may be) husband comes in. Seeing that you are not only soaked and covered in dog hair but also holding your dog and trying to clean his ears, the husband wonderfully offers to clean up the bathtub and mop the bathroom floor.
The husband had, of course, offered several times to help with the dog bathing, but there is only room in a bathtub for one person and one dog, especially when the dog is nearly half the size of the human. And for the record, there is nothing alluring about a woman in jeans and a t-shirt, soaking wet, holding her soaking wet dog INSIDE in the middle of winter.
Summertime, a nice Hefeweizen in hand, sunshine and burgers on the grill, different story.
Should you require further instruction on how to bathe your hippopotamus, armoire, or other large creature with legs and a tail, feel free to contact the author, once she has taken a shower herself.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
a long december
December might have been the longest month ever. I went through the rigmarole with the audition process, the emotional ups and downs of my DMA seminar final project, the constant physical and mental fatigue of the concert season, and, oh wait, I almost forgot, I got married.
The weather has been awful. Snow, slush, ice, and sometimes it comes in sideways under your hat. All last week, I was hoping and praying for nice weather so we could take pictures outside on the porch of Trinity and my prayers were answered! It was about 50, sunny, blue sky, and just warm enough for me to not freeze to pieces in my wedding dress.
The music was perfect. The flowers were perfect. The tuxes fit everyone on the first try. And all essential personnel showed up before the ceremony started. The cake was delicious (and if anyone wants some, we still have LOTS left over) and everyone had a good time, and I was so glad we tasted the champagne before we bought it becaue by the time it's all said and done, you will WANT to drink a few glasses of champagne.
The families got along famously, my little brother
and Frank's nephew Aaron are the same age so they stayed up late playing video games until 3am, and one of my sisters-in-law made me sniffle by calling me her sister. Sorry if I'm goopy, but I've only had one brother and he's great, but I've always wanted a sister. And now I have FOUR. Yikes.
Must attend to the puppy, he has the hiccups. How do dogs get hiccups anyway?
I'll leave you with the very cute Hindrichs family picture.
The weather has been awful. Snow, slush, ice, and sometimes it comes in sideways under your hat. All last week, I was hoping and praying for nice weather so we could take pictures outside on the porch of Trinity and my prayers were answered! It was about 50, sunny, blue sky, and just warm enough for me to not freeze to pieces in my wedding dress.
The music was perfect. The flowers were perfect. The tuxes fit everyone on the first try. And all essential personnel showed up before the ceremony started. The cake was delicious (and if anyone wants some, we still have LOTS left over) and everyone had a good time, and I was so glad we tasted the champagne before we bought it becaue by the time it's all said and done, you will WANT to drink a few glasses of champagne.
The families got along famously, my little brother
and Frank's nephew Aaron are the same age so they stayed up late playing video games until 3am, and one of my sisters-in-law made me sniffle by calling me her sister. Sorry if I'm goopy, but I've only had one brother and he's great, but I've always wanted a sister. And now I have FOUR. Yikes.Must attend to the puppy, he has the hiccups. How do dogs get hiccups anyway?
I'll leave you with the very cute Hindrichs family picture.
Friday, December 23, 2005
France!
So after a week of wailing and gnashing of teeth and burning of the rejection letters, things are looking up. I was at choir last night and one of the other girls said to me, "hey, I got my rejection letter from the Jardin program, did you get yours?" and I realized that I had not been home all day. So I called the fiancee and asked him to look through the mail.
After one rejection form letter, one postcard (how gauche!) and an email (at least I can read it in the privacy of my home), I was sure that this would be the final blow, just in time for the holidays. So I ask him to open it, fully prepared for the standard "we had a lot of candidates, we were more than happy to take your application fee to Starbucks, good luck with your career, blah blah blah" response.
But it wasn't there.
