Succumbing to the media machine and the state of modern health care

I have succumbed. My cell phone now rings "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic."
And I am not ashamed of it, not one bit. It took every ounce of my strength to not download the other ringtone that was suggested: Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack." Ever since Stacey mentioned it on her blog, my interest in Justin has been renewed. Or maybe it's just because I think he's pretty. But I digress.

I'm here in the 'dell, flying back to Boston tomorrow at an obscene hour of the morning, and it has been a rough couple of days. I flew in on Thursday, again at an obscene hour of the morning, and met with my dad, Tante and Opa for lunch at the hospital, after which we went over to see Oma in the skilled nursing facility. And this is what I have to say: there is such a tremendous disregard for the elderly in our country. People care for their pets better than they do for the infirm, mentally unstable, and those otherwise incapable of caring for themselves. And my poor old Oma, addle-brained though she is, has to be in this facility day after day as they continue to 'care' for her. With this kind of care, I'm surprised that there is not a funeral home attached to the building, just past the circle of comfy chairs stationed out back where all of the nurses go to smoke. You know, the chairs that are supposed to be sat in by patients and their visitors. She looks at us, confused most of the time and speaking in half-German half-gibberish (good thing I took German, right?) and trying so hard to convince us that she really needs to go home. When she's lucid, it's the worst because she knows where she is. I cannot help but think that it would be better were she completely out of it, at least then she would be in her own world all the time, not coming in and out to find herself held captive in this place where her clothes mysteriously disappear and the nurses appear to radiate indifference. There are, of course, the few who are genuinely kind. They address her by name and treat her with the respect and dignity befitting of any human being. But there are also the vast majority of underpaid caregivers (though I am reticent to use that term) who could really care less if she gets her medication, if her shoes go back on her feet after physical therapy, if her clothes are really her clothes and go back in her dresser. Perhaps some families can't deal with it - they have to park their family members in a facility and just pray that all goes well. But when the Hindrichs clan made an onslaught the other day, with me and my aunt and my Opa and my dad, all of us speaking to her and each other in German and demanding to know where the hell her jacket is because Opa put it on her only two hours ago, the natives did look distinctly unsettled. As well they should.

On the way home from dinner tonight, I told my Dad that whatever it is that he desires for his living will, he had better put it in writing because I refuse to make those decisions. It is not life or death that I am worried about. It is that terrible middle ground between, the one where we are neither fully alive nor fully dead, that terrifies me. I worry that the ones I love, or even I myself, will end up there, occasionally surfacing into reality and seeing a host of lackadaisical people who hold my medicine in the palm of their hand and have no interest whatsoever in whether or not I live or die. Living the last of a half-life, and forcing my family to do the same. And I know that Opa's most heartfelt wish is for her to spend her last months in peace and dignity, comfortable and well cared for, and it breaks his heart to see her like this, sad and lonely and surrounded by this band of apathy, and I don't know what to say or do. We catch glimpses of her, and I know that she is still in there somewhere, and we are taking part in a terrible game of hide and seek, where we are neither permitted to hide nor seek, only wait until she comes out and says "Here I am!" for that brief moment before the shades are drawn yet again. It is a sad and depressing game, in which there are no winners and no one with any authority to say "no fair, let's start over."

I am wearing her wedding rings now, two of them. Opa is moving out of their house and in with my parents over the next few weeks, and he wishes to take nothing but his clothes to his new room. The furniture has been divided and claimed, dishes and linens and all things household apportioned, and her personal belongings gone through. He asked me to hold out my hands the other day and put two of their anniversary bands onto my right hand - I think I'm wearing 20 and 40. How unusual it is to be wearing these rings that were hers, and yet she is still alive. They fit my finger remarkably well, stacked up against one another. I look over at my mother, sitting on the other side of her bed and I ask myself, "will we be here in another twenty-five years, me at her side and her somewhere off in Neverland?" I don't think it will be so, as this kind of decline does not run in her family, nor has anyone else suffered from Alzheimer's, but I think it is somehow made worse when someone who is so strong and so firm of will is reduced to a shell as my Oma is now.

So before I get too morose, I'm going to kiss my mom and dad goodnight and prepare for the trip back to Boston. I apologize to my readers who were not prepared for this sudden outburst, but the whole thing weighs heavy on my heart. I will blog about the fun parts of my trip another time. Goodnight Moon and goodnight to you all.

Country road, take me home to the place where I belong

Yes friends, I'm feeling prosaic again, and this time it's with John Denver stuck in my head. It's Monday, just before 11am, and in a little less than three days I will be on an airplane (see I avoided the second John Denver reference just now) and returning to the Homeland. Or, as I refer to it among my fellow Southerners, I'm going back to God's country. The land of sweet tea and grits and fresh seafood and temperatures above 60. I always remembered October as the time of year when it started to get chilly at night back home. Football games, rolling houses, parades up and down the boulevard, sitting outside and saying to myself that I might want to go get a sweatshirt. Here in Boston it's a different story. We're already weatherproofing the windows and preparing to have the oil heat turned on and I'm sitting here wearing a scarf already. Crazy. But when my momma fetches me from the airport on Thursday morning, I know that the humidity will reach out and fog up my sunglasses just like it used to and I will have to peel off the layers one by one and throw them in the back seat of the car. I'm already fantasizing about fried shrimp on a po-boy.