No dear friends, instead was a lovely letter telling me that Le Jardin des Voix has accepted my application and passed me on to the next level of audition, a live audition for William Christie in NYC this February. For those of you who have no idea what this is about, here's the reader's digest version:
William Christie is the big guy in charge of Les Arts Florissants. LAF is THE premiere baroque opera company. They do productions of baroque opera with big name opera stars and fantastic orchestras at houses like the Opera in Paris. BIG deal. Jardin des Voix is the young artist program for LAF, run by the same guy. It's two and a half months in France, and they only audition every two years. So I get to sing for these people in person in hopes that they will see fit to accept me into Jardin. (ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease) And should they do this, I will spend spring of 2007 in FRANCE!!
And that said, I'm going to do my happy dance.
After one rejection form letter, one postcard (how gauche!) and an email (at least I can read it in the privacy of my home), I was sure that this would be the final blow, just in time for the holidays. So I ask him to open it, fully prepared for the standard "we had a lot of candidates, we were more than happy to take your application fee to Starbucks, good luck with your career, blah blah blah" response.
But it wasn't there.
No dear friends, instead was a lovely letter telling me that Le Jardin des Voix has accepted my application and passed me on to the next level of audition, a live audition for William Christie in NYC this February. For those of you who have no idea what this is about, here's the reader's digest version:
William Christie is the big guy in charge of Les Arts Florissants. LAF is THE premiere baroque opera company. They do productions of baroque opera with big name opera stars and fantastic orchestras at houses like the Opera in Paris. BIG deal. Jardin des Voix is the young artist program for LAF, run by the same guy. It's two and a half months in France, and they only audition every two years. So I get to sing for these people in person in hopes that they will see fit to accept me into Jardin. (ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease) And should they do this, I will spend spring of 2007 in FRANCE!!
And that said, I'm going to do my happy dance.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
goin to the chapel
Or at least to city hall, today. There's a three day waiting period for a marriage license in the state of Massachusetts so we have to get on that detail before the week is out. I don't want to think about anything of substance next week. Once Casey gets here, it will be nothing but painting toenails and fixing hair and arranging flowers.
How do brides make it through these last two weeks with nine million little details and only two hands? Is this why the mother of the bride usually plays such an active role? To keep her daughter from going stir crazy? To her credit, mom has been very helpful from afar and I'm inclined to say it's best that way. We still don't know who's going to show up on that day. There still remain several mystery relatives who may or may not come. But no matter. If they come, they get cake. If not, more tiramisu for me.
That's right, I said 'tiramisu.' Eat your heart out.
Speaking of which, this hungry girl needs breakfast. Hope everyone is having a lovely day!
How do brides make it through these last two weeks with nine million little details and only two hands? Is this why the mother of the bride usually plays such an active role? To keep her daughter from going stir crazy? To her credit, mom has been very helpful from afar and I'm inclined to say it's best that way. We still don't know who's going to show up on that day. There still remain several mystery relatives who may or may not come. But no matter. If they come, they get cake. If not, more tiramisu for me.
That's right, I said 'tiramisu.' Eat your heart out.
Speaking of which, this hungry girl needs breakfast. Hope everyone is having a lovely day!
Monday, December 19, 2005
for He is like a refiner's fire
So I spent most of the weekend drowning in self-loathing, singing two Sunday morning services and three Lessons and Carols services, trying to figure out why it is that I crave so much the validation of some unknown panel of artistic directors at opera companies.
The way my voice teacher says it, with a voice type as unusual as mine, if they found someone who filled the role and could also sing generic soprano in the chorus for the rest of the season, I wouldn't even be considered. This doesn't really make me feel lots better, and then I remembered this conversation that eMc and I had a few years ago. I think someone had sent me a forward - were both having an absolutely abysmal week (we're talking a creole cream cheese ice cream week) - and at the end of the forward was this quote from Malachi:
'And He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver: and He shall purify the sons of Levi, and and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness.'
The conclusion to which Emily and I came was that we were being held to the fire to make us stronger. And so, we became stronger and graduated without bloodshed, wailing or gnashing of teeth or rending of garments, and no animals were harmed in the making of this production.