Sidebar: my friend Sherri came to visit last week from New York and when she asked me about the places in town we needed to see, after I listed the historic locations I began to rattle off the best pubs and restaurants. She says to me, "Are we planning on eating our way through Boston?" This raised a very interesting subject: the associations of food with regional memory. I know that I'm a foodie, but I never realized how much I associate the comforts of home with the food. My grandmother's marinated pork chops, cuban steak, black beans & rice. Snowballs from Sal's on Metairie road. The tea shop in Victoria and their scones. Timothy Taylor's Landlord Ale at the Great Western Pub in Exeter. Shipley's Donuts.
There are other sensual associations, but I guess for me, food is the strongest. Shortly followed by smell, but that is another blog for another time.

Must go and translate French for my lesson. Wow, I'm hungry now!

And to the DP, I'm going to beat you to Ace's toes. It's on like Donkey Kong.

It's only life, after all

First, I know it's belated, but Happy Rosh Hashanah to all of my Jewish friends out there.

I'm listening to the Indigo Girls in my office with my husband's wedding ring on my thumb, feeling it go clickity-clack when I type (he's making gnocchi in the kitchen) and waiting for our dinner company to arrive. Joel & Jaci, our erstwhile housemates, are now all married and living in their sweet little apartment in JP, and they have decided to join us for some Sunday evening food and festivity.

This was a good weekend for a number of reasons. First, the grandmother actually got up and walked a little with the help of her physical therapists. It's touch and go from day to day - when she's lucid, she's cooperative to a point. When she's not lucid, she's not cooperative at all. But I figure it like this - so long as she's fighting something from day to day, she's got a chance.

Second, the husband and I sang at a wedding yesterday. Two of our friends from Trinity got married and the groom (who is from Ocean Springs, MS) had a bleeding armadillo groom's cake. It was a moment for which I think I have waited my entire life. And I have to say, red velvet cake is only made better when baked in the shape of southern style road kill. After much kissing of the bride and groom and their entire extended family (once you tell someone who's from Mississippi that you went to Southern Miss, you're as good as family) we cleaned out the car and spent the evening at John Harvard's Brew Pub with our lovely friend Osnat on her birthday. The older I get, the more I realize how fantastic my friends really are. The ones who remember how silly and young I used to be (but don't bring it up) and the ones who just met me last year and sat through my constant bitching about the DMA program and the ones who even remember when my hair was red (and THANKFULLY don't bring it up) and didn't comment when I changed it back. Maybe it's the Indigo Girls making me prosaic, but this line has been in my head since I was in Germany:

"All the shiny little trinkets of temptation, something new instead of something old. But all you've got to do is scratch beneath the surface and it's fool's gold."

Even though they're from Georgia, it seemed very natural to listen to them when hiking the path in Ueberlingen, up and down the gorge and around the cow pasture and down the treacherous hill covered with overripe plums. And even though last year was hard for me in many ways, I'm so much happier because of these fantastic people who stood by me and kept pushing me forward. Good people, those crazy chicks from Georgia.

And finally, after two services in the incredible humidity this morning and brunch with the lovely folks from the choir and some homework in the library, I treated myself to getting my damned hair fixed. Apparently, when you say you want layers in Germany, you end up with something that resembles a fe-mullet. And though no one said so, that stupid bottom layer was about an inch and a half too long and I felt my redneck past nipping at my heels (find THAT song reference, why don't you) though I am proud to say that my mother never subjected me or my brother to the child mullet. Thanks mom. But lest you think that the mullet has gone the way of the dodo or stirrup pants, I am here to tell you that the mullet and its companion the fauxhawk are alive and well, flourishing even, among the metrosexual men of Europe. I was frightened by the number of German, Polish, and Italian men sporting one or both of these follicular faux-pas. It's just wrong I tell you.

Observations: almost everything is better with Hollandaise sauce, Labs only get sweeter with age, and even the thought of needles makes me squeamish. Who's not looking forward to bloodwork in the morning? THIS girl. I said to my dad, "You know Pop, I know that it doesn't hurt half as bad as I think it does, but I've just never gotten used to the feel of needles in my skin." And he says to me, "Honey, that's okay. It would be weird if you had." Reason #5079 why Emily will never get a tattoo. Because she's a BIG chicken for needles. Don't ask how the piercing ever happened. It was a moment that will never be duplicated.

Fun with words for today: The word 'schwuel' in German means 'humid.' The word 'schwul' in German means 'homosexual.' What a difference an umlaut makes.

I hope everyone has enjoyed this episode of non sequitor. I just felt like waxing lyrical for a while. Happy Sunday everyone!

And now, a little conversation about food

Update on the grandmother: she went in and out of surgery with reasonable success, and is currently bitching at anyone who will listen in ICU. I take this as a good sign because so long as she is bitching, she is still breathing. A blessing on your house, mazeltov, mazeltov, says I.

Also, the little brother turned 18 on Monday. If my youth was not over before, it sure is now.

And now for a meme, procured from the blog of the DP.

How do you like your eggs?
Poached and runny, so I can smear them on toast.

How do you take your coffee/tea?
Coffee - fully leaded with half and half and a packet of splenda. Tea - also fully leaded, preferably something yummy like Darjeeling, with milk.

Favorite breakfast foods:
Grits with cheese. Oatmeal with broken pralines.

Peanut butter:
Organic, all natural, perfect for spreading on the bagels I can't eat. But toaster waffles with peanut butter are yummy!

Coke or Pepsi?
Coke, and only out of the fountain or a glass bottle.

You're feeling lazy. What do you make? Jam on toast?
Scrambled eggs and white bread toast.

You're feeling really lazy? What kind of pizza do you order?
Mushroom, from Dominos' Pizza.

You feel like cooking. What do you make?
Eggplant pasta bake. Lemon chicken with artichoke hearts. Bananas foster.

Do any foods bring back good memories?
I always think of my grandmother when I drink Camomile Tea. She would only drink it out of a cup and saucer. And every memory that involves crawfish is a good one.

Do any foods bring back bad memories?
OYSTERS. I know that this is borderline sacrelige for the southerners, but my dad slathered a raw oyster in hot sauce and said it was ketchup. I was five. Needless to say, me and the oysters, not so much.

Do any foods remind you of someone?
A few specific bottles of wine, and a rather unpleasant evening of martinis. This is why I do NOT drink gin.

Is there a food you refuse to eat?
Oysters (see above), I usually don't eat pork because it doesn't like me. And if I can avoid it, I don't like to eat pieces of onion unless they are battered and fried.
I think I will make an exception for most anything (NOT OYSTERS) if it is battered and fried.

What was your favorite food as a child?
Oatmeal out of the packet

Is there a food you hated as a child but now love?
Artichoke hearts. Always thought they were weird when I was a kiddo.

Is there a food you loved as a child but now hate?
Croutons. I don't know why.

Favorite fruit and vegetable:
Peaches and spinach.

Favorite junk food:
Hmm. I will kill a bag of Zapp's cajun craw-taters or jalapeno chips, but will only eat salt and vinegar chips with beer. I love love LOVE Oreos, jell-O, and peanut M&M's. All the others are lame.

Favorite between meal snack:
Piece of fruit or tea & toast.

Do you have any weird food habits?
Not really. I pull the skin off of chicken and trim the fat off my steaks. I do blot the grease on pepperoni pizza, just because I think it looks gross. Does that count? My brother used to make sure his food was not touching on his plate. I hope he doesn't still do that...

You're on a diet. What food(s) do you fill up on?
I'm obviously filled up on hallucinogenic drugs already if I'm on a diet.

You're off your diet. Now what would you like?
Beer. A good one, and fast.

How spicy do you order Indian/Thai?
Mild to hot.

Can I get you a drink?
Sure, are you buying?

May I get you a drink?
What is this, fourth grade?

Red wine or white?
Riesling, thanks. Red gives me bad acid.

We only have beer.
Then why the heck did you offer wine? I'll have some St. Bernardus ABT 12. And make it snappy, all this talk about food makes me hungry.

Favorite dessert:
My mom's bread pudding.

The perfect nightcap?
Cognac

Beware: explosion of bile forthcoming

My grandmother has dementia. Over the last few years, she has slipped further and further into the obscure land of wherever it is that people with dementia go, and spends less and less time in this reality. She is a stubborn old broad, as stubborn old broads in my family are, and after many episodes of attempted escape, self starvation, and manic hallucinations, my poor grandfather had her evaluated for care at a facility for patients with dementia. A facility that is designed to make sure people who are not in reality do not hurt themselves or others. A facility that has safety at the fore of its priorities, and respects the needs of individuals who can no longer care for themselves.

I do not know what suffering my grandfather has endured over these last few years, but I am certain that it must have reached a point where he felt it was beyond his capacity to care for himself and her at the same time, because the decision to have a loved one cared for by others is not easy. I cannot even imagine what horrors my grandmother experiences when she comes out of the haze and into reality for a moment, and perceives that she is in a care facility, not at home in her house on Charles Drive with her husband and pictures and dishes and roses.

But far worse is the experience that they, and my parents, have endured on this evening. On their way home from Ruston, visiting the little brother for his 18th birthday, the parents decided to stop in and visit Oma at her care facility. She was in a wheelchair, complaining about pain in her leg. Now Oma is a complainer - not one to keep quiet about anything, but for her to truly complain about pain is something else. So my mom pats her on the leg and realizes that it is hugely swollen. My father questions the nurses aides. They claim they know nothing. Oma says that she fell earlier in the day. She is hysterical, begs my parents not to leave her. The useless nurses aides bring her TYLENOL for her pain, after my father asks if they have any medication. He wants to know if they can have her treated or at least examined. They say that they can call 911 or a family member can check her out. So my father scoops up her 82lb body, and whisks her away to Slidell to the hospital where he works. He calls my grandfather, who knows nothing because they did NOT CALL HIM to tell him that his wife, his partner and helpmate of 50+ years was in pain, let alone that she had fallen. And they meet at the hospital, where it is discovered that she has broken her hip.

To a young person, a broken hip is a major injury. It involves serious and painful surgery, followed by a very long and unpleasant recovery. To a person who is in their late 70s and of poor health, a broken hip is tantamount to the death knoll. As I write it, I cannot even believe it is true, because she was meant to be in this facility where they could care for her better than my grandfather. More attention could be paid, people with more training and better capacity for support would be looking after her and making sure she did not injure herself. And somehow, within the span of FOUR DAYS, my grandmother has a broken hip. Even in her semi-lucid state, she begged my mother to not leave her, saying over and over again that "these people" do not care about the patients, they don't care what happens to them.

What would have happened had my parents not stopped in to visit? Would she have gone on, complaining about her pain and continued to be ignored? There was not even a notation in her chart saying that she had complained about pain, let alone any documentation of her falling. I see over and over again my last vision of her little frail body, the last shell of what used to be a mouthy robust woman and all I can do is think of how scared she must be, living inside her head in an alternate reality, feeling pain and only half knowing the people around her. The anger that wells up inside of me is so great that I can't even think clearly and I may have actually said 'fuck' to my father on the phone when offering to write a nasty letter or sixteen to the facility that managed to neglect her so completely in such a short period of time.