In short, we lived to fight another day. So, somewhere around the third carol service, it dawned on me that even if a summer opera company doesn't take notice of me, this doesn't make me less worthy. It just means there's something better out there, waiting to make itself known.
That said, I'm going to watch West Wing Season 5 and snuggle with my dog because school is out until January 16th!
The way my voice teacher says it, with a voice type as unusual as mine, if they found someone who filled the role and could also sing generic soprano in the chorus for the rest of the season, I wouldn't even be considered. This doesn't really make me feel lots better, and then I remembered this conversation that eMc and I had a few years ago. I think someone had sent me a forward - were both having an absolutely abysmal week (we're talking a creole cream cheese ice cream week) - and at the end of the forward was this quote from Malachi:
'And He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver: and He shall purify the sons of Levi, and and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness.'
The conclusion to which Emily and I came was that we were being held to the fire to make us stronger. And so, we became stronger and graduated without bloodshed, wailing or gnashing of teeth or rending of garments, and no animals were harmed in the making of this production.
In short, we lived to fight another day. So, somewhere around the third carol service, it dawned on me that even if a summer opera company doesn't take notice of me, this doesn't make me less worthy. It just means there's something better out there, waiting to make itself known.
That said, I'm going to watch West Wing Season 5 and snuggle with my dog because school is out until January 16th!
Saturday, December 17, 2005
holiday cheer
I sang yesterday in aria class, gave my paper presentation, emailed the final draft in, and went out for a beer with the other DMA candidates. By the time we left the bar it was 4:30pm and I headed downtown to do some browsing before the McDonalds' christmas party (my voice teacher, having nothing to do with fries). I love cities at Christmas time. Everything is lit and there are people bustling around and, in my case, you sometimes get to hear a brass band playing carols outside of Macy's. Very festive.
Our friend Jason from IU came to town last night, bearing two huge suitcases for the rest of his trip back home and all of the gossip we don't get this far out east. We ate some pie and drank lovely lattes (care of our new fabulous espresso maker, big hearts to Stacey and Drew) and talked about the wedding. Everything is in place now. All that remains is for me to pick up the dress and clean the house in preparation for the en masse arrival of family.
The only thing more I could wish for would be that audition season had not directly precluded my wedding. I feel really shallow running to the mailbox to look for my acceptance and rejection letters from summer programs, and then taking my requisite day of sulking, when there is so much to be happy about: we are both in good health, the weather so far has been relatively kind, we're paying for our own wedding and not going broke doing it, our parents are able to come, our best friends are able to come, I survived my first semester at NEC, Frank's job treats him really well, and we live in a city named the 'safest mid-sized city in America' so we can walk the dog at night and feel safe. So why is it so hard to suppress the urge to change my major back to musicology, drop out of the opera program, and stop beating my head against the opera monster, in the midst of all these wonderful things in my life?
Frank says I take rejection too personally, but how can you not when you walk into an audition and the first thing they look for is whether or not you fit into their idea of a character, before you even open your mouth. 'Am I too tall? Do they hate my dress? My legs look good in this dress, am I showing too much leg? Maybe I should have worn the pantsuit. I should have gone on a diet last month, their costumes are all probably a size 8. Why aren't they looking at me? Why is that one looking at my shoes? I like these shoes, they match my dress. Maybe he hates my dress. Why are these judges always gay men who dress better than I do?' And even if what comes out of your mouth is brilliant, if you're taller than the tenor they want to cast, you go to the circular file. The one with the plastic liner.
It's not like I can switch instruments and decide to be something else. "Today, I think I will be a mezzo." No, it just doesn't work that way. You can't get vocal cord transplants, at least I don't think you can.
There was an article in 'Classical Singer' this month about whether or not you're geared up for a career in singing. One of the questions was 'do you value stability in your life?' And of course, the answer was, 'if you do, then a career in singing is not for you.' And maybe I'm just overanalyzing (probably am, actually) but yesterday was one of those days where nothing, not even the lights downtown, not even the brass band or the carol singing around the piano at the McDonalds', could make me feel like anything more than a sham, an academic masquerading as a performer.