Now I'm not one to get out my Bible and beat people with it, but isn't there some little phrase that has to do with loving your neighbor as you love yourself? And aren't we all neighbors in one sense or another? Then how in the name of all that is holy could an entire staff manage to disregard the cries of an hysterical old woman? Perhaps they are made of stone, or styrafoam, or astroturf. Or maybe they have no souls. But I tell you this: if I learn their names, then they will hear from me. Personally. And in technicolor. Because the heartless walking carcasses that did not call 911, that stuck her in a wheelchair and handed her Tylenol, have a seriously rude awakening coming.

In the meantime, say a prayer for my grandmother and go call yours. Someday, I will be an old broad, and I only hope that I will be lucid enough to enjoy it.

I love Boston in the fall

Just got home from Germany on Monday, still completely uncertain as to when I am supposed to eat and sleep but steadily moving back toward the norm of Eastern Standard Time. Last night, when I got off the train and walked up the platform, I smelled that fantastic smell that absolutely screams FALL!! That wonderful smell of burning leaves. Being from the South, we don't get much of that action before say November, but it's mid-September here and I'm wearing my new festive purple coat and a scarf. Huzzah! I'm sure that the novelty of this will wear off when it's April and I am still wearing a coat, but just for now, I think happy thoughts and let my coat blow open in the wind, just because the breeze feels nice.

Going to see the in-laws this weekend for their 50th wedding anniversary. Should be a good time, and I get to meet more of the cousins who could not come to our wedding. Not to mention the added bonus of being near that elusive restaurant across the bay, Hemingway's. When I am old and hopefully not too wrinkled (sunscreen is the way forward!) I want to be able to walk out on my porch and see the water. I would prefer that it was the Gulf of Mexico, but if it has to be the Atlantic, I can be okay with that.

And to Drew, who so successfully killed my nostalgia buzz on the last post, I have pictures of you with the wallet chain AND the highlights in your hair AND your hiking boots with big white socks. So there mister.

Inspiral Carpets

WARNING: highly personal post, so if you're only spectating for the daily dose of wit, come back tomorrow

Does anyone else remember this band? They were really popular back when 106.7 in Slidell was still the Zephr and they played awesome music. Before the times of jLo came and monopolized the radio scene. Anyway, there was this line from one of their songs that keeps going through my head:

'What have I done with my life? Is this the end, when two worlds collide?'

We're gonna do this the organized way, because I just can't handle it any other.

1. My little brother started college this week at LaTech. This is the same place where me and the DP used to go to summer camp when we were thirteen. And that's just unacceptable.

2. I received yet another email about my 10 year class reunion. Going to little brother's graduation from the same school this past May was enough of deja vu for me, and I don't know if I have the emotional fortitude to face all of those people. Maybe 10 years isn't long enough. Maybe we should shoot for 15 or 20. When the rest of the photos have gotten lost in the next move. Do we ever reach a point where we no longer care what happened 10 years ago?

3. Rode the train from Lucerne to Basel with the DP. Here we are, 15 years later, two married women drinking tea and kabitzing on the train, still getting looked at funny from the passersby. How many times has this moment happened in time before? Three hours was not long enough, and I miss my friend so much. Fie upon the lawyers that she could not come to Stuttgart this weekend.

4. Just saw a new picture up of my cousin studying in Germany. She is, of course, gorgeous, and so full of energy for what is new in her life. And I see in her face all of the fire that I used to see in my Oma, who has unfortunately checked out and may not return. And I don't know what happens to people when they are still physically here but mentally somewhere else. I am afraid to find out, but I must go see her when I go home. So many answers about me are within her. Wehe mir.

5. I have an audition in 20 minutes for Helmut Rilling. And I feel, truly, that this being here in Germany has helped me come to terms with who I am and what it is that I do. And just knowing that somewhere, perhaps not in the US, there is a world in which I am perfectly suited to what I do and the people with whom I speak, not fully comprehending everything they say, knowing that my grammar is not perfect, I feel that this is a good place for me. And if the fates are kind, maybe they will bring me back here sooner rather than later, with husband and dog in tow.

It will be good to be back in the US, where the money is not as festively colored, but tonight I'm going to sit down at the wine festival and drink some good local Riesling and enjoy the last of my time here in Germany. Time to go put on the singer face.

Week two: Wallace and Gromit in German

We are nearly done with week two here in Ueberlingen, only a few more days before we take off for tour. The weather has been beantiful, with the exception of a few nasty bouts of wind and rain. We went to Konstanz on the other side of the Bodensee and it was just amazing - played cards the whole time back and watched the rain pound down. I'm not normally a fan of thunderstorms, but something about being on the water just upps the cool factor infinitely.

Have sampled lots of German beer, as befits a good German girl, and yesterday had my first plate of potato pancakes, for which I have so long waited. The guys were on the hunt for bratwurst but really, it's the potato products of Germany that whet my appetite something fierce. Now all I have to do is wait for the dumplings. Bread, beer, and potato whatnot - these are the best things about Germany, other than the part where I feel I finally speak the language well enough to survive. Purchased two books: Harry Potter 1 in German, and Pu der Baer. I admit that Pu der Baer is a little more on my level for grammar, and it keeps me honest with my articles, but I'm slogging through Harry Potter nonetheless. Still hunting down mp3s of Xavier Naidoo, trying to get as much of the language into my system as possible.