That said, I have to get cleaned up to go sing the carol services at Trinity. Maybe that will shake me out of the funk.
Our friend Jason from IU came to town last night, bearing two huge suitcases for the rest of his trip back home and all of the gossip we don't get this far out east. We ate some pie and drank lovely lattes (care of our new fabulous espresso maker, big hearts to Stacey and Drew) and talked about the wedding. Everything is in place now. All that remains is for me to pick up the dress and clean the house in preparation for the en masse arrival of family.
The only thing more I could wish for would be that audition season had not directly precluded my wedding. I feel really shallow running to the mailbox to look for my acceptance and rejection letters from summer programs, and then taking my requisite day of sulking, when there is so much to be happy about: we are both in good health, the weather so far has been relatively kind, we're paying for our own wedding and not going broke doing it, our parents are able to come, our best friends are able to come, I survived my first semester at NEC, Frank's job treats him really well, and we live in a city named the 'safest mid-sized city in America' so we can walk the dog at night and feel safe. So why is it so hard to suppress the urge to change my major back to musicology, drop out of the opera program, and stop beating my head against the opera monster, in the midst of all these wonderful things in my life?
Frank says I take rejection too personally, but how can you not when you walk into an audition and the first thing they look for is whether or not you fit into their idea of a character, before you even open your mouth. 'Am I too tall? Do they hate my dress? My legs look good in this dress, am I showing too much leg? Maybe I should have worn the pantsuit. I should have gone on a diet last month, their costumes are all probably a size 8. Why aren't they looking at me? Why is that one looking at my shoes? I like these shoes, they match my dress. Maybe he hates my dress. Why are these judges always gay men who dress better than I do?' And even if what comes out of your mouth is brilliant, if you're taller than the tenor they want to cast, you go to the circular file. The one with the plastic liner.
It's not like I can switch instruments and decide to be something else. "Today, I think I will be a mezzo." No, it just doesn't work that way. You can't get vocal cord transplants, at least I don't think you can.
There was an article in 'Classical Singer' this month about whether or not you're geared up for a career in singing. One of the questions was 'do you value stability in your life?' And of course, the answer was, 'if you do, then a career in singing is not for you.' And maybe I'm just overanalyzing (probably am, actually) but yesterday was one of those days where nothing, not even the lights downtown, not even the brass band or the carol singing around the piano at the McDonalds', could make me feel like anything more than a sham, an academic masquerading as a performer.
That said, I have to get cleaned up to go sing the carol services at Trinity. Maybe that will shake me out of the funk.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
radio free hindrichs
I'm at page eighteen of my paper. I have to have between 20 and 25 pages, without bibliography, coverpage, or works cited list. To keep myself sane, I've been listening to programs on BBC Radio online.
I love the BBC. On no other radio station can you listen to a recorded broadcast of an English choral evensong, a service of lessons and carols, and some crazy program about Handel talking about how people had an objection to hearing scripture in a theatre because of the 'kinds of people' that work in theatres. Isn't that hilarious?
So now that I've wasted enough time, it's back to the grind. Are we sure no one wants to finish this thing for me?
I love the BBC. On no other radio station can you listen to a recorded broadcast of an English choral evensong, a service of lessons and carols, and some crazy program about Handel talking about how people had an objection to hearing scripture in a theatre because of the 'kinds of people' that work in theatres. Isn't that hilarious?
So now that I've wasted enough time, it's back to the grind. Are we sure no one wants to finish this thing for me?