Laundry must be done, and Mahler must be rehearsed. If anyone is in Salzburg or Lucerne, come see me!

p.s. Today is my parents 34th wedding anniversary so send them a note and say congrats to them both for not killing each other? What does Miss Jean always say?
'The arsenic is next to the allspice. I have a shovel and no one will miss you.'
Now if that doesn't spell eternal bliss, I don't know what does.

And now, for another episode of 'Shiksa abroad'

So it's my third day here in Germany. The keyboards are funny (and if you see a y or a z transposed, it's not because I'm eccentric), the food is good so far, and the Bodensee is visible from our cafeteria. Week one of any rehearsal process is tedious at best, and I'm trying to keep my sense of humor up. Jet lag subsided rather easily, and I finally figured out what is good about the Amsterdam airport. The last time I went thru Amsterdam was on the way to Rome. I was tired, hot, and only had two hours to figure out where the heck my flight was. This time, I was tired, cold, and had five hours to figure out where the heck my flight was, and then I found it. The holy grail of travel, above my head. A beautiful sign that said: To Comfortable Chairs.

Yes friends, they had big chairs that resembled deck chairs, but padded, and in an area explicitly designated for sleeping. So I curled up around my backpack, set my alarm, and caught all of the sleep I should have gotten on the plane but did not due to turbulence. It was beautiful. And in spite of all of the travel restrictions, my airport experience was painless. They allowed me to bring my lip balm, didn't confiscate my deodorant (a serious fear that I had - the TSA list only said gel deodorants but you just never know) and after I awoke from my nap in Amsterdam, I washed my face and sauntered over to the duty free cosmetic counter so I could partake of the free samples of moisturizer. The DP will know how important this is, considering that flying is brutal enough on your skin. But flying without moisturizer is just torture. I even got to sample some of that La Mer stuff that everyone raves about and seriously, I think my Nivea in the blue jar works better. It didn't make a dent in the dryness of my hands. But I digress.

I got a cup of tea and ate my breakfast\lunch and waited for my little flight to Stuttgart, where I was promptly met by a member of the staff who transported me and my ginormous suitcase (that also survived unscathed and unpilfered, thank heavens) to Ueberlingen, this little tourist town on the Bodensee and I have to tell you it is just beautiful here. Green as far as the eye can see, hills and pastures and the water. I went and explored a little yesterday with a few of the German girls and found, of all things, a gelateria on the water that served Ferro Rocher flavored gelato. Pretty much like heaven.

I wish I knew how to copy pictures from my phone so I could post a few, but if you want to see where I am, go to the website for the ensemble and check us out!

http:\\www.festivalensemble.org

There should be pictures up on the daily news section. Maybe you'll see yours truly making funny faces while singing. Much love to all from abroad, wishing you all weather as pleasant as it is here. I actually wore my hoodie yesterday and was cold!

And to the DP, look on the website for our dates in Lucerne. We come in the day before the concert with nothing to do!

I am an opera singer

This is yet another reason why I love Cake. There's almost nothing that pleases me more than witty discourse, especially about my profession. So if you don't already know this song, here are the words that bring a smile to my face.

I'm in New York for a few days visiting my friend Sherri. Today is her birthday so we're going to the movies and down to the South Street Seaport to drink Apricot Ale at a brewpub and enjoy being old enough to afford both. I'm not a New York person by nature. I like to visit, but it's not a city that feeds my blood and makes my heart leap. There are some for whom New York is the answer to all of the longing in their belly, but for me, it's just a nice place to vacation for a little while. The subway is too loud and too smelly, the buildings are too tall, the lights too bright. But I will say this - at 11pm when you've been drinking champagne for three hours, with a nice little quantity of vanilla cognac in hand, standing on the rooftop of an apartment building and looking out at the moon and the Empire State building and the Chrysler Building, you understand why people sell their furniture and leave their nice low-rent apartment in the Midwest for this city. Last week I watched Manhattan, an early Woody Allen movie. There's a whole bit at the beginning about this man who has too much romance in his soul for New York, and while I'm always happy to go back to Boston, there's a little more romance in my soul for New York than there was before.

Have a good laugh at the lyrics to the opera singer song. I'm going to go throw my cape.

I am an opera singer
I stand on painted tape
It tells me where I'm going
And where to throw my cape

I call my costars brother
I call my costars knave
I play both good and evil parts
I sing to Verdi's grave

And every single morning
By 10 AM I'm dressed
My rehearsals last for hours and hours
With diligence I have been blessed

Some people, they call me monster
Some people, they call me saint
My talent feeds my darker side
Yet no one will complain

I am an opera singer
I sing in foreign lands
I've sung for kings in Europe
And emperors in Japan

And after each performance
People stand around and wait
Just to tell me that they love my voice
Just to tell me that I'm great

I am an opera singer
I will sing when you're all dead
I sing the mountains crumbling apart
I sing what can't be said

I am an opera singer
I sing in foreign lands
Most people seem to know my name
Or at least know who I am

How could I ignore the boy next door

You know that song, don't you? It's the one that Judy Garland sings in 'Meet me in St. Louis' after meeting Mr. hot stuff love interest on the other side of the hedge. He's sweet, charming, well-groomed, and a bit awkward. And of course, all ends well and they sail happily into the sunset on the trolley.

This story is not about that guy. This story is about the new guy who moved into the 3rd floor attic apartment while I was in Italy. I don't know what his first name is, I've never seen his face, but after yesterday, I already know so much about him.

You know that guy, that guy who used to cruise down Gause Blvd in Slidell with his windows ultra tinted and DMX rattling their highly mirrored reflections? That guy who bought a Honda Civic and then had it tricked out with an exhaust pipe the size of a blender and fuschia pinstriping and neon lights? That guy who spent his life savings at Mobil One Auto Sound so he could get the subwoofers that wake the dead and make the living wish they were? The guy who has actually seen all of the 'Fast & Furious' movies and probably paid full nighttime price for them?

Yes dear friends, this story is about THAT guy. I think he used to own a Pontiac Sunfire. Something relatively benign that didn't sound like the apocalypse when it left the driveway, it was black and inoffensive, and looked like your typical city-mobile. Good gas mileage, small enough to fit in a metro parking space. That is not the vehicle that is currently parked in the driveway. The other day, husband and I came home and saw a very silly vehicle parked in front of the house. It was champagne colored, with the engine intake thing on the hood and the big raised spoiler on the back, the kind of car that you usually see doing circles in the K-mart parking lot after dark. We giggled and pointed, and assumed it was someone visiting Mr. Special on the 3rd floor. But oh no, Mr. Special came home that night IN the aforementioned contraption, went upstairs and came back down with his digital camera and took pictures of it and, when asked by my husband if it was his, he said that he had decided to "treat" himself by trading in his old and boring car for this new and exciting one.

Now let me say that when I was ten, my dad came home with a sports car. It was a 1990 Nissan 240SX and it was cherry red and stick shift and boy did I love driving that car. It got fantastic gas mileage and was by far, the most reliable thing in our driveway at the time, next to perhaps, the lawnmower. I have nothing against people who purchase vanity vehicles. I have nothing against people who take pictures of their vanity vehicles. (Sidebar - the guy who lived across the street from us when I was a kid had a red Corvette that he would occasionally park on the lawn in front of the flood lights and take pictures of it. Interesting.) But when Mr. Man comes home at 11pm and spends fifteen minutes revving the engine IN THE DRIVEWAY just so he can feel the pleasure of the vibration, I have to suppress a giggle.

We are a Honda family now, my mom with her Accord and my dad with his Civic and me with my Civic. And while I would still love to drive a baby blue convertible Beetle, I am perfectly content with my sweet little girl out in the driveway, keeping company with what used to be something made by Subaru but is now an unfortunately altered piece of machinery that sounds like a cross between a leaf blower and my Cuisinart with delusions of grandeur. The car, that is. Not my Cuisinart.

May your mileage be high and your emissions low. Why isn't there a 'What not to drive" show?

Things to do when the power goes out

1. take a nap - if you can, napping is the best way to ignore the power outage. It will come back on eventually.

2. get in the car and go to the grocery store - at least they have a/c. Try to avoid purchasing everything in the frozen food section.

3. take dog for a walk - this is a fine idea, but you eventually have to return to your domicile, in hopes that the power is back on. If it's not, then you're hot and sweaty with a hot and sweaty dog.

4. power down your laptop. If you don't, it will die and then your last connection to the world will be lost and you will have to resort to smoke signals and/or paper airplanes.

5. make fans out of leftover paper like you did in 4th grade. One for each hand is preferable.

6. go down to the basement with the excuse of "seeing if the switch needs to be flipped." most of the time, the switch is not the problem, but the basement is a solid 15 degrees cooler than the house. In your industriousness, do NOT do laundry as the heat from the dryer will negate the 15 degree advantage.

7. drive to the shore and drink blueberry beer with your piano teacher.

And which of these are we doing tonight my friends? We're picking Lucky Number Seven and going to see Dr. Lois Leventhal, the wonderful woman to whom this blog is dedicated and by whom it was inspired. Lolo is waiting for us with a fridge full of cold Wachusett Blueberry Beer* and once the sun sets, we're going to cook some butter chicken and eat it on the porch. Because it's really the only civilized thing one can do.

*Before I catch flak from my beer drinking friends, I want to say that I was very skeptical about the blueberry beer. I'm not a person who conventionally enjoys the fruity beer - sticking an orange in my Blue Moon is really about as close as I'll get. Even Turbodog and Purple Haze are a little much for me. But I tell you, my true believer friends, the Wachusett Blueberry Beer is nothing to scoff at. It is seriously tasty and in no way resembles a wine cooler or anything you would be heckled for drinking at a football game by a self-respecting redneck.

Ta ta for now, I'm going to expire in the next room.

GK

GK, short for Garrison Keillor. This is what they call him in the movie, 'A Prairie Home Companion,' which I saw last night at our local West Newton theatre. Let me preface this post by saying that I love all things kitch, and nothing tickles me more than a good turn of phrase. This is why I have love in my heart for GK.

If you're not a fan of the radio show, don't bother going to see the movie because you won't get it, and you'll wonder what happened over the last two hours or so and who are all those people up there singing? And why is Lindsey Lohan in this movie? - most of us wonder why she was in the movie to begin with, but I have a theory: she was there to provide a reference point of pop culture amid the sea of eloquence and poetry. Boy can that girl NOT sing. - But if you are a fan of the radio show, get thee to a theatre, shell out the cash, and be prepared for the sweet sounds of Prudence Johnson and some unexpectedly good singing from Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin who are HI-larious as the two singing sisters who are past their prime.

On a completely separate topic, husband and I are staying in the house here in Newton. It was tempting to pick up and move to the other apartment, the apartment with new siding and new windows going in and gas heat, but truly, even in my most poisonous moments, I wouldn't wish a move in the summer on anyone. Especially when we're going through this ridiculous heat wave thing. Now y'all know that I'm no stranger to heat or humidity, but when Boston gets above 90 and the only place that has air conditioning is the Stop & Shop and the mall, there's something seriously wrong. I'm tempted to go sit in Borders for the afternoon, just so I don't sweat while sitting still. I wonder if they serve iced tea....