Monday, December 12, 2005
Ceremony of whatnot
I'm writing my final paper for my musicology seminar on Benjamin Britten's 'Ceremony of Carols.' As I got absolutely nothing done last week during the opera things have now kicked into high gear and I am attempting to average a few pages a day so I can finish this paper up and be ready to present it by Friday. The other yahoos in my seminar complained last Tuesday when I asked if I could go this Friday instead of this Tuesday (tomorrow) due to my being locked up in the theatre for eleven hours a day until the opera was over (yesterday). My favorite part of this conversation was when the organist said, "well I have a concert this week too" and I said "yes, that's all good and fine but are you going to be sequestered in a theatre for the next six days with three petticoats, a wig, and two overskirts, are you required to sing, act and not fall off a nine foot raked platform at the same time you're floating a high C-sharp? no? then can I please do my presentation next Friday because that's all I'm going to be doing this week." And unfortunately, I'm the only singer in this seminar and they all look at me like my entire occupation consists of draping myself on a chaise lounge and singing 'O mio babbino caro' for fun. Singing isn't hard. And it doesn't require things like work, practice, knowledge of acting and languages and stagecraft and makeup and wigs and the ability to do all of those things at once without looking like it's hard. Whatever. Exit soapbox.
In other news, the opera did go marvelously well and as soon as the production photos are out, I will be posting documentation of the aforementioned pink and peach nightmare that was my costume. I confess, by the third run, I had developed a strange affinity for the swishing sound my skirts made, but I don't know how women lived this way. Sitting down it virtually out of the question, let alone playing volleyball or doing yoga or anything really other than perching on the edge of a chair and knitting quietly. Hiccups are a trial in a corset and that is all I will say about that. The pictures will speak for themselves, just you wait.
We also got six inches of snow which was really beautiful. The urge to sing 'White Christmas' is ever present. I was downtown yesterday walking through Restoration Hardware (guilty pleasure) and humming along with the Christmas carols. Something about cities in the snow, I can't explain it. Maybe it's the 'When Harry Met Sally' vibe I get. *sigh*
Love to you and yours, back to the paper!
In other news, the opera did go marvelously well and as soon as the production photos are out, I will be posting documentation of the aforementioned pink and peach nightmare that was my costume. I confess, by the third run, I had developed a strange affinity for the swishing sound my skirts made, but I don't know how women lived this way. Sitting down it virtually out of the question, let alone playing volleyball or doing yoga or anything really other than perching on the edge of a chair and knitting quietly. Hiccups are a trial in a corset and that is all I will say about that. The pictures will speak for themselves, just you wait.
We also got six inches of snow which was really beautiful. The urge to sing 'White Christmas' is ever present. I was downtown yesterday walking through Restoration Hardware (guilty pleasure) and humming along with the Christmas carols. Something about cities in the snow, I can't explain it. Maybe it's the 'When Harry Met Sally' vibe I get. *sigh*
Love to you and yours, back to the paper!
Monday, December 05, 2005
Petticoat junction
This is what my costume for the opera looks like: First I put on a petticoat and a corset. Then I put on the underskirt, the shirt (that has boning all over the place) and the vest, then the overskirt with the apron, the little lacy thing that hangs from my neck, and the bustle.
I'm wearing a bow the size of a Thanksgiving turkey on my ass. And it's all shades of pink and peach.
Who says I don't suffer for my art.
And in act II, when I'm supposed to be even prissier (if that's possible) they put on a ridiculous hat and some more layers with ruffles. It's like my worst nightmare as a five year old girl with the lace and the ruffles and the uncomfortable dresses, only I'm supposed to sing at the same time. Nightmare. Of course, there will be pictures.
In other news, we're now in the countdown to wedding and if I don't strangle the caterer or the dressmaker, we might just make it to the altar without bloodshed. I did my first Messiah yesterday and was officially the youngest soloist up there, surrounded by professors from Yale, and my countertenor friend who never bullshits says it was the fastest 'Rejoice greatly' he's ever heard and it was amazing. I'm just glad I didn't trip on my dress.
Must write paper, enough distracting myself. Hope everyone is feeling well - to the DP, I'm sorry if I gave you my trans-Atlantic cold.
I'm wearing a bow the size of a Thanksgiving turkey on my ass. And it's all shades of pink and peach.
Who says I don't suffer for my art.