Two more weeks till Germany - must go and refresh my verb conjugations and adjective endings. Blech. If you feel a breeze, tell it to come visit me, will you?

The Old Apartment

I'm listening to this song by the Barenaked Ladies and thinking about all of the domiciles that I have called mine, for any period of time. Let's take that trip down memory lane, shall we?

1987-2002: The house on Lake Village Blvd. What a great house. Blue with white columns, the hedges in the back that we used to run through and pretend we were winning the marathon. The finished attic with the staircase and the patched hole in the garage ceiling where my dad put his foot through. So many memories in that house - birthday parties, dinners with boyfriends meeting the folks, Miss Jean telling the boys to just put one more piece in the puzzle - what a shrewd one she was - and then inviting half the neighborhood in for sweet tea. Breakups, confrontations, and infinite mischief. That's the house that will always be home.

1995-1997: Lived in the girls' dorm at LSMSA. Caddo was not what one would call the dream experience. I had a series of roommates starting with Randee who wore sequined thong underwear and hung it everywhere around the room, Ginger who would go through my drawers and hand over my journal to the ex-girlfriend of my boyfriend, Joni the cowgirl who was ultra cool but then went home, and finally, Amy the neurotic overachiever who was so pissed that I got the same score on the ACT as she did. Not a terrible two years, only got suspended once (in-house suspension and yes, the Icee was totally worth it) and managed to escape relatively unscathed.

1997-98: Elam Arms dorm at USM. Co-ed honors dorm with a pool in the middle that everyone was afraid to swim in. Cafeteria downstairs with fried chicken on Fridays and a television that always seemed to be playing 'A Baby Story' on TLC. Frightening. Lived with Catherine, the sweet girl from the BSU who played old skool Nintendo and listened to Steve Miller Band, the only real downside of this relationship was coming home from late rehearsals and finding large study groups on my bed. Security in the building was lax, spent many hours watching pointless television and learning to play Mortal Kombat in Alex's room on the boys' side of the building.

Summer 1998: Prudhomme Hall at ADVANCE. Lived with Sheralyn (by the way Sher, the pictures are gorgeous!), possibly the nicest girl I have ever known, who put up with my shenannigans. And all I could think about was, "During the year, this dorm is filled with 150+ teenage boys. Should I carry Lysol with me everywhere? Am I going to get the plague from this doorknob?"

1998-99: Mississippi Hall at USM. All girls dorm, three-room suites with separate entrances and a common room. I remember very fondly living at the front of the building so people could knock on my window from the front porch. Lived with Stephanie, a senior photojournalist whose boyfriend lived off campus. Ostensibly lived alone for the first half of the year. Stephanie moved out, and Selena moved in. Selena was the college roommate I never knew I always wanted. She was messy, she wore my clothes, she brought home chinese food at 2am, and she might have been the best roommate ever. We actually named the invisible monster under her bed (Herman) and while we never saw him, it was pretty obvious that something was living under all that crap. Selena drove the "Flaming Honda" which featured prominently into our late-night drives that involved getting vanilla cokes from Sonic and singing very loudly with the radio. The only person I've ever lived with where the mess really didn't matter to me at all.

1999-2000: Margaret Newman dorm at University of Victoria (BC). A spacious room that I shared with a girl named Ung. I think I saw her four times. Hall bathrooms, next door neighbor named Jess who was fabulous. Boys floor was downstairs, much to my chagrin. Had the unfortunate experience of witnessing my downstairs neighbors' saturday morning "festivity" on my way to breakfast. For crying out loud, just shut the door! No one wants to see your hiney in the air, especially before they've had any coffee!

2000-01: Mississippi Hall at USM, again. Ended up with an invisible roommate again, never actually saw her face. She left me a note on day 1 that said, "have to keep an on-campus address, if you need to get in touch with me, here's my phone number." Shared the 3-room suite with officers of the BSU who frequently left reading material in the loo that I'm pretty sure was directed toward me. I think it was because I kept beer in my fridge. Catherine from freshman year was in the third room, oddly enough. Still didn't approve of the boyfriends, still wouldn't say anything, just throw disapproving looks. I remember pulling my boyfriend into the room, slamming the door and turning on Carmina Burana really loudly while we ate dinner, just so I could relish the shocked looks we would get when we emerged. In retrospect, I'm sure they thought they were trying to save me from myself, but it was just too much fun to let them think I was up to no good.

2001-02: James Owen Court on Sidwell Street, University of Exeter. One very small room with a very small bed, desk, and bathroom. The kind of bathroom where you have to shut the door in order to open the shower door, and you have to shut the shower door and the bathroom door in order to get to the toilet. And it took me three days to figure out that I had to turn on the water heater. Claustrophobic but charming. Shared this flat with seven other people: three women from China, two guys from Turkey, a girl from Libya and one other American. The kitchen was a hodgepodge of Chinese cooking, Turkish coffee, and whatever we got from the take-aways across the street. My MA in Musicology was made possible by Paradise Tandoori's Butter Chicken recipe.

2002: First real apartment in Hattiesburg. Oh Foxgate. How I loved my little one-bedroom apartment. No real furniture to speak of, just me and my bed and my piano. A false fireplace and no noisy neighbors and a little patio where I would sit and read. It was a short-lived affair, I hate to say. Broke the lease early to move in with best friend at the time, who ausgeflipped shortly thereafter. In my heart, I still pine for Foxgate.

2003: Duplex on Hunter Lane in Hattiesburg. Possibly the best apartment ever. Middle of nowhere, cows and horses out back, lots of space for the dog to run, and a front porch on which I could put my porch swing. Lived at Hunter Lane for nine months of bliss. Ceiling fans and walk-in closets and a kitchen big enough for ballroom dancing. Not to mention the company of my fellow grad students right across the street. Never a dull moment, not when there's a West Wing marathon on Memorial Day and there are two crock pots between two houses. Minor snafu involving two mice, two women who were too afraid to use inhumane traps, and the Baptist church down the road. Sometimes it's best to just ignore the mice and go about your life.

Summer of 2004: Lived for two months with the Roberts women. It was sort of like a neverending girl movie. Lots of toenail painting, hair fanging, late-night movie watching, and plenty of good old fashioned Southern cooking. Can we say fried okra?

I miss bunking with the girls, my little sisters Marge and Katie, and the houseful of dogs with Penny and Sam chasing each other around the deck. But since then, it's been life with boyfriend/fiancee/now husband and the dog. We're looking at a new apartment tonight and I'm not sure what to think. It's waaaay less expensive than where we live right now, but it's not close to husband's work, and there is no T stop nearby, just commuter rail, so our transportation options would be limited. But to save $350 a month, off the bat, just by moving across town? Who knows....we'll see what transpires tonight when we see the place.

I hate moving almost as much as I hate people who sing flat. But sometimes, you just have to deal. Let's hope this is an easy 'yes or no' decision and we can go on with our lives. In the meantime, a big yell of victory over to Ace and his fantastic parents. He'll be camping and hiking (but he'll be doing it with someone other than Stacey and myself) but most of all, he'll be sleeping at home with his momma and daddy in no time flat!

Update and survey

So I finally spoke with someone at Alitalia. I'm going to take many pictures from many angles of my mangled suitcase and send it with a barrage of paperwork and a mature but scathing letter so that hopefully they will compensate me for my heartache, my lost undergarments, and most of all, that fabulous pair of Enzo Angiolini satin heels that were split up.

And thanks to my friend Lauren, another survey to bring some levity:

1. What are your siblings middle names?Richard
2. Where is your dad right now? in Slidell
3. What was the last thing you said? Take care, bye!
4. What is something you've learned about yourself recently? I'm not lactose intolerant in Italy
5. What color is your watch? stainless steel Timex
6. What do you think of when you think of Australia? my friend Emily
7. When was the last time you squatted to pee? in the Cafe Grand Italia
8. Who is the last person you liked? as in a new person? my friend Beth
9. Are you close to your mom? yep
10. Where does your best friend work? at Eatel in Gonzales
11. What is your least attractive feature? my feet are huge, but actually quite attractive. least attractive feature? I'll say my sarcasm.
12. How old were you when you started wearing a bra? 10, and I hated every moment of it
13. What color are your pants? black
14. Do you have a roommate? husband and dog
15. What color is your bedroom flooring? hardwood in every room
16. Do you have a chair in your room? nope
17. What time were you born? 12:57pm, I think....
18. Do you know anyone who is engaged? yes
19. What's your favorite number? 7
20. Do you know anyone named Laurie? my nephew's girlfriend
21. What color is your mom's hair? dark brown
22. Do you have a dog?yes, Sam
23. Where did you live in 1987? Slidell
24. What happened to you in 1993? I started high school and got kissed by a really cute guy, in that order
25. Does your first memory involve your dad? nope
26. Do you remember singing any songs as kids? James Taylor and ABBA
27. When was the last time you went swimming? don't remember
28. Has your luggage ever gotten lost? luggage is a sore subject with me right now
29. When was the last time you talked to one of your siblings? on the phone? forever. online? yesterday
30. Did you ever go to camp as a kid? piano camp and summer camp (nerd alert!)
31. Do you play an instrument? I'm a singer, I play piano rather well, and a host of other instruments BADLY
32. Have you ever thought it would be cool to smash a guitar? what an incredible waste
33. Do you like fire? in a fireplace, yes
34. Where is your best friend from? Denham Springs
35. Are you allergic to anything? tuna, american dairy products, dust, mold, cats
36. When was the last time you cried? yesterday
37. What kind of shampoo do you use? whatever smells good
38. Have you ever been to a spa? yar
40. Did you take science all four years of high school? yar
41. Do you like butterflies? who doesn't?
42. What is the last book you read? currently reading 1000 days in Tuscany
43. Do you like Coke or Pepsi more? hands down on the Coke
44. What is one thing you miss about your past? my 16 year old arse
45. Did you ever see the school nurse? yes
46. Have you ever wanted to be a teacher? yes, tried it, hated the system. now I want to be a professor :)
48. Are you jealous of anyone? um, not in any way that's rational - I'm jealous of opera singers who get by on their looks, but that's sort of abject...
49. Is anyone jealous of you? tenors with coloratura extension envy :)
50. When was the last time you were in an elevator? three days ago

Week 5, why I love Coffee Crisps and why Alitalia is getting a nasty letter

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.....

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).

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!

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.

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

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!

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.

Shiksa on the hunt....

.....for sandals, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

Shiksa in the windy city

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

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

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

Wish me luck, the Windy City awaits!

Singing mice, a sad day

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

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

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

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

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

In memoriam: William Sloane Coffin, April 12, 2006

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

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

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

Political Science

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, for the meme of the day:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My birthday is: April 2

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

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

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

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


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

Why spring break is nothing of the kind

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

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

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

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