And in act II, when I'm supposed to be even prissier (if that's possible) they put on a ridiculous hat and some more layers with ruffles. It's like my worst nightmare as a five year old girl with the lace and the ruffles and the uncomfortable dresses, only I'm supposed to sing at the same time. Nightmare. Of course, there will be pictures.
In other news, we're now in the countdown to wedding and if I don't strangle the caterer or the dressmaker, we might just make it to the altar without bloodshed. I did my first Messiah yesterday and was officially the youngest soloist up there, surrounded by professors from Yale, and my countertenor friend who never bullshits says it was the fastest 'Rejoice greatly' he's ever heard and it was amazing. I'm just glad I didn't trip on my dress.
Must write paper, enough distracting myself. Hope everyone is feeling well - to the DP, I'm sorry if I gave you my trans-Atlantic cold.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
home sick
A nasty bug attacked my upper respiratory system, leaving me without a voice and with a nasty cough. Cross your fingers, toes and any other items you can because if I can't croak out a note by Friday, I have to cancel my summer program auditions and that would just plain suck. Ohmm, Zithromax please work!
Thursday, November 24, 2005
t minus 30 minutes till turkey
This is my first Thanksgiving with my future in-laws and my fiancee's extended family. Since 10am, I have been in the kitchen, watching over my meringue, making sure the potatoes were all peeled, sorting vegetables, and intermittently watching the Godfather marathon on television.
Frank and I are staying at his sister's house. She and her family are in Georgia for a hi-youge family Thanksgiving with the in-laws (siblings, kids and spouses, I think something around 40 people will be there) so we are using her house and kitchen for the festivities. While I won't say that this is 'my' kitchen, we are the ones responsible for seeing that it gets back to the way Marianna left it, so my urge to clean is compounded by the 'someone else's house' thing.
Every year, mom and I would spend the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, making pies and preparing things for the big day so all we would have to do was throw stuff in the oven/boiler/microwave/etc and sling it on the table and it would be done. This was usually accomplished without great strife and with only one or two trips to the grocery.
FOUR trips to the grocery have been made so far by Frank, his mother, his sister and nephew. At the moment, I think there are three jars of mayonaise in the fridge, three boxes of dark brown sugar, and who knows how many bottles of white zinfandel. The turkey is almost done, the pies are cooling on the rack, and my future mother-in-law simply will NOT sit down and stay out of the kitchen so I can clean. Perhaps this is truly my Hindrichs showing through, but my family always did the 'clean as you go' method so when you sat down to dinner, nothing gross would be congealing in the sink and you would be able to enjoy your coffee and pie without fretting over the saucepans and nine million spoons used to prepare this meal.
I'm getting married in five weeks and I know that I marry the family. But my question is this:
even if I marry the family, do I have to marry their kitchen or worse, clean it?
Frank and I are staying at his sister's house. She and her family are in Georgia for a hi-youge family Thanksgiving with the in-laws (siblings, kids and spouses, I think something around 40 people will be there) so we are using her house and kitchen for the festivities. While I won't say that this is 'my' kitchen, we are the ones responsible for seeing that it gets back to the way Marianna left it, so my urge to clean is compounded by the 'someone else's house' thing.
Every year, mom and I would spend the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, making pies and preparing things for the big day so all we would have to do was throw stuff in the oven/boiler/microwave/etc and sling it on the table and it would be done. This was usually accomplished without great strife and with only one or two trips to the grocery.
FOUR trips to the grocery have been made so far by Frank, his mother, his sister and nephew. At the moment, I think there are three jars of mayonaise in the fridge, three boxes of dark brown sugar, and who knows how many bottles of white zinfandel. The turkey is almost done, the pies are cooling on the rack, and my future mother-in-law simply will NOT sit down and stay out of the kitchen so I can clean. Perhaps this is truly my Hindrichs showing through, but my family always did the 'clean as you go' method so when you sat down to dinner, nothing gross would be congealing in the sink and you would be able to enjoy your coffee and pie without fretting over the saucepans and nine million spoons used to prepare this meal.
I'm getting married in five weeks and I know that I marry the family. But my question is this:
even if I marry the family, do I have to marry their kitchen or worse, clean it?
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
'tis the season
To get hitched, that is.
One of my oldest friends is getting married tomorrow. As I spoke to my dressmaker the other day about a pickup date I realized that the one-month mark is drawing nigh. Family members are sending in their arrival dates, we're trying to pick a location for a rehearsal dinner, but all I can think about is that in thirty-eight days, I will be the proud owner of a new last name. This is, of course, a matter of some semantic debate because I'll have to stay a Hindrichs on stage and in academia if one or more of the following things happens this year:
1. I get hired by Boston Lyric Opera.
2. One of my articles gets published in a musicology journal.
3. I get accepted into a major summer opera program.
I wouldn't be concerned about the name-changing thing if I hadn't just sent out a big batch of audition applications with 'Hindrichs' on them, but changing my name preemptively seemed weird so there we are. Still having questions as to how Dr. Pesci would look on paper versus Dr. Hindrichs. So far, the only Dr. P in the family is my future father-in-law and I don't know how the rest of the family would take to me becoming the second...
We're heading down to DC tomorrow morning to spend turkey day with the family. In a pre-celebratory endeavor, Dr. Lois Leventhal came to Boston for the NASM convention (BORING!) with her husband and we spent most of the day yesterday gallavanting about the city and shopping and drinking new beers and enjoying each other's company. For those of you who do not know, Dr. Leventhal is the person for whom this blog is named. A good Jewish girl from Boston herself, she refers to me as the Divine Miss Em and I refer to her as the Divine Dr. L and she keeps me up to date on my Yiddish. One must keep their CSE (continuing shiksa education) up to date. Perhaps sometime in the future I will tell the story of my shiksa induction.
I hope everyone has a marvelous Thanksgiving and eats lots of turkey. Alas in vain, we aren't frying one this year but I will be hard at work in the kitchen making my famous fabulous bourbon pecan pie. Wedding diet be damned, I'm gonna eat pie and turkey and cranberry like nobody's business!
One of my oldest friends is getting married tomorrow. As I spoke to my dressmaker the other day about a pickup date I realized that the one-month mark is drawing nigh. Family members are sending in their arrival dates, we're trying to pick a location for a rehearsal dinner, but all I can think about is that in thirty-eight days, I will be the proud owner of a new last name. This is, of course, a matter of some semantic debate because I'll have to stay a Hindrichs on stage and in academia if one or more of the following things happens this year:
1. I get hired by Boston Lyric Opera.
2. One of my articles gets published in a musicology journal.
3. I get accepted into a major summer opera program.
I wouldn't be concerned about the name-changing thing if I hadn't just sent out a big batch of audition applications with 'Hindrichs' on them, but changing my name preemptively seemed weird so there we are. Still having questions as to how Dr. Pesci would look on paper versus Dr. Hindrichs. So far, the only Dr. P in the family is my future father-in-law and I don't know how the rest of the family would take to me becoming the second...
We're heading down to DC tomorrow morning to spend turkey day with the family. In a pre-celebratory endeavor, Dr. Lois Leventhal came to Boston for the NASM convention (BORING!) with her husband and we spent most of the day yesterday gallavanting about the city and shopping and drinking new beers and enjoying each other's company. For those of you who do not know, Dr. Leventhal is the person for whom this blog is named. A good Jewish girl from Boston herself, she refers to me as the Divine Miss Em and I refer to her as the Divine Dr. L and she keeps me up to date on my Yiddish. One must keep their CSE (continuing shiksa education) up to date. Perhaps sometime in the future I will tell the story of my shiksa induction.
I hope everyone has a marvelous Thanksgiving and eats lots of turkey. Alas in vain, we aren't frying one this year but I will be hard at work in the kitchen making my famous fabulous bourbon pecan pie. Wedding diet be damned, I'm gonna eat pie and turkey and cranberry like nobody's business!
